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She must be close. Rowin Xolarric thinks to himself as he bends to sniff the blood stained snow. The faint, flowery smell of Sapphilium singes his nostrils. Wait! He sniffs the snow again. This time, he smells a foul musk and putrescence. Lycans! Perfect, just what I need! He quickly stands and kicks the snow with his black dragon hide boots, showering the chilled air in tiny, white spheres. Rowin furiously adjusts his leather hat and looks up at the grey sky, the Twin Suns of Owemah are descending like a pair of falling throwing stars. I must make camp before the red mists fall upon the Crimsin Wood. His pointed ears stretch as he listens to the sounds of falling snow, the chirps of baby stormswallows, and the creaking of the tree branches in the abrasive wind. Good, no sign of life for miles. Removing his knapsack from his sore back, he settles onto a fallen silver maple and assembles his equipment for the night.

"Rowinnn, O' Rowinnn." An enchanting, feminine voice calls.

"Ahhh!" He suddenly wakes from his nightmare and finds himself in a blackened forest. The crescent Blue Moon of Wielae barely shows itself; it skulks behind the grey clouds like a feral beast. The fire! Its been smothered! He quickly places his empty flask of water and blanket back into his knapsack, throws it over his shoulders, and unsheathes his dual longswords, both bearing a blackened hilt with the silver symbol of a fetal positioned dragon. His ears perk up like a dog's and he listens for the sound of a charging pack of lycans. Nothing.

Another minute passes before he spots the faint white glow of something stirring atop a rocky hill in the distance. As the ghostly creature comes to rest at the crest of the hill, Rowin recognizes it as the extension creation of a qilin by its chimerical appearance and elegantly long and woven antlers. Great, a sorceress. Dalbion better pay me double for this. The qilin motions its head, turns, and walks away in the opposite direction. Without hesitation, he sheathes his longswords and follows.



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