Tales From a Thousand Worlds

The wind howled down the rugged slopes of the towering mountain, driving before it a flurry of snow and a knife edged chill that cut right to the bone. A tall man stood on the narrow path that wound its way up the mountain side, between teetering boulders that perched precariously and gnarled, stubby trees that had been swept flat by the elements. He wore a voluminous fur lined cloak of rich crimson that was caught and tugged at by the winds. A gloved hand rested lightly upon the gilded hilt of a rapier at his side. The other hand was raised towards the wind, as if to ward it off. Indeed, it seemed almost as if it was working, for the snows bent around him rather than land upon him.

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