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It had been on a particularly lovely spring day - a day,
indeed, when all of nature seemed happy and unconcerned
with the political upheaval miles away - when Aril, while
traversing the length of a grassy and flower-dotted valley,
espied a knight, kneeling at the base of the valley wall. The
knight, as luck would have it, was an old one.
"Perfect," murmured Aril to himself as he strode
toward the grand man, stopping several paces away.
At first, the old knight didn't seem to realize he had an
audience. He simply continued his kneeling, his head
bowed in either deep meditation or perhaps even in
respectful prayer to the recently deposed gods of Krynn.
Behind him was a low, rocky overhang, almost a cave
really, which was apparently serving as his humble, if
temporary, shelter - The Order of the Solamnic Knights,
you see, had been destroyed in the Cataclysm and fallen
into disrepute, its few remaining members scattered by the
It seemed to Aril Witherwind that such events must have
taken a truly terrible toll on this fellow, maybe making him
look even older than he was, for he had a drawn, haggard
face; his hair, though thick, was totally white; and his
hands, clenched before him, were gnarly, almost arthritic