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The living forest, struggling to survive, a bird fluttering
overhead, the sounds that assailed him - all spoke of LIFE.
He fell to his knees.
"Krynn!" Rennard whispered. "How have I come here?
Is this truly the real world?"
A part of him was afraid it was a dream, that any
second he would find himself once more fleeing his ever-
present enemies. "Is this Krynn? Or have I merely entered
some new phase of my punishment?" he asked bitterly.
A low laugh - or was it the wind? - teased him. The spec
tral knight twisted around, searching for the source. "Morgion,
dark Lord of Decay and Disease, master of my grief,
do I still entertain you?" he cried out.
No answer came.
Was that a tall, bronze tower he saw in the distance, a
tower perched upon the edge of a precipice? A tower
dedicated to Morgion, used by those who served him? The
knight stared, but all he saw was a lone tree leaning
precariously over the edge of a newly formed cliff. It was
not the sanctum of the malevolent deity.
Bewildered, confused, he stared at his surroundings and
made a bitter discovery. The muddy ground in which he
knelt was soft. Despite the weight of his bulky armor,
Rennard had not sunk so much as a finger's width into
Krynn's blessed soil. He made not the slightest impression.
The knight rose to his feet. He cursed the gods who had
brought him to this new fate. He was free of his prison, but
not free of his damnation. Ansalon - if this was Ansalon -
offered him nothing more than the demonic plain from
which he had been cast out
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