"The great road took a traveler westward to the edge of the land–as far as he could travel without barge or sail–a memory of empire long absent. It was here where Bram walked, at the turning of the seasons.

The leaves crunched beneath his boot as he steered off the Warden’s' road, down to the sheer cliffs and rushing falls of the easternmost of Marrodain's many vales.

The stout man took a seat on a great stone just out of sight of the highway. The rock faced north and had a carven surface flat almost as if wrought to serve as a carven throne. The clattering of hooves was heard at least every quarter of an hour as men of purpose and means raced throughout the realms–whatever their business, it did not matter now.

The time had come–to leave it all behind. He had no other choice after all. To live as a refugee by the mercy of others, to have no blood ties to one's new 'home'. Against all better judgement, these were things Bram would no longer abide.

A crisp breeze arrived from the northern seas as Bram shut his eyes and searched for some trace of regret–however he only found fresh resolve. He had sworn to his father and mother to return to the Tynd, and that oath transcended all new bonds since forged. The stone chair he had claimed no longer comforted him, so he began to pace. At the fourth pass he turned around, and while shocked by the quietness of his approach, there was the man he was waiting for.

Gareth the Golden, or so he was called. An old knight whose greying hair and ragged raiment betrayed his moniker.

"Here you are, in the Eastern Vale, at the seasons' turn. Despite all you told me," Gareth spoke with somber amusement.

"Indeed here I am, on winter's eve. Despite all I told you," replied Bram.

Upon Gareth's face was a warm, easy smile. "I understand, young man. To plant a son of Tyndor in the Marrodain would be to open a vineyard on the pale stones of Sindevar. You will not grow here–your roots have not even reached the soil. I have the same affliction."

Bram laughed heartily and looked the old man in his dour but kind grey eyes, "Aye, it is so. My heart yearns for the foothills of Duskar, and the crisp mountain air. Perhaps it is Dwarven blood." 

Gareth began to move further from the sound of horses and wagons upon the warden’s road as he spoke, "We are not alone, my friend. Let me show you to the company. We will depart soon."

The two walked carefully down the improvised paths of stone and wood that ran carefully from the top of the cliffs down to lower lands, where the falls met the grimsalde and flowed to the sea. For a time while the valley of autumn foliage blazed before them, only the sound of the rushing stream accompanied their descent.

As they reached the lower paths with flatter ground, Gareth reached into his silken pouch, he handed some strips of dried pork to Bram who followed closely at his back, “Twenty years it's been, since the Green Aurochs Banner flew upon the Tynd. How old were you then, ten-and-three?”  

Bram took a bite of the old ration. The hunger that had grown during his eastward journey made even the driest of meat satisfying like a warm stew in bitter cold, “Ten-and-four. Strange it feels, I have spent much time in the Marrodain Realms, many would say I have much, but my heart says otherwise.”

Gareth led Bram to the end of the path; they stood now within the trough of the vale by the clear stream known as Grimsalde. Within it he sunk his waterskin, “It’s what it's become that sickens you. I can see clear as day. All of your memories of the place blackened with the shadow of Thrazmiran.”

“Keep that word behind your teeth, I don’t wish to hear it,” Bram snapped.

“I will not, all the world must hear it. You would do well to remember it–we are not going to Tyndor, we are going to Thrazmiran–its devourer,” Gareth stared with a steadfast intensity.

A silence filled the air as leaves of crimson and gold cascaded down to the rocky stream, and a great northern wind filled the vale with colors ere the onset of winter. 

Finally Bram spoke, “The disdain I feel towards that foul sorcerer does not change the way of the world. I fear I spoke rudely, I beg your pardon, Gareth.”

“No need, it is because you feel strongly that you came all this way, no forgiveness is necessary. I will have one as yourself in my company even in the darkest of hours,” the old man spoke cheerily.

Bram filled his waterskin in the crisp Grimsalde as he finished his pork, “Being no man-at-arms myself it left me bewildered that a fine captain such as you, Gareth the Golden, wanted a gallivanter like myself in his Banner Company, and you promised me you’d tell in time–how about now?”

“Well–” Gareth brought his arms together behind his back for a stretch to ease his old aches, “We are going through Duskar, it’s the only path that won’t leave us as food for carrion”

“Duskar is closed. Has been for some time”, Bram said as if belabored by the utterance.

Gareth smiled with a glint of the evening sun in his eye, “not for you, half-dwarf”.