Across the land, the enemies of the Forsaken emerge
from hiding.
Anshega, Azlu, Beshilu, Idigam, Magath....these are the names whispered
in the flickering firelight by those who huddle close against the cold
of night. Even the Hisil, sworn protectorate of the Forsaken, has taken
on a malignant cast.
A storm brews over the mountains, blown in on an ill wind from the east. The drums of war echo out across the jagged peaks like thunder, as the Pure Tribes seek to push the Forsaken out of the Front Range. The Cahalith find little sleep these nights, as nightmarish visions plague their nighttime hours. The very air is charged, as if lightening were about to strike....
An ungin is called, howled to the skies by those who
have no choice but to ask for aid.
A pack goes quiet, leaving a powerful locus open for the taking.
And somewhere among the darkened clouds, an ancient
enemy of the Forsaken stands poised to tear the Gauntlet apart.
ST LEAD: Mykle McGovern