Dark clouds obscured the dim light of early morning. Gaining strength, thunder rumbled in the distance, lost in the trees of the Qurth Forest that filled the southern horizon. The twisted branches danced in the wind, as if reveling like savages around a growing fire.

Small fishing boats in the town's harbor were tossed in the wild waves of the Lake of Steam. Mahgra watched it all and smiled, his bejeweled tusks bared as he swept his gaze across the main street from the doorstep of the mayor's home. The mayor himself was long dead now, covered in the bloody sheets of his own bed, a diversion for Mahgra's cruelty while he awaited the report of his gnoll warriors. He had thrown back his hood and heavy robes in order to inspire fear in his captives as well as to satisfy his own sense of vanity. Mahgra was rare among his kind, born with an affinity for magic that was reflected in his strange appearance. His skin was a deep shade of blue and covered with tattoos, both tribal and arcane. Small ivory horns protruded from his forehead, and his eyes were orbs of solid black, matching his well-groomed long hair, a banner of shadow across his shoulders, flowing in the wild winds of the storm. Gathered before him in the central square were the residents of Targris, guarded by gnolls wielding swords and axes. Others of their kind roamed the empty streets, ransacking homes for valuables and weapons. The gnolls were edgy and anxious, only barely held in check by Gyusk, their commander and Mahgra's second. Gyusk was the fiercest of them, his fiendish parentage giving him a semblance of royalty among their tribe. His green eyes, common among his race, glowed with a hellish light. Mahgra valued his shrewd mind and keen control over the hyena-faced warriors.

Seeing that matters were in control, the ogre turned his thoughts to the Qurth Forest and wondered when the messenger might arrive with new orders, though he loathed Morgynn's silver-tongued lapdog, Khaemil.

The sibilant tones of the shadurakul's voice were enough to drive the ogre mage mad at times. He could already imagine the smell of wet dog Khaemil would invariably bring with him. He brushed at his cloak absently as if to ward off even the idea of the aroma. Rain began to fall, the heavy clouds finally releasing their long-held burden, drops hissing in the dying embers of destroyed houses and the defiled remains of the oracles' temple. The sound added to Mahgra's mood and brought him back from the depth of his thoughts, back to the situation at hand. Gyusk loped forward, as formally as his slightly hunched form would allow, to stand before the ogre commander and await his attention. Mahgra looked down into the dim light of Gyusk's eyes, almost daring the gnoll to report anything contrary to the success he demanded. "Have your warriors finished their sweep?" His voice boomed over the noise of the storm, a second thunder that sent the gathered townsfolk to shaking as they huddled together on the cobblestones of the square. "Yes, Lord Mahgra, but we've collected only a few trinkets of any value." Gyusk's voice was growling and deep as he haltingly spoke in the common tongue that Mahgra preferred over the feral sounds of the gnolls' language. "Do what you will with the spoils. Disperse them among your warriors if it will help keep them in line. The Order wants no one harmed unless absolutely necessary. Understood?" "Yes, Mahgra." The ogre looked over the crowd of huddled fishermen and tradesmen. He frowned. "A pity these fisherfolk breed few warriors, Gyusk. A little resistance might have quelled the boredom of waiting."

Gyusk's brow furrowed at the statement and Mahgra smiled at the gnoll's obvious disagreement. He respected Gyusk's desire for swift victories and low casualties. Indeed, that very quality had compelled Mahgra to recruit the gnoll and his warriors for the Order. Gyusk's mind for strategy in the land of the Blacksaddle baronies had made him a thorn in Baron Thaltar's side for several months. They'd struck upon the weak swiftly and the strong warily, avoiding the armored patrols of Thaltar's soldiers. Mahgra, however, believed that such battles, while profitable, were ultimately hollow. "Petty fear breeds anger in the hearts of one's enemies," he'd said to Gyusk. "The true battle lies in the heart of the strong foe. Destroy that and you will have won. Shying away from conflict in favor of survival will ultimately destroy you." Lightning flashed and the rain fell harder. The wind whipped at Mahgra's cloak and hair. He could feel the magic of the storm like a singing in his blood. This never could have occurred in Innarlith, he thought. The best we could have hoped for there is pale compared to what we might accomplish in this place. Morgynn may think me a fool for insulting the puffed-up Ransar, but Innarlith was never the place for the faithful of Gargauth. Morgynn merely uses the Order, stringing along the affections of Talmen to her own ends, but our ambitions will clash one day, and the Order will be free of her and her pet. He stared at the roiling clouds. They were tinged with an eerie red glow. Mahgra's dark heart rejoiced as visions of conquest filled his mind. He could hear Gyusk speaking, saying his name and clearing his throat noisily. Reluctantly he turned from his reverie and faced the large gnoll. "What is it?" he bellowed, causing everyone to flinch. Gyusk pointed his clawed finger to the western end of the street, past the central square and toward the closed and sealed gate, where a lone figure stood in the darkness. "Someone seems to be resisting." His tone was low and serious, a stark contrast to Mahgra's irritated yelling. The ogre squinted his eyes, blinking through the heavy rain, but saw the figure only briefly before it seemed to disappear into thin air. A low growl, more common among his less civilized cousins, escaped him. "Someone is out there, Gyusk. It appears your warriors failed to find everyone." Gyusk snarled, his hackles raising at Mahgra's mention of failure, but he focused that anger on his subordinates, barking orders in their bestial language.

They loped into the streets in groups of three. Only ten remained behind to guard the hundred or so frightened prisoners. Thunder rumbled as they waited. Mahgra was lost again in his thoughts of arcane ambition, clearly uninterested in the current effort. Gyusk, though, stared intently into the rain and darkness, his hand gripping a long serrated sword. Large puddles were forming in the streets as the rain grew heavier, pounding down with unnatural fury. A fierce cold infected the wind, freezing the blood and numbing the extremities. Time passed slowly as Mahgra tried to ignore the gnoll's strict attention to the streets, as if an army had slipped past the town gates and threatened them all. He glared at Gyusk, annoyed by his battle-ready posture, and intently stared into the shadows and rain.

Above the thunder, he yelled at the gnoll, "It is only one man!" Then Mahgra saw him, closer this time, perhaps halfway between the west gate and the town square, materializing as quickly as he'd disappeared before. The rain, reduced to a heavy drizzle, allowed the ogre and the gnoll to get a better look at the enshrouded figure. His armor was an old style, an odd fashion uncommon in the southern realms, more suited for colder climes of the north. A high collar concealed the lower half of his face and a worn, broad-brimmed hat covered all but his eyes.

Those eyes were chilling. Pearly and opalescent, they did not glow, but neither were they muted by shadow, darkness, or rain. His dark cloak was unmoved by the wind, wrapped tightly around him. He was silent and still, as if he were not a part of the world at all but a vision, a figment. Only a few loose strands of silvery-blond hair seemed to react to the cold gale that blew through the streets. Gyusk nodded to two of his warriors. They nodded back and advanced on the still figure. Their loping gait was slow as they padded toward him with axes raised, growling as they neared. His collar was blown aside for a moment, revealing a pale face. The man smiled. His bloodthirsty grin was discordant with Mahgra's observation of light behind the pale gaze. Those unblinking eyes fell on the two gnolls as they closed on him. Mahgra gripped the handle of his glaive, smelling blood on the air in spite of the wind and rain. Mahgra narrowed his eyes, intrigued by this strange visitor but angered as well. Nothing assaulted his vanity more than an enemy who regarded his magnificence with indifference. He clenched his fists and waited to measure the skill of this unearthly warrior. Spells tumbled through his mind like the rain before his eyes. The thundering of his heart and the lightning he prepared on his lips manufactured a storm to match the arcane tempest around him.