Wild are the lands

Zavas woke from a dream. A shadow chasing him the clatter of bones and a dark bereft of all godly light, impenetrable, terrifying. He sat up to a cock’s crow, felt the presence of his companions stirring close by in the ruins. He scattered water all over his head and felt the terror receding from him his heart, for the time being. They shared fresh baked bread from the Wilderlings amongst them, sat talking in sombre voices about the day and the one after ahead. How they would face the second challenge, why it was here at this forgotten place far from the Breelands safety, what to expect and how to react to it. Plan making, preparations, revision. Zavas felt a glimpse of memory old campfires in freezing mountain caverns, the laughter and grief of close Kin on the battlefield. The wings of dread and the horns of war. Here too danger lay ahead. This sorcery of men claiming power that no being in these dying lands should wield. He had prepared, trained and worked the smithy for many weeks since the return from Ered Luin and the assault on Hamglen. Now it was time to face the next task ahead. Gaeded led the group through the brush and hillsides towards the pass. A foreboding sense yet again befalls the group. The undead are barring the way….