Brannawstead Overlook

Much can be seen from these peaks, Caradoc thought, rising the last few feet on his weary way upward. This was a path held in high esteem by all the men of Clan Brannaw. It was a sacred place, one where men and women sojourned to for solitude. It was a place for reflection, to watch all the relics that the fairer folk had left the people they’d created interact in perfect harmony. Today Caradoc sought the overlook for a respite from his endless responsibilities as a ruler. He sought it for peace and reflection, that he might take a moment, just a single one, to fully absorb the events the past few months had thrust upon him and his kin.

What he felt upon reaching the overlook was not calmness. What he felt was a storm, shifting on the horizon of his mind’s eye. A foreboding omen of the strife yet coming. Something that made all of the pain he’d so recently encountered look like a scrape on a child’s knee.

On instinct, Caradoc drew his sword, but the gesture seemed futile. He let the point of the blade fall away, let the blade guarding his chest become a baton pointing the way directly into the storm he saw roiling ahead.

The blade glinted in the setting of the sun.

Much can be seen from these peaks. 

Much indeed.


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