The wind came from nowhere. Ringing into existence with the reverberation of a hammer striking doom, it carried the heat of a forge that fashioned war and searing death. It came into being in the heart of an ancient fortress, emerging from some strange place between that which is and that which seeks to be. It blew from the escarpment, where dark magics were being forged. Angry, it stank of ancient evil, echoing with long forgotten prophecies. In a frenzy the wind spun, swirling out of the void, as if see king a course, it seemed to pause, then it blew eastward.
The Village of Gaurthang is under the divine patronage of Nostradamus, god of darkness.
