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[Exelioth]

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Asimov stared at the parchment, and then to the large iron cask that held his armor. His crimson eyes then fell upon the massive, ivory owl...the heirlok, that had delivered the message.

"I thought never to see your face again, Windspar."

The owl blinked once. The two hadn't traded glances since the Battle at Kaanes Crossing some centuries ago. Asimov's ultimate destiny had been derailed by this bird long ago. He was defeated, perforated by more arrows than one could count on both hands...he should have died there. But there was an intercession.

The grizzled Atalan rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his mind back to the matters at hand. His eyes squinted slightly as he read the note Windspar had brought him. Age wasnt agreeing with Asimov.

"Heru tel'Atalan,

Many moons indeed, m'lord. I rest confidently that you have felt the stirrings within your blood, as I have. I have no desire to garner your rage by reminding you of the source, but we have only felt tremors such as this twice past.

Tenebrous walks amongst us once again."

Asimov paused and coughed slightly. The candle he read by flickered slightly. His aging body was still a well-tuned machine of war...but war had not called to the Atalan Firstlord in nearly two centuries. His apparent age, by human standards, was about seventy. In actuality, Asimov had walked Sosaria for nearly nine-hundred. The stirrings to which the author eluded were certainly the inherent Atalan trait of sensing a call to war...the bloodfyre. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Asimov read on...

"I have no proof, no hard evidence that he has returned...just a handful of theories to support the few facts we have. But there is certainly no denying the call from my blood. I will invesitigate further, and report accodingly. I would close this letter with the warcry of our people, but something tells me you would consider that somewhat premature.

Loyalty till the pyre,

~ Cornelius"

Asimov crumpled the note and set it ablaze against the candle. As it fell in cinders against the wooden table-top of the tavern, he traced the ashes into the form of dual-bladed staff of sorts. Staring at his small fingerpainting, Asimov exhaled heavily through his nostrils, disrupting the image he rubbed into the table. Smirking slightly, he rose from his seat and strode towards the door. Once outside, Asimov observed the tavernkeeper melting away some ice from the door with an exposed lantern. The joining of ice and flame. Asimov looked at his own hands, and let out a raspy chuckle.

What these roundears didn't know about the world about them amused him to no end.
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"Beware the fury of a patient man."