The wind roared, blowing the tree tops like a ship in the ocean. Rain hammered down upon a lone rider who rode like hell was behind him. In fact, it was large creatures with scales for arms and long claws, road armored Crags, giant creatures with two legs and small arms, and their skin was of many shades of grey and black. The Dark One's eyes were on the lone Wizard who rode his robes splaying out behind him as he rode the magical pointed Hat on his head cursed in thirty different languages that Bagsworth himself hardly knew. The only thing he could think about was how the cold water had gotten inside his trousers, wetting the back of his undergarments. His pointed boots pressed firmly in the stirrups as he guided Neverwinth down the rocky road.

The ship rocked beneath the General's feet. Thirty-Six-year-old Baxter Colemen placed his hand on the railing, feeling the grain of the wood brush against his palm. He took a deep breath, smelling the salt in the air, and breathed the first calm breath he had taken in eight months.