Foreboding Portals
--Vladimars de Alaverde. The 81st year of the age of Arnaud.--
Leaves crunched beneath Vladimars' boots as he dismounted his horse, the coppery hues of autumn painting the forest in shades of fire and gold. His breath misted in the crisp early morning air. He tied his mare's reins, Sera, to a low-hanging branch, whispering a calming word to her before shouldering his satchel. The researcher's journal, old and frayed leather with aged parchment, rested within. Somewhere deep within this expanse of ancient trees, the truth awaited him, at least he hoped it was.