With ease a large trident is driven into the ground, three jagged spikes protruding from its massive head. The sand parts and divides, the end of the trident grinding in and the standing still, a metal-clad hand being drawn away from it.
Another gauntlet, firmly gripping a wooden post, follows the motion, impaling the sand with it. Somber strikes from a hammer in a distant rhythym, slapping its flat-topped tip and driving the post deeper into the sand, causing it to stand straightly and point skywards.
A shadowy figure, dressed in black garbs that sway in the desert's winds, gazes out from under a dark hood, inspecting the deed that was done. The right hand opens and grips the trident, clenching around it with sounds of scraping, screeching metal. Sand explodes into the air as the trident is torn out of the sand it had been plunged into.
The figure already turns and descends from the dunetop, heavy boots thumping and kicking sprays of sand along. Lonesome, a single parchment shifts evermore between hanging and flapping in the wind. Finely written, black letters adorn the thick parchment's surface:
Afil,
time is not on our side anymore.
We must meet again. Soon. Night
The ominous figure fades away into the distance, marching towards the marshes...
The figure in black watches from a hilltop, arms crossed before chest, watching over the outskirts of the town known as Troll's Bane, while a thick, eery fog had draped itself over the settlement. A heavy bag hangs from its side, and its cloak mysteriously sways and flaps in the wind around it.
Watching.
Doesn't budge, but watches, black hood drawn deeply over head.
