The wind was howling, racing between rocky walls like a herd of wild horses, and there stood a proud youth, with windswept hair as light as the sun. His armour, white as powdered snow, appeared to be emanating light between black shadows that encompassed him as he stood on the edges of the gray, stony canyon. He was looking assuredly along his eyeline with irises of the deepest blue. In front of him was looming the enormous, time-worn archway built of stone as black as an abyss. The top was destroyed and the rune which had before ornamented the archway, had nearly completely eroded.
Farther along, the warrior of Murkiness was strutting slowly, but surely to the younker’s side. His armour, as dark as his heart, was in some parts decorated by sliver. His helmet, on which were inscribed the same mysterious runes, was hiding shapeless, black nothingness, which had been seen by few mortals only moments before he brought about their demise. This was he, bringing forth bane, bereavement and woe, the Fallen Guardian, whose fate was forever associated with the archway, which had been protected by him for centuries. He was instituted to combat everyone, who dared to try to go through the primaeval gate. There was a disturbing aura around him, which troubled every living creature and so strong was it, that it even agitated the stone hearts of the surrounding granite rocks. Therefore, this canyon was quiet and death lingered there like a leech, sucking the life out of the very rocks.
As the noble knight approached the warrior, he stretched out his ebony wings, resembling those of a dragon, appearing almost as an omen of doom and a sign that he should retreat. The creature unsheathed his sword, which for most beings would mean death.
The witch opened her smaragdine eyes. She had awoken from her sweven. She absent-mindedly regarded her cottage, trying to remind herself where she was. She was gazing at fungus-covered walls, book-filled shelves and a vast array of interesting bottles filled with curious liquids. Her chaotic eyes surveyed the table strewn with various animal parts and plants, with the occasional stones and earth littered amongst them. She stood up and adjusted her hat, simultaneously smoothing down her jet black hair. She brushed her battered, moth-eaten brown-green dress. The black cat with a small white dot on his chest, which was lying on the rack between the books and the multifarious potions, focused his bright green eyes on her, like he was reading her mind. She walked up to the table, from which she took two frogs’ heads. Then she threw them into the cauldron, which was standing in the fireplace. The turquoise contents bubbled. Suddenly the smoke, in the same tint, reached higher and higher until it was licking the ceiling. The smoke took the form of the youth and the warrior, but after a while the vapours vanished into the air. She tried again, this time using the strongest spells that she knew, but all to no avail. The witch could not foretell the future of the young man yet, but she knew that he was one of the Chosen Ones. She sat down leisurely on the chair and caressed a crystal ball. The cat waved his tail ominously, watching her intently.
She started to whisper complex incantations. Slowly she espyed her cottage and a hooded being. She heard a knock on the door.
