The commonlands had been unseasonably cold as of late. A brisk gust of wind rustles the trees and sends a chill down your spine. Amidst the sound of leaves rustling, you can barely make out a voice you have heard before, but cannot place.
Woe unto you, all who oppose.
Woe unto you, all deniers of history.
The slayers of old have returned to claim their thrones.
All who challenge will crumble.
Winter is coming.
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Shiftin Anout
Formerly of Tunare
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