Inkbound

Prologue

Rook Ironhide led his group through the heart of the unforgiving Al'thar Tundra, where the bitter winds whispered ancient secrets and the snowdrifts rose like frozen spires. Their journey was fueled by rumors of lost magic and hidden treasures buried beneath the icy expanse, their resolve unyielding despite the harshness of their surroundings.

They pressed onward into the frozen wilderness, their footsteps muffled by the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots. With each step, they drew closer to the secrets that lay buried beneath the frost, their spirits undaunted by the icy grip of the tundra.

It was amidst the desolate landscape that they stumbled upon their quarry—a Bashiri, its towering form hewn from shimmering ice and glistening frost. The creature's crystalline scales gleamed in the pale light of the arctic sun, its icy breath swirling like ethereal tendrils that danced upon the frigid air.

With weapons drawn and determination etched upon their faces, the adventurers launched into battle, their movements fluid and precise as they clashed against the Bashiri's formidable form. Each strike reverberated through the frozen expanse, a symphony of steel and ice that echoed across the vast wilderness.

But the Bashiri was a creature of ancient magic, its icy tendrils reaching out to ensnare the adventurers in their frozen embrace. Despite their bravery and skill, they found themselves outmatched by the creature's otherworldly strength, their bodies battered and bruised by its relentless assault.

In their final moments, as the bitter winds howled their mournful lament, the adventurers faced a fate far worse than death. For in the heart of the Al'thar Tundra, where the ice held secrets as old as time itself, the Bashiri's magic held sway over more than just the physical form—it held sway over the very essence of their souls.

As the last echoes of their cries faded into the frozen silence, Rook thought of his family. His father had always overshadowed him, and in the end, Rook would forever remain in that shadow. He thought of the lives he sacrificed for the sake of his glory. He thought of how none of it was worth it.

The adventurers were consumed by the icy embrace of the Bashiri's magic, their bodies transformed into twisted specters of frost and fury. They emerged from the depths as creatures of ice and snow, their once-human forms now bound to the will of the Bashiri, forever cursed to roam the frozen wastes as guardians of its ancient power.

Once again, the Alabaster Bashiri reigned supreme and the line between glory and despair was as fragile as a snowflake in the wind.

[wc: 437]