[H3]Prologue[/h3][sup][sup][hr][/sup][/sup]
[indent][indent]A storm was coming.

It was said that the storms out on the Silent Plains were worse than anywhere else. Somehow fueled by the remnant energies of all that died there, channeling the ferocity of the dead god whose taint still corrupted the lands to this very day.

Yet, Ovra didn't care.

She could feel the promise of electricity in the air. It made the hairs on his arms stand up, a rash of gooseflesh creeping over his skin. A dry ash-filled wind brush across her face. Strands of hair scattered in a shifting flurry of red. 

She loved lightning most of all. It called to her, the way none of the other elements did, sizzling over skin and bones with a touch that was almost sexual. It had been a long time since they’d seen a proper storm. The summer had been dry, and hot, fields wilting under the burning sun. An ill-omen whose origins could be blamed upon apostates, non-believers, or the end of the world depending on whom you choose to believe. 

[I]Hasmal[/I], Ovra thought dryly, ashen wind brushing against her perpetually sunburned cheeks. [i]You piss on us again and again and yet we still stick around for more. What a bloody lot of masochists we are.[/i]

[i]Suppose we don’t have much of a choice.[/i] Ovra concluded as she glanced back at her small band. Their voices quiet as they chatted amongst themselves, as they set up the slow work of setting up camp for the evening. She would've of preferred sticking closer to the Imperial Highway, but with their current contract they would have no such luck. Trying to find the ever illusive Silent Plains Rose, for a Nevarran herbalist who was trying to perfect some kind of  “immortality potion.”   

In the past two weeks all they had gained from the venture was ash and dust lodged amongst their unmentionables and the occasional bite from the wandering packs of ghasts that call the Plains home. Shok and Erinya having the pleasure of dealing with the most recent series of cuts and bruises that they had accumulated earlier that day, when they ran afoul of a young wyvrn bull whose territory they had unknowingly stumbled upon. Ovra still couldn't get the smell of its poisoned breath from her nostrils. 

Days like today it was hard to justify why they did it anymore. Glorified flower-pickers that couldn't even find a flower. But, the job paid well enough and that was a rarity these days. Yet it didn't take a genius to see that soon enough the Breakers would be just like the ground they stood upon, the forgotten vestiges of a lost time. With Bran having left a little more than a month ago there was only seven of them left and, it was anyones guess how long the rest of them would stay. 

It was at that moment Ovra saw [i]something[/i]. A flicker out of the corner of her eye, a disturbance on the horizon, a disturbance that was drawing closer. A cloud of ash scattered into the air, not by the wind or some large animal, but by something quicker and faster - a horse maybe? Reflexively Ovra reached for the handle of her axe, feeling the worn leather against her palm. 

She turned her head and shouted backward towards the others. “We got company!”[/indent][/indent]