(One month should be appropriate travel time.)

"Stop. Here," Merat ordered, and his captains, the most disciplined in all the former kobold legions, halted at his word. Before them stood a mighty wall, larger than any point on Traeton's already intimidating defenses. Above them were carved statues of warriors in battle stance, eyes glaring down on those below. Merat slowly approached the gate. Already the call was getting louder, as more voices seemed to call in his head. He leaned a careful claw on the gate, and it opened inwards, with a deafening roar of rusted hinges. Within, as if inviting them in, stood a well, long out of use. However, the bucket hanging from the rope was still full of water, water fresh and clear as if from the peaks of the mountains.

[i]Drink, Merat,[/i] came the voices, all shouting now, drowning out his own iron sense of reason. [i]Relish in the gift that our master has left for one such as you. Close your eyes, and drink in his legacy.[/i] Merat did, seeing nothing, but feeling his inner rage and hatred bubble up as more water washed down his throat. [i]Now open your eyes, and see the world anew. You are now the successor of the master.[/i] He did. Strange, Merat did not remember being so far off the ground. He wanted to touch his face with his right claw, but which right claw should he choose? And if that didn't fancy him, why not use a leg? He has ten to spare, after all. His glare turned towards his captains, their will seeming to break.

"Drink," he ordered.