[center][color=crimson][h1][b]EBONGROVE[/b][/h1][/color]

[hr][indent][sup][color=white]A Small Farming Village | Fourty-Five Miles Southeast of Dark Storm. Time, 4:00am[/color][/sup][/indent]

[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/f3823306-d3ee-44d3-950c-7a070b12e956.jpg[/img][/center]
Feyrith slowly made his way through the empty dew covered streets of the small hamlet, his hood concealing his face and his armor helping him blend seamlessly into the shadows around him. As he walked, Feyrith took note of the poor, ramshackle, and rundown houses the Human's lived.

[color=blue][i]"And to think you and your god were our greatest enemy during the Sundering. Now look at you. Forced to live in huts..."[/i][/color] Feyrith mused as he strode towards the village inn which was, much to his suprise, open for business. He supposed that the humans would have spent the four thousand years of relative peace after the Sundering, rebuilding their once great empire, not drowning themselves in ale. 

He shook his head as he got closer to the inn. The Council had sent him here to the realm of Man to see if the rumors of the Great Dragons death were true, not to reason out why Humanity was in such a sorry state. He kept his hood up as he pushed in the rough wooden door and entered the inn. He couldn't let people know he was an elf and a Dhaerain at that. While the memory of his kind and what they had done during the Sundering had faded, Feyrith knew that there were some who still had a hatred of Elven kind, or at the very least an irrational fear. And he supposed it wasn't entirely undeserved....

Feyrith chuckled. In his youth he hated philosophy and now he seemed to do it constantly. He shook his head once more before entering the establishment, the rough wooden door swinging shut behind him.