Gesith Silbermine’s journey through the marches to the east of Mythadia was only supposed to take a week in total. His retinue had packed light and sent scouts ahead to trace a path through the marshy plains that skirted the southern edge of Lake Núr. They’d planned to ride hard and reach the ruins of Falag-Núr in plenty of time to consult with the Mendicant Seers while the Moon was still new. His father had believed they could see the future, and with their insight he went on to win The Running against all the odds. Silbermine was anxious to repeat this feat before he became too old and lame.

But it seemed the gods were intent on testing his resolve ahead of the Glen’s twice-a-decade choosing of Mythadia’s leader. At least that's how Silbermine had interpreted it. First, the bridge over the river which formed Mythadia’s eastern border was destroyed by a flood stemming from torrential rain on the night they set off from Silbermine’s fortress. Heading south to cross at Ertiseda would have taken too long, so instead they waited a day and then forded it while the water was still quite high. One of the load bearers broke a leg and went under; they never saw the boy again.

The rain had turned their path into a quagmire. Glen were able to travel very quickly, even in armour, in good conditions. But with the ground boggy underfoot they were reduced to little more than a trot. This slow pace opened them up to being accosted by every fisherman and unfortunate on this godforsaken stretch of shore. Silbermine’s banner was not hard to spot, nor was the Gesith himself in his imperial red barding. They begged him to rid their land of the bandits which had swooped in since their Margrave had been killed without a successor.

Unable to just decline with The Running so close, Silbermine and his men spent three days crisscrossing the plain, raiding camps of vagabonds and scaring them off. None would fight against a score of armoured knights. The ones they captured all seemed to think the routes were becoming too dangerous for them to stay much longer anyway. Silbermine knew not what to make of that - he let them go but kept their plunder.

When they finally got to the ruins of Falag-Núr, nearly a week behind schedule, Silbermine was incensed to learn that the ancient fortress was empty! They must have upped and left in a hurry, his scouts reported when they regrouped. They’d even left some of their meagre belongings behind. After cursing their name and waiting for half a day, Silbermine had reluctantly cut his losses and led his retinue back towards civilisation. With the ground drying, they had made much better time. But it seemed the gods were not done with them yet. On the second night of their return journey, the sky opened and a thunderous clap rolled forth. The march lit up as if it were day, before turning to a half-light.

Silbermine emerged from his tent into the circular camp ringed with fires. His knights were already off the floor and on their feet, weapons in hand. They were looking up, so the Gesith looked up as well. A fireball flew towards them from across Lake Núr. Silbermine rose up onto his hind quarters in excitement, fore legs waggling in the air before landing back down again.

“It is a sign from the gods! Stand your ground - we are being tested!” The Gesith boomed. His face was craggy and scarred, but right now his eyes were young with vigour.