In those days, a wind rose. The wind was not itself a beginning, because there can be no true beginnings and no true endings. The wind blew down from the jagged peaks far to the north, gathering the dry chill of a long dead and frozen world of stone and ice. Across a storm-tossed sea the wind blew, dragging up water from the spray and the salty seafoam that capped the choppy waters. As the wind neared the shore, it became heavy with snow, dropping large, wet flakes and then driving them ahead with merciless and endless endurance. Zeddar pulled his cloak closer around him as he hung the freshly painted sign over the door. Storm's End would prove aptly named....for more reasons than one....
