Crimson Hills, Western Frontier of the Empire
The mountains of the west blazed crimson, a boundless forest of maple leaves dyed blood-red beneath the autumn sun.
From a distance it looked less like nature and more like an oil painting, painted by a divine hand with strokes of fire and sunset.
The autumn wind swept gently over the cliff, carrying with it the rich, intoxicating aroma of Dragon's Breath Flamewine, whose half-emptied bottle rested upon a weathered stone table.
Two elderly figures sat facing each other across the ancient oakwood table set upon the cliff's edge.
One was tall and slender, his posture as elegant as a forgotten court earl.
The other was short and stout, his ruddy cheeks round as a baby's, his small eyes half-closed in pleasure as though savoring every heartbeat of life.
