Even stories of hope are blasphemous in a world possessed by evil.

Nowhere is that more true than in the seat of corruption--the northern mountains.

Darkness' ancient nexus of power seems an unlikely origin for a story of light.

Especially on the longest, blackest night of the year.

Bleaker still are the prospects of a lone elf maid bound to fulfill prophecies of yore.

The ragtag band she gathers will be witnesses to a new dawn, to point others toward the first glimmer of morning.

The price of heralding the light is steep when night's minions have stood so long unopposed.

On Winternight, in darkness, faith is expensive. Hope, even the beginning of hope, is too much to hope for.

Besides, who would trust a story?

The keening wind blew long and hard that bitter, frosty night,

to pierce the heart and chill the bone and chase away the light.

When in the blasted land it claimed, the darkness woke once more,

To rend a battered world from which 'twas bound in time of yore.