He stopped on a mountain path that cut through the valley like a scar. His cracked and calloused hand traced the Nine-Ring Mountain-Shaking Hammer at his waist. Six pairs of its Profound Steel Rings were broken, the remaining clasps like the shed fangs of a great beast. A few deep blue scales, embedded in the gnarled gashes on the hammer's head, glinted coldly in the twilight.
The group behind him snaked through the evening mist like a dying python.
Flanking him were twelve Rangers, Ten-Foot Horse-Cutting Sabers strapped to their backs. Dark red scabs of blood seeped out from under their Profound Iron Armor. In their midst, a wizened old man leaned on a Pigeon Staff, pausing every three steps to press a hand to the festering wound on his waist and gasp for air. A woman cradling a sleeping child brought up the rear.
Other than the crunch of straw sandals on gravel, the group was unnervingly silent.
