Part 1

The North wind whistled through the dark crags of the Greenstone Mountains, lifting the powdery snow and swirling it through the night air. Down it ran amongst the barren and rocky outcroppings where even the hardiest vegetation would not grow. The night was clear, and not a cloud marred the star-filled sky. Overhead, the twin moons of Soreill hung in the silvery night sky. Solen, the large silver moon just tipping the horizon made the swirl of snow glitter in the freezing air, while Ramhil, the smaller and ringed orb, left the mountainside tinged with a slight ochre hue.

The breeze slowed slightly as it reached the first dark trees dotting the upper slopes. Twisted and windswept evergreens that fought to survive the bitter elements, clinging to survival dearly, as their roots clung to what small deposits of earth the mountain rock afforded. As the wind passed downward through the endless miles of canyons it encountered larger and more hearty species of conifers, larger trees that were a span of a human's arms around. Not that the wind passed any men however, this barren land was home to the demi-human race of giant spawn, known to themselves as the Illehulk. The large brutes paid the wind no mind as it whistled through the upper moors and caves they called home. They worshiped the maker of Wind, Harrken they called him in their guttural language, and he held the four winds of the earth at his command.

One such beast turned to enter the dimly lit cavern his clan called home, leaving the wind to blow. He considered the storm a good omen, blessing the battle of the previous night. Pausing to let his eyes adjust to the smoky interior, he noted the huddled shapes gathered around the dying fires. A score and seven of his clan bedded here, with another hand's worth outside keeping watch in the winter cold. A precaution he would not have thought of normally, he had learned it from the growing number of men that gathered down the slopes below. Growling he thought of the brother of his second wife that had fallen to their arrows the night before. Coming to his own pile of furs, the great beast woke that wife roughly and demanded her attention to chase the dark thoughts away. Amidst his satisfied grunts the wind could be heard outside blowing through the pines.

The north wind blew further down the lower edges of the moors where it blasted the high waters in the icy grip of winter. Deathly cold from it's passage over the tops of the Greenstones, it made the watchmen of the Keep of the Winds huddle closer to their fires on this mid-winter night. Peering out into the gloom they watched for the Illehulk, a constant vigil maintained to protect the small settlement of miners and hearty souls that eked out a meager living here, at the furthest settlement of the Sharon Empire. One watchman uttered an oath to ***** the god of Fire and war, thinking to ward off the chill of night. The God was understandably silent in his response though, and the dour man crept closer to his watchfire.

The wind flowed freely over the wooden bastions and past frosted panes of glass. Within a large high peaked house, the Baron Fredimer put ink to parchment, penning yet another dispatch to the Guardpost in Everbough. The Illehulk had been as bold as to approach the western gate last night, and he had lost another three good men. How he would spare yet another messenger, he knew not, though he would leave the particulars until morning. Blowing out the candle at his desk, he watched the embers of the fire dying as the night chill entered the room, the ruddy glow casting gloomy shadows against the walls of his study. Sighing deeply, the man wrapped his greatcloak about his shoulders and passed through the door into the anteroom of the keep manor. A huge pair of hunting hounds sat near the hearth, raising their heads in response to their master's passing. Knowing there would be no hunt for them tonight they whined for attention. Fredimer paused on his way to his room, and scratched each in turn beween the ears.
"No, I can't take you out hunting in this blasted winter night, boys. But perhaps the weather will turn, eh?"
Passing the shield of arms over the fireplace, the baron said to the empty room, “Why did I ever accept this barony in the first place? What I would not give to be back in the lowlands, a simple captain in the guardsmen again." The wind outside whistled through the eaves of the keep ominously.

Part 2

The East wind blew through the tops of the trees of Everbough. These huge giants were distant cousins to the conifers that dotted the mountains above. Many times their size and countenance, and tended by the Sylvan wood elves, the trees dwarfed any else in the land. A quiet and peaceful people these elves, ranger and druid being the chief occupations of most, they were a proud and grave people dedicated to the preservation of the lands of Soreill, but gave special attention to the Gimeria or 'Elder Ones' in their language. Tsillenmar the elves called themselves, which in their own musical tongue meant 'life giver', for their clerical magic came from Mielikki the goddess of the forest. They were tanned of skin with green-to-black hair, and usually stood shoulder-height to an average man. Woe to the woodcutter that chanced to put axe or saw to one of the sacred glades of Gimerian giants! His companions might find him stuck with the white-fletched sliver-tipped arrows the Tsillenmar were famous for, and left for the beasts of the field to feast upon. The wind calmed as it passed these pungent boughs, picking up a spice of elfish magic and quieting some before passing to the plains beyond, for to the west and south stretched the wooded plains of Ghimled, the lands of the Sharon people.

Klicknik looked up at the moons and smiled. It was a good evening, though the winter air was a bit cold. An evening for playing in the trees. Here among the great boles of the forest giants, the elves felt the wind's passing, but not it's sting. Clamed by elfish magic the glade where his people lived was a peaceful place, and the elements held little sway. Here the four winds gathered and were woven by the clerical magic of the Tsillenmar, made into a vibrational 'shield' that protected the hidden city of his people. There were elves of his kind scattered abroad throughout the realm of Soreill, but each felt a bond to this, their ancestral home, even if never before they had laid eyes on the sacred groves. Klicknik danced a slow circle, drawing as he did upon the innate powers of the forest and the lady of the wood. Passing from shadow to moonlight, in the twinkling of an eye, the elf's body seems to shrink and compact itself, his arms lengthening, his legs shortening, until where once an elf stood, now a bird of prey perched upon a fallen tree. Flapping it's wings the falcon took wing, and giving a piercing cry of delight, rose upon the warm currents of the forest winds to soar over the treetops. From his high vantage the bird could see the boundary of his people's home, the rest of the Everbough forest to the south where lights twinkled in the distance. Upon the high moor road the human settlement of Fallenstone and the bastion tower of the royal guard stood stark against the night sky.

Many leagues stretched the Ghimled plains anchored as they were by the Greenstones in the North and frittering away to the wet bog lands to the west. The west wind blew in from the sea. It smelled of sea smells, of salt and of fish, and the soapy smell of foam on the water. This was a land of marshes and fens, and the wind blew over many a pool of still dark murk that never made it's way to the fresher water. This was the home of the goblin races of Soreill. Warring tribes, the goblins had no king or organization that any knew of. The Sharon kingdoms had once tried to erase this bane of the western lands, but the uncanny ability of the green-skinned devils to disappear into the marshes left the king's men lost and wandering in the fens. Many a troop of hearty soldiers fell prey to the mists and were-lights of that forlorn place, until finally giving the land up to the goblins seemed the best course to follow. A single muddy track wound it's way through the marshes, being the only southern route to the Creddeshar hills near the sea. A well-armed caravan troop made its business here, traversing the perils of the marsh to bring traders and supplies to the dwarven clans in the southern hills. Some said they had an agreement with the goblin tribal leaders, for though the caravan never seemed to come under attack from the goblins, many a lone traveler or small party was lost to the dangers of that route.

Now and again roving bands of these green-skinned swine had attacked travelers some leagues from the marshes. Though more a nuisance than a threat, the guardpost at Fallenstone spent some time tracking these bands down and dealing with them swiftly. Commerce and trade in the surrounding areas depended on the roads being safe to travel, and the guardsmen made certain of that.

Part 3

The south wind was merry. Blowing free in the archipelago that made up the southern reaches of the continent, it passed through the salt spray of the ocean breakers and the palms of the sandy islands. Past the glistening oiled bodies of the dockworkers unloading bales of exotic spices and silk from the trade vessels by torchlight, the wind swirled through the city streets. The sprawling port capital of Verishalle was the jewel of the west, Capital to the Kingdom of Sharon and seat of the regent Boniduce.

There had not been a king for a score and three years, not since the tragedy of Verishalle. The king and his counselors had been found dead at their cups, an apparent poisoning, though no political faction or group claimed responsibility. The only heir, the king’s son Rence disappeared strangely on the same night, and had not been heard from these long years. The General of the Sharon army took up the seat of power, though reluctantly, and had reigned in place of a king since. More than twenty years of inner struggle between the Dukedoms of the realm had left many a duchy without a man in the keep. Boniduce was left to sort through the pieces, often resorting to placing his trusted generals and captains in place of the dukes, who were so often dying of ‘unnatural causes’. This left the realm a hotbed of political intrigue and suspicion, each noble eyeing the other with cause for concern to his or her own welfare. The greatest power in the land still was the army, though of late there had been many conscripts and in order to restore order in the outlying provinces, Boniduce had decreed that one member of each family in the kingdom must serve in the Sharon army.

The south wind cared for none of these things though. It was happy to leave the hot southern reaches and pass inland toward the cooler hills and vaulted canyons of the twin mountain ranges splitting the southern half of the continent. One of these dominated the realm, splitting off the fertile Sharon lands from the uncharted eastern regions of desert. The Enthorin range towered high above the Ghimled Plains, stretching thousands of feet into the night sky. These mountains were the home of the second race of elves to grace the land of Soreill. The Etherian elves were fair of skin with silver or golden hair and were an innately magical people. Taller than their sylvan cousins and more aloof, though not prejudiced the Tisrollier were a proud and valiant race. Spending their time in contemplation of the mysteries of magic, the heavens, and other such things; many were astronomers, some clerics, and most had at least a moderate acclamation to magical powers. The most powerful wizards of the realms were Tisrollier, and many sought their advice on things pertaining to the mystic arts. Scholars of all races came to the mountains to learn from the elfish people, and though some were turned away, the Etherian elves were never happy to turn away a studious mind. The Tisrollier gave homage to three distinct gods, the major of these being Mystra, goddess of Magic and Mysteries. Some however claimed that Oghma, the god of Knowledge was the true source of inspiration and many are the temples and libraries in these lofty cities in the Enthorin peaks dedicated to the Keeper of Secrets. Still others worshipped the Creator god Lathander, giving that the Tisrollier believed they were created first of all the races of the land.

Alchemand looked through the large glass and silver spindle pointed to the clear night sky and the reddish gold discs of Ramhil. Adjusting the crystal focusing knurl on one side of the contraption, he brought the magnified image into clearer focus. “Yes, the second series is quite remarkable, though the scarlet hue definitely comes from the surface itself.” Without removing his gaze from the instrument, the Astronomer reached for the quill and parchment on the table at his side, the elven astronomer clumsily knocked his glass of wine from the pedestal beside him. “Ruthia you fickle B*T*H!” he swore at the lesser god of thieves and luck. Bending to blot the ruined pages with the cerulean hem of his robe, the scholar bumped the looking device behind him. The elf swore again. Stooping to sight through the glass again and see how far off he had moved his target, the sticky papers dropped from his hand. With a sharp intake of breath and trembling slightly, he reached for the inkwell again. “Sweet Oghma, what might this be?” He intoned. Not even looking at what his hand was scratching he began to sketch furiously what he saw within the sky-glass. Forgetting his previous words to the lesser goddess, though in fact they were an epiphany…he would have chuckled at the thought of it.
The south wind caressed the silken draperies at the window softly, carrying the distant tang of salt and spice into the room.

Part 4

The second mountain range the south wind passed could hardly be called a mountain range, though the race that called this place home would not hear otherwise. The Aulpin hills as some referred to them were rocky and strewn with blasted heath and scraggly Jupine trees. Here dwelt the rock gnomes, the hearty and unusual race of Alpungers. These people were builders of every sense of the word. Anything from wondrous toys that would spin and rattle of their own volition, to great engines of siege and war were built in the gnomish workshops. Great bouts of steam met the south wind here, spewing up from vast furnaces deep within their rocky homes, for the Aulpin mountains were riddled with a network of tunnels and caverns. Quick of speech the Alpungers were and quick as well to tell you a tale or yarn. They were avid storytellers, and if not working in their shops and workrooms were sitting around a fire telling and re-telling the tales and histories of the land. The Alpungers chief Deity was Gond, the patron of artisans and craftsmen, though some of the wiry engineers also paid homage to Oghma as well. The rock gnomes were fiercely loyal one to another, and knew their family histories back spans of generations. Looked down on unfairly by some of the greater races of the realms, the Alpungers were shy of strangers. The entrances to their homeland under the Aulpin Range were secretly and cunningly fashioned to look like the rocky hillside they were crafted from. Not many gnomes lived among the populace, and those that did were merchants, plying the varied and curious inventions of the race of craftsmen.

The trailing western end of the Aulpins met the sea, and was separated from the Creddeshar hills by a deep crevasse. This expansive canyon separated the homelands of the gnomes from the Hills of the dwarven clans of Glendhammer. Here the south wind met the west wind over the Heather and Bracken of the highlands, home to the hearty miners of Soreill. Wondrous weapons and armor came from Creddeshar, some imbued with the magical powers of the dwarven clerics, loyal to the god of Battle and Fire, Tem-Koss. The dwarves were a stout and proud race, lovers of wealth and fine craft, as well as strong drink and good cheer. They were also master brewers and the clover mead called simply Glend, was as much an export to the lands as their weaponry and stonecraft. Wealthy nobles from all of Soreill called upon the stonemasons of Creddeshar to build their castles and keeps. Strong and steadfast as the builders themselves, some dwarven structures had stood for centuries, and would withstand almost any siege engine the Alpungers could produce. But the chief love of the dwarven race was their craft of metal. Each smith, once in their lifetime could produce a magically enchanted item of extraordinary power. Their life’s work built up in skill to this wondrous crafting, known as the Bondswork, for in making the weapon the smith’s own energies and life-force were given in the crafting. The heartier the Dwarf, the mightier the artistry and stronger the enchantment bestowed upon the item. Not always a weapon, however, the dwarves were fine artisans and many other wondrous things were crafted as well, from goblets to fine musical instruments fashioned of magicked metal.

Bren Pretsblade looked out over the cliffs of Creddeshar, he loved the wind almost as much as the heat of the forge, the feel of the heather between his toes, or solid rock under his feet. A gull cried far below him, circling on the warmer currents rising up from the ocean. It was a cold day, and the pounding surf was lost to his eyes under the mists of the warmer ocean waters. His braided yellow beard was tucked into the wide leather band at his waist, and a hooded cloak covered his head, the trailing edges flapping in the breeze. Around his neck he wore a golden chain, marking him a clan leader. A great rune-inscribed warhammer was thrust into the belt at his waist. In the soft light of morning it almost seemed to shine with a glow of it's own accord. He turned back to the brightly-lit doorway some yards behind him and the smells of mithril ore being forged. Taking a last glance at the brightening sky he strode quickly to the doorway, eager to return to the forge and this day’s crafting. Pulling the doorway shut behind him with barely a tug, the huge slab of rock snapped shut with the sharp crack of stone on stone. Tracing the sigil to lock the exit, Bren took the smokeless torch from it’s holder near the doorway and descended into the depths of the southern Glendhammer forges.
Outside the wind blew freely through the bracken and across the highlands to where the dwarf had stood but a moment before. Past the now smooth surface where the doorway had been and rising with the warmer currents from the cliffs below, the south wind danced with it's brother the west, eastward now toward the lightening dawn.

Part 5

In the stifling and silent darkness, no wind stirred the heavy earthen-flavored and stagnant air. True, there were small caves and other cracks in the crust of Soreill, but no shaft of sunlight, no fresh breeze stirred the inky depths of the deadly underworld. This was home to three evil and distinct races of demi-humans, each tolerating the other’s presence, yet hating the mere existence of each other. One race lorded over the other two, enslaving them to dark purposes and enacting a brutal and harsh life of servitude. Within the cavernous depths, deep beneath the trees, grass and streams of the surface the Drow Elves ruled supreme. Black of skin, and black of soul, these malignant creatures worshiped the dark lady Takhisis. The hushed tales told ‘round dark hearths or small fires by the races above, tales told to frighten children and make proud men seem brave, told of terrible and heinous deeds performed by the drow. Sacrificing their own offspring to the Evil Goddess, Clerics of her dark form of magic carousing with demons and their spawn, and drinking the blood of their enemies in ghastly homage to the dark lady. In truth, these stories only scratched the surface of the atrocities the drow were capable of. And of all things most dear to the evil race, their hatred of their distant cousins the Tsillenmar and Tisrollier of the sunlit lands drove the evil creatures to even ranker acts of deprivation. How they schemed and plotted, twisting lies within their perverted religion and racial prejudice! Above all else they planned genocide upon the races above, and many were their designs and hidden strategies to this end. They had armies of Orc and Subunger slaves, and treated these no better than the animals they thought them to be.

Subungers were the underground race of gnomes. Mean and fiercely military oriented, they were in severe contrast to their reputable cousins in the sunlit lands above. Subungers were dark of skin, a deep earthy brown, and were attuned to the elements of the earth. Their shamans could summon elementals at will, and they had an uncanny ability to meld with the stone or earth around them, appearing almost invisible to the naked eye. How the Drow coerced them into servitude is not known, though some say they worship the same dark entity as the black-skinned scoundrels they called masters.

I need not say much about the Orcish clans. Large of arm, and small of brain, these foul beasts were distant relatives of the goblins and bugbears of Soreill. The drow cared little for their welfare, as long as they obeyed their masters, and hunger and the whip where most what it took to keep them in line. Barbaric and virtually fearless, Orcs would fight to the death without thought of surrender or parley; their small intellects could not fathom such a concept. The might of the drow and of dragons was their only fear, and little else would bring them to doubt their master’s orders. Some of these brutes long before had migrated to the surface world, and tales from far in the Realm had mentions them preying on travelers in remote areas. For the large part though, this dark race served their Drow masters with little or no though to themselves beyond their next meal, which was whatever they could kill or steal.

Ush’menthil watched the latest group of slaves working combat drills in the dimly lit yard of his house’s court. Luminous growing lichen had been brought to simulate the deep night of the moonless phase of Soreill’s winter months. The light was not uncommon in the Drow city of Zxchingritnish, for most of his people used the glowing moss in place or addition to magical lights. Some said that using such tactics would only allow the gnomes and orcs to grow feeble and accustomed to using their normal sight instead of the infravision that all underground races were gifted with. Ush’menthil was of a different mind though, and any advantage that they could bring to bear against the cursed “light ones” was one he would employ. Gathering up the long-tailed whip of his office, he smiled cruelly. What better way to speed a combat lesson than with a little fresh blood? Striding down the stairs to the yard below, he bellowed to the lesser male instructors to stand aside. Drawing himself to his full 5 feet high, he looked almost squarely into a smaller Orcs face, a sinister light behind his eyes.
“Attack me, fool” he said harshly.
The Orc dumbly stared hard back at the warrior, not understanding why his master would ask such a thing.
“Strike at me, or know your death, fool!” the Weaponsmaster shouted in its face.
With a resigned shrug, the ugly brute lifted his waraxe clumsily. Quick as thought the whip snaked out with hardly a movement from Ush’menthil, wrapping its deadly barbs around the poor creature’s neck. Dropping its weapon and suddenly struggling for breath, the orc reached for its own neck, eyes already bulging. With a Swift jerk of his arm sideways, and spinning the body, to loose the whip’s locking wrap, the drow hurled the unfortunate creature to smash into the stone wall, some 30 feet to his side. The orc lay in a messy heap, its neck broken and tongue protruding grossly from its mouth.
“Let this be a lesson to you all”, he told the rest of the mixed group of slaves in the yard behind him. “Never under any circumstances raise a hand to your master.” Laughing, he added, “And learn to care for your wounded. This one should make a meal for you for two days.”
Stepping past the bloodied mess, he retreated back up the stairs, relishing in the sound of continued drills behind him.