Once upon a time there was a trail. It was old and weathered, made of stone bricks placed long ago. It wound it’s way along the mountainside, by trees that had stood for centuries and beside a creek that long ago became dry. In the beginning this trail had led those with a gift of magic to the home hidden in the peaks at the edge of the world, but that was long ago.  In the distance mountains rose as the trail wove it’s way ever onwards, like the cracked and shattered bones of long ago gods. There were no vilages in this part of the world, no towns, no cities. Only grey mists, tall mountains and an old stone trail. 

Wanderers came here. Magic users fleeing the war, monsters from the deepest parts of the world, people who had nothing left to lose. Travel was dangerous these days, with the war so close to home, and the stone trail was more traveled than ever before. The travelers did not see one another, no, the world was too wide for that, but they left messages. A pile of rocks on the side of the trail, a mark carved into a guiding post. 

It was silent this deep into the wayward west, only broken by the footsteps of the colossus and the soft wisper of birds. And the song of a lonely traveler. 

He came from a distant part of the world, seaking sanctuary in the ruins that lay in the cradle of the mountains. He followed the trail as so many before him had, holding the knowledge of the ages. Besides him his companion walked on silent paws, eyes stormy ocean blue watching the world for danger. 

The mage had a different name when he first walked this path, but these days he was only known as Nimue. It was the name they whispered in the few towns he passed through, the one whispered in the shadows of castles and at the table of the lying woman who called herself queen. Now only his Luna, his companion, knew that old name. She still called him by it, even when no other did.