69 Winter of 509 AV
A horse galloped over the rolling hills that made up the wildlands. Behind him, the contours of Syliras faded away, being obscured by the sand that was kicked up by the running horse. The war steed neighed vibrantly, obviously happy that it was no longer restricted to the dense stable it had spent four days in. Its rider was equally pleased to leave the city; it had been an interesting and irritating experience to wander in such a huge city, but the never ending flood of commoners had eventually irritated the blood from beneath Conor’s nails. He did miss the dashingly beautiful park and he had encountered a few very fascinating people, but now, he was just happy to continue his journey.
The next stop would be Riverfall, a city built on the cliffs overlooking the ocean – what a magical ring did that word, ocean have – protected by fierce warriors. Riverfall was also the home of the Akalak, and despite the fact that Conor had no clue to who they were, he really wanted to find out. But before he would be travelling through the vast grasslands, he would first have to cross these hills. He had left the known roads, and continued in a straight line towards Cyphrus territory. He was eager to learn more about its inhabitants, and the customs of her population. Hopefully, they weren’t as annoying as the citizens that had plagued Syliras. Conor smiled as the wind blew through his hair, like it was playing with it. He inhaled the fresh air, what a difference with the polluted air of Syliras. Here you smelled flowers and grass, in Syliras you smelled mules and unwashed civilians. Like the most advanced civilization of Mizahar hadn’t managed to grasp the concept of bathing.
It was still cold outside, and Conor pulled his cloak around him. The fur edges of the fine garment tickled his neck and chin. The warm embrace of the fabric engulfed him, and he became oblivious to the cold. He enjoyed the ride as much as his steed did. He gazed at every yard they crossed, trying not to miss a single inch of his surroundings. Although Conor still preferred the snowy fields of his ancestral birthplace, he could imagine why there were so many songs about these lands. It was beautiful, the lush fields he was riding through looked like they were divine creations, and the smell of thaw resided in the air. But Conor stayed vigilant. Many of the songs concerning the wildlands stated that they were dangerous, and Conor had taken quite the risk by leaving the marked roads.