Damned strange weather.
The mutters had sounded in Proudglaive for weeks, fogging on the lips of the dockworkers at Theoren’s Landing, whispered at the River Gate, down Spider River Road to the market at Daensmarch Square, echoing in the halls of Blacktower Castle. Marlae could not argue. The weather had been passing strange for the Southern Coast of Anuire, with a first frost in Sehnir and bitter cold marking the short days of Emmanir. The leaves of the apple and oak trees in Blacktower’s courtyard, ordinarily as ostentatious a red and gold as the sunburst of Haelyn, had browned and shriveled in the chill, and now lay scattered across the flagstones like casualties of a slaughter.