The midnight wind blows gently across your flesh as you timidly walk down the path to, Tyran's Cove. To the right and left of you on each side of the dirt path, stand tall, ancient statues of the Gods and Goddesses of the Cove. In the wind, their eroding structures carry like sand through your fingertips. They are surrounded by untrimmed and unkept roses bushes of faded brown colors; their death obvious. A light spray of Eve's dew skulks on and around each withered rose petal, traveling down each stem, collecting a mystical Lunian glow that causes small twinkles of light amongst the path; as if the land were trying to echo its despair.

You are chilled by the absence of the moon and the Macabre Feel of the path. Feeling uncomfortable and ensecure, you deny the bitter coldness permission to step into your bones, tensing your tired body while you gaze onward over the Familiar landscape of once elegant beauty.

Where have I seen this before?

The westward moutainside forms a large portion of the land, once carpeted in majestic splendor, now a wasteland of death and destruction. The tall bare trees in the valley hang Grimly in the season's midnight storms of roaring thunder, fierce lightning, and hellish rain, fading into the ancient and worn Castle of Manor, beyond. The raging sky among the trees to the east repeats itself exactly in the Bloody waters of Windfire Lake, bleeding into the landscape exactly how you would imagine it.

The decayed and broken Iron Gates of the Cove hang open, fallen inward, welcoming anyone who wishes to crossover into this place of misery. On each of the heavy gateways you see a largly crypted symbol engulfing most of it, becoming the gate itself. Though nearly impossible in its rotted form, you indentify the symbol of Manor and a rush of bitterly cold, death-like power, takes surge through your thoughts.

Taking a step slowly through, tracing your fingertips across the rusty gate's doors, feeling the Macabre Grief of the Land; You feel the Cove reaching out for you, as if crying for Help.