T H E S I E G E M A S T E R S
Ten years have passed.
Autumn was barely halfway over. But it was already snowing in Caer Dinivel and the fireplace in the big main bar room of the Cloven Skull Inn was filled with blazing logs. Anlaf, the owner, was bustling about with a tray filled with tankards and glasses and the tavern wenches were equally busy. Several trading caravans were in the town on this market eve and there were plenty of travellers on route to or from the Ten Towns, the Druids' Sacred College at Dragon's Eye or the Elven and Dwarven strongholds in the Spine of the World. The crowded bar was loud with laughter and conversation.
The door opened and two people, a man in the hooded black leather robe of a Druid and a woman in a dark green mage robe came in, accompanied, to the worried stares of some patrons, by a large wolf. The man threw back his hood to reveal a lined, moustached and ravaged face