The Harrowing of the Deep Ice
The Harrowing of the Deep Ice The frigid winds of Icewind Dale howled above them, a relentless, shrieking gale that scoured the surface world white. But here, deep in the throat of the earth, the air was dead. It hung heavy and stagnant in the shattered dwarven mine, thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the sharp, sulphurous bite of raw, destructive magic. Arthur Brookstone led the descent, his heavy plate armor grinding softly with each measured step. The tabard of the local guard, worn and faded, clung to his broad shoulders. He gripped the hilt of his longsword—its pommel shaped like a roaring lion—and felt a faint, thrumming warmth radiating through the leather-wrapped grip. The blade was a guardian spirit in its own right, its magic an ever-vigilant sentry that promised none in his charge would be taken by surprise. But the warning pulse in the steel did little to ease the cold knot in his gut. Before them, the ancient mine gave way to a jagged, unnatural fissure. I...
