In a small garden on a small street a small body lay in the dirt. The body, which belonged to a dwarf who was not only short for his age, but also his breed, struggled to his hands and knees, grunted, and then rolled to a sitting position. Zref examined his shins, which were heavily scraped; blood dribbled down his leg. Tears dribbled down his cheeks.
Grateful that no one had seen him trip, over nothing apparently, Zref felt his relief flood away as he remembered his destination. Everyone in the City of Portlight, probably everyone in the world, knew who lived in that tower: Xanthrymir, Wizard of the Sixteen Essences was a legendary figure without peer. It was Xanthrymir, the White Sorcerer, who had cast the Spined One from the realm of life. Rumor had it that Xanthrymir was centuries, maybe even millennia old, and that he had been the one who subdued the draco-lich Narthlep, freeing the three races from demon slavery and leading them to dominance in the world.
The tower had its own re