New-come pale green bristled on every bush, and red new growth tipped every tree branch. It should have been summer by now, but spring had been late in coming, and the land had run wild to catch up. The sickly sweet smell of corruption faded by the time the wind crossed that invisible line men called the border of Shienar, where spring flowers hung thick in the trees. But it was a beginning.īorn among black, knife-edged peaks, where death roamed the high passes yet hid from things still more dangerous, the wind blew south across the tangled forest of the Great Blight, a forest tainted and twisted by the touch of the Dark One. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Dhoom. The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass leaving memories that become legend, then fade to myth, and are long forgot when that Age comes again.
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