It was a strange fog enshrouded day. A thick mist rolled in off of the river and lay heavily over the land till well after mid day. It was so thick you could barely see to walk and those living on the shore of the Verani River dared not leave their houses for fear of slipping into the swirling mist and disappearing forever. The water was high from the late summer rains; its voice raised even more by the narrows so close at hand. The towering jagged walls of the Touri Mountains closed in upon the river here and squeezed the waters into a funneling mass before dropping fifty feet into a deep river valley. Those who lived upon the high plains respected the mighty river and gave it room, setting their houses on rock foundations and burrowing into the hills to build their barns. Occasionally a weary traveler stumbled into the drink, never to be heard from again. On this unusual day, there was just such an occurrence. A mighty warrior, wounded in battle clung precariously to his horse, hoping to make the long journey home, trusting to his horses’ ability to find his way. The battle wearied stallion halted at the riverbank, unwilling to proceed into the dark swirling water. In that moment, the rider drifted into oblivion and his fingers lost their grip upon the bridle. Into the water he fell with a loud splash and was immediately taken up by the current, his unconscious body dashed into the cascade. The fog covered all. No one observed the accident; no one on the high plains at least.
