In the distant Galestine Ocean, about a day's journey off the coast of Blackshore, two massive tall-masted ships drfited across the water.
They were headed towards the lawless city of Blackshore.
The ship's towering masts seemed to pierce the clouds, and its sails were enchanted with magical runes that propelled the ship forward despite the absence of strong winds.
The vast hull, made from blackened wood, seemed to drink in the light of the twin moons, giving the ship an eerie, almost otherworldly presence.
At the deck of the ship, an old man wearing dark green Magus robes stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Despite his calm outward appearance, his heart was gripped by nervousness.
Brigham Flynn's eyes squinted, his gaze traveling countless miles into the horizon. His hand clenched involuntarily, thinking of the inevitable battle he would have to take part in.
How many years has it been since I've fought on the front lines? A hundred years? A hundred fifty?
