The road — this is the lot of the sorcerer. Crooked earthen dwellings are replaced by rich wooden houses, marshy swamps — by raging rivers, rusty steppes — by impenetrable forests. The sorcerer walks, treading the native lands from edge to edge. If your craft is to reconcile Truth with Falsehood, to help people and good spirits, and to find a way to tame the wicked undead, then peace will not be seen by you. Life is harsh; in toil and worries, the world lives. Dark sorcerers, the minions of Destruction, play their game. The memory of ancient heroes echoes across the land. Black clouds of unknown doom gather along the borders. And over the whole Enchanted Rus hangs the invisible shadow of Woe. And something evil, unwanted, forcibly given is ripening within. Will it break free?
