Thick clouds clung to the mountaintops so that snow and white billows seemed one. It moaned in the passes, weatherworn cuts between peaks capped with snow that never melted. It howled across half-buried ruins and broken monuments, all as forgotten as those who had built them.
But it was a beginning.ĭown long valleys the wind swept, valleys blue with morning mist hanging in the air, some forested with evergreens, some bare where grasses and wildflowers would soon spring up.
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 Mist. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend.
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