![]() ![]() For all that spring should have come a good month since, the wind carried an icy chill as if it would rather bear snow. Down it flailed into the Two Rivers, into the tangled forest called the Westwood, and beat at two men walking with a cart and horse down the rock-strewn track called the Quarry Road. ![]() But it was a beginning.īorn below the ever cloud-capped peaks that gave the mountains their name, the wind blew east, out across the Sand Hills, once the shore of a great ocean, before the Breaking of the World. 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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