He sits in his valley, once again. The eternal snow drifting down, lacing patterns on his cold, tarnished armor. His now long dulled

battle axe rests between his knees. He listens as the wind whistles and howls. He also hears the low whispers of the things which taunt

him from the dark crevices of the rock cliffs which surround him from all sides. He has tried to escape this place for what seems like an

eternity. In all actuality, it has been an eternity. His own private and lonely hell, from which he cannot escape. Not even the gods can

pluck him from this place. It is his valley. Cold. Dark. Lonely. And he would have it no other way. He only wants to escape so as to see ...

what lies just on the other side of the cliffs. He knows he would only return if he did escape.

The storm clouds are gathering again. Angry and gray. More snow is coming. And it is time to hunt, or become the hunted.