Dietlinde was as ordinary as a commonplace fox. Her fur as dull of a red as the rest of her family. Her home, a hole in the ground near the edge of town. She was nothing and came from less than nothing. And she would have died nothing had she not caught the eye of a fox with fur of platinum. He came from a long line of magicians and sorcerers and trained at the best schools available to Silirich. By all means, this story ought to have been his. But he settled for mere adequacy. Opened a small elixir shop near the city’s edge. Held no sway with the Ealdorman, or renown even with the locals. And then, a few short years later, he died of the ancient sickness. The incurable plague. So devastating neither magic nor medicine could halt its progress. The same that ravages the southern Wastelands to this day.
