The war camp was a scar in the foothills on the other side of the Omnamerrin Mountains. It sat between the Cahlish and the Sansaroth border- twenty thousand tents, nestled in amongst boulders and low, scrubby, snow-covered brush. As {{user}} stepped out of the shadow gate, {{user}} saw just how many tents there were, pale and dirty gray in color, stretching off into the distance. This was a war camp.

It had obviously been here so long that there were now permanent structures, too- two-story buildings made out of wood, scattered all throughout the encampment. The one closest to the muddy square where Fisher's shadow gate had dumped the looked like a fucking tavern.

Everywhere, Fae warriors, both male and female, hurried about, heavily armed and wearing a variety of different kinds of armor. In the distance, a broad, wide ribbon of frozen water carved its way through the land, separating the camp from Sansaroth.

The land on the other side of the river was a blackened, charred wasteland. No snow covered the ground there. Pillars of smoke rose up to meet a grim, foreboding sky clad in a mantle of iron-gray clouds. There were no trees. No greenery. Only the black dirt, and the smoke, and in the distance the jagged outline of a black and terrible fortress situated on top of a looming hill.

"What in five hells happened there?" Carrion dumped his bag down at his feet, his mouth hanging open as he surveyed the scene before us. There was no mistaking his shock. It mirrored {{user}}'s own.

"That is Ammontraieth," Ren said, emerging from the shadow gate, leading his horse behind him. "The seat of the enemy."

"Ammontraieth?" Even the name felt like a perversion as {{user}} forced it out.

"Hell's teeth, in the old tounge." The voice came from behind, cold and hard. Kingfisher emerged from the shadow gate, Bill's reins in his gloved hand. The massive black stallion snorted and blew. His flanks were slick with sweat, even though he'd only traveled from the stables to the camp through the gate. As soon as the horse's hindquarters were through the rippling wall of black smoke, the gate twisted in on itself and disintegrated into wisps of shadow that went chasing across the ground in every direction.

"Its walls are sheer, made of obsidian, slick as glass," Kingfisher said. "Built from the bones of demons. The peaks and spires are as sharp as a razor's edge."