Oh the peasantry!
"You think you know my story, could you accept all twenty-thousand leagues? I'm not sure if your ready but if you truly believe you are then strap on your protective harnesses and prepare for lift off."
There's been lives lost and lives given in the Valley of the Moon; too many to count. Folks have come and gone left and right. There's a resemblance to a sickness that's fallen on the people of this region. It takes hold of those who have lived here the longest, it's slimmy little fingers wrap around their throats. Like a storm this sickness builds, it's dark clouds pile together blanketing the horizon.
The Valley of the Moon is a beautiful curse, life's always thriving day or night. It's the center of all trade where quite a few can be found haggling. Currency within' this valley flows like a rolling river. It's in the shops and all other small businesses located up and down the streets. The coin surely fuels the economy.
A lone bird in the distance sings a wonderful song for all the world to hear; she's companion less and preparing to retire for the night. She ruffles black feathers that appear impenetrable - they are dark as a starless night with hues that glimmered a slight green in the light. It's roughly five-thirty and the sun casts a beautiful sunset on the horizon that's purple and orange. The times starting to grow ripe, it's just right for the picking.
A woman sits by the building, a building beautifully constructed. The brick work is amazing the perplexity in certain areas is breath taking. The relaxing sensation given off draws people, they can't help but travel this peaceful route. It's the more artistic part of the town where everyone takes pride in the work.
An obdurate mortal resides in the stronghold to the north, the structor sits on top of a perfect little hill. The man insides unbent, relentless; he'll stop at nothing to accomplish his evil, dark, desires.