Robert Jordan

The villages are all preparing for Spring Festival. The festive mood is occasionally somewhat forced, for all that the people of the district love any chance to have a feast or celebration or party, because there are indications that this Spring Festival may not be so joyous as is hoped. An unusually harsh winter hung on longer than anyone can remember happening before, and though it is two months into what should be Spring the air is still cold. The spring rains are late, foliage is slow appearing on the trees, and the winds out of the Mountains of Mist carry a chill as if they would rather carry snows. On the farms many of the spring lambs are still-born. Wolves, bears and even wild boars plague the region. Some say they have only been driven from the mountains by the harsh winter, but others pronounce ominously that it is as if they were bent on destroying all men between the rivers. Some have even come into the villages themselves, a thing unheard of. Too, there are rumors of strange, hooded men seen in the district, garbed in black, watching yet avoiding all contact with the people of the region, but these are largely ignored because it is believed they were begun by a sour old man who is always predicting disaster. Rand is, of course, among the few who do not dismiss this last. In any case, the village is determined, if almost grimly at times, to forget their troubles with the Festival.

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