Andrew approached the city ruins. It had once been a might urban area, but now it was only a shell of its former self. Even the city's name had been lost to the sands of time. And actual sand was now encroaching on it. The once-great civilization which had once built the city had reverted back to its old ways of small village farming and pastoral herding. The region's king lived in a small castle on the hill overlooking the desert. No one knew hold long ago the city had been lost, or what had happened to bring it this low.
What was for certain was that the ruins still held powerful magical artifacts. The kind had sent out a call for adventurers with the task of sifting through the ruins and recovering what items were still there. In response, two adventurers had indeed shown up from foreign lands. One was a human mage named Andrew with a bit of elven blood in his veins. Looking upon the city, he beheld its ruined visage.
![](http://www.newyorker.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Filkins-ISIS-in-Palmyra-1200.jpg)
What was for certain was that the ruins still held powerful magical artifacts. The kind had sent out a call for adventurers with the task of sifting through the ruins and recovering what items were still there. In response, two adventurers had indeed shown up from foreign lands. One was a human mage named Andrew with a bit of elven blood in his veins. Looking upon the city, he beheld its ruined visage.
![](http://www.newyorker.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Filkins-ISIS-in-Palmyra-1200.jpg)