The Scions of Shannara

The old man sat alone in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth and watched the coming darkness chase the
daylight west. The day had been cool, unusually so for midsummer, and the night promised to be
chill. Scattered clouds masked the sky, casting their silhouettes upon the earth, drifting in the
manner of aimless beasts between moon and stars. A hush filled the emptiness left by the fading
light like a voice waiting to speak.

It was a hush that whispered of magic, the old man thought.

A fire burned before him, small still, just the beginning of what was
needed. After all, he would be gone for several hours. He studied the
fire with a mixture of expectation and uneasiness before reaching down
to add the larger chunks of deadwood that brought the flames up quickly.
He poked at it with a stick, then stepped away, driven back by the heat.
He stood at the edge of the light, caught between the fire and the
growing dark, a creature who might have belonged to neither or both.

His eyes glittered as he looked off into the distance. The peaks of the
Dragona's Teeth jutted skyward like bones the earth could not contain.
There was a hush to the mountains, a secrecy that clung like mist on a
frosty morning and hid all the dreams of the ages.

The fire sparked sharply and the old man brushed at a stray bit of
glowing ash that threatened to settle on him. He was just a bundle of
sticks, loosely tied together, that might crumble into dust if a strong
wind were to blow. Gray robes and a forest cloak hung on him as they
would have on a scarecrow. His skin was leathery and brown and had
shrunken close against his bones. White hair and beard wreathed his
head, thin and fine, like wisps of gauze against the firelight. He was
so wrinkled and hunched down that he looked to be a hundred years old.

He was, in fact, almost a thousand.

Strange, he thought suddenly, remembering his years. Paranor, the
Councils of the Races, even the Druids--gone. Strange that he should
have outlasted them all.