Deep in the remote Storm Horns lies an ancient and deserted city of giants.
Dal Nastro, little more than a smudged footnote in mankind’s history of expansion.
"The Tower of Ill Omen!" the old gypsy gasped as she glimpsed the shattered structure at the mountain’s peak.
The tiny shrine doesn’t look like much; a tumbledown temple overgrown with weeds, fading quietly into obscurity. But appearances are oftentimes deceiving.
I have heard (from an Afghan man that I know) that in Afghanistan, they will construct kites, and then tie or tape pieces of glass and shards of pottery to the kite-strings and have "kite-battles", where they try to use the sharp shards on their kite-strings to cut the opponent's strings.