Chronicler's Tales : The Merging

[Blind Otto]

Good friends,

it has been some time since I put quill to parchment for any great endeavours.
So long, I find to my deep regret, that there are those amongst you who have never read any of my works. In any regard, recent events, and the kind words of Lore Denin have broken down the blockages that had grown in this old writer's mind. So, I have taken up the pen once more, and hope that ye enjoy the fruits of my labours.

Thus follows "The Merging", for want of a better title. I did consider "Knight and Day", but methinks I've read that somewhere else before, and tis not fitting for a knight to steal titles from other folks!

Tis a tale in six parts, and when the sixth has found its way here, I shall yield the stage to Lore, and place a copy of these tales on Stratics, for the good (and not so good) folks there to peruse as well. For now, all being well, my schedule shall be to publish a chapter every Monday and Friday.

So... here begins the tale. Grab an ale, make yourself comfortable, and I shall begin...

[Blind Otto]

	rom the scrolls of Blind Otto, The Chronicler - This being the first of six scrolls - Twas the 26th day of the tenth month, in the sixteenth year of the Rancid Mongbat, and destiny was lurking in the snow...

he snow lay across the ruins of Wintermoor like an unforgiving white shroud. Here and there, eerie shapes arose from the snow, mute testimony to the fortified city which once stood there. In the middle, almost untouched, the Temple of Mithras stood alone, with massive snow drifts piled up against the walls and doors, as if trying to pull the ancient structure down into the depths of the earth.

Within those ancient stone walls, an old man was just awakening from a dream, as the last flickering embers in the fireplace lost their long battle against the chilled night air. A magnificently crafted braille clock at his bedside told him it was still the middle of the night. That clock was the only way Otto could tell, as night and day are as dark as each other to a blind man. “But”, he wondered out loud, “what woke me?” It wasn’t the cold â€" years spent mining, and later, more years spent in the mountains of Malas, serving the Knights, had made him immune to that. Then he heard it clearly. A loud hissing. A familiar hissing. But how had a serpent managed to get in here? The lower reaches of the Temple were built to make access to the slithering creatures impossible. Perhaps the snow had fallen deeply… perhaps enough snow would overcome those defences. Still, however it had got in, there was no mistaking that noise. He cautiously reached for his sword… and stopped.

This was impossible. He saw a light. It had been years since he last saw anything, except in his dreams. He felt fairly certain that he was not dreaming - but the light grew brighter. The hissing grew louder, closer. Strong hands grasped him, pulled him to his feet. “Hands? Serpents have no hands!” he exclaimed. “Who is there? What is happening? ”  Ophidians, perhaps, he wondered, fearing the worst. The light, most ironically, became blinding, as cold winds whipped around him…

tto found himself in the air, looking down at the Temple. Looking? So perhaps this was a dream? Below, hundreds… perhaps even thousands of silver serpents coiled and slithered in the snow around the base of the ancient home of the Knights. Then, they began to glow… and tunnel. Snow was flung in the air from all around the base of the Temple, and then earth… then rock. “Now I know I am dreaming.” He thought. “Snakes can’t dig through rock!” There was a groaning noise, rock on rock, and  thunderous rumbling, like a hundred mages casting quake spells in unison. The rumbling grew in intensity, as small boulders began to fly from the base of the Temple.

Otto stared in horror as the towering structure began to sway and shudder, and the glow from the serpents’ bodies became brighter and brighter.  “No!!!” he screamed “No!!! You cannot let it fall!! This is Lord Lethius’s legacy!!! It is all that remains!!! I have endured too much to let it end this way!!!”

A lone serpent appeared in the air next to Otto, and looked at him quizzically. “You can’t!” pleaded Otto, by now more or less convinced that he had lost his mind. The serpent hissed, and pointed downwards with its head.  A voice spoke, as if from everywhere. “Winter preserves, but Summer grows. Seek the Sun, my loyal servant. Seek the Unconquered Sun.” The Temple was now starting to move across the snow, but it was not falling. The very foundations were now visible, and the huge structure was somehow moving, being carried on a massive writhing mass of silver. Across the mountains it moved, slowly, carefully, until it came to an open grassy plain south-west of Wintermoor. There, buildings stood which seemed to be somehow made both of light and of stone. There, in their midst, stood one lone man, gazing in wonder at the temple which came wobbling across the mountain tops. More serpents appeared, all glowing so brightly, their very forms seemed to be made of light. They dug into the grass, and beyond, cutting a new foundation hole from the earth. Then, the Temple began to lurch into place.

he man below stared at the unearthly sight - first at the massive building which was rapidly advancing on the edge of his town, and then, at the bewildered old man floating above him, clad in his night clothes, apparently while pleading with a large, floating snake. “Virtues keep you, friend!” he yelled “I am Lore Denin, of Loria. Who might you be, and what are you doing up there? I see no wings â€" are you a gargoyle? Are you friend or foe? Do you need aid?” Otto was about to respond to this bombardment of questions, when the Temple crashed into place, and the light from every serpent exploded into another blinding flash of silver. Then, all was dark again.

tto felt heat, and the furs of his bed beneath him. The only sound was the ticking of his clock, but someone had built a fresh fire in the fireplace, and the room was warm once more. Beyond the thick stone walls, harsh winds howled.  A dream? Or something more? “The Unconquered Sun” he mused to himself. “Or, as Lord Py yelled far too regularly, ‘Sol Invictus’. Hmm. . .” He slept little more that night. In the early hours of the morning, Otto put his shoulder to the massive doors of the Temple, and eventually shoved the snow drifts aside. Crunching through the snow to the stables, he saddled and mounted his trusty giant beetle. Together, they rode south-west. Through the mountain tunnels, across the frozen wastes, until grass took the place of the ice and snow.

Carefully guiding his beetle to the place he had been shown, or at least, where he believed it was, his beetle stopped at what seemed to be the beginnings of a settlement. The few complete buildings felt perfectly normal, not made of light at all, as far as he could tell. There was the beginning of a town wall, and a few basic buildings, but all of them seemed to be in their early stages. But who had been working here? Where were they? No answer came to Otto’s calls of greeting, but there was certainly a large open space where he had seen the Temple placed. (Seen? Envisioned? Who could tell?)  Carefully, he paced out the area. Yes, that was big enough for the temple, and more. Most peculiar. There, in the middle of the space, he tripped over a lone shovel, and cursed loudly. Grasping it, he felt the carved shape of a snake on the handle. “Well.” He said to no one in particular “I suppose there are fewer serpents to help me today than in… whatever that was, so it is up to this old miner to dig a suitable foundation. After that, who knows what will happen?” And so, he dug.

rom atop a nearby building, in the new day’s early light, eyes watched with interest as the blind man measured out a large square across the grass. The night had been a strange one, and not just for the old man known as Blind Otto.

[Blind Otto]

	from the scrolls of Blind Otto, the Chronicler       - This being the second of six scrolls -      Twas the 28th day of the tenth month, in the sixteenth year of the Rancid Mongbat,         and a warrior was abroad in the lands

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

ore threw himself at one of the huge, yellow-tusked trolls. This one was wearing ill-fitting armour, undoubtedly stolen from some rather large, yet luckless adventurer. The stench was overwhelming â€" on a good day, trolls typically smell like wet fur, flesh that never encountered water, and fetid blood. For this particular troll, it was blatantly obvious that this was not a good day. It snarled defiantly as Lore’s attack knocked it backwards, his blade firmly embedded in its chest, and then its snarls turned to pitiful gurgles as it drowned in its own bile and filthy blood. The gleaming sword was wrenched free, slicing across another troll’s chest and liberating it of one clawed hand as he did so. Trolls. Why did it always have to be trolls? They were almost mindless, sluggish in battle, and it took at least two dozen to provide even a half-decent fight. And yet, to the people of Yew, most of them simple sheep farmers, they were deadly. This pack could not be allowed to advance one step closer to the town. Lore stepped back, sheathed his blade, and drew his bow. A troll, wearing an old, rusted bucket as a crude helmet, stared as if he had just seen a one-headed ettin break into song. Lore grinned, and loosed a volley of arrows.

Trolls fell like young saplings, the entire invading clan reduced to a mere handful in moments. Two of the last ones left standing looked at each other in confusion, as realisation of their predicament started to reach their dull brains… just about the same time as two of Lore’s arrows did exactly the same. As the last troll thundered towards him in blind rage, Lore sighed, pointed his sword at it, and braced himself. The troll, blinded by rage, did not realise what it was running towards until it was far too late.  At the last moment, it skidded, tried franticly to reverse direction, failed, and, with a final look of amazement on its fat, tusked face, fatally impaled itself on Lore’s sword.

ater, as the sun began to set, Lore arrived back home. His saddle bags were laden with produce that the grateful farmers had insisted he take with him, despite his protests, and the only thing he could think of was bed. He rubbed down his horse, and put the gifts safely in a store cupboard. A small settlement he knew of had been plagued by terrible crop failure this year after a would-be necromancer had been found, seeding their fields with his vile experiments. Lore had caught him and administered several unforgettable lessons in Justice. Those poor forsaken villagers could certainly make good use of the contents of his saddle bags. Yawning, stretching, Lore made his way indoors â€" and stopped. By pure reflex, he found his sword back in his hand, ready for battle. Someone, or something, was most certainly here. He could sense an unfamiliar presence in his home, and there was a strange glow coming from practically every surface. “Show thyself!!!” he bellowed “Whoever you are, few friends hide in a man’s home uninvited!” Silence answered him. Lore began to advance, but a moment later, the entire room was claimed by an overwhelming flood of light.

s the last of the glowing spots faded from his vision, Lore found he was outside once more, lush grass beneath his boots. The sun should have disappeared below the horizon scant moments ago, but it was extremely dark, unnaturally so. Even so, the heavens above him were a sea of stars, and the crescent of one of Sosaria’s moons lit the sky, illuminating, far above him, the floating figure of … a man. A man???  He glanced around, sword at the ready, listening for any hint of danger. Nearby, the half-built walls of Summer’s End were black shapes looming from the shadows, but no sound of man or beast came from those dark depths. But then! The still of the night was shattered by a great grinding noise, followed by an ear-splitting crashing, and the earth shook beneath Lore’s boots, throwing him unceremoniously to the ground.

As he scrambled back to his feet, looking around, he saw it. Slowly, deliberately, grinding its way over the dark outline of the mountains, came a massive shape, blotting out the stars. There was an unearthly glow at the base of it… it seemed to be a great tower, or fortress of some sort. What madness was this?? It swayed and shook as it somehow descended from the mountain-tops, and as it came closer, Lore was certain that he could hear a faint hissing noise amid the rumbling and grinding. The hissing grew louder, like a thousand score angry snakes â€" perhaps more. Closer came the building, thundering across the ground, somehow carried by a multitude of serpents, all gleaming silver, but not from the moonlight. This glow seemed to come from within them! Above him, the floating man seemed to be becoming more and more frantic. Lore could hardly blame him. He wondered how he would react, if he found himself to be floating around like a gargoyle in the night sky.

Some of the serpents began to separate from the group that carried the great stone structure, and plunged head first into the grassy expanse south of the snow fields. More and more of them appeared, until it seemed like a waterfall of silver, crashing over unseen cliffs, into the ground below. There, they made short work of the turf and topsoil, and boulders began to fly. Lore wished that whoever or whatever had dragged him out here had given him time to grab a shield, but amazingly, none of the boulders harmed him, or hit the nearby buildings.  Indeed, they seemed to sink back into the ground, vanishing from sight. As the remainder of the serpents began to move their massive burden towards the new hole, he glanced above again. That man was still hovering there, and had stopped flailing about, but the more Lore looked, the less it seemed he could be controlling all these strange events. Lore had suspected he was somehow controlling the serpents, but now, he rather seemed to be pleading with yet another serpent that floated before him.

Lore called out to the man, who turned and looked down at him, a look of absolute desperation on his face â€" and then, the world blurred, flashed, and refocused itself as the inside of his home, almost as if he had just emerged from a moongate.

e was back indoors, clutching a blade that would see no battle that night. He threw open the front door, and ran back outside, but found only an icy wind howling its greetings to him. After poking around in the darkness for an hour, he gave up, and shrugged. Whatever had happened, there was no sign of it anywhere. No gigantic moving building, no snakes, and no flying men. it would have to wait until morning. Whatever “it” was. Barring the door very firmly, and searching the house from top to bottom, he finally turned and made his weary way to bed.

Snakes! Well, at least it wasn’t another troll horde.

[Blind Otto]

	from the scrolls of Blind Otto, the Chronicler       - This being the third of six scrolls -      Twas the 31st day of the tenth month, in the sixteenth year of the Rancid Mongbat,         and a time of trances and visions

he smell of freshly dug turf filled Otto’s lungs as he lay on his back, panting. He was old, tired beyond description, and completely oblivious to the clouds in the sky above him, many of which looked curiously like serpents. This was just as well, because at least one of them distinctly looked as if it was laughing at him. He had dug relentlessly for hours, and the task ahead seemed no smaller than when he had first begun. After eating some enchanted rations that he’d brought along, he felt slightly renewed, but no less old. Perhaps it was time for him to visit the town again? Perhaps someone was up and about now? “Someone who enjoys digging”, he mused out loud. His beetle chirped in agreement, and went back to digging its own furrows in the turf. "At least I have some help, I suppose." Otto sighed. He wandered up and down the streets, calling out, but no response came. It seemed the area was deserted. Was this a ghost town? Another of the land’s once thriving communities, like Iantown, or Wispwood Shire, or even the sprawling lands of House Lynn'Dannae, now practically deserted? No, these buildings felt new to the touch, and there were piles of building materials here and there. But where were the builders? Then, he felt snow crunch beneath his feet. This town, whatever it may be, was obviously built on the edge of one of the many snow fields of Malas, much like the one which held Wintermoor’s remains. Then, to his dismay, when he finally heard a sign of life, it was not human. More hissing. This time, far angrier than the sounds of recent events.

This was not the sound of the Silver Serpents that had behaved so strangely the night before â€" this was the warning of their much smaller, yet just as deadly cousins - ice snakes. The infernal things nested all over the place in Wintermoor, and many a witless squire had been found screaming in agony at the healer’s tower, after an encounter with their fangs. Otto felt in his robe for a weapon, and found none. No potions, either, should one of the creatures bite him. He cursed himself for leaving most of his supplies with his beetle. He tried to remember the wrestling and other open-handed fighting methods his fellow knights had shown him in years past. Snakes were bad enough when one could see, but Otto could not.

He heard the first snake’s scales on snow as it lunged, and deftly deflected it in with a gloved backhand. At least he’d had the sense to bring his enchanted mining gloves. A second snake whipped past him, only to die as its skull was crushed beneath Otto’s strong boots, dark green venom flowing freely onto the snow. But now the hissing came from at least three directions, which made it much harder to tell which one would be first to attack. Otto decided on the better part of valour, and sprinted back down the street, furious hissing noises following him. Believing the street to be empty, he was most surprised when, near where he estimated the mountainside to be, he ran straight into the wrong end of a pony. The pony made a harrumphing noise, turned, and butted Otto away with its head.

“Hello?” he enquired “Does this noble steed have an owner? If anyone is here, beware! Snakes are near! You are in danger! Snakes! Snakes!” There was no reply. Feeling the pony’s bridle, he found an engraved nameplate â€" “Akshay Shadrach”. Was this the name of the beast, or its owner? Then, the “tink” of a pickaxe could be heard, digging. Otto carefully felt around, keeping an ear open for the approaching snakes. His hand found a shoulder. “Hello?” he asked again. “Tink” came the reply. “Ah, a fellow miner! I am the last person to lure you away from your craft, sir, but you need to look to your own safety! You are at great risk here!” No answer. Just the rhythmic “tink… chink… clink..” of a pickaxe on stone. Otto sighed. He had encountered this phenomenon more times than he cared to count. Miners who went into a strange trance once they started digging, almost as if they were actors on an unseen stage, following the script of an nameless playwright. He had never understood why. Perhaps it only afflicted the sighted? Lord Py had seen them as a blight upon the land, an unnatural force, stripping the land of its resources, the sharp end of a sword the only cure for their predicament. He had no intention of harming this man, but the snakes would soon make that point redundant. He felt his way cautiously around the area, hearing the hissing growing closer. This miner was defenceless, and oblivious. Was there anything here that he could use as a weapon? The snakes slithered around the side of the nearest house, and fixated on the pony. Otto decided that it would probably be able to fend for itself for a few moments, and went to try to find help, or a weapon, or both. He found neither, and decided to head back as the pony’s whinnying became more frantic. As Otto came back to the spot, the puppet-like miner seemed to have discovered his wits, and could be heard casting minor spells against the snakes. The air was filled with smoke, and the sizzling of snake flesh as the magic struck them. “Ah, you are alert again!” Otto said “Are you unhurt? Are the snakes all dead? I tried to ask ye earlier - how goes the mining? Tis always good to meet a fellow miner!” Again, no reply. Most strange. Surely he could not have slipped back into a trance that quickly? After several minutes of one-way conversation, Otto shrugged, and returned to the snow field, hoping to find someone who was a bit more talkative. Unfortunately, all he found was more snakes. He fled back to the mountainside, hoping the miner would be able to help. But, again, no response. The snakes started on the horse again, and one was heard to hiss its last, as the hooves caught its head. Then, Otto heard a great thud as the horse fell. The snakes turned to the man. Aghast, Otto tried to help. He had little with him, and his mana was low, but perhaps one of the healing spells he had learned from the elves of Yew would help. He pointed in the general direction of the battle, and cast. And groaned, as he heard the dying hiss of a snake turn back into a stronger, angrier sound. “Mithras take me, I’ve healed the snake!” he exclaimed in horror. “This,” Blind Otto said to himself “This is why I hate magic. Blind men can’t aim!” He tried again. More angry hissing! Louder! Stronger! Much stronger! Curse these blind eyes! At that moment, the stranger regained his wits, and dispatched the snakes. He then rounded on Otto, accusing him of trying to slay him with his army of trained snakes! Magic fire flew through the air towards the old man. Otto protested his innocence, but it fell on deaf ears, as Otto zigged and zagged, trying to avoid fireballs that he could not see. The disgruntled miner stopped trying to kill Otto, and left for a while, and when he returned, it was with a completely restored pony. There must have been an amazingly good vet somewhere around the place. Again, Otto tried to explain â€" but to no avail.  The miner refused to listen â€" as poor a conversationalist now as he had been before.  He then vanished into a nearby building, and refused to emerge, no matter how Otto pleaded his case. So, he returned to the vast field, feeling more than a little guilty, and resumed his digging. He hoped he would find a chance to make amends for his terrible aim and poor judgement at a later date, but it seemed unlikely, given the miner’s unwillingness to speak to him. If only there was a baker nearby â€" perhaps he could have left him a large cake by way of apology. Then, utterly distracted by these thoughts, he hit his foot with his shovel, and spent the next minute hopping around in pain. rom his window, Lore continued to watch these strange occurrences. More snakes? What of those lights the night before? Who was this old man, who soared with snakes? Madness! He would talk with Akshay some time soon, and see if he had any insights to offer. He took his sword in hand again, and studied it. The day before, it had been a fairly typical sword, although a fine one, with a gold handle, and a blade that had ended many an enemy of virtue. Now, somehow, the guard was emblazoned with a symbol of the sun, with a serpent flowing through it. Another piece of the puzzle, to be certain. He put the sword away, and sat at his writing desk, taking up quill and parchment. Perhaps his allies could shed some light on this matter. “To the Keeper, Good and Noble Hoffs,” he began. He stopped, laughed, and tossed a crumpled parchment in the fireplace, before reaching for another. “To the lovely Hoffs, I hope time has been kind to your furrowed brow..”  no, that went into the flames as well. So did "To the once great Vulture of the Shire" and “To The Fearsome Elfsbane, Hoffs” … curse it all, this should not be this hard to write! “To the Keeper, Hoffs.  I call upon your renowned expertise of all things strange, perverse and unnatural..” That found its way into the fire as well. So did the next two score and four parchments. He stood up, inspected his sword again, and wondered again how to describe recent events without sounding like a raving madman. After recent events, Lore was no longer convinced that he was NOT a raving madman. This was going to take a while. ot far away, in the gleaming city of Luna, a scribe looked up from his work as he received a strange vision. Leaping from his bench, he ran from his workshop, calling for his spouse. “Wife!?! We’ll eat well this month, wife! I foresee moderate wealth in our near future! How much blank parchment do we currently have in stock? Send a pigeon to Ocllo - we will need their spare supplies!”

[Blind Otto]

	from the scrolls of Blind Otto, the Chronicler - This being the fourth of six scrolls - Twas the 4th day of the eleventh month, in the sixteenth year of the Rancid Mongbat, and a frozen horror lurked beneath the snow

fter sending a pigeon on the wing to the town of Gilfane, Lore slept a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of snakes, flying men, and an impressive figure of a woman doing unspeakable things to terrified elves. When he finally opened his eyes Lore found the room was filled with an icy blue light. The wind outside had ceased roaring. The storm was over, and sun was shining through the window â€" but it was not the only light source. He tried to rise, but invisible bonds held him.  He thought he heard hissing and chanting, but could see no one. Then a voice spoke: “Denin. You will be tested. What Lethius began, what the Chronicler now holds in trust, needs to be carried to victory. Are you be the one? Perhaps. We shall see.” Again, light filled the room, robbing Lore of his senses.

ome hours later, he awoke again, to hear a great skittering noise outside - the unmistakable sound of a giant beetle moving at speed. Those were rare in these parts, other than the few tame ones miners used. Skittering hoppers were plentiful, but larger insects were extremely rare. He made his way to the roof. Serpents were bad enough â€" he did not want to start the day with an invasion of giant beetles! But all he saw was a lone man, his white hair shining in the early morning’s light as he dismounted from a single beetle. Shortly thereafter the newcomer landed ungracefully on his face in the middle of the nearby field, got up, and shook his fist at nothing in particular. At least, nothing that Lore could see. He looked familiar. Was this the same man he had seen earlier, up in the sky? If he could fly, why would he need the beetle? Lore chose to watch and wait. He also wondered if it was worth visiting the healer in Luna, if only to be certain he wasn’t suffering troll-stench induced hallucinations. The sun continued its travels across the sky, but something was different. To Lore, it felt as if the sun was now watching him. He could not go on like this.  His thoughts were a jumble, a twisted torrent of rivers running through each other, none of them making sense. This way lay madness, to be sure.

“ay sir, ye be as fit as a fiddle!” the grizzled healer exclaimed. “Ye don’t be needing my services, no sir! I wish all my patients were as healthy as ye be, and that’s the King’s honest truth! Ye’re fine, just fine, aye, fine. Oh. Aye. Fine. That’ll be five gold pieces!” “Five gold? Yet you say I don’t need you?” asked Lore, highly amused by the healer’s manner. “Aye! Five gold! You think I do this for my health?” retorted the healer, hand held out expectantly. Sighing, Lore paid him, wondering what a healer actually did do for his own health. That was a costly way to be told that there was nothing wrong with him. And yet, if there was nothing wrong, did that mean that it had really happened? And if it had really happened, then what was he supposed to make of it all?  For some reason, he felt extremely nervous about talking to the blind man. It was as if once he took that step, there was no turning back.

is horse made short work of the ground between Luna and Summer’s End, and he arrived to find a pigeon sitting on his coop. It wore a small red collar, emblazoned with an eye â€" the symbol of the Keeper.  A small tube tied to one leg held a parchment. “Dear Lore, thank you for your missive.” The neat penmanship read. “I do believe that you have drunk too much mead, or have once again forgotten to wear your helmet into battle. My suggestion is that you spend the next few days lying down, or drinking more mead, if it helps. Either way, the man you describe sounds a lot like Blind Otto. He has not been seen around here much lately, but he is one of the few remaining Knights of the Silver Serpent. You may not have heard of them, but they were once a great force for justice in these lands. It is far more likely that you have been at the mead again, and are now imagining flying men and snakes. Perhaps a visit to the healer is in order, or the tavern. Good fortune, whatever you decide to do, and you still owe me 40,000 gold from our last wager. Do not make me send the Nemesis Guard round to collect. Vortex, too, was once a Knight. “ It was sealed with a red ‘H’, which reminded Lore somewhat of a recent stab wound he’d inflicted on one of the trolls.

“Well, that was as much use as a one-legged mongbat at the Harvest Ball.” Lore said to the empty room. Or was it? Knights…Silver Serpents…  He did not particularly want to speak to Vortex, with Hoff's wager unpaid...but then, who...? Lore thought back to the writhing mass beneath the great building, and the floating snake that had so greatly frustrated the old man. He wandered over to the rack of scrolls in his ample study, copies which were given as a gift after his epic battle to rescue the great library of Moonglow from a dark wisp invasion. He searched through them for hours, finally settling on one bound with a dark blue thread.

“The Lay of Lethius” read the title. Lore began to read. In Wintermoor dwelt Lord Lethius, Where ice crown’d him truly king, For frozen and solid, the warriors he led, Swords were th’ songs he’d sing. “Lord Lethius,” they whispered, “the defender” He comes ever to help th’ poor. “Lord Lethius!” they shouted, “Never surrender!” We will fight with thee and more!”

He read on. Some names stood out more than others. He read of Siofra, the stern magistrate, and of a man-mountain known only as Gladiator. The many quests of the priestess Mjolinaara, and her battles against the void, intrigued him greatly. He gingerly unrolled the fragile scroll that spoke of the war with the Orcish Shadowclan, and the numerous defeats of Lord British’s taxmen. There were many tales of a certain Sir Rizarium â€" songs of his victories, a lament of dark spirits capturing his soul and stealing his form, prophecies of his final victory. Far too many scrolls about parrots by a certain “Miranda”, and the sonnets of Alizaren. There was the legend of Angharad, and the ballads of Aeric Horn. A strange tale called “the redemption of the werewolf”. The efforts to thwart the vampiric quest for tribute. And far, far, more. Name after name. Heroic deeds, tragic losses. Victories and betrayals. He wondered who had placed all these scrolls in the library in the first place. For a secretive order, it seemed there was much known of them â€" and a lot of questions left unanswered.

ome considerable time, and a mountain of scrolls later, Lore was no closer to an answer than he had been the night of the visitation, as he called it. He now knew a lot about these Knights of the Silver Serpent, and part of him wished that he had been able to join them, in their days of glory â€" but there was very little regarding a “Blind Otto”. A footnote here or there, some writings which must be fiction, such as feats of mining in places only a madman would visit, and one or two of the scrolls bore his name as author, but the most detail of the man himself was a plain scroll, which simply stated that he had become the caretaker when the Knights vanished from the lands, in an unwritten secret mission. But, there was one constant throughout the tales. Wintermoor. A great frozen stone city hidden in the heart of Malas’s mountains.  Lore reached for a stack of maps, and wished he had someone to do all this research for him.

he warrior saddled his horse, and rode out. On the way, he passed the old man, who had fallen asleep on the grass, while his beetle grazed nearby. He felt it best not to disturb him until he knew more, but he did note that the beetle’s saddle bore the fading emblem of a white serpent. The journey north took him to a tunnel through the mountains. He had not been there before, and it seemed the tunnel had not seen much use in recent years, but the torchlight showed rows of ancient lanterns, all unlit of course.  A skeleton lay against one wall â€" upon inspection, it seemed human, but had fangs as large as any troll. Perhaps a vampire? They, too, had not been seen in these lands for some time, but the stories were still told to scare village children into doing their chores. How strange. The roof became low, and Lore dismounted, leading his horse on, until he emerged in another snow field. There was not much to see here â€" large snow-covered shapes here and there â€" but there, in the middle of the snow field, was the building that he had seen that night. So it was real! His hand found its way to the hilt of his sword, just in case those serpents were about, and unfriendly. He approached the building, and hammered on the great door. There was no answer. A sign on the wall was covered in icicles and snow, but a few prods from his sword dislodged enough to read it. “The Temple of Mithras, Home of The Knights of the Silver Serpent”.  So Wintermoor was real, and here, where he now stood, was the place!

But, the doors were locked, and snow and ice were all about. If anyone was inside, they were not making themselves known. Lore could see that an hour or two’s work with his sword would probably have enabled him to break through â€" but to what end? If there was someone inside, they would not look kindly on having their door broken down. And if there was not, then he was simply opening the path for less virtuous wayfarers to loot the place. With a sigh, he went to investigate the rest of the ice field. The large lumps in the snow turned out to be the ruins of buildings. He found what was one a forge, with the name “Arivia” on a rusted signpost. There, in the ruins, beside the rusting shape of an old anvil, were several shields, all marked with a silver serpent. The remnants of a tavern, with “Mac” engraved on a pewter tankard. “Venger” was the name on a rotting gatepost. Many ruins beside, but all trace of whoever once lived in them was gone. Then, from the snow, erupted a dozen or more Silver Serpents. They surrounded Lore, but did not attack. Then, they all pointed their heads upwards. Cautiously, holding sword and shield in front of him, to stave off any snake bites, Lore looked up, but saw only the sun. Looking back down, the serpents were gone.  He was starting to think that every snake in the land was on a mission to rob him of his sanity.

few more hours of searching the ruins revealed a spot which a strange sense of peace pervaded, but he found little there beside a cage for a large bird, perhaps a parrot, with the name “Miranda” on its base. One scroll, at least, was no work of fiction! He searched and dug and listened and wondered, but found little that told him any more about the ruined city’s previous inhabitants. At one point, he thought he felt elvish eyes on him, from atop the temple, but when he turned to look, there was no one to be seen. He searched on, finding little. A white wolf growled as he disturbed her lair, and a walrus watched him from atop a snow drift, but that was the only other sign of life. Then, just as Lore was about to give up and leave, a nearby snow drift began to move, and then to rise, with a low, but deep growl. A massive snow-covered form rose before Lore, and two ice-grey hands emerged, reaching to where its head must be, grinding the ice and hard snow from its eyes! An arctic ogre lord stood glaring at Lore, furious at having its sleep disturbed. It raised its arms above its head, sloughing its icy covering, sending ice and snow flying in all directions, and roared. Lore wished he’d worn better boots.  He was a master of many ways of combat, but there are times when that means little. A small mountain of ice, frost, muscle and blubber hurtling its way towards you in blind fury could be considered one of those times!

The ogre lord’s first blow glanced off his shield as he dived aside, sending shockwaves up his arm. Thankfully, he’d come in full armour, not knowing what to expect from this journey. Still, even a partial blow from an normal ogre lord hurt â€" and this was their stronger, larger, cousin. Rarely seen in Malas, but Lore had encountered a few when he’d last visited Ice dungeon. This would not be an easy battle. The ogre charged again, bellowing something unintelligible. Lore dived past its massive feet, and brought his sword up as he slid past on the ice. The blade found it’s mark, but did not cut deeply. The beast’s flesh was extremely tough, and probably hardened further by its time underneath the snow drift. It roared in pain, and grabbed beneath the drift, bringing out a vicious looking club that was easily as large as Lore. Lore took no chances, and slashed at the ogre’s hand, relieving it of several fingers. The club fell into the snow.  The monster, maddened with pain, charged again. Lore was too close, and the ice was too slippery, for him to dodge in time, and he was sent flying, crashing into the ruins of an old building. He’d felt a rib go, when he landed. Where were those infernal serpents â€" the slithering sort, or a knight or two, when he needed them? He’s seen a necklace of skulls around the ogre’s neck, and had no intention of letting his own join that macabre chain! The ground shook, as the beast stomped across the snow, obviously intending to finish him. It had retrieved its club, which still had two severed fingers frozen to the haft. Spittle from its mouth, and blood from its ruined hand, hung about its form as gruesome stalactites. Lore staggered to his feet, and glanced around for his sword, knocked from his grasp when he’d landed. There… just beyond the ogre. It may as well have been on Dot Island. Ignoring the blood streaming down his face, he drew his bow, and notched an arrow.

The arrow flew straight to the mark â€" the ogre’s right eye â€" but only served to annoy the beast further. Lore had never seen anything like it. The arrow had actually bounced off its eyeball, leaving a visible crack down the middle. How could anything see, with eyes formed of pure ice? That was obviously not the weak spot that it would have been in most other creatures. The enraged ogre crashed into Lore again, sending him flying across the ice fields again. Pain ran like fire up his leg â€" broken, fractured â€" what difference did it make, with half a ton of living ice bearing down on him? At least he’d managed to hang onto his bow. Another arrow flew, this one aimed at the wide open, snarling mouth. The arctic ogre choked, and clutched at its mouth with a finger-less hand. Then, in fury at not being able to grasp the offending arrow, started hitting it with the oversized club. Lore seized the opportunity to let fly every arrow he had left, every one of them straight at the beast’s open gullet. It let out a sound that Lore would never forget â€" a strangled combination of fury and terror, as the terror of the ruins fell forwards, onto its face, the impact forcing most of the arrows through the back of its throat.

Lore dragged his battered body over to where his pack had fallen, and found, to his relief, that the repeated blows had only shattered two of the bottles of healing potion that he’d brought with him. He gulped down several of the remaining ones, and felt his ribs and leg slowly begin to return to normal, all his cuts and bruises started to heal, and the many teeth that had been knocked out began to reappear in his mouth. The potion did its work, but not quickly enough â€" the world began to grow dark around him, and he slumped over in the snow, unconscious. It was dark when he awoke, to find that, although the potion had healed him, someone had bandaged his wounds, and even bathed them. He was no longer lying in the snow, but rather, in the shelter of a ruined building, with warm polar bear furs wrapped around him. He stood up, and called out, but no one answered.  He walked outside, and looked up at the temple, but saw nothing. Searching the ogre’s corpse revealed little. There was the necklace, of course â€" he gave the skulls an informal burial, but could not dig deeply beneath Wintermoor’s frozen earth. The club, which Lore had no use for, and a massive loincloth, which he decided to leave well alone.

More confused than ever, Lore reluctantly led his horse back down the tunnel, and began the journey home. Perhaps he would return here another day, better equipped to uncover whatever secrets still lay beneath the snow… and whatever was in that massive temple. He was now sure that, several times, he had glimpsed a blue-skinned, female elf, peering at him. Was it she who had tended his wounds, and ensured his safety? Another mystery. None of the scrolls spoke of elves. Although, there were hints that this Otto had an assistant â€" some of the writings which bore his name were far too neat for a blind man. Still, there might be a good reason no one had answered his knocking. That reason might currently be digging a large hole near his home. s Lore left, Wintermoor’s Scribe watched him go, and hoped Otto would return home soon. She sighed, and worried. He was getting much too old to be going on silly quests, whether Lord Lethius had appointed him Knight Commander or not.  Beatrice tossed a log onto the fire, and smoke spiralled up the chimney of the temple â€" but Lore was already out of sight, and none the wiser.

[Blind Otto]

	from the scrolls of Blind Otto, the Chronicler     - This being the fifth of six scrolls -     Twas the 7th day of the eleventh month, in the sixteenth year of the Rancid Mongbat,        and an old miner had yet to learn to take care where he swung his pickaxe

“y Mithras!” spat Otto, “Be there no end to these infernal elementals???” His sharp ears caught the rush of air past a great earthen fist, as he swung his shield to deflect another blow from one of the creatures that had crawled from the hole he had been digging. Earth elementals were rare in Malas, but not rare enough. This was apparently the home of a massive colony of the things, and Otto’s digging had severely disturbed them! They were typically solitary creatures, but a few colonies had been found, such as the one near the ancient gargoyle city in the deserts of Ishnear. But there, a few structures above ground served as warning â€" here, there had only been flat turf. Dozens of the earthern beasts had sprung from the ground, showering earth and stones everywhere! It was as if the very ground itself had come to life, and was intent on removing Otto from it, with as much violence and suffering as it could muster. Nearby, Otto’s beetle could be heard happily digging to the core of another elemental. Beetles do like to dig!  Thankfully, Otto had managed to grab his shield and mace from its pack when he heard the first elemental emerge from the ground. “That just might prove the difference between dying now, or another minute from now”, he thought, as the shield shook beneath the force of another massive fist.  He cursed his fate. All those years digging in the strangest places, from stone harpies nests to ancient wyrm lairs, from dungeons to mountain tops, and he was to finally fall to something as common as an earth elemental?

Swinging his mace, Otto split another elemental in two, but he had no time to celebrate victory. He was old, and the elementals were many.  The earthen tide surged forwards, a horrible sound of earth grinding against earth accompanying them. Worse still were the sounds that came from their throats as they tried to emulate the humans they had shaped themselves on. This, Otto thought, is a terrible way to die, but perfectly fitting for an old miner. He had taken much from the ground over the years, and now the ground was trying to take him as payment. Stoney hands grasped at him, pulling him down. Mud splattered his face, and filled his mouth. He felt bones break beneath great fists, and his shield began to buckle under the non-stop flurry of blows. His valorite mace fell from his hand, and he was knocked backwards, with no hope of retrieving it. He fell, trying desperately to keep his shield between himself and their great fists, wishing for his best plate armour. “So this is how it ends”, he thought through the pain “and not a healer to be found.” He wondered how long he would need to walk the lands as a ghost, before finding a healer. Perhaps there were none to be found. He had heard tales of pets disappearing forever, if a vet could not be found in time. Would the same happen to him? The curse of the Gem of Immortality meant that death need not be final â€" but what if there was no healer to be found? How firmly did the curse grasp the dead? He was about to find out, he feared, as a colossal foot kicked him in the ribs. He heard a sickening snapping noise, and coughed up a lung full of blood.

ut then, over the grinding and roaring, as even more great grasping hands arose from the grass, Otto heard another thudding noise, sharper, more rhythmic than the pounding of the elementals, hoofbeats growing closer â€" and then the pain and abuse stopped, replaced by the sound of steel on gravel, as the elementals fell, one by one, to a far better equipped warrior than Otto. The sounds of battle raged all around him, and more than one elemental trod on him, but soon, the only sounds were that of a triumphant beetle, and the heavy breathing of a horse. Had the miner changed his mind, and come to rescue him? In a world of pain, Otto struggled to pull himself out from beneath the lifeless earthen forms, feeling blood streaming from his forehead, and barely able to feel his right arm. The world spun about him. Strong hands helped Otto to his feet, and a healing potion was thrust into his hands. At least, he hoped it was a healing potion, and drank it anyway. As it turned out, it was indeed a healing potion, but not a very good one. At least the feeling started to return to his right arm, and breathing became slightly easier, but that just brought more pain with it.

“Now, sir”, spoke the newly arrived slayer of elementals, “If ye are recovered enough, I must ask you â€" who are you, and why are you digging up so many elementals this close to my home?” “I am … seeing stars” he replied, righting what was left of his battered shield on his arm, and trying to steady himself. “And who do I have to thank for my welfare?” “Well, Sir Stars, my name is… wait! That shield! That serpent!… it is from Wintermoor?” asked Otto’s rescuer “Aye, it.. it is.” He panted, struggling to regain his breath. “Before you is what is left of Blind Otto, the only Knight of the Silver Serpent left to walk… *ow*… to stagger on these lands, this.. this shield bears their symbol. Again, I ask, to whom do I owe my thanks, and I must add, why do ye speak of Wintermoor?” “Sir Otto, I am Lore Denin, of the Kingdom of Light. I am honoured to make your acquaintance â€" I have read… something… of you, and much more of your brothers-at-arms. I have just returned from a visit to Wintermoor, where I was seeking answers. It would seem I returned just in time, too. I suspect you and I have much to discuss, and I see you need time to recover from your recent ordeal. Will you accompany me to my fairly new home, nearby, and accept my humble hospitality?” Otto was in no condition to refuse. Overhead the sun appeared to pause in the sky, and a thin cloud could almost appear to form a smile across it.

o, they went, a battered old warrior long past his prime, and another who was at the height of his skills. One leading a horse, the other followed by a large, happy beetle, still gnawing on the head of a fallen earth elemental. And they talked., and shared many a flagon of mead,  as Lore’s eyes grew wide, and  Otto related tales of Wintermoor, of brave knights and terrible battles. Wider still grew his eyes when Otto gave his version of recent events. As he regained his strength, Otto spoke at length of Py Lethius, and of Siofra, of good and humble Miranda. Of Sir Castor, of Toth, of Venger and Vortex, Dante, Arivia, the insufferable Sitric, and more. The names were as many as the battles and quests, and several were familiar to Lore, from his recent studies. They talked well into the next morning. Mead can be as good for wounds as healing potions, it would seem. Some would possibly argue, tis better. But mead does dull the senses, and while they talked, Otto could not see the light that came streaming in the window that day, and Lore was far too engrossed in Otto’s tales to notice. But that light grew warmer, brighter, and closer, until Otto could not ignore the heat, and Lore could not ignore the light. And then, in an instant, they were gone.

ar, far away, ancient eyes gazed upon a fragment of the Gem of Immortality, and turned to a glowing crystal of communication. “Your plan marches towards fruition, my master. This world will soon have its defenders once more, and the true king is still safe. He slumbers, awaiting your day. Meanwhile, one of your other servants prospers, in a far off land. He still serves the greatest good, under my watchful eye.” The stranger turned to another fragment, and, holding another crystal above it, focused on a white-haired warrior, surrounded by his family, and apparently training the younger members in the ways of virtue. Though far, far away, a cry could be heard from those young ones, in unison. “SOL INVICTUS”. The clan of Lethius was well, and their liege lord was where he needed to be. Another voice came, from the communication crystal. “You do well, as ever, Myrddin Emrys, as you ever have. You guarded the young king, frozen in time. You guided my visions to Lethius, and caused the formation of the Knights â€" first, those of the table round, and then those of the Silver Serpent. But, for now, your part in this tale is done. Continue to ward the true king, for his time is yet far away. Take some rest yourself. I will call upon you when you are needed.”   “Aye, milord Mithras,” replied the timeless figure “but, did ye truly need to send so many elementals to test him?” “I did. Look at the man! Did you ever see such arrogance? I show him that the temple has to move, and what does he do? Does he go and rally his friends, his allies, and ask them for help in this massive task? No! Of course not! He grabs a pickaxe, and starts digging a new foundation, all by himself! Mortals! Not a brain between the lot of them!” "Hmm. And here I was, admiring his faith. Still, as you say, not the wisest of decisions." Myrddin turned and went to a young, glowing figure, held in a dreamless sleep, within a cocoon of light. Satisfied that his charge was still safe, great tasks ahead of him, he then turned back to the fragment he’d studied earlier, one with a dark glow around it. In that fragment, a curve of light could be seen rising from a point in Malas, carrying two small forms aloft in it. They were both screaming and waving their arms around a lot, and one of them seemed to be spilling mead all over the other. Mortals. Such an excitable species. Still, a little guidance now and then would not go amiss, surely?

[Blind Otto]

	from the scrolls of Blind Otto, the Chronicler       - This being the sixth, and last, of six scrolls -      Twas the eleventh day of the eleventh month, in the sixteenth year of the Rancid Mongbat,         and the mists of time were gathering...

"ortals!!!” complained a very loud voice from all around them. “Mortals! You have barely any life-span at all, and yet you waste every second that you are given! Why does it take you eons to realise what is important? Why do you waste the short lifetime you have? Do you not live long enough to learn common sense? Is that it?” Both men stood speechless. Lore looked around for the source of the voice, but all he could see was golden skies and shining floor tiles, reflecting the sky. They seemed to stretch away forever, in every direction. Occasionally, images of men, women, and the occasional monster would flicker past, like mist. Lore saw scenes of combat that he did not recognise, and quests and battles that he had known, in times past. But mostly, he saw face after face, all looking to him as if seeking… something. Even the non-human ones. What? What did they want of him? Who were they? He looked to Otto, but the old man was focused on the voice, oblivious to the scene unfolding all around him. A huge minotaur lumbered up to him, out of the mist, knelt before him, and then looked at him pleadingly, before retreating back into the golden glow.

Then, the mist-like figures fell away for a moment as reality shuddered in response to the voice that boomed again: “Still, I suppose, wasteful, negligent and childish as you are, you do both attempt to adhere to my three core principles of virtue. That pleases me. You both know, and strive to live by Truth, Honour, and Courage. It is not your fault if I did not add Wits as a fourth.” “Three?” asked Lore “I do not know who or what you are, but I adhere to far more than just the three principles! What of the seven virtues? And you have mistaken the three! Tis Truth, Love, and Courage!” “BE STILL MORTAL!!!” boomed the voice, leaving Lore’s fingers slowly wandering towards the hilt of his sword “And forget about that sword! You are less threatening than a new-born mongbat!” Lore froze, but did not withdraw his hand. “I have no proof that it will not harm you, and we may yet put that to the test”, he thought. “Nay, you will not put anything to the test.” snorted the voice, as Lore found his arm grow limp and fall to his side “unless it is my patience! Your blade cannot harm me. None of your skills can affect me. And, furthermore, I have no intention of allowing you to commit suicide by attacking me! Behold the last ones who tried!”

And with that, a trio of Dark Fathers appeared in the air before them, trapped in writhing serpents of light, their ghastly faces filled with fear and agony. One opened it’s mouth to scream, but the serpents pulled them down into nothingness before it could make a sound. Lore gaped at the spectacle, in awe. Dark Fathers? Bound, so easily? What WAS this? But, his hand remained on his sword. Strange, glowing mists swirled all around.

“You see?” The voice boomed again “It was nothing to ensnare those fools, and I did not even need to lower myself to ending them! If they are so far beneath me, what are the likes of you before my power? Now, hear my words, and put aside thoughts of battle for once! You do show a small, yet tainted knowledge of the virtues. So here is your first lesson:

ritish warped my teachings for his own ends. Truth was useless to him â€" an obstacle to overcome. If he had valued truth, there would be statues to the Avatar all over this land, not to him! See? You do not even know of whom I speak! And what of Courage? Ha! He fled the lands the moment things did not go his way! He pulled up his fine orange leggings, and ran for the hills! That dog had no use for Honour, for he had little of his own. So, he made claim to love and cherish the people of the lands, and told them love was a principle, all to further his own ends.“ The booming voice fell lower for a moment, and continued. “Then, small one, you spoke of Love! Ha! No, little mortal, no. My principles are Truth. Courage. Honour. Without those three, the virtues cannot stand. And love should be the outcome of all, not merely a stop along the road! Was it not out of compassion for the villagers that you slew those trolls earlier this month? Was it not for justice that you swung your blade without mercy? What is compassion, if not the first steps of love? What is justice, if not born of a love for all that is right and true? What use is any sacrifice, without love? True humility comes not from being beaten into submission, but from being willing to be vulnerable to that which you love!!” The voice paused a moment. “I must also ask, how long have you been in the habit of interrupting deities? I hope you will soon repent of your terrible habits! Now, behold!”

With that, the mist-like visions became clearer. There, before him, Lore saw row upon row of knights, mages, warriors and scouts, some clad in dark blue, some in silver, and some in gleaming gold. Their armour and shields were decorated with images of the sun, with serpents entwined all about. In all the lands he had travelled, he had never seen such an army.  Then, as one, they raised their weapons â€" swords, staves, axes â€" in salute. To him. They made not a sound, but every eye in the room â€" save for Otto’s â€" were on him. Lore uneasily stepped backwards. “Who in all Sosaria are these?” he exclaimed. “They will be your legions, if ye prove worthy and willing.” Came the voice. “A mighty force for virtue, sweeping across the land, crushing the minions of evil wherever they may lurk, all under your command and guidance. But only if ye are worthy. ARE YE???” The ground shook. The golden legion took one step forward, all aglow and in unison. Again, they lifted their assorted weapons in salute. A silent cry came from their mouths, and then they faded back into mist.

tterly bewildered, Lore looked at Otto, who, for some strange reason, had a smirk growing in the corner of his mouth. “Be still, good Lore Denin, and also be at peace.” Said Otto. “Do not let all this shouting and bellowing fool you.” He turned towards the voice.  “I am glad and honoured to stand in your presence once more, Lord Mithras. It has been far too long, even though I have tended your temple night and day.” The voice growled.  Otto ignored it, turned back to face Lore, and continued. “Lore, this is Mithras. Know ye that in all lands, there exists a Force that drives us to seek our highest. In other lands, that Force goes by other names, but here, it is named as Mithras. He is the living embodiment of the flame that lives in the hearts of men and women. If your heart is good, you have nothing to fear from him. But, I do fear that he does like to bluster.” “Bluster?? A god does not bluster!” roared Mithras, as the landscape glowed even brighter. “He commands! He provides! He smites! He nurtures! He saves! He…” “Yes, yes, of course you do. Of course.” replied Otto “But, you are not known to act on a whim, and yet, here we stand. You obviously have something in mind. And you might have told me what it was before I dug halfway to the Abyss!” “You have obviously forgotten everything your mentors Venger and Arivia taught you about respect, old Knight!” scowled Mithras, now coming into Lore’s view. He was huge â€" bigger than any titan Lore had ever fought. His clothes, even his skin glowed like the sun. But, he did not look threatening, and Otto’s overly-familiar manner put Lore’s mind slightly more at ease.  Regaining the feeling in his arm, Lore’s hand found its way back onto the hilt of his sword, though.

“You are rude, but correct. I do have much for you to do. And DO put down that blade, Lore Denin, before you harm yourself. It will do you no good, I promise you. The first cycle has ended. British has fallen. Blackthorne has been restored, but his soul has not been fully cleansed. His benevolent rule will not last. Py Lethius began a great work, and now oversees the most noble of tasks in a far-off land. What he began here has not ended. Indeed, it has barely begun.” “Not ended?” yelled Otto “NOT ENDED??? You are as blind as I am!  Py and Siofra are gone! Rizarium has been corrupted and transformed by evil powers, beyond hope of redemption, and Wintermoor lies in ruins! The Knights are scattered to the four winds or slain! I have chest upon chest of blue cloaks and plate armor, and not one soul to wear them! Even the two new squires you recently sent me have left these lands to watch over another! NOT ENDED??? How can you speak about truth, and speak such words?? NOT ENDED! Ha! If I could see you, I would punch you squarely in the jaw!” The old man, near tears, swung his fists around wildly, trying to make good on his threat, and then pulled out a dagger, with silver serpents twisted around the hilt. Mithras, standing a good twenty foot higher than him, only looked down and smiled. “Otto, Otto, Otto. I can indeed speak them, and I do. The days of darkened blue and frozen ice are near an end. It is time to turn to the light, and warmth of day.  I have summoned your new friend here, that he might learn from you, and continue my work, in this new cycle.”

At this, Lore was startled, and protested loudly. “I do not even know you, or your work! How can you simply whisk us away to… wherever this is, and make demands of my service? You show me an army of people I have never met, who then vanish from sight! Who and what are you?” He paused a moment, the colour draining from his face.  “Are you… the Time Lord?” Mithras roared with laughter, and walked casually towards them, his size diminishing as he came closer.

“Ah, my lad, Time Lords are far beneath my notice. But there in your questions I do behold the beginning of wisdom. You will meet, and recruit, every man and woman, gargoyle and elf, orc and others, who you just saw standing before you, all in the right time. Now come, come, both of you - we have much to talk about!” With that, Lore found they were moving without walking, almost flowing down a great golden corridor. Otto was grinding his teeth and muttering under his breath. Again, he saw figures forming from the mist, on either side, all in salute, all dressed for battle. Serpents, suns, swords and staves, raised in salute. To him, or to Mithras? Who knew.

hey walked on, and talked, and were shown a great many things. At times, it felt as if they had spent a lifetime there. At others, mere minutes.  He saw mighty battles, some with evil winning, but more with the golden legions of virtue holding the upper hand. He saw monsters that sought only death being driven from the lands, and people living in peace. He saw new friends, and he saw betrayals. He saw healing, and he saw joy. And finally, he saw a massive figure, clad in dark armour, towering over a battlefield. Lore feared all would be lost, but then, the figure staggered, and fell â€" and the skies opened. A healing had come to the many worlds of the Gem of Immortality. The world was whole, and he saw the forces of virtue standing triumphant. There, at their head, was an old man, presenting a much younger man to the amassed armies. This, Lore knew, was the return of the true king â€" and he would play a part in this, even if he did not see that day himself.

fter he returned, Lore could never quite remember the detail of what happened that day. He remembered that he had met with Mithras, but could remember little of the conversation, and the memories seemed to ebb and flow just as the mists that had carried the varying visions. But, every time he thought of that moment, his heart filled with hope and joy. It was inexplicable.  Otto told him time and again of their experience, but he had few memories to accompany Otto’s words. It was as if his mind simply could not retain it â€" but his spirit, his soul â€" that most certainly did. He knew he had a mission, one given to him by a much higher force. He and Otto had returned to find the Temple of Mithras resting quite comfortably in the hole that Otto had started, the frost and snow of Wintermoor that adorned it melting, and flowing freely down the sides. The great doors gleamed as if brand new, and even the stone of the walls looked fresh-hewn from the quarries of Wintermoor.

s time went by, they would find men and women coming to help with the building. Over time, the town would grow. As Mithras had promised, their numbers would also grow. And evil would tremble, as those followers of virtue rode out across the land. But those are tales for another day. Both men felt a new sense of purpose. Otto would teach Lore all he knew of the Knights of the Silver Serpent, and Lore would shape that knowledge into a new fighting force for Virtue. “Well, my new-found friend” said Lore “it seems we have a noble and mighty task ahead of us. Let us see where this road leads!” - the beginning -

[Blind Otto]

Well, my friends, there ye have it.

I hope ye have had as much fun reading it as I did toiling over these scrolls.

Aye, there are questions unanswered, but the intention is for most of those to play out in our fair lands, just as much as in these forums.
For what is to come, I put ye in the good hands of Lore Denin.

For now, I think I have written enough. For now...!

SOL INVICTUS!

Blind Otto
Lord of Wintermoor