The dove
flew straight and true, a white arrow pointing unerringly towards the Northern
Star. Her small shadow passed over vast shimmering lakes, the scale of which
dwarfed all but the seas which rimmed the world. She flew without rest, without pause
to soothe her aching wings, nor to fill her belly with the bounty of the vineyards
far below, whose bows were bent with the heavy burden of their abundant fruit. She flew past an immense outcropping of falling water, which announced its
presence with a constant, thundering roar, and in whose mists water sprites
danced and played amongst fleeting rainbows. Eventually, she flew farther than
any dove had previously ventured, for she too sensed the urgency and the gravity
of her mission. With her dying breath she alighted on an immense spire which
cleaved the heavens with its towering visage. She had not died in vain, for
gathered around her tiny body were a shining people, who were impressive in the
variety of their appearances. Some had hair of raven-black, with eyes the shape
of crescent moons and a golden pallor, others had tresses of oak-brown framing proud
faces with tranquil azure eyes, still others shone ebony or caramel, and eyes
gleamed multi-faceted and multi-hued. Their tongues were equally plentiful but
seemed to meld with harmonic cadence in a song of deep sorrow. For all wept
openly at the passing of this brave dove and at the message which she bore.
That night, under the shadow of the Spire, a council was convened to determine
the intertwined fates of one of their brethren and the future of the Steel
Citadel.
In the
throne room of the Watson-keep, the Keepers discussed their wyrd. One
moon-cycle had passed since Lorilynn’s dove was sent on its foolhardy mission,
and chances of their success seemed to be dwindling with the fading light of
the moon’s crescent. As was his wont, Joshstor the Stoic advised continued
patience and an impenetrable faith in the path of prophecy. The other three
members were not so easily placated. Jenna’s nature in particular was
ill-suited for awaiting the whims of fate. Her entire being vibrated with a
need for action, to strike death blows against the gnome-king and his minions.
Under the cover of night and shadow she stole away to his fortress, across the
narrow bridge that separated Castle Watson from the King’s Keep, and the throne
besieged by darkness. Her heart raced as she looked over the edge of this narrow
footpath, at the deep chasm which stretched below her, a gaping maw of inky
malevolence. She went recklessly, to scry what information she could on the
king’s foul plans, and his knowledge of the secret fellowship forming just
outside of his walls. Jenna the Tireless was swift, and easily by-passed the
castle sentries on her way to the throne room. She was also cunning, as she had
planned her route for all contingencies, avoiding the opulent halls in favour of
hidden back passages. At last she reached the throne room, where her heart
plunged with horror. Awaiting her with his royal guard was Jotnar himself, the
gnome-king, laughing mirthlessly as he sprung his trap and ensnared Jenna in a
net of cold steel and malicious intent.
As the sun
rose, bright and full the following day, a lone figure approached from the
north, casting a long shadow on the gentle rolling hills that framed the Steel
Citadel. His mount was tall and proud, and christened with the noble name
Cedric. He was resplendent in tunic of snow white, trousers of oak-brown, helm
and cape of crimson, and proud banner emblazoned with a fiery leaf of maple,
the proud emblem of his brethren. On his shield was the gilded 13 pointed star
and crescent moon of House Siahen, and the name of its owner, Samric the Calm,
first of his name. Although his nobility was clear in the quality of his
finery, his tunic was crumpled, and his ebony hair was left unplaited,
suggesting a bearing of relaxed detachment, or of recent waking from a deep
slumber. Despite his appearances, this knight wielded formidable power in the
form of his staff, Acer Rubrum, a
weapon of considerable repute. It stood the length of a man, and was wrought of
a single maple trunk, reinforced with the spirit of his ancestors and polished
until it shone like virgin snow. Inlaid along its surface were the names of his
lineage and the names of his brothers and sisters-in-arms who had pledged
allegiance to his cause and to whom he had similarly sworn blood oaths. These
signatures were more than mere adornments for when he entered the fray he would
summon their collective spirits to empower his righteous might. Samric’s
countenance was ever serene, and he appeared to all to be light of heart and of
foot, for frequently, he would grace his halls with melodious ballads and
graceful dances. So intriguing were these displays that the ladies of the court
were known to swoon at what they beheld.
Upon his
arrival, the hearts of the Keepers soared to new heights of hope, for despite
the miniscule chances of success, despite the hardships and the trials, lo and
behold, the Six were assembled and the Fellowship was founded! The circle was
complete. Each of the Six surveyed their brethren with love in their hearts and
courage swelling their breast, for how could a company of such fine warriors
falter? Each contemplated the truth of their existence, if the Six stayed true
to themselves and to each other, surely there was nothing that could not be
accomplished.
From the
dark heights of his usurped throne, Jotnar smiled to himself. Under persistent persuasion, Jenna had
graciously informed him of the Prophecy and its fruition. His way forward seemed
clear, if togetherness was the strength of the Six, then separately they must
fall...
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