Know that the time is near the end of the 11th Turning, as it is known here within The Realm. I, Horace The Ordinary, Abbot over this house of God, and sole Literate therein, doses commit to script the history of my Brother's plight and, I fear, ignorance. I tell this tale as it has been spoken, from Abbot to successor, for the last (N) thousand years.

I start with a simple yet revolutionary discovery;

This is NOT Germany!

In the blight-ridden hills of Italy, there stood a Hold of wood and stone. Though it's name was forgotten long before my predecessor, this was the place where our journey began. Against the advisories of barren soil and the poorest of seed, this monastery produced some of the finest liquors throughout Christendom. It was only expected, when the brew-meisters of Aggleflem were slaughtered, in the year of our Lord 512; that my brethren were requested, by Papal Emissary, to take up the task there-in. The honor was great, but only twelve of them were chosen to make the pilgrimage.

Two days later, they made off on their long journey; twelve pilgrims and their guide. The territory being rough, and the weather rougher, the exodus proceeded for well into three months. Copse to cave, village to hamlet, they walked, spending more time waiting out adverse autumn weather then actually traveling.

As the final, crisp mornings of October closed in, they reached what remained of a small village in what was called France. They weren't surprised by the devastation they arrived to, as the smell of burning bodies met them long before they reach it. The next two days were spent performing last-rights and burials for God's fallen children. It was on the second evening that they discovered the candles still alight in the Manor-Keep. I fear, it's occupants noticed the monks that same eve.

Down from the castle rode the hoariest of brigand bands seen across Europe. There poorly cared-for war-horses frothing under the weight of rider and robing, their breath harsh, casting a mist between the brothers and the bandits. Rage-filled at the pilgrim's presence, they bullied them for the reason of their arrival, and as to their numbers. Thomas the Plain, the guide of the abbey monks, held his ground and tongue alike, which invoked a boot-heel to the jaw from his mounted inquisitor. Abiding to the teaching to 'Turn the Other Cheek', Thomas did just that, earning him a crop-blow across the other. He was all out of cheeks.

My brethren have always held to the tenant of meekness, for it is said 'The meek shall inherit the earth', (and as farmer/brewers, they had done just that), but this meeting made need for addition to their humble tenants (One cannot tangle with the vermin they were faced with without making a few concessions). The Word of God speaks many a scripture applicable to a great many of life's trials. That night they took to the Motto "Speak softly, but carry a large Staff". It has since been advised, following the carnage that ensued, by many a battle lord to "Never pick a fight with a farmer bearing the tools of his trade". These monks of agriculture were well versed in all techniques of 'thrashing the Chaff'!

As dusk turned to night, the stars shown only upon the unscathed Brotherhood, as brigand ran, crawled, or simply bled where they fell. At the arrival of false-dawn, after a night of new funeral services, the rumble of hoof-clap returned. In front rode the leader of this rag-tag band; his armour worn but cared for, his weapons meticulously maintained. He drew his reigns tight, as he glared out over the fresh graves that were once his lackeys.

"Who bears responsibility for this", he bellowed!!

"You do", retorted Jacob the Plain, (I have it on good authority that he was downright un-attractive).

The battle lord, it would seem, was un-accustomed to sharp retort, for upon Jacobs response , he leapt from his mount , throwing himself into the milling monks. His men, twenty in all, followed suit, as the brothers defended themselves. Finding themselves horribly outnumbered by the 'Honor Guard’; they fled, carrying their wounded, through the underbrush.

Torn and ragged, worn and bloody, they found their passage blocked. Through the blind flight through dense trees, they found themselves trapped in a box canyon, with no escape. As they fought in vain to climb to safety, they heard the steps of their assailants. Gathering their strength and giving brief prayer, they prepared for the battle they knew ensued.

"Well," said their leader, "the hunt ends as soon as it becomes interesting! Tell me, friars: what did you hope to gain from running, besides a few more minutes of life?"

"Your absence", spouted Hobart, the Below-Average.

This proved too much for the robber-baron's restraint, as he declared "When you meet your god, in scant moments, tell him who sent you, and that DarkShield soon be Coming for Him, Too!!"

Raising his sword, he brought it to bear on brother Jacob.

...or tried to.

As his sword lowered, the first rays of dawn crested the mountains, blinding the pilgrims. As soon as Jacob noted the absence of a sword blow, he opened his eyes to an unexpected sight. They were no longer in a box canyon, surrounded by thieves, but at the crest of a great plain, surrounded by standing stone, not unlike those of the pagans. Casting their eyes downward, they noted the smoke drifting up from the fields before, what appeared, a walled city, under siege! Seeing a need for the Lord's servants, they made haste to the Northern Fields, or, at least what remained of them.

Just as they gathered the courage to enter this city in ruins, a blast of unheard-of monstrosity threw them to the ground, robbing them temporarily of their hearing. It was then that they first noticed that a bearded man, dressed in royal blue garb, was attempting to greet them, despite their ringing ears.

"Hal-lo", he bellowed. "Consider yourself in luck, Wanderers: We only took out TWO Acres with That Vintage!!". He introduced himself as Smat, ( A truly odd name, to my predecessors, but a man I know, and have come to respect.), and that they were welcome to stay anywhere they found INTACT.

Suddenly a twisted little imp of a man (introduced to them as Tsargin) appeared in a puff of smoke, and inquired, with many colorful metaphors, as to which vat finally went-up.

"Bane-Fire", he bellowed! "I was sure THAT brew would take!!"

This struck a note in their leader.

"Brew?", inquired Balthazarr, the Boring. "What might it be you are preparing?"

"Mead", the imp responded, with un-retrained relish.

"Let's see what you've got", he replied, hands rubbing!

"This way", they invited, and lead them through the blasted and burned fields. Tsargin beamed at what crops they were capable of keeping, while Smat considered giving up on Fire-Mead, and moving on to "Under-Berry"* Wine. The Brothers couldn't blame him, upon discovering the havoc the "Two of Five" were reeking with the impatient techniques they were employing.

"Well, we're adapting the technique as we go", defended Smat.

"Yeah!", the twisted little man interjected. "If YOU think YOU can Do Bet- ow. Ow! OW!!", His words cut short by a Bee sting to nape of the Neck.

"Why You...!", he hissed, diving after the tiny assailant. It, shooting into a row of their odd, cultivated shrubs, was immediately followed by the incensed imp! The Bush exploded into Flame!! The Brothers, upon seeing the bush, dropped to their knees, recognizing a sign from God, as Our Lord appeared to Moses, upon the Mountain(*).

"Got Ya!", Tsargin Bellowed. "That's One!!"

"Oh, Hades!" sighed Smat. "He's going for the Hives again".

Hefting a fist sized stone, he flung it through the thick smoke, in the imps direction;

Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzz!-

WHACK!!-

Smat counted on his fingers- "One Thousand-ONE, One thousand-TWO,"

THUD!

As Smat dusted off his hands, Balthazarr approached him.

"Are you looking for Brewers by any chance?", he asked, the others still engrossed in prayer.

"Know Any?" grinned Smat.

"Perhaps. What does it Pay?"

"Weeelllll....."

When the deal was shaken upon, the Brotherhood was granted a small keep halfway up the Fangstones, an annual income of supplies for their research, and income based upon produce. It took no time for Balthazarr to convince the others that they had in fact arrived at Aggleflem Abbey, in Germany, as none of them could read or write Words, let alone a Map. They were brewers, and that was they would do. They did soon realize this to be a land without Gods Servants, which gave them even more desire to occupy these halls I now sit within, writing this manuscript. This agreement has held good and true for well over 20,000 years, and I now feel safe that this disclosure will not destroy it, but strengthen it, as there IS strength in truth, and the lie has gone on for too long. They need to learn of this. To see the world they live in, as opposed to the cloister all but one of has observed for twenty millennia, and to know they aren’t the Brothers of Aggleflem.

We are The Brotherhood of Fangstone Abbey.

Horacio, The Ordinary,

Humble Abbot of Fangstone Abbey.

*-Underberry: what appears to be a combination of strawberry and truffle. It grows on the roots of Ibuprofen Trees**.

**-Not to be confused with Aspirin Trees***.

***-Not to be confused with Aspin Trees.

(*)- Not the One that Moved: The Other One!

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