It was deep in the winter, when first I met them; steam rising from a scortched field, half an acre of cannis incindialus ablaze, obviously Tsargins doing!
The rest was history and in long measure by magic extended I became the chronicler, and keep of the realm. Many have been the tales long in recounting and enjoyable to watch from my side of the Inn's welcoming bar.

But this cold winters night, I've raised tankard with RavensDales master, watched the long smile of one who see's things 'upon the wind'. This night have I heard stories old, and those anew. Back across many turnings did they stretch; deep into the early days.
Wars, religious fervor,the mysterious builders of AutumnStone, the early Caravans, RavensClose turning to RavensDale, Dreams and nightmares, but always beauty, and occasionally Love.
At the best of times good folk assailed treacherous foes, and in idle times, in the sloth that idleness brings; did they forgot the simple ways, struggling among themselves clamoring to rule, falling, suffering the fate that befell FirsCity, forgetting Peace and compassion. But this to; Passed.

As Smat spoke I saw him stop more then once, recalling a "hail comrade, well met"; recounting truehearts; remembering honorable enemies, and whispering perhaps once, mayhaps twice; of witches, sorceress, and warriors, rapturous Ladies; all!
We talked at whiles, of the coming of the 5 standing stone rings, the fall of Firstcity, the crypts; and awakenings, and always of the long nights and all too few occasions for moments of the heart.
Oh how this world was so dear to him! Still, the caravans bring news of those places far off that grew as the townfolk spread to many, many, lands. The joy and the sorrow of that news blended; like wine both heady and sobering, deep in happiness, but spiced with regrets.

And now upon this quiet evening; the whispers of the crypt are loudest heard. Though Tsargin is far afield, perhaps lost; still the sleeprs call out, awakening now; though not for the appointed hour of rejoicing, but now; for the Sea. Too long have they rested in this port, fashioned to hold the millenia of visitors. Finally the wind calls, and sales fret the mast of a new ship; standing off the harbours mouth.

Even as I watch Smat, the grey-blue eyes seem immersed in the waves of a stormy sea; its clear call all but resounding in this room of stone and woodsmoke.

And upon this night has come a sight I thought never to see, slowly the oaken door moves back, a tall slender figure steps in. The words of Smat and Tsargin do no justice to this Lady, for I deem her fair beyond my reckoning; sweet and dark; tender yet fearsome; clearly the hand upon the helm for the journeys of these five spirits.

A long robe, intricately woven; sigils circumscribing the hood, patterns I'd seen upon the Center Stones of the rings, and in the places of power within the realm. Surely her spirit gave Lansyter the the material he melded with to make RavensDale flourish.

She carries a solitary weapon, a slender blade of midnight steel, girded by simple chain belt; but ready, a dull 'feeling' of presence latent in the blade.

She steps, soundless, save for the bawdy way she drags out the chair, setting astride it to confront us, and demands the last of the oldest bottle of Glar known in the realm. Freely its flows into a tankard, and as quickly disappears beyond sharp lips down a throat muscled and precise, chisled from alabaster, but veined faintly in ebony.

"We've but little time now Tamar" are the words she greets Smat with, smiling she thanks me for tending her most joyous libations these long years, and yes she's had her minds eye upon me; a wink.

He seems free now, less a weight upon his shoulders, and of all things a simple laugh; something one might hear from a youth, taken in by the charms of a mysterious lady.

No ceremony would do, and no simple words are enough, yet he stands looking me over; as did he the first day we met " Shall we walk on for a bit, then; we three?" echoing a meeting now a century old.

The fire burns brightly in the Inn, long into the morning it will, when familiar faces will find breakfast waiting.

Its a simple matter to pull woolens from the pegs behind the bar, and Smat had pulled on a long leather cloak, he's often worn abroad.

I make a leg before this Lord & Lady, but find myself jerked quickly to eye level, "No good Seamus, there is no word or leave I can give you, for certainly we stand now as friends, and comrade in arms" only this from my liege lord; now 30 millenia old.

Moira returns her chair as she found it, clapping me upon the back; a forceful buffet. "Come Master GoodFarthing, I've thought of a walk this night, beneath a 3/4 moon, Smat is fine company but it calls for three, and you Sir shall serve in this office; at least to the Quays".

The courtyard; shadowed in moonlight; a blue so ghostly the snow seems gossamer. As we cross a path I've trodden a thousand times its seems anew yet familiar, the arch begrudges our departure, sighing as we pass; or was it the wind?

The shuttered windows slant amber lights, candles flickering on tabletops and windowsills, our feet intersect each line, all to soon lost in the drifting snow.

We come now to a fountain oldest of all in RavensDale, built upon the Capstone of the first ring, now dry of summers waters with moss stains upon the grey marble of its pool.

The moment echoes, and I know; without words, this midnight is like no other, and will never be seen again.

Moira, turning; surveys the square; as her hood falls back long silver hair envelopes her shoulders. Its color and shape would be the envy of the Fae, but then a sister to them truely is she. Bending forward; a kiss, Smat taken by suprise; gives way to this Lady, and in all my years treats me to a first, he blushes.

Our eyes meet; "Seamus, I give you charge of the City, though it be but a few days. There are places that will yet serve travellers, but others must come under the Geas. You'll find the incantation; under seal; in the keep. If you will but break the seal, a fortnight will bring it to fruition, and much of the Realm will sleep."

I've come to it now, the words strike me like Iron.

"Aye Master, I've a mind to finish the oldest of the mead, but by morning..." words trail off.

Forearms are clasped, and a smile is exchanged.
Smats last words to me;
"Look for us then,
2 weeks time; no more;
the launch at the south docks"

Moira, kisses me lightly upon the forehead, and smiles.

The two turn arm-in-arm going quietly down through the market to the quays, the last I hear is her singing; something sad and sweet.

Now; sitting near the hearth the scroll in hand, and my tankard empty.

I turn it over looking for sign, save for the ornate wax seal, and an unearthly feel, it is rather plain.

"Oh, Ravensdale" speaks I; the seal is cracked; a wind sighs through the Inn, tapestries flutter; flames tinge briefly blue within the hearth; It begins.