In the Land of Hershel

Far North of Lyria, Capital of Lenova:

—Circa 5,601 E.E. (Economic Era-The 17th Era)—

Rough stones and curving trees intermingled in tangled perplexing walls, forming a circular shelter from the creatures of the night. Branches splayed out, intertwining in the dark between the stars, creating a canopy. Grass crept shyly to the edge of the small grove and gave way to soft dirt. In the distance, a strange bird-like shriek echoed out, sounding sad and lonely, as if the animal was the last of its kind.

     The scene was bathed in the flickering warm light of a campfire: a safe haven from the cold dark that surrounded it. Spread around the fire, lounging against moss-covered logs, sitting on stones, and reclining on travel mats were a group of five men. Each man wore armor that once had been reflective and praise-worthy but was now dull with wear and age. They each sported a weapon strapped to their side: the closest companion they would ever know or trust.

     One man—who had armor a little too tight around his waist and a pink flush to his cheeks—walked to the fire with a metal tray boasting small loaves of bread and cheese.

     "Ey Timmon, 'ow long you gonna put those vittles next to the fire? I like my cheese with a little chew left to it, you know? Not soft and runny like Redd's trouser-bottoms," The voice came from a sharp-faced man by the name of Millian. His twin, Mattus laughed uproariously as young Redd, still looking too young to be a knight, tossed a stone at Millian, annoyed by the comment.

     The overweight and kind-faced Timmon set down the tray near the flames and gave a small smile. Soft-spoken and pleasant, the knight was patient with the remark. "I'll leave you to remove the tray when you feel it is ready Millian. I'll not sully your supper."

     The sharp-faced knight nodded in agreement and settled back against the dark log he rested on.

     "You say my trousers are soft and runny, yet you still haven't got over your cold you've harbored for the last fortnight!" young Knight Redd retorted, chin sticking out.

     Millian snorted and spit, rolling his eyes. "Sof' and runny will be you' pants when next you cha'ge into battle. You'll be pissin' you'self in terror. Imagine you in the White Nothing with nought but a spear and a hunk of dried Crimling dung for kindlin'!"

     His twin Mattus, with a face just as pointy, sniggered and pulled out a knife, carving into a piece of wood he had collected earlier that day.

     "Call me a coward, will you?" Redd exclaimed, brow furrowed. "I'll let you know the tale of how I was called forth to be a companion to this miserable group." The young fighter sat up from his mat, spry frame limber and full of energy, ready to share his story. Kind Timmon raised a hand and stopped him. "Elric presides over this fire, young master. Don't haste into action quite yet."

     The twins, young Redd, and soft-spoken Timmon all looked to the one knight who had sat silent since the moon had peeked over the horizon. The elder man, resting his sore muscles on a flat stone, shifted his look from the fire up to his companions. He was an imposing figure for an aging war veteran and still sparked the stern air of authority. Others stayed quiet when he opened his mouth. He had been called Elric the Invincible in his younger days.

     Elric blinked once, then nodded to Knight Redd. "You may tell your tale. Thank ye Timmon, for maintaining military order at our evening respite."

     Young Redd gave a smug smile, now knowing he was the center of attention.

     "It began at Cappertown in November."