"The Anti-life is a product of once living tissue, hate, evil, and the
unholy power of the moons." What superstitious, poetic non-sense! I
have read Girantus Dean's collection, Banishment of Anti-life, cover
to cover several times, and I don't believe it contains a single
useful word. This man has neither recorded history, applied science,
or made interesting connections of logic. I'll grant him this much -
he has written 2 tombs full of mildly entertaining, if poorly written,
fiction.Maybe it's just my fatigue making me cynical. After all I had been awake for 5 days. Still haven't slept yet, unless the strange experiences of the day are just a dream. I'm not one who succumbs to fits of narcholepsy, but who knows maybe someone waylaid me during my studies and I've hallucinated. Or maybe, just maybe, it has all happened exactly the way it seems to have happened. I'll suspend judgment for now and start at the beginning where things are normal enough to be taken at face value.
When I finished pouring over my latest collection of texts, many of them much like poor ignorant Girantus', and casting informational spells, and doing pretty much anything I could think of to solve the mystery of the Creatures of the Moons I concluded there was nothing left to do but enjoy a nice bottle or two of champagne and bed down with the first pleasant woman I could find.
I wandered out into the warm air of midday and rummaged about me for someone to share a drink with. The man I found was called Jerry. He was an experienced member (I wouldn't call him a veteran) of my cavalry. We'd drunk together a few time, though I have to admit I didn't know Jerry all that well. He followed me to the Grey Archway, the tavern in Fallingham which paid the most attention to quality. Before we arrived however I was filled with a strange feeling. There was an odor in the air, or perhaps it was the air itself. It smelled particlized and inflammable. I shall be sure to pay close attention to scents I meet up with in the future and compare them to this one, for it was indeed a harbinger. Jerry and I looked for the source of the smell. I shortly chalked it up to a coming storm and went down to the cellar of the Grey Archway to pick out a few good bottles.
Without going into too much detail, let me explain that the point of foremost consideration in choosing a fermented beverage is the craftsman. There are many regions throughout Twentellise that produce superior ingredients and a true Prince knows how to obtain these and brew fantastic creations. When I saw the mark of Jennadia on two of the bottle my choice was clear. I had no sooner selected a highly effervescent blanche when I heard a ruckus upstairs. Still on guard and uneasy I waited downstairs. Perhaps I would've drunk down there had there been a table and chairs. Instead I laid out three coins and began attempting to contact Aurthur. Blast it if I wasn't interrupted! Evidently the small town was under attack. Attack cavalry just before a storm? Not a very solid tactic, but there were plenty of very poor leaders about. I took up a relic of a weapon, dull blade and all, and went out to survey the situation.
From the window of the second level of the wellhouse I could see my cavalry in a defensive formation. There was a dark army, about half the size of ours, approaching just ahead of the storm. I sat down and drank a few mouths full of wine as I watched. It amused me to see how long it would take them to fall back. Our unit is at it best when fighting a force we outnumber 3 to 1. Without infantry we would not engage with a mere 2 to 1 advantage unless forced. Yet there was a standoff. Why wasn't Aurthur ordering the defensive retreat? I heard Jerry shouting from the streets below.
"What? I think I'd rather stay here. I can see quite well from the vantage."
"Myrlyn please... Come quickly, Aurthur has called for you."
"Very well." I sighed.