Jane Mossbrook

To memory:   To be "freed" of our situation, we had to clear the crag of the monsters currently infesting it. Not a problem. However, also in the crag was the other noble, and the smith's son. The creatures infesting it turned out to be spiders - not very complicated. What was complicated though, was Genevieves handling of the situation. In a room, the feet of the child could be seen over a ledge. Through a series of dumb decisions, her actions led to the incineration of that same child.   Genevieves lack of judgment and hasty decisions cost the life of a child today. I have no words. I'm unsure if Genevieve herself understand the consequences. A small being who never got to live out their allotted time. Parents who never again will see their beloved.   Deeper in the cave we rediscovered the other noble. With a blade at his throat he told us about what he discovered - some sort of magical hall, with protectors. I wished to research this - and I was, as well, when Zalias infernal book elected to "choose" Genevieve as its next quarry.   Their fight was short, and as it was raging, the protectors fused into a hellish creature. It seemed to have the same hostility to Genevieve, so I chose to stay put in order to be able to further research the hall. I have no intention to engage in a fight i can not win, and I have no reason to protect the two emissarys of a state I have no reason to support, and of which one has, how ever unknowingly, murdered a child.   The stone and the hall resonated, and an opening into an even grander hall showed itself. A dragon - Galvatorix, the former Arcane Prefect of Cothshold - met us. Deceased - but unable to move on. This hall held some form of research of the plane stones during the age of dragons. This will be to our benefit in the future, I'm sure. (a map is provided with a marker on the entry in the journal)   To note:   The hellfire creature was obviously connected in some way to Zalia. When questioning it, it appeared to be targeting Genevieve and to be commanded by something higher. I presume the choice of Genevieve as a quarry by the book to be related to the creatures insistence to attack the frankonian. Is Zalia's patron from the Hells? And how does that synchronize with Zalias quarries constantly being despicable beings? What is clear is that she holds a strong resemblance to a lower devil. This complicates things.   Pierre fell in duty tonight. A special man, but to his bravery there can be no doubt. He will be remembered.   To do:   The plane stones are several, as confirmed by the dragon. We need to find the rest. They are far to strong to be in anyone's possession.

It was the Age of Dragons, long before we had left every-day civilization for the monastery. Long before this land was free. Close to here had stood a city - strong, prosperous, fortified. The dragons insisted on it being named Quethsegol, but the mortals inhabiting the city had since its foundation called it Cothshold. Easier to pronounce, a local had told us, his accent thick with the local dialect, with its strong dwarven characteristics. Cothshold was rich - trading with the dwarven holds was a lucrative and risk-free endeavor, and even though taxed at a high and effective rate, there was enough profit for the citizens to live a comfortable life within the walls. This flood of taxated gold had of course gone straight to the provincial administration in Vel-Arynth. In exchange for the exorbitant tax on the trade, Cothshold was exempt from other taxations. Whereas other cities had to provide the capital with a portion of their harvest, Cothshold was allowed to keep what it produced. Seeing as the surrounding land was exceptionally rocky and poor in good soil, it could barely produce enough harvest to nourish its citizens, but the wealth in their pockets made sure they ate plenty, and more exotically, than even those in Vel-Arynth.   This was until the great famine. Through some whimsy of the gods, the crops had failed. For several years, the fields stood empty, rotten husks of wheat and barley barely stretching a few inches above ground. The livestock dwindled quickly, those not slaughtered instead starving away in brown fields. The formerly barely present governor of Quethsegol, the Arcane Prefect Galvatorix, had seen fit to disregard his provincial duties the year before the first year of famine, and barely anyone had seen him since. His lax control of the city was a mixed blessing. Word from Vel-Arynth came, bearing a command of half of the produce of the already strained farmers. Seeing as no produce could be bought from any outside source, this would surely have led to starvation in the city. That is, if the trading guilds had not stepped up in the absence of centralized draconic command. With Galvatorix gone, the guilds launched an impressive scheme of bribery, forgery, creative book-keeping and strong-arming against any power seeking to examine just how much of Cothsholds produce actually left the confines of the city.   For years, the guilds strong influence worked. The wealth of Cothshold gave the guilds efficient tendrils into the finest of meetings, and with the right cajoling the people of Cothshold led a bearable life in face of the famine. What little surplus could be gathered due to strict rationing was sent to subsidize the less fortunate towns in the vicinity, creating future prospects for the guilds and solidifying resilience among the folks of the vicinity. This luck ran out. A wrong number in a declaration sent a zealous treasurer into a investigation, that finally exposed Cothsholds maneuver. The provincial capital had been made aware, and in lieu of Galvatorix dispensing justice, the provincial governor, a gigantic blue dragon by the name Mavnanth, seemed to see fit to dole it out herself. A sizable host massed in Vel-Arynth, and not even the maneuvering of the guilds was enough to dissuade the authority from acting upon what they saw as a flagrant breach of Cothsholds subservience.   The massing of troops in Vel-Arynth and what Cothshold had done spread like wildfire. The amassing draconic host Mavnanth commanded was an impressive show of force, but not undefeatable, and the coin of Cothshold was substantial. Word went out to the most battletested mercenaries reachable, and many answered the call. A strong and disciplined core was forming. The news of this led to a mass rising and the coming days seemed to show just how much the dragons had underestimated the simmering discontent under the surface of the province. Several of the towns that had been subsidized with Cotsholdian grain had the majority of their townsfolk go to arms and join the defense. One of the main trading partners of Cothshold, the dwarven hold Dur'Khazun, sent a strong contingent of dwarven warriors, intent on making sure the trade would continue. Several nobles of the area, seemingly fed up with doing the dragons biddings joined with their hosts, and then there were the stragglers, the ones not directly affected by the conflict but drawn by the pureness and justice of its purpose. A band of warriors from the other side of the mountains, a group of bandits from deep in the woods, a group of wizards fed up with the policies of the dragons, even a creature of the fey intent on making good on a foolish promise made by one of the enemies commanders - people like us.   It was truly a perfect day. One of those blessed late-spring wonders, where the sky is clear and blue, and the forests filled with bright green. The flags of the camp - all of different colors, different creeds, were hanging limp on their poles. Former-us walked along one of the paths of the camp. In this life we were tall. Strong. A solidly made sword at our hip. An elf had walked beside us. A friend. Aeglin. The camp was just stirring to life.   It had been a few days since former-us had arrived. The word had spread quickly across the province, as it tends to do when the population has been ground to the bone with toil, with no end in sight. Cothshold had been the shining beacon for many of the people now flocking to its banner, feeding their family or those of their close friends. Former-us had not been very affected by the famine. This life had been one of battle, of glory, of long rides on the roads of the province, of just battle against the brigands and thieves that had grown so usual during this time of famine. Tavern-owners were more than happy to feed and pay us, and the village elders of the province lauded our arrivals and showered us with gifts when we ensured them of their trade routes being open once more. The cause of Cothshold seemed just. The invisible clawed hand of the dragons was not hard to feel when moving through society. The people craved freedom, an admirable yearning. So here we were.   Everyone in the camp felt the tension in the air. The enemy had been sighted by the scouts not even 2 miles away, the banners of the imperial legions clearly waving in the wind. The battle would stand today, and former-us knew that this was a battle Cothshold stood to win.   *FOR NOTE - my memory grows weak here. I will leave a section untouched, for you to fill in when this part returns to us.*   Calamity. Screams. Faint smells of ash on the wind. We sat atop our horse, behind a treeline on a hill, Aeglin on his steed right next to us. "Ghalver's boys are holding nicely. Never would have imagined that, seeing as they partook quite heavily yesterday" Aeglin said, referring to the vast amounts of alcohol the mercenaries currently presenting an unbreakable shieldwall against an imperial legion had consumed last night. We laughed. "I'd presume it's that exact liquour giving them that courage down there. They've almost single-handidly broken down two companies of the legion." we said, rolling back our shoulders. Just behind the mercenaries, a small group of eccentrics produced lights, and occasionally a bright streak of orange, creating large holes in the center of the imperial legions ranks. Both us and Aeglin were aware that this light talk was just to try and keep the panic contained. Our heavily armed band of cavalry was waiting on the order to doff our cloaks and ride into the side of the imperial reinforcements who were slowly making their way forward. The trap would be sprung, and the legions would be surrounded. The imperial legions had tried to do this very tactic, but had been thwarted by a small disciplined group of local farmers that had grown up in these very woods, and had descended upon the clueless imperial troops. They did not even manage to send a runner back to their camp, and were surely waiting for their own cavalry charge by now. Instead, they would be met by lances pointed towards them, and their flanks being suddenly overrun with drilled peasants mixed with battle-hardened mercenaries. The true flame of freedom would be lit here today, and this would be a slaughter.   The leader of our band, Ironpelt - a large, redhaired woman, nodded at us, and then at the dwarves behind us. The dwarves had mounted ballistas and prepared a wall of archers that would take our places in the treeline and pelt the legion with arrows and ballista bolts. It was time for us to end this. A sudden colorful explosion in the midst of the reinforcing legion, centered on a certain commander, was our cue. A quick swipe to doff, and a fistbump with Aeglin, and we rode down the hill.   The horse strained, almost eager, the lance firmly grasped, the armor softly clanking. We were perfectly placed, the legion would not have time to turn and face us before we ran them down. But then, something caught our eye. Instead of the organized march of peasants and mercenaries against the other flanks, what emerged from the other treelines was a few, panicked soldiers. None of them armored in the mercenaries colors. One fell flat out of the treeline across from us, a barely discernable green armor behind him. Koelors boys. The horse under us carried us ever closer.   The occasional fireball from the wizards stopped. Until they didn't. A streak to our right. A new sun momentarily lit up, but not in the legion. It struck in the middle of Ghalver's group, leaving cinders.   Any living creature has basic instincts telling it to live, to eat, to fuck and to drink. The first one made itself known. Our seconds felt like hours. It became increasingly clear that this was exactly where Mavnanth wanted us to be. "FUCK, PIVOT RIGHT, NOW!!!!" Ironpelt bellowed over the wind. A quick look confirmed her target was now the group of wizards, seemingly having turned against us. At that moment, she, and several others of the charging band, was suddenly filled with arrows, slumping over. Seconds became hours again. The arrows were pretty. Dwarven arrows always were. They made everything with such care, such precision. The riderless horses were ungovernable, and our tight formation was now a death trap. Our eyes darted to Aeglin, signaling him to halt his horse with us to try and break out of the stampede. His eyes met ours, and then a ballista bolt pierced him and his horse, the ground becoming a fulcrum to send the pair flying. Our eyes on the legion. They had turned, their spears facing those of us that remained. They had been prepared. They always had been. We rode into the spears, lance in hand, greeting unescapable death as an old friend. He is, after all. Pain is temporary. This existence, forever. We left that coil sure of one thing. The flame was lit, and the time of the dragons was at an end. It was only a matter of Time.      

To memory:   As I suspected, following the noble tracks was not difficult. Also as I suspected, the nobles leaving the tracks were not suited for the wilderness. One of them got themselves butchered by a wolf. One would be inclined to believe a life in luxury and without any difficulty makes you lax and incapable of doing basic precautions.   The tracks took us to what is now called Cragyard. During this tracking however, I had another strong memory. I have written down what I still can feel in my skin, my bones, my chest on the following pages, to jog your memory as well. However what is clear is that Cragyard is what remains of the Crag. Our previous life met its end on that field, dear reader, trying to aid local people against a tyrant during the Age of Dragons. A blessed memory. I honor the ones that was lost, and thank the gods that age is behind us.   We also happened upon a gallow, under which a stone bound souls to that place. An evil mechanism, and the souls whispered of a knightly order being misled by Moorbrand, putting innocents to death. Only Moorbrand could set them free, and so we could do nothing but give them a fleeting moment of catharsis and listen to their concerns. This practice is abhorrent. No soul should be tethered in this way. No soul should be kept from the final judging. It is something I know all too well, something we all know too well. Something I surmise you know too well by this point.   In now-called Cragyard, we met upon some trouble. Zalia decided to imitate one of the nobles, in hopes that she would imitate the one we found dead in the forest, mangled beyond any recognition. A good plan - it would aid us in gathering information. However, she chose poorly. Some brawling, some excessive force by the frankonians and some very good theatre by yours truly later, we now find ourselves in a dungeon. Ample time for journaling, at least.   To note:   There is no end to what an expatriated frankonian believes themselves to be at the liberty to do. This is a good aphorism.   Humorously enough, it seems the frankonians did their showing of weapons against an unarmed drunk crowd for my safety. Charming. Wholly unneeded. Drunks I can handle.   We've gathered the smith's son and the non-mangled noble seem to be down in the mines. I surmise that the child isn't in safe hands with the noble.   To do:   Get out of jail. Return the child.

For Memory:   Found Zalia. She removed another evildoer, it seems. The Magister was at the head of the group of bandits that was slaughtered in the cave. Seems fitting that he too left this existence. We made sure to extract some more information about these dealings, and on the stone, from some of the magisters closest associates. A few well chosen words worked just as well as usual to make them believe we knew more than we actually did, and they readily shared intel - although not too much. They are bandits after all, and if possible they will stab their own ranks in the back for the chance of a higher cut. They did not reveal their next destination, to my disappointment. My skill in discreet interrogation could use honing, clearly. Luckily these noblemen will leave a hefty trail after themselves. Neither one seems the type to have spent time in the wilderness, or keen on dirtying their hands covering the tracks. Won't be a problem.   Regarding the stone, the abbot has entrusted us with its keeping and bringing to Nova Aera. That city has a certain draw, I must admit. I look forward to visit it again, although it must have been just a few moons since I was there last. I intend to keep the stone close. The abbot has assured me I will not turn into black mud. This stone is a planestone. When presented with the name, something clawed at my attention, and I remembered a meeting we attended several lifetimes ago, dear reader. These planestones were discussed, almost a myth. We didn't lay much weight to their existence then, and they were described as old already at that moment, and void of energy. But this stone, it's almost alive.   To note:   I am not fully convinced the rest of my companions understand the enormous inherent power in this stone. I am also not fully convinced any one of them can be trusted with it. Zalia is Zalia, and follows her book slavishly, whose author I am still unaware of. The female frankonian suggested handing the stone over to her state. Idiotic. Her brother seems unable to form an independent thought, and certainly agrees with his sister. The man from Kang can obviously not have it. Seems I am the one to carry the burden until I find someone worthy to unload it upon.   It has not escaped my attention though, that the existence of these stones, although mythical and near useless at the time, was an important part of that meeting all those years ago. Could these stones hold the key to our curse breaking? To our final rest? I need to find out more.   To do: Follow the trail. Time demands His due.    

For Memory:   Vaelthoryx rests easy. The village that has sprung up around his last landing is a quaint one, and the abbot seem a reasonable one. This gladdens me. Merely a few hours ago, me and my newfound companions, at the abbots bidding, cleared out a nest of criminals in the hills not far from Vael's rest. The hermit had not said much of what I'd find here, so I assumed I'd be best off taking the first quest that became apparent to me. I believe I did the correct thing, because something is not quite normal with what just happened. The criminals, who seem to have run a tight organization, had been visibly ambushed in their hidden halls. The ambushers were arisened skeletons, led by a ghoul. I know I've seen them before, but the first experience in a life is always startling. That sickly color, their dead eyes, a sick twisted version of an intelligent creature. We encountered the ghoul and his barebones accomplices inside the halls, and we put them all to rest once more. One criminal had the good sense to hide from the undead, and had barred himself inside a small subsection of the cave. He was terribly fond of a box covered in blood, which I surmise came from his fallen brethren who might not have been large supporters of him keeping the box. Unconfirmed though, as the boy quickly metamorphed into a black mud when forcibly persuaded to give the box up. In a less thought through process, I was left holding the box. I'd prefer not to get turned into black mud before I gather what is going on, so it is still in my possession. Tomorrow we meet the abbot to discuss this, hopefully he can get rid of the box without me turning into mud. It would be a first though.     To note: The new companions are interesting, and seem capable enough. There is a pair of siblings, one very tall male who seems a bit uncertain on who he wishes to be, and one female who is very certain who she wishes to be - she wishes to be someone with armor. This whole quest was engaged in by the pair due to the criminals scamming her into giving up her armor. The world seems to not have lost a single ounce of harshness, sadly. She will have to learn to deal with it. There can however be no doubt in their fighting capabilities.   The siblings are guarding one very pretentious aasimar. I must admit, now that I remember the bliss on the mountain, I also distinctly miss not thinking of the concept of Kang. Loud, obnoxious and prone to uncontrolled aggression. I hope Ki'tor bears a maximum of two of these national virtues, preferably the earlier ones.   The ghoul when faced with permanent removal from this plane suddenly seemed very capable of trying to deal with us for his "life". His master would either reward us for letting him go, or wreak his vengeance on us if we did not. I have no recollection of ever bargaining with someone deeming the half-life of undead to be a tool for conflict, and I do not intend to do so in this life either. The ghoul is was put to rest, and if Moorbrand meddles again I am willing to reiterate my message.   However, something is itching in the back of my head. There is something about this box, and I can't help but to think that this is what I was put on my path to find. It seems to hold power, did I seek this out in my last life? But if so, why would I leave the mountain?   To do: Get back to Vael's rest and safely remove the stone from my person. Then I need to find out where the hell Zalia went. If she has murdered someone innocent this time, I will need to reevaluate our connection.

Begin writing your story here...

For memory:   Me and Zalia will be in Vael’s rest in a few days. She is a character, to be sure. Neither in the village my current form grew up in, nor in my monastery, have I seen someone of her caliber.   She is older than she lets on. It’s not something she has divulged, but it is not difficult to detect. There is something in her eyes, calculating yet not as hungry as those of youth. She is also fundamentally broken inside. This is not as neatly hidden, and it is clearly visible in her savage way of dispatching those that her book tells her is slated to be removed from this world. Seeing as she hasn’t tried to slit my throat yet I presume that whatever is in control of her book hasn’t decided that I am on the list. Thus far. Perhaps whatever being controls it surmises that having a person uniquely prone to bear long grudges is distinctly counterproductive to whatever goal it has.   With that said, Zalia really does have a knack for killing. Instead of being forced to fend for myself if things go south in my bounties, she makes quick work of them. At least those times her book says they should be dispatched, which is not all the time. At least she agreed to come with me to Vael’s rest.   From what I gathered back in Wyrmthrone, Vael’s rest is where Vaelthoryx met his final end. The last time I was down here in the valleys, his efforts in overthrowing the tyranny of his kin was legendary. Makes sense he would be venerated after his death as well. I will be honored to show my respects at his final resting place.   I am however at a loss as to why I am to go there. Did I go there in my last life? Would I go pay my respects then as well? The hermit in Saltpoint was very clear, my “thread leads me here” but if it is here it sure as all hells isn’t easy to see.   To note:   Zalia, if you’re reading this after slitting my throat, know you’ve made an enemy for the rest of the time you stride these lands.   To do:   Visit Vaelthoryx’ mausoleum. The old wyrm deserves to be recognized by an old soul.

"I've been around." The smile I shoot at the barkeep is a tired and shallow one. This must be the hundredths-something individual that has suggested that I take my investigation elsewhere. However, even in this lifetime, I'm running out of elsewheres. I've gone to all the popular (at one time, at least) hangouts in the overpopulated settlement-formely-known-as-Freshport, and even the new one "The Sleepy Bastard". Quite a good one to be honest. I've strolled Zarastils streets, spent a month in Wyrmthrone, talked to the Dwarves in Dhil Ahldur, signed endless contracts in Frankonia in exchange for information noone ended up having and tried to enthuse the mages in Sa'resteece for more intel, to no avail. No one has the information that I need. No one knows what I've spent a lifetime doing.   Before the barkeep can launch the kind but ultimately shallow question I see him lining up, I place the coins for my spirit on the desk. "Enjoy the rest of your day" I say, signaling my disinterest in continuing our smalltalk and stand up, letting my gaze wander over the patrons. It's only a few, the ones without an occupation and a penchant for drink that line the roughly cut tables of the inn at this hour in the early noon. They share the same eyes. Eyes of pain, regret, horrors they’d rather have unseen. Shared eyes. Timeless eyes. Of course, that is not something they know. They lead their short but intense lives, they toil, fight, accomplish big things at a rapid pace, but just like a fire constantly battered by the wind, they burn bright and quick. Their fire takes them to be judged in the next phases, left here are only their deeds to speak to who they once were. Even the mighty warrior-king ultimately leaves this world and their soul passes on, no matter how large of a kingdom he might have forged. Even these harrowed souls, deep in their drink, have the time to change the world. Perhaps that is what they drink to forget.   If the inn was a tranquil place of sad introspection, the streets of this city are the opposite. No-one stops to consider the world around them. No-one outside of the temples takes the time to recognize the life-spark in the other, the simultaneous promise and futility in each one. A person could spend a lifetime just pondering that. I would know, I’ve spent one. I lift my eyes and am struck by a sense of recognition. Before me stands a run-down temple, its stony walls invaded by parasitic roots and the plot around it patched with grasses, but the door is intact and well-worn. Someone is still frequenting this sanctuary. The smile reaching my lips this time is genuine. When this town was smaller, several lifetimes ago, a young halfling, full of life and curiosity had landed with a merchant vessel in the old harbor, now an overgrown field. He had wandered over here to thank the principally worshipped god in the settlement for his safe journey across the churning sea. The temple at that time had been the highest among the buildings, a shining beacon of white plaster and bronze details, well visited and cared for.   I put my hand on the wooden door. The material is soft and warm to the touch, weathered by centuries of use and warmed by the midday sun. The young halfling had eagerly pushed open the gate those lifetimes ago and entered the lavish building, finding it richly decorated with a large altar hewn from a single block of granite at the far end. There were no statues, no tell-tale sign of the god worshiped there. No symbols of Iomedae as he would have guessed, nor any of Abadar. Instead, the interior was timeless and seemed to effortlessly lead the visitor further into the space, towards the altar, and the singular marble pillar standing behind it. The halfling had found himself spellbound walking towards the altar, and soon stood before it. Unsure of what the code was, he looked around to make sure no-one was in the temple with him to witness his surely complete botching of a ritual and then placed the small pouch of offerings he had brought on the altar. A soft voice had spoken to him.   I pushed open the door, stuck in my thoughts and half-remembered dreams as was so often the case. My blue skinned hand contrasted with the dark brown of the door as I entered the temple. Time had taken its toll. The interior was wethered and could not have been cared for since the time of the halfling. The roof had holes, and the pillar looked as if it had been weathered down to half its original size. But the granite altar still beckoned, as massive and flawless as it had been all those years ago. I closed the door behind me and let the smell of stagnant water and rotten wood hit my nostrils. It was the smell of decay, and the inevitable march of time. Inescapable. As I walked towards the altar, my hands sought the benches, their bronze fittings still sturdy underneath my digits.   “Mister Mossbrook, you’re just in time” the soft voice had spoken into the halfling's ear. He was startled and looked up and to his left where he’d heard the voice. Noone was there. Turning his head back, he spotted an old hermit with a long, full grey beard emerge from behind the marble pillar. His smile showcased a singular tooth. “I really am sorry, I just placed my offerings here, I don’t know what your traditions are or really where I am at all sir, I just want to give my thanks to the local guardian sir” the halfling had stammered out, but grew silent when the old man just continued to smile. “They have been received, my child. But this is not a shrine of the local guardian, that would be the building of driftwood at the docks for Myrtheris.” The halfling furrowed his brow in confusion and looked down at his offering, but it was nowhere to be found. The granite altar was empty. Mr Mossbrook had tried to formulate a question, when the hermit spoke again. “My friend, this shrine pays respect to something greater. Something that we all are subject to, and which always triumphs. Kings come and go, heroes rise and fall, and all are because of one thing. The relentless march of time.” The hermit once again showcased his single tooth. “But you will know that better than most”.   I had reached the altar. Before me stood the pillar, its uppermost part now barely four feet off the ground, as if ground down by an ancient force, a pillar left abandoned in a ruin. I placed an offering on the cold granite surface, an offering I didn’t even know I had carried with me. I knew the contents. A splinter of a ship long since sunk, four copper coins and the hairpin of a lover long gone. Exactly what I placed here several lifetimes ago. This time I knew the voice, and from where he entered. Beside the pillar, there stood a man. Black of hair, a shining smile and a thick, but well groomed beard. The hermit. “Welcome back, miss Mossbrook. You’re right on time.” His voice was just as soft as I remembered it. He stepped forward, coming to a halt on the other side of the altar. I gathered my thoughts and shook my head. “I’ve spent several lifetimes wandering this world, seeking enlightenment. I’ve seen countless wars, several adventures and numerous deaths. I’ve spoken with priests of every religion, some of which was so long ago I’ve forgotten their words, faces and patrons. I’ve been in reclusion on the top of a mountain for centuries, and I’ve never even paid so much as a thought in remembrance of this place.” I straightened my spine and pierced my milky white eyes into his stark blue. “But then, you had to forget a life to end up here again” he said, a knowing smile on his lips.   I should have gathered that he knew. This all seemed so familiar. During my first life, before I even knew who, what, I was, he had alluded to it. How could he know then that I was to be the very exception to that very march? Subject, yet still apart? When my mortal coil shriveled up and Mr. Mossbrook was ready to depart this world surrounded by friends and family, a long adventuring life at an end, a new life began. And yet that life would also be me. An oddly blue-skinned child born to two humans in a neighboring village, I was “a blessing” and cherished. Still the memories of my past lingered like dreams in my consciousness. When my former village, where my former friends and family most likely still lived, burned down in the 10th year of my new lifetime, the humans were ecstatic over their new farmland, and could not at all understand my immense sorrow. Neither could I. The realization had taken years. I had left the human village soon after my 16th birthday, never to return.   This process had repeated itself several times. The more lives I had lived, the quicker I was picking up on my nature as a child. I found a few of my brethren and we led a multi-generational pursuit of knowledge, roaming the world as it was at that moment, seeing how time, greed and community all affected lives. We thought we had seen it all. Me, Flintsword, Urimenor and Stonebrow all retired to a distant mountain close to a small human village, intending to spend our remaining lifetimes dwelling on what we had seen, dispensing wisdom to those who would seek it and ensure the eventual passing of our own souls from this plane to the next. Until such a time, we would reincarnate among the humans in the village, who would aid us in returning to our meditating form.   Stuck in my thoughts again, I was suddenly ripped from them by the soft voice. “That was until you realized who you were again, ten years ago, in another village. Tell me, what did you do in your last lifetime?” The hermit was smiling again. Always smiling. I clenched my jaw. “You tell me. You knew about me last time, when I didn’t. I’d wager you know now, when I don’t.” I said. The smile on the hermit disappeared, and for a split second I could almost see the clouded eyes of the old man shimmer over the bright blue ones. “I do not.” he said, his voice darkening. “Your last lifetime is an anomaly. A black splotch on the ordered continuum.” He paused. “It is wrong.” he said, now almost menacingly staring into my eyes.   He was right. It was wrong. I had reincarnated at least 10 times in our mountain village. It was the same procedure each time. I have always known what happened in my last life, no matter if I died in bed or by sword, or by any other matter. I had lived as a drunkard, a knight and a farmer. No matter what, I always knew and drew wisdom from it. My last reincarnation was a complete blank. I know only that substantial time has passed since my last remembered passing until my latest reincarnation when that has never before been the case, and that when I reincarnated I was nowhere near our mountain monastery. I did not even know where that monastery was located.   He spoke again. “Time rights itself. It always has and always will. It just needs some convincing, at times. All in due time.” He reached into the pockets of his robe and produced two simple small sacks. He reached out his left hand towards me and gave me the one grasped in that hand. “Keep this on you. Your thread leads you to Vael's rest. Follow it. The sands of time are always flowing.” He placed his left hand on my shoulder. We will meet again.” He once again smiled wide, and in his mouth was only a singular tooth. He turned around and walked to the marble pillar, opened his bag, stuck down his hand and grabbed a handful of the contents and started to slowly filter it over the white stone. Sand flowed out of his fist. “Life is short, and Time demands his due, Miss Mossbrook. Best be on your way” he said, as he visibly started to age.   I’m getting too old for this.