The Virtues

[Borg]

The storm blew in from the Eastern Sea, and when at midday it struck the coast, it paused, as though resting a moment before resuming its long journey. The mariners called it a mere squall, took in their sails a bit and pressed on to the next port.

But for those caught out on a journey on the king's highway, where the wind made the trees sway and crack, and the rain churned the ruts into tiny, treacherous swamps, there was no choice but to seek shelter. Three such travelers found themselves thrown together in a large, open building, where at times the local farmers would gather their cattle to be driven to market in the city. Today there were no cattle, just three soaked strangers.

The first, a portly man of middle years, was a merchant going to the city to buy goods. The second was a soldier, a young woman returning to her company after a short visit with her family. The third was a man somewhat younger than the first, and he did not speak of his errand. The three built a fire, and shared their provisions, and settled in to wait out the storm.

To pass the time of day, the merchant and the soldier fell into conversation with one another, while the third seemed content to listen to the sound of the rain pelting the roof. The two speakers soon fell into philosophical disputation, since they had quickly exhausted any meaningful topics. In due time, the subject turned to the Virtues, those eight guides to conduct which, it is said, lie at the heart of the society and the government of the land.

The young woman, who seemed happiest with the negative side of any question, said, "What are these Virtues, anyway? I'll tell you, they're a lie told by the powerful to keep the humble happy in their service. When did a rich man or a noble ever bother to follow the Virtues they so solemnly preach? One is honest because they hang caught thieves. One does one's duty because deserters are beaten. That's what Virtue is."

"What a sad view," the merchant replied. "We may as well be dogs, who are taught to stay out of the kitchen with cuffs and yells. No, my young friend, the Virtues exist to ennoble us and make us fully human. They are the distillation of those high impulses which allow us to progress as a people, and their very existence betters us."

Then the third man stirred himself, and for the first time joined the discussion. "Excuse me, but this topic is of great interest to me. And I'm afraid I find little understanding of the Virtues in either of you."

The soldier grinned mischievously, and said, "Well then, pray pour the light of your pure understanding on our sadly darkened souls." And the merchant added, "Yes, please, share your view."

"As for you, Miss," the stranger began, "you say the Virtues serve to keep the humble weak, but I say they exist to make the weak strong, and the poor but Virtuous man can look unafraid into the face of Lord British himself. As for the rulers of the land, I know something of what has been sacrificed in the pursuit of Virtue, and it is no small cost.

"And to you, Sir, I say that your conception is more fair, but it falls short. Your Virtues are as airy and pleasant as a scrap of a tune borne on a summer wind, and they are no more substantial. You savor the aroma, but do not touch the meat.

"Here then is my concept of the Virtues. They are a guide for daily life, and their application strengthens our resolve and calms our doubts. They are a map, if you will, for living, and a map has no use if it is not followed to some destination."

"You speak with all the solemn certainty of my old Granny," the soldier said, "but where are the teeth in your words? If these old ideas have the power to make a king out of a peasant, show us how the miraculous transformation is accomplished."

"Indeed," said the merchant. "You call my concepts airy, but where is the substance to your own? How do the Virtues apply in the simple equations of daily survival?"

"Your questions are fair," the stranger said, "but with your permission I will answer indirectly, for I am minded of a tale or two that reveal my beliefs far better than any argument I could construct."

The other two willing agreed to listen to his tales, for they had begun to weary of argument, and were willing to let another bear the burden of speech for awhile. So the stranger detached a wine skin from his pack, and took a good long drink. Then he passed it around, and as he did so he began to speak.

[Borg]

HUMILITY- The tale of Katrina and the Noble

Katrina was a shepherdess, and as far as she was concerned, that word provided a complete description with no further need of qualification. She was beautiful, to be sure, and wise as well, and held the respect of both her peers and those above her station. All this, however, had no bearing on the fact which defined Katrina to Katrina herself (and what other opinion mattered?). She was a shepherdess; she tended her sheep.

As it happened, the sheep she tended were not her own property, but belonged to a rich noble of the city of Magincia. In return for her service she was provided with a sturdy hut (kept scrupulously clean), and a regular allotment of both mutton and wool, which she could either reserve for her own use or sell in the marketplace.

I am sure you've heard of the old Magincian nobility, storied as they were for their opulence and splendor. You may be sure no citizen of Magincia would ever condescend to lay a hand on an actual breathing sheep, though they would willingly enough sit down to a hot mutton chop while wearing a fine wool tunic. So Katrina was engaged to see to the unpleasant necessities of the flock's management, and faithfully delivered up to her master the profits of his investment, but her labor.

Alas, the most refined sense of style is no shield against misfortune, as many a great lord has found out. Another noble, an acquaintance of Katrina's patron, had fallen upon hard times, and saw his family fortune wiped out, through a combination of unwise investment and simple ill luck. So this poor fellow resolved to go to his friend, and trade his last and greatest family heirloom - a magnificent emerald, of unmatched size and luster - for half of Katrina's master's flock. Such a purchase should be sufficient to provide both a present income, and the promise of future increase.

So he brought the emerald to Katrina's master, who proved eager to make the trade, for owning such a precious object would bring great honor to his house. And the two nobles went out together to divide the flock. Together, they ascended a platform built for that purpose (for no right-minded noble would ever risk treading in sheep's soil), and began to separate the flock, with Katrina dividing the sheep below at their direction.

At a certain point the bargaining grew heated, and the purchasing noble drew his emerald out of his pouch, and began to discourse on its flawlessness and purity, in an attempt to cajole the other to accede to his wishes. But the fellow's unfortunate luck held true, and while he gestured about, the jewel flew from his hands and down to the floor of the sheepfold, where a half-grown lamb promptly devoured the shiny thing.

Katrina apologized profusely for this indignity (though it was none of her fault). But she assured the men that there would be no cause to suspend their dealings. "I shall watch this imp most carefully," she assured her master, "and when the stone reappears - as it must in a day or two - I shall clean it scrupulously and deliver it up to you myself."

The nobles, however, were both horrified at the thought of their treasure undergoing such an indignity, and said that the plan would never do at all.

"So be it," said Katrina. "If that's your preference I will slaughter the beast today - this very hour - and we'll have the jewel back in your hands presently, though it seems a shame, for I had wanted this lamb as a ram, rather than for mutton."

But the nobles both agreed that this too was an unacceptable pollution, and after some discussion both men agreed that there was nothing for it but to regard the disgraced gem as forever lost to Magincian society. So the poor noble returned home, ruined and sad, but secure in the knowledge that his dignity remained intact.

Katrina, who had long since learned the folly of trying to ascribe sense to the requirements of a Magincian's lordly Pride, bedded her sheep for the night, except for the impertinent young ram which she brought to a special stall, and there she watched him most carefully. In due time the course of nature was accomplished, and the gem reappeared into the daylight. Whereupon Katrina took it up with a spade, and washed it vigorously with lye and good clean water. Then she took it to the port, where she found an honest merchant who cared nothing for the gem's recent history, but only for its weight and luster, and he paid her a most goodly price for it. Some of the money Katrina spent on her own practical comforts, and some she gave freely to those whose need was real, but the most part she put away against mischance or infirmity. And so it came to pass that in her Humility, she became the most honored and prosperous shepherd in the whole city.

The lamb grew up to be a fine ram indeed, and for many years reigned over the flock. He thought himself a very lordly figure, I'll wager, for all that he never knew that he had been, for a time, the richest sheep in all Magincia.

As for the ruined noble, he was soon forced to sell his mansion to pay his debts, and seek the charity of kinfolk, where he received all the affection that is rightly due to a poor relation steeped in self pity. Today his honored name, which he would not besmirch with an honestly soiled fortune, is not remembered by anyone.

[Borg]

Honesty: Mariah and the Daemon

Above all things save one, a young mage must be curious, and so it was with Mariah. It was this curiosity that led her, in the course of her journeyman wanderings, into a certain grove that had a reputation locally as a perilous and haunted place.

She soon found that reputation warranted, when a soft, deep and not-unpleasant voice inquired, "How now, little mage, you wander far from the safe byways."

Mariah turned, and when she saw what stood there her first thought was a rather foolish pleasure that she did not start or cry out. But she quickly pushed that aside in favor of more serious concerns, for standing before her was a hugely muscled, flame-red, hairless creature, glowing softly with its own light in the forest gloom. She knew at once that it was a Daemon, one of those vicious and mighty travelers from strange and infernal realms, which sometimes stray into ours in search of blood or mischief.

"Good evening, sir," she said, and her voice shook only a little. "I hope I am not trespassing."

"Not a bit of it," said the Daemon in its soft and mocking growl, "I so seldom receive visitors, I am quite glad to see you."

Mariah had never before encountered a Daemon, but she had studied their nature. She knew that if the creature had desired violence, she would already be dead, therefore it must be planning some subtler malice.

"If it's company you seek, perhaps I can propose a diversion," Mariah said, her mind racing. She had read that certain Daemons of the subtler sort could be tempted by games of skill or chance, and she hoped thus to distract this Daemon from less pleasant amusements.

"A diversion. How delightful. What do you propose?"

"Let us play the Challenge Game."

Now the Challenge Game is an exercise used by young mages for countless generations, and its nature is simply this … each contestant asks the other an abstract question on a profound or difficult matter, and the other must answer promptly, with absolute honesty. Hesitation or evasion result in loss. In this way are the players taught to face the Truth within themselves, and discern it in the words of others.

"An audacious choice," the creature chuckled. "What are the stakes?"

"My life, of course," she replied. "If you win, you take it, and if I win I keep it."

"Plainly spoken, but I expect no less from a mage. I accept, and as the challenged party, I will begin the questioning. Little mage, do you fancy yourself wise?"

This was a standard gambit, and Mariah was prepared for it. "I seek wisdom, which would be a vain endeavor if I were already wise. I have always thought myself clever, which has sufficed so far." This answer did not visibly impress the Daemon, but it did not challenge it.

Then it was her turn to ask, and she turned to a philosophical query. "Daemon, which is greater, Truth or Falsehood?"

At this the Daemon grinned, which is a terrible sight, and replied, "Truth is a mighty oak, the king of the forest. Falsehood is the tiny worm that eats away at the inside of the oak until it is toppled by an errant breeze." This was an excellent answer, and Mariah admired it even in the midst of her fear.

"Little mage," the Daemon asked, "Why did you choose this game? You are young, and I am immortal. Do you fancy your 'cleverness' might suffice against my eternal insight?"

Mariah took a slow breath and replied. "I am mortal, and my mind is my own. My Truth is my possession, and I view it at will. You are bound by your supernatural nature and must act accordingly. Your Truth is a dark room without windows or doors, and you can never see it, for it imprisons you. This is my hope, and my advantage."

Mariah could see that the Daemon disliked this answer, which was as she wished as she prepared her next question. "It is axiomatic that Truth can exist without Falsehood, but Falsehood can never exist without Truth. Tell me then, how can you hope that evil will ever win?"

The Daemon looked at her a long moment, and when it answered all trace of laughter was gone from its growl. "I will show you how," it said, and the phrase ended in a howl of rage as it raised its clawed fist and descended upon Mariah to take her head. But it is the nature of Daemons that, having once accepted a challenge, they are then bound by its terms. And even as the monster charged across the few steps separating it from Mariah, its massive form dissipated, and all that reached her was a sulfurous and unpleasantly warm puff of mist. So she returned quickly to the nearest village, and thereafter was somewhat less curious about rumors of strange happenings.

[Borg]

Compassion: Iolo and the Brigand

Iolo was bard, bowman and freeholder, as well as the trusted friend and champion of Lord British. It was not strange, therefore, that his neighbors should turn to him in time of crisis.

The nature of the crisis at hand was a single man named Edric, a brigand by trade, who had come to haunt the trails that cut through the wild forests and hills of that region. He was a most cruel villain, with no thought for the lives or honor of his victims, and robbery was the very least of his depravities.

So the honest tradesmen and farmers of the region came to Iolo to beg him for deliverance. Iolo did not hesitate, but put aside his lute and took up his crossbow, kissed his wife goodbye, and left the horses in her capable hands. And as he left, he swore in the name of Lord British that he would not return until the menace of Edric the murderer was removed from the land.

After seeking for some days, Iolo began to pick up the trail of his quarry and it led him into a rough and hilly region where he pursued the villain across the treacherous heights and valleys. At last, they came to a high cliff far above a small mountain village and there, with Iolo only minutes behind him, the brigand executed a plan of horrid efficiency. He pried loose a single boulder and set it to rolling down the cliff face, and as it rolled it caught more rocks and boulders, which in turn caught more rocks and boulders, until at last a mighty avalanche fell down upon the tiny village. Many of the homes and shops were annihilated by the rocky deluge, and the one pass which allowed the village to communicate with the outside world was blocked.

Iolo stood aghast at this carnage, and his rage against Edric knew no bounds, but nonetheless he broke off pursuit and descended down the perilous mountainside to the village, and there he spent some days digging out the living and the dead, and helping to clear the pass. And while he was thus occupied, the brigand made good his escape and returned to his larcenous ways.

But as soon as his conscience permitted it, Iolo resumed the chase, and it did not take him long until he again pressed his foe. But this time Edric was more ready to deal with his nemesis, and he lead Iolo to a certain forest town, and passing through it at night the creature poisoned the town’s only well. So when Iolo came to the town the next day, he found many of the townsfolk stricken with a horrible, deadly affliction. And again Iolo paused in his pursuit and helped to minister to the sick and the dying, and labored to cleanse the fouled well. And again, Edric used the time to get far away.

When he resumed the hunt, Iolo was like a fury of vengeance, and he pressed the fugitive hard. In the heat of the chase, Edric was forced to flee desperately away from all human habitation (which was according to Iolo’s plan). At last Edric came to a cavern mouth and thought to elude Iolo within. But this was folly, for it was no cavern - this was one of those protean pits of vileness called “Dungeons” which have infested our land since time immemorial, and the name of this particular Dungeon was Despise.

Now the perils of the Dungeons are many, and some time later, when Iolo entered Despise (more carefully than Edric had, for Iolo knew the place of old), he was soon greeted by a black and gaping deadfall. And far below, from some unguessed depth of the pit, the voice of Edric was pitifully crying for aid, pleading that his leg had broken in the fall.

Iolo cried out, greeting Edric and saying, “I would happily lower a rope, but I have none.” Then he added, with perhaps pardonable cruelty, “I could go and fetch one if you like; I should be back in no more than a week.”

Edric, who was quite unmanned in his terror, pled with Iolo not to leave him alone. “I know you are a Bard and a man of Compassion,” the villain begged. “Climb down and help me out, I pray you.”

Iolo stood there on the lip of the pit, quite aghast at the audacity of the creature, but at last he spoke. “I see that you, who have so grossly abused my Compassion for so long, have no true idea of its nature. Compassion is the due wage of innocence, and for a child or honest farmer I would cheerfully brave that pit. Such as you, however, have no claim on compassion whatsoever, for your proper dish is Justice.” But then, as Edric blubbered below, he added, “However, I am no judge or Druid, so I will grant you such Compassion as is prudent for one such as yourself.”

Without another word he went out of the Dungeon, but only so far as a sturdy tree, from which he cut a long branch suitable for use as a crutch. And he returned to the hole from which Edric still blubbered (swearing now that he heard things slithering in the darkness), and threw the crutch down.

“Here then is your Compassion, that you need not wait for death immobile and helpless. With this you can move about, and you already have water, tender, torches and a sword. Now get up, and make your way out if you can. You have my word that if you ever see the open air again, I will be waiting for you.”

Giving no further heed to the brigand’s cries, Iolo left the dungeon. But he pitched a camp in view of the entrance, and bided there two nights, waiting attentively. And on the morning of the third day he broke camp and returned home. And no one can say for certain that Edric perished in the pit of Despise, but it can truly be said that he was never heard of again in Britannia

[Borg]

Valor: The Tale of Geoffrey and the Dragon

Of old, in the days when the great Dragons still flew freely about the skies, there was a dragon called Ignus. Now dragons are subtle and dangerous creatures, but as a whole they are not truly evil, for they have their own way to follow, and honor after their own fashion. Ignus, however, was an exception, and in fact I believe he was the source of many of the popular libels which are spoken about his race. For Ignus was a mischievous and rapacious beast, and he took great delight in plundering and ruining the habitations of humanity. He even had a taste for the flesh of human youths, particularly females, which habit I am sure his fellow Dragons found very nearly as distasteful as we do.

So it came to pass one day that Ignus woke to find himself both hungry and bored, and he bestirred himself and off he flew, in search of amusement and sustenance among the habitations of men.

On this day he chose a hamlet so small that it had no name (or if it had one, it is long since forgotten). And this particular cott was the home of a youth named Geoffrey, of about 14 years, and his sister Marguerida, who was a few years older. On this day they were both engaged in pulling weeds in their father's bean field, which was located some distance from their home.

Dragons have the most amazing eyesight, far more keen even than an eagle's, and huge as he was flying through the clouds, Ignus saw the brother and sister long before they saw him. "Aha," he thought to himself, "Here's a bit of sport indeed, and a decent start to my luncheon as well. I shall devour these tender younglings first, and then have the rest of this nest of humans as my main course."

Ignus could easily have swooped down and blasted the pair before they had any idea he was above, but as I mentioned he was bored, and preferred to play with his food a bit. So he descended with a mighty roar, and blasted the innocent bean field with flame, to get his quarry running.

And run they did, you may be sure. For all their youth, they were not fools. Geoffrey sized up the situation first, and led his sister towards the banks of the nearby river, where he hoped to find a crack or crevice in the rocky banks which might shelter them. It was a slight hope, at best, but a far better chance than the certainty of the dragon's jaws.

Despite himself, Ignus could not help but be impressed with the cleverness and agility of his prey, which dodged and clambered away from him most cunningly. Indeed, several times the dragon prepared a fatal strike, only to have the young humans slip away in some improbable fashion. Ignus was not greatly put out at the inconvenience, for he knew there was no safety for his prey, however long they might wiggle away.

As they approached the river, Geoffrey and Marguerida dodged around the trunk of a gnarled old oak, and there disaster struck, for Marguerida caught her ankle in a twisted root. She fell, her foot wrenched, and still securely caught. Geoffrey tried to help her up, but it was useless. Ignus paused some distance away to catch his breath, watching their distress in polite amusement.

Seeing that there was no way to free his sister, Geoffrey unsheathed his tiny shepherd's knife, and picking up a fist-sized stone in his other hand, stepped between the old dragon and his sister, with a warrior's determination on his young face.

This delighted Ignus no end, and he called out to Geoffrey saying, "What now, Sir Knight, do you hold an enchanted sword virtuous enough to take my head?"

Geoffrey replied, surprising himself with a voice much stronger than he had thought he could muster. "Knight I am none, old lizard, nor do I wield enchantment, but you shall not take my sister unless you first face me. Your head I will take gladly, should chance offer it to me!"

Ignus chuckled at this bold speech. "You must be a most stupid child, to think you can harm me with such trivial trinkets. Run, boy, run! Perhaps you shall find shelter, while I am distracted in devouring the girl."

"I know that I do not possess the skill or gear necessary to harm you, old lizard," Geoffrey replied. "But that signifies nothing when my sister is in danger."

Ignus began to find the conversation tedious, and spoke in some irritation. "Here boy, look, your logic is greatly flawed. I shall have your sister if you run or no. Why give me two, when it could be one?"

"I do not dispute your logic," Geoffrey replied, a feeling of fatal inevitability weighing upon his heart. "Yet there is no logic that would suffice to make me abandon my sister to one such as you."

Old Ignus was a creature of treachery himself, and at this a tiny blossom of doubt bloomed in his cold heart.

"I start to see," he growled. "Since there is no reasonable cause for you to stand where you are undefended, it is reasonable to suppose that you remain because you wish me to approach. Perhaps that tree is where you little humans have set some snare, curse or ambush to take me unawares."

"Again, I do not dispute your logic," replied Geoffrey who, as I have mentioned, was no fool.

"Then again, you may just be trying to bluff me," mused the dragon. "In fact, that is rather likely. Nonetheless, if there is a trap, and it is well set, I may be harmed or even killed. On balance, I do not believe you are worth the risk. No, certainly not!" And with that, to the amazement of both Geoffrey and Marguerida, the creature rose into the air and soared off, in search of some less (as he supposed) chancy meal.

So it was that Geoffrey showed true Valor, which is the pure distillation of the Principle of Courage. By setting his life at no worth, he saved it. Had he valued his survival enough to run, as the Dragon's logic suggested, the creature would surely have devoured first his sister, and them him. He stood his ground according to the need, rather than the consequence, and though he could easily have died, on this occasion his Valor saved him and another.

As for old Ignus, he set the value on his own hide so high that he could not bear even the tiniest risk or doubt, and so he missed an easy meal. But the price of his cowardice was greater than that. For after a few years Geoffrey grew into a most puissant young champion, a knight indeed, and he went forth in full gear (bearing a most potent magical sword), at the height of both skill and strength, and he slew old Ignus. And he hung the dragon's head over his stable door, where the children of his sister often cast rocks at it for sport.

[Borg]

Justice: Jaana and the Goblin

You know that the fellowship of the Druids is dedicated to the Virtue of Justice, and that Druids are from ancient times the custodians of the High Court of the land. It was also the custom, in bygone days, for Druids to wander the land in the King's name, acting as circuit judges and agents of the high court. It was their lot to adjudicate those cases that did not require the attention of the high court. At the time of which I speak, Jaana was such a Druid. She was a strong young woman, with no fear of a life of travel, and so it pleased the elders of her order to give her a large and wild portion of the land. She traveled about between nearly a score of small towns and villages, visiting each two or three times in a year.

Now it happened that one of the larger towns in this region - a walled mountain fortress - was engaged in a fierce and ongoing battle with a tribe of goblins that lived in those parts. The object of this contention was the control and security of a nearby mountain pass, which brought trade to the humans and plunder to the goblins. The chief engine of this conflict's continuance was a goblin chieftain of exceptional wit and ambition, who for years bedeviled all humans who passed through his territory.

One day it came to pass that a patrol of men from the town happened upon a small band of lightly armed Goblins, whom they immediately engaged and quickly vanquished. Much to their surprise and delight, at the end of the battle they discovered that very chief of the goblins who was the source of all their tribulations, still living and helpless in their custody.

They bore their captive back to town amidst great rejoicing, for they knew that without their leader the goblins of the mountains must soon fall, and the pass would once again be safe and in civilized hands. So when the goblin chief was brought to their town, the people immediately commenced a great feast, where much food was consumed, and far more strong mountain liquor than food.

Amidst all the revelry, the chief topic of discussion was how to best dispose of the captive enemy of the people, and as the impromptu festival continued, the plots for the goblin's demise became ever more elaborate and impractical.

It was in such a mood that Jaana the Druid was seen approaching the town. And certain wags took it into their heads that it would be greatly amusing to set their bestial captive to a civilized trial, and execute him formally under the King's justice. And thus before Jaana even reached the gates of the town, it was determined so to do.

When Jaana arrived she was immediately confronted by a grinning and redolent mob, which informed her with slurred mock solemnity that a notorious murderer had been captured, and was to be brought to Justice before her.

Jaana found it a bit annoying that the while the entire town was obviously far-gone in merriment, she was being asked to mete out high justice before she was even offered a cooling mug of small beer. Nonetheless, she singled out a townsman who seemed more in possession of his facilities than his compatriots, and pressed him for a summary of the case.

When she had learned the nature of the case Jaana tried to dissuade the people, saying, "Look you, there is no call here for the King's Justice. This creature was taken in war, and war is governed by Honor and Valor, but Justice has no part in it. Had you killed your enemy in battle, that would have been an Honorable deed. Even now if your city fathers choose to put him to death on their own recognizance, that would be an act of Compassion, for it would secure the safety of travelers, and the children of this town. Do what you wilt, and I will tell you if your course is lawful and Just, but there is no need for any trial of this creature, and I will not demean my station by holding one."

Some were moved by the sense of Jaana's words, but many others, addled by drink, were incensed to be deprived of the sport of a trial. And some young rabble-rousers in the town made it their business to put it about that Jaana was refusing their community their lawful right to protection under the King's Justice. Therefore, only a few minutes after her first statement, Jaana was again confronted by a mob, far larger and angrier than the first, and they demanded that the goblin be tried under the King's Justice. Jaana saw that further argument would be both dangerous and fruitless, and furthermore she knew that while more appropriate solutions could be recommended, the King's Justice, once demanded, could not lawfully be refused to the people. So she drew her hood of judgement over her head, and ordered the goblin brought before her, and when he was there she said, "This creature has been rendered up to the law, and its life now rests in the pleasure of Justice. Therefore let no one raise hand against him until lawful judgement is rendered." And she had the goblin moved to a strong room, and set the most sober and severe guards she could find at the door, and the trial was set for the following morning.

The next day the creature was brought before Jaana, and she called the King's Court of Justice to order. For many hours she sat and listened silently to evidence, as the people of the town recounted the many townspeople slain and plundered at the claws of the goblin and his tribe, and it was a terrible catalog indeed. When the goblin was asked if it wished to testify in its own defense, it only spat in fury, and none of the townspeople chose to speak up for it.

At last Jaana raised her hand in token of binding judgement, and pronounced, "This creature has broken no laws. It pursued a course of warfare against your town after its nature and the custom of its folk. This is not an act that can be condemned under Justice. It must be freed."

The people were amazed, and also greatly angered at these words, and began to shout out condemnation of Jaana's ruling, and to call for the summary execution of the goblin despite the judgement. But Jaana stood up and threw back her hood, and such was the gravity of her wrath that the crowd fell silent before it. "There will be no lynchings here!" the Druid proclaimed. "I gave you a choice yesterday to put this creature to death lawfully, but you would have your show-trial, and so you submitted it to Justice. Now it belongs to Justice indeed, and if it is in any wise harmed in contravention of my word, the full weight of the law shall fall upon this place. Worse, the blessings of Virtue shall be forfeited."

Now at this some began to call for Jaana's neck as well, but other of the townsfolk had sobered up over the night, and they began to see the shape of their impiety. So at length obedience to law and Virtue won out over passion, and it was agreed that they must abide by Jaana's judgement. But there was great discontent, for it was obvious to the people that the release of the goblin king would only occasion the renewal of the old war, at further cost of lives and property.

So Jaana had the goblin taken in chains to the mouth of the pass, and she had the key to the chains delivered into her own hand. Then she ordered all the people to withdraw to a distance of five bowshots from where she and the captive stood, that none might contrive an assassination when the creature was released. And when the folk withdrew, Jaana unlocked the goblin's chains, and gave it a good dagger (for it would not be lawful to release any creature into the wilderness unarmed), and indicated by signs that it was free to go.

The goblin began to lope away, and below the people cried out in grief. But after a few steps it stopped, and looked back at Jaana with an expression of malice on its face. And seeing only a lone, lightly armed young woman, the goblin was overcome by its hatred for humanity, and it attacked Jaana viciously. The Druid drew her own blade, and there she killed the goblin in single combat, in lawful self-defense, though she took a formidable wound in the process.

And when she came down from the high pass, she did not speak to any of the amazed townspeople, and she did not even return to town to tend her wound, but instead strode down the king's highway, past the town, without a word. And when next a Druid came to that town to offer judgement, it was not Jaana

[Borg]

Sacrifice: Julia and the Clock

In olden days Minoc was well known as the center of all the finest artisans and craftsmen of the land, and among that honored company two were most famous. Jervaise, the carver, was everywhere acclaimed one of the greatest artists Britannia had ever produced, being able to create items from rock or wood that were not only durable and practical, but also astounding works of fine art. A table or lamp from the hand of Jervaise was valued above many a marble statue or painted portrait in the great houses of the land. The other, younger, dean of Minoc's crafters was Julia, the Tinker. While Jervaise was, above all, an artist, Julia was an artisan. It was said her timepieces would remain accurate to the very second for a hundred years, if kept wound and properly tended. She also invented many cunning devices of the sort to make difficult tasks both simpler and more precise.

When one of the great nobles of the land wished something that was both beautiful and intricate, he would often commission both Julia and Jervaise to work together on it, and these collaborations became almost instantly the stuff of legends.

As for Jervaise and Julia themselves, they were content in their work, and they charged their patrons a rate worthy of their skills, so that they became two of the most prosperous citizens of Minoc, in addition to being two of the most celebrated.

So it came to pass that one day a messenger came from a rich noble of the city of Moonglow, a place where cunning objects of extravagant beauty were greatly prized. This noble desired (the messenger said) a great clock to be made, of unsurpassed beauty and complexity. It was to be constructed out of the finest wood and marbles, and to be capable of showing not only the time, but also the phases of the moons and the progress of the Zodiac, the season and the year, and to predict the weather for the day. All this was to be told through the actions of a troupe of various cunning and amusing automata, and accompanied by lovely music. The terms for this commission were to be a rich sum immediately, for material and expenses, generous annual payments for the duration of the task, and the proverbial small fortune upon completion.

Julia and Jervaise took council together, and returned a reply that the thing could be completed in six years of work. The messenger received this news and delivered the first payment, without further haggling.

The two, having no other major commissions just then, immediately threw themselves into the work, drawing up the intricate plans and sketches, and sending them to their patron in Moonglow, where they were rapturously received. At that, Jervaise ordered the rich materials for the case and fittings of the clock, while Julia began work on the core of the mechanism.

Two years later the clock was taking shape nicely, and Julia privately thought that they might even deliver it early to their patron. Then one day the messenger from Moonglow returned, bearing a single curt letter. It said that their patron had died of a fever, and his estate had gone to his sister. Which lady, not sharing her brother's taste for finery, had no desire to continue to pay to see the clock finished. There would be no further payment, the letter said, but the artisans could keep the rich materials for the unfinished clock as compensation for the breaking of the contract.

At this news Julia swore in a most unladylike fashion, and for a very long time, but in the end she had to admit that they'd had a good two years' income off the thing, though what a pity it would never be finished. Then she went off to draft new replies to other potential commissions that she had been planning to refer to others. As for Jervaise, he just sighed, and sat looking at the unfinished clock until far into the night.

A few days later Jervaise asked Julia if she minded if he looked for a new buyer for the clock, rather than selling it for the raw materials. She agreed, by this time rather wishing never to see the thing again.

For the next year and more she heard little from Jervaise. He politely refused all joint commissions, saying he was otherwise occupied. When Julia inquired if he had any new buyers for the clock, he only shook his head, with a sad smile.

Then, one day Julia was out near the mines on the outskirts of town on an errand, and there she saw Jervaise, pulling a handcart of ore in the hot summer sun. Now the mines of Minoc were always hiring laborers, but this was the lowest and least paid of all tasks in that city. Jervaise was stripped to the waist against the heat, and Julia could see that his weathered old skin was stretched painfully tight against his prominent ribs. As she watched in horror, scarcely believing her eyes, she saw the cart slip from her friend's frail grasp, as he crumpled to the ground in a faint of hunger and exhaustion. The foreman began to bellow and shake the fallen craftsman, calling him lazy and worthless, but Julia rounded on the lout with curses and wrath, and he fell back. In the end she paid a pair of mine workers to pick up Jervaise and bear him back to town, where she brought him to her house.

For several days he lay there raving, while Julia fed him broth and watered wine, but at last he regained consciousness. He then confessed that after the loss of the commission, he could not bring himself to stop work on the clock, which he regarded as his masterpiece. There were no new buyers, for nobody wished to spend so much on such an extravagant thing. Yet Jervaise had refused all other commissions, only taking occasional odd jobs when he needed money to buy food. But this last time he could not bring himself to quit the clock until he was so weak with deprivation that he could not complete the work he needed.

Julia was astonished at this, and she spent long hours trying to reason or bully the old man into abandoning the clock and resuming his former practice. Jervaise listened in patience, but at last he only shook his head and said, "Don't you see, girl … money is nothing, but the clock is all."

So at last Julia gave up in disgust, but thereafter she saw that meals from her own table were taken to Jervaise every day. Thus freed from the threat of starvation, Jervaise began a sort of impoverished but busy retirement, he who was once one step away from being the richest man in Minoc. Every day he worked on his clock, but the work went slowly, for he had no money for assistants to hasten the task.

About two years later, Jervaise did not answer when Julia's servant knocked with his supper, and when the maid entered the workshop she found Jervaise lying dead at the foot of the clock, his smallest hammer and chisel in his hand, and a small, strange smile on his face.

They found a will, which left everything to Julia, but by that time "everything" consisted of Jervaise's ancient workshop, his tools, and his still-unfinished clock.

On the day they buried him, Julia went to the workshop alone. There she ran her hands over the intricate carving of the case, spotting with her practiced eye the few areas still awaiting attention. She fondled the tiny and colorful figures Jervaise had created, and thought for the first time in years about the subtle machinery with which she had once planned to give them life.

As she left the workshop, she was accosted by a messanger from Britain, who told her that Lord British himself requested that she create for him a new kind of telescope. "Tell his majesty thank you," she replied, "but I have a previous commission that I must complete first. If Lord British should wish to renew his offer in, say, three years' time, I would be most interested."

For the next three years Julia was little seen in Minoc. She did not receive visitors, and she dismissed all her servants and apprentices except for an old neighbor woman who swept her house and cooked her evening meal. Her own workshop stood empty, for she was working in the one which had formerly belonged to Jervaise.

And then, after three years, she put a heavy lock onto door to Jervaise's workshop, and rehired her staff, and let it be known that she was once again receiving commissions. She was soon busier than ever, for her reputation had not been dimmed by her sabbatical, and she even built the king's telescope, which job had been kept open awaiting her convenience. And in later years she would sometimes go all alone into Jervaise's workshop, and stay there for several hours, and passersby could hear faint and sweet music coming out of the old building. But those few who actually saw the inside said it was totally bare, save for a tall box or cabinet in one corner, covered with a heavy cloth

[Borg]

Honor: Dupré and the Gargoyles

I'm sure you know that the Gargoyle folk joined Britannian society after the restoration of the Codex of Ultimate Wisdom. I'm also sure it will not surprise you to hear that the treaty between Lord British and Draxinusom, King of the Gargoyles, did not instantly bring accord to the two races. Certain ignorant humans continued to hate and fear Gargoyles, and certain intractable Gargoyles continued to regard humanity with enraged contempt. The most notorious Gargoyle fighter against mankind in those days was named Gratagmalem. He was equally renowned among his people for his keen intellect as for his fierce disposition, and when peace was achieved between the races, he turned outlaw with a small band of likeminded Gargoyle bravos. This fierce troop devoted themselves to burning and pillaging the remote crofts and farms of the land, stopping short only at outright murder of unresisting enemies. Nonetheless, they were the cause of much suffering, loss and deprivation to their victims.

Now there was a certain inn, located midway between Britain and Yew, and famous for its excellent autumn ale. So good was the brew that many fine folk were given to retire to that place for a fortnight's holiday when the new casks were breached. Tents had to be pitched on the grounds to hold all the guests, and for two weeks each fall the place took on the air of a faire or festival.

It was during this time that Gratagmalem choose to attack that inn, and he and his band flew down during the late afternoon, surrounding the place and quickly dispatching the few hired guards. And they mockingly ordered all the humans to leave forthwith, or see the whole place burned around their heads.

At this, one lone festival-goer stepped out from the crowd, wearing the clothes of a gentleman, but gripping the sword of a knight. And he spoke, saying, "I am Dupré, Knight and Paladin, and I call on you to cease this unlawful incursion, and to surrender in the name of Lord British."

But Gratagmalem only laughed, saying, "Of all the names of man or Gargoyle to conjure with, that one is the least likely to inspire fear in my heart. I reject your demand for surrender."

(Now I confess that those were not the very words he used, but Gargoyles speak in their own peculiar fashion, and I will not try to mimic the intricacies of that speech in this tale.)

Dupré retorted, "Then let us settle this honorably. I shall face you or any of your troops in single combat, with the winner to determine the fate of this Inn."

The Gargoyle laughed again at the human's audacity, but when he spoke, he said, "Very good, then, man, your proposal intrigues me. You shall face three of my brothers, and if you defeat all three I shall leave this place standing, asking only a suitable forfeit in return for my generosity."

Then Gratagmalem named his three champions. The first was a great brute almost 10 feet tall, wielding a mace of solid iron, and the second was a young champion of the Gargoyles, wielding a sword nearly as long as Dupré was tall. The third was Gratagmalem's chief lieutenant, who fought with two great-bladed battle axes, one in each hand.

But Dupré was a veteran of many battles against dragons, daemons and giants … aye, and Gargoyles as well, and he did not fear the size or fierceness of these foes. One by one they engaged, and the first two he cast down with severe wounds, while the third he killed outright.

This loss only seemed to amuse Gratagmalem more, and when the last Gargoyle was dragged from the field, he announced, "I shall honor my word, oh man, but first I must see my forfeit paid. And my price is you, Sir Knight."

"I will gladly give my life for the safety of these people," Dupré replied, "though you may find the collecting of it more costly still."

"Nay," said the Gargoyle, "I have no use for your head, but rather your arm. Today you have cost me a lieutenant, and I demand that you shall take his place. You shall join my company, and teach us your ways of battle."

"I will never take up arms against my king or his people," Dupré replied, hotly.

"I would not ask it," the Gargoyle said with mocking gentleness. "You will come and train my company, and when I order them back into battle you may be excused, if only you give the word to do nothing to resist or hinder our efforts."

Now Dupré knew that Gratagmalem offered him a Daemon's bargain, one which could easily lead to the utter destruction of a man of Honor like himself. At the same time, he could not stand idly by and see the honest innkeeper ruined, nor could he oppose the whole Gargoyle company alone. Most importantly, perhaps, it would not be fully Honorable to refuse the forfeit after fighting under those terms. He could only hope that time would provide a means of escape. "I will accept your terms, sir," he said, and there he knelt and presented his sword to the mocking brigand.

So he went to live with the Gargoyles, and he drilled and trained them. He found that while Gargoyles were both mighty and courageous, they had little mastery of concerted tactics or strategy, but they quickly grasped the fundamentals of both. He also soon learned that it was futile to try to hold back knowledge from his command, for under the watchful eye of their leader, any useful hidden expertise was soon sniffed out and analyzed, and presented to all.

Nor could Dupré Honorably refuse when Gratagmalem proposed that they try out their new skills against brigands, pirates or Goblin bands, for Dupré had only sworn to stand apart from actions against the subjects of Lord British. So he fought alongside the Gargoyles, and saw his teachings tested by fire.

But at last the dread day came, and Gratagmalem announced that they would attack a walled town, with the garrison of King's soldiers stationed in it. This was a stronger objective than the Gargoyles had ever assayed before, but Dupré knew that they were well capable of victory, thanks to his teaching.

On the day of the battle, Dupré went up to a hill overlooking the doomed town, for he would not turn away from the evil that his hand had caused. But while he waited there, he was surprised when a contingent of the Gargoyle band approached him, and asked an unexpected question.

"Lieutenant," their spokesman said, "we know that you base all your decisions on Honor, which is a strange concept to us, but nonetheless we wish to know if this is an Honorable fight today."

Now Dupré well knew the cool power of the Gargoyle intellect, and that any attempt to dissemble or dissuade would be immediately perceived, and would discredit him forever among the Gargoyles. He was also minded of his oath to Gratagmalem, to do nothing to overtly subvert his plans, so he kept his answer as straight and honest as he could.

"You have been told by your Captain that Lord British is a tyrant. Well then, it is no dishonor to take up arms against tyranny, if that is truly what you believe. However, your people do not extract oaths of fealty as mine do, and I have often heard your Captain say that you follow him at the call of your reason and of your own sense of what is right, which is the Gargoyle way. Now your hearts and minds have moved you to ask whether the fight today is Honorable. Perhaps the question itself is its own answer."

Then the Gargoyles went apart again, to dispute the question among themselves, and the end result was that fully a third of the band declined to follow Gratagmalem into combat against the town. And one young Gargoyle of impetuous nature (that same young champion whom Dupré had cast down at the inn) took it upon himself to fly down and warn the garrison of the pending attack.

Nonetheless, Gratagmalem, in a cold rage, refused to call off the battle. But against warned and ready defenders the diminished Gargoyle force could not prevail, and Gratagmalem himself was slain.

But the Gargoyles who had refused the battle (and aye, some of the survivors) returned to Dupré, and begged that he continue to lead them as he had in the past, against brigands and pirates and monsters, so that humans could see that Gargoyles were capable of service to all. And Dupré agreed, and he named the band the Locusts of Britannia, and they won great renown and did much good for many years.

[Borg]

Spirituality: Shamino and the Spirits

The dead of Britannia have always been a restless lot. Why this should be I do not know, but I have sometimes thought that the vitality of the land itself is so great, it bestirs the memory of itself even in lifeless flesh.

Be that as it may, my final tale concerns itself with a certain town, where the inhabitants of the graveyard had forgotten their proper decorum. Nor was this a mere aimless revenant or two, but a veritable plague of lifeless stalkers. Most every night was disturbed by a squad or company of the dead making riot, for the creatures did not wander aimlessly, but set themselves about the business of terror and destruction with a methodical efficiency that demanded a malign will behind their excursions.

It was obvious to the villagers that this was not a problem to be dealt with by a few torches and pitchforks, or a cantrip or two. So they sent to Britain to pray the King for aid.

Their call was answered most expeditiously, for Lord British bade none other than Shamino the Ranger, first hero of Britannia and best and oldest friend to His Majesty, to deal with the situation.

Shamino soon arrived, and set immediately about his work with sword, bow and shield. The ranks of the shambling revenants he quickly reduced to a few small piles of putrescent but inanimate flesh. With his way thus cleared, he was able to enter the graveyard itself, where he discovered a newly opened tunnel, which lead to an ancient catacomb far below.

In that dank and haunted place, Shamino found the source of the trouble, a lich, an ancient and potent spirit from the First Age of Darkness. For centuries the evil thing had lain dormant in its stygian tomb, but of late it had bestirred itself, and in its ancient malice had begun the current harassment of the living above.

So Shamino found the thing, and there he slew it, in a night-long battle of blade and spell. And if you think I pass over such an epic battle with undue haste, know that it is merely the prelude to my tale proper.

With the evil wight dead, Shamino elected to remain in the town for a while, to recover from his battle, and to insure that the restless evil was indeed put down.

It was well he did, for scarce two nights after the lich's most recent and final death, a lad of the village was brought before Shamino in a pitiable state of terror and nervous exhaustion.

When the lad had calmed enough to speak at last, he told how he had gone to pass an hour in the graveyard on a dare, thinking the evil all departed. But he had scarce arrived when he was set upon, not by crawling corpses, but by a howling cloud of spirits. He could not understand their gibberings, but so great was the force of the despair and desperation in their voices that he vouchsafed he would have far preferred to face an honest undead body.

Shamino was not overly surprised to discover that the lich's malice had stirred up forces that its destruction had failed to quell, so he spent the day in preparation, and that night took himself again to the graveyard, an hour or so before midnight.

He was through the gate scarcely a minute when he was set upon by the cloud of ghosts, and the sorrow of their incoherent wails and moans tore at his very soul. He sensed no evil in the things, but only a terrible, lonely despair that raked his soul and mind.

But Shamino was made of sterner stuff than the village lad, and he shut the howls out of his mind (for the things had no power to touch him physically), and made certain preparations. At last through arts that he knew, the spirits were quieted (albeit temporarily), and held in that place before Shamino.

Then Shamino indicated the first of the spirits, and bade it, "You there, speak now, and tell me plainly why you haunt the night."

"In my life," the spirit sighed, "I was rich, and gloried in my riches, but did nothing to use them to help those around me, and now I see my life meant nothing."

"Your pride was great," said Shamino, "but where is it now? Look about you, you rest in a grave no finer than many of the poor folk you ignored. Rest now, and take comfort in the Humility of death."

And the spirit heard Shamino's words and, acknowledging them, vanished away.

(Now it may seem odd that a restless spirit would be banished at a mere word, but Shamino the Ranger was no common man, and when he spoke on matters of Spirituality, he spoke with Authority, so that creatures of the supernatural planes might be compelled by his very words.)

Then the next spirit spoke, and it said, "In my life I put on airs, telling folk that I was a hero, or a noble, or possessed skills that were not mine, hoping thereby to find friendship and fortune. And I see now that everything I gained falsely was itself false."

"And yet," replied Shamino, "you still take on the seeming of that which you are not, for you pass among the living and trouble their lives. Put dishonesty behind you and be what you are. Rest now in the Honesty of death."

"In my life," said the third spirit in its turn, "I thought that I was a wolf among men, and the weak were my prey. I took the little that they had, and thereby accrued much for myself. But now I mourn, for I was most bitterly hated."

"Why then do you still trouble the living?" asked Shamino. You regret your lack of Compassion in life, but I tell you to rest, and thereby learn Compassion from death, which ends all pain and sorrow, even thine."

"In my life," the fourth spirit began, "I ran from danger, while those I cared for stood and fell. Now I see how much finer it would have been to have died in the glory and comfort of their companionship, than to have gone on to the guilty and futile life which I led."

"And you are still running," said Shamino, not without kindness. "Let rest your fear, and Valiantly embrace the mystery of death. Your friends and loved ones await you."

The fifth spirit took up the litany, saying, "In my life, I stood up in defense of the guilty, to gain by their friendship, and spoke out against the innocent when so bidden by my masters. Can there be any payment now for the wrong I did?"

"You seek restitution for your deeds, but you flee the judge which all men must face. If you hunger for Justice, you will find the Justice of death, which is the proper sentence of all in the end."

"I was a miser in life," said the sixth, "And I sat alone with my wealth all my days. I did nothing of importance to anyone, not even providing honest work to those whom I might have hired, for I valued my gold above their service. Where is my gold now?"

"Gold indeed is forever beyond your reach, but there remains one Sacrifice within your power to make, and that is to Sacrifice this sad unlife to death, which patiently awaits your gift."

Now only two spirits remained, swirling sadly in the moonlight, and at last one was moved to speak.

"In my life, I served a man who loved me, and valued my service and friendship above all else. I betrayed him, seeking greater wealth and power. Now I see that I gained nothing and lost all, for those I came to serve saw me as only the worm which I was."

"The evil you did was very great," Shamino said gravely, "And I cannot offer you absolution. But see now that one final obligation awaits you, which you have yet to fulfill. Will you not Honorably go through the final veil of death?

Then only final ghost drifted on the breeze, and seemed little inclined to speech, until at last Shamino broke the silence.

"Speak, o spirit, and tell me of the sin which torments you in your unnatural waking."

"I have not sinned," the ghost replied, "for I honor the Virtues to the best of my ability."

"Be that as it may, why then do you thus linger after your death?" Shamino inquired.

"I am no dead ghost," the thing replied, "but have been cast out of my own body by the evil thing that formerly haunted this place. Pray reunite me with my body, that I may resume my rightful span of corporeal years."

Now such things are not unknown, but to the keen sight of Shamino, the difference between a living spirit and an unliving shade is as clear as the difference between a strong young oak and an ancient rotting stump.

"You are mistaken, friend," Shamino said with all gentleness. "You are truly dead, my word and oath on that. You must now go to your final rest, and cease to trouble the living."

"You lie," howled the spirit, "For I move and see and speak. How then can I be dead? I live! I live!" Then it tried to break free of Shamino's binding and assail him, but the wards were well-wrought, and the dismissal of the other spirits had far weakened the ghost's unnatural energies.

Then Shamino knew what kept the spirit bound to earth, for it is the nature of the Spiritual to see the reality of things that are hidden from the less gifted. This creature was most damnably cursed, for its curse was of its own making. Where the other ghosts had been tormented by the knowledge of their sin, this one tortured itself by withholding knowledge. The ghost lied to itself, cowardly running from death, hating itself and its true nature. In this, it rejected all three of the great Principles, which together compose the ultimate Virtue of Spirituality.

Shamino stood for awhile, regarding the pathetic thing, and at last he spoke. "I can do nothing for you. Go about your existence, if such it can be called." And he dispelled his wards and left that place forever.

As for the ghost, it haunted the graveyard thereafter. It no longer had the power to terrorize the living, but only lurked about, moaning and sighing to itself in the darkness of the night, and of its own delusion.

[Borg]

Epilogue

"And so," the stranger said, "my tales have numbered the Virtues. I do not know if you are convinced by them, for that choice lies with your hearts and minds, but perhaps now you better understand my opinion."

The young soldier was the first to speak. "Your tales are cunningly wrought, sir, and pleasant enough to hear. But tell me, how do they pertain to real life? Any clever bard can fabricate a pleasant tale to illustrate nearly anything, even if it's to show that dark is light, or fire is cool."

"I see that you mistake the nature of my tales," the stranger answered. "I assure you, they are not mere fancies. Each one is a true record of an actual event, and each was related to me by the very person to whom it occurred. Further, the honesty of those involved is absolutely beyond reproach."

At this the merchant laughed heartily. "Ah friend, you must think us simple folk indeed, to believe that such noble and honored ones would take the time you tell you their tales. Or perhaps you pose us a riddle? Well then, I will answer it. Those whom you choose to illustrate the Virtues are a most select brotherhood, and I have not so far forgot my lessons as to fail to know their names. Well you may say that their honor is beyond question! All those you name are renowned from old as heroes and exemplars, and some are dead long years past, but when they all lived they were the honored champions of Lord British, and together were the companions …"

Then the merchant fell silent for a time, as though he suddenly feared to say what a moment before had seemed merely amusing. And he looked into the cool gray eyes of the stranger across the fire, and when he spoke again it was in quite a different voice.

"The companions of the … Avatar?"

But the stranger only smiled, ignoring the question in the tone, and said, "Hark, the rain has stopped at last, and with a few good hours of travel time left in the day." Then he rose and hoisted his pack up on his shoulders, and set out briskly through the shelter's broad entrance, and the others watched in silence as he quickly vanished into the gathering mists of early evening.

The End.

As you can see...many of the named statues have thier model character within the stories above....I hope you enjoyed the storylines and now can see or at least now can find the answers to many upcoming challenges.  

Colin Mor

All Virtue stories were written by Chris McCubbin

An Incan Monkey God Studios production

[Kaatya]

Guardians, there are many treasures

to be found in the guild archives.

I enjoyed this one especially, and

encourage each of you to seek out

these dusty tomes.

For HONOR and Empire!

Kaatya