'Llaewyn the Fair she was in her youth, in all truth a lover of mine. Though that boast is not mine alone, she was the beloved of many. And joyous, most joyous in form and deed. Till the time of her father's death. She alone sat by the auld king's bed and soothed his fevered brow though ever cruel in life was he. Cruel to all but Llaewyn to whom he gave every comfort and protection his world had to offer. The Fair One walked into the chamber of his last breath and the Black Queen walked out.' -Spectre of the Courtier

'We knew she'd cast the spell. We labored. In vain We labored to disrupt it. In utmost agonies We saw the signs. Earth black as pitch, snow falleth in mid summer's day, restless dead arising to the call of their master, though that master was no more. Oh We knew. Our lying tongues plied the others with pretty tales of everlasting peace and prosperity, told the sightless ones she was gone in body and spirit. Destroyed. We told none of our failure and thus prepared none for the return. We, the Accursed, knew she'd cast the spell....' -Hawk-nosed ghostly woman in deep cowled blue robe dusted with stars.

Along an old road, paved with stones pulled from many fields as they were ploughed, a road roughly but devotedly tended by local farmers there happened an event. An event of such magnificent impact to whole kingdoms both human and non, that it was really quite striking how insignificant it seemed at the time. In the year of the great harvest moon was born a babe with a mark in the shape of a raven. A birth that was prophesied so many thousands of years before that only one sage possesed the slim black book written in the time of the Black Sorceror-Queen Llaewyn which foretold the coming of the Reborn Soul. It was written in the years close following her death and with it the death of the last of the Mage-Kings of Halthor. Little written survived the purge of knowledge, burned in fire and hate were all the records and words that came of a legacy of blood, gluttony, and insanity that was, in the end, the only lasting memory of the mage kings. The slim book, written by an illiterate peasant woman, in small scratches and blurred with age, describes the babe in briefest of words.

'the dark soul born by the Fair shall be rewhelped in fields of yellow under the crescent sun stars to the east and south in the year of the Great Moon's harvest. ye shall know it by the dark bird that flies upon the skin of it's left...' the rest is blurred and unreadable

So it was when the event that shook the skies and ripped open the earth to spew out it's dead was began, none took notice. Save one.

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