The Secret of Lost Twil

A Breton Folk Tale

Hwaet! A poet speaks in great king's hall. He stands and takes his place, the harp is in his hands. His voice is raised to rafters high and speaks of vanished lands.

The elves have Aldmeris fair, the Nords Atmora bleak. The Redguards know of Yokuda's fall but what does the Breton seek? The Cyrods say that Hrol was one of them, but I say, friends, he was manmer same as me! From Twil they came, those gallant fifteen and one to jungles that the Slave Queen knew. Plant his seed in Sancre Tor King Hrol did but from whence had that seed come?

Colovia, my friends, nor the Strident lands is where lost Twil is found. Not Topal Bat nor Nibenay is his native ground. From High Rock, the whale's way take upon the frothing seas, to northwest fair Twil lies waiting to be found.

That's right, my friends, you Bretons are all Hrol king's get!

Gather near my fire fair folk, buy your bard a round. Hear me tell of secret Twil, certain to astound! You may well ask how I well know of what transpires in far off Twil with high and gleaming spires. I say to you who questions so, why doubt a poet's whim? If I say the seas are red or that the sky is green, hold fast your tongue, your doubting mind, lest wonders go unseen.

Take your boat where the Hrolmen are and this is what you'll see: They say that Twil is twice as wide as Balfiera. They say its shores are chalk and white and with music ring. I say it's true and look below! The selkies play their pipes and dance to lure in men of war. Their music fair and lovely be, the pearls hang in their hair. But careful now, my rakish friends, these she-seals do delight in rending flesh from bone. Don't dance with them at night!

Weresharks too, these waters hold and dreughs and dripping sloads. See, there crests a water drake, mane made out of foam

To find a port you circle round until the city of Kamaaloth you see. 'Neath orchard boughs and marble gates your ship will lie. They say the streets are amber paved and the streams all flow with milk. The folk are rich and healthy too, why then do they weep? Their king is Hrol, who did not die but fell into a magic sleep at Sancre Tor, his squire-son back to Twil took him to keep.

There he lies in Kamaaloth, Prince Gwalchmai rules in his stead and what a prince is he! Though wracked by sorrow at his father's sleep, Gwalchmai rules with piety his realm of Avaloch. He holds true the most ancient gods that were old when Alessia was young. No gods brought by foreign sword-arms have ever know this land.

Hail Notorgo, swiftest of messengers, the first road-brick belongs to you!

Hail Raen, cattle god and wheat god!

Hail Vigryl, Storm Father and Thunderer!

Hail Shandar, Crescent Slayer and defender of the weak!

Hail Jhimsei, Last Laugh and Harp-Stringer!

Hail Druagaa with a Thousand Flowers in her hair!

Hail Q'Olwen, Secret One, Patient One!

Hail Sai, Gambler's Friend and Gambler's Bane!

Hail Ebonarm, patron of all warriors and glory giver to the just!

Hail Ius, Akavir-Dweller and wombat-faced!

Twil has not forgotten you, ancient gods of Bretonland.

But singer, you ask, how does Gwalchmai rule to this day? King Hrol sailed to Cyrod dark long ago far away.

Listen now, my friend. Forests surround Kamaaloth, Y'ffre blessed and druid-kept. The standing stones are carven deep with magic words, the blessed light of Magnus dwelling. Nymphs and spriggans and centaurs dance amidst the priests of ancient gods. The streams they flow with water sweet from mountains giant-warded. In this wald, the druid chief Merzhin lives, co-ruler of sleeping Hrol, the once-and-future king.

Many spells he weaves to keep Twil secret from those who seek with wicked heart. When Nords come sailing with murder in their wake, the waters turn them around to other lands. When Imperials seek to plunder Twil, Merzhin sends them off.

Merzhin calls the dragon Tiidnehviir from Aitho Hall, who eats the time of Hrolmen all. That, my friend, is why the Bretons of Twil do not die. When King Hrol wakes, the red drake is his own to ride.

Is there peace on Twil, my friends? Alas, to tell the truth I say there is no peace-binding of swords. Though Avaloch is righteous fair, a wicked blackguard has no trust in Gwalchmai's words. Modrot he, the rebel black, half-kin to regent-prince. His mother, witch-wife first of Hrol's before Sancre Tor was his. When in Cyrod green King Hrol sailed, it broke his mother's heart, and ever since Modrot plans to take Kamaaloth's rampart.

Every dusk an eternal war is waged. At Cambolanda, with wild men and giants, Modrot leads the charge. Gwalchmai comes with noble knights, his half-brother he wants caged. The battle lasts until the dawn, the dead rising with the sun to fight again at dusk. Only when Hrol wakes will the battles end, for Merzhin knows that nine blows with Caledfwlch Hrol will spend upon Modrot cruel.

When Modrot and his mother are slain, Gwalchmai will play upon the horn a refrain. Across the sea, through Iliac it rings. Hrol will mount Tiidnehviir and with his knights will sail south to Bretonland. Of High Rock, he will be king.

These will be the days of King Hrol, and this is how they will happen.

All in the Iliac will hear the horn of the king. Behold, behold! King Hrol is come, draw tight your bowstring! The kings will give their crowns to him and anoint him in garlands rare. Gwalchmai, he drives the pig children from Wrothgar lair, the Redguards and the mer.

The churches Hrol will lay low, the alien gods rebuked. The ghost of Reman will wake in Sacre Tor, on his brow the Amulet of Kings. He calls Hrol his father, Druagaa his mother, Reman greets his parents stooped. Claims the throne the hillock-born of Cyrodiil, while Hrol takes the ancient lands. Peace will reign forever more between kindred hands.

The Days of King Hrol will last a thousand years, till Tiidnehviir all of time does swallow in his maw. When new world springs from formless void, the gods crown Hrol in awe.

Of what I've said, the Cyrods will claim them lies. Our gods they've taken from our lands, their priests they call it wise. Our way of life forever changed, the legions watch the hills. Listen, Breton sons, for Gwalchmai calls, the knights our slave-faith kills!