The Wanderer's Tale: Rusted Memory
- Lectures 90
- Votes 2
- Chapitres 6
Herein lie the journal pages of a bard cursed for his crimes against an angry god when the world was still new. He's wandered these lands lifetime after lifetime, singing for his bed and supper, winning companionship with his songs and sharing tales with all who will listen of the things he's witnessed on his endless travels.
He is called Wanderer by the gods, for it is his punishment to walk until the end of days, never knowing the bond of friendship, the strength of family or the comfort of coming home.
The people of Vennakrand know him as Morovio, and these are his tales.
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I have read a tale not of my own land, but from far to the south, across seas and swamps where no pale-skin man has set his claim. It is the story of one the Lizardkin name Wanderer-a chieftain's heir who left his home to seek knowledge among strangers, and who returned years later to find his people divided, beset by famine, pride, and shadow. The verses speak of fire-fire in the forge, fire in the heart, fire in the bonds of kin. The Wanderer brought with him new craft, a spark of steel, and with it the promise that the clans might rise from division into strength. Yet the tale is no simple triumph. It is sung in grief and blood as much as in hope, for every gift carries its price, and unity is hard-won among those who have been broken. The old words mark his path through exile, return, trial, and bond. They tell of allies gained, rivals challenged, omens seen, and choices made that would shape not only his clan, but all Lizardkin. At its heart, it is not merely a tale of war or of kingship, but of whether fire-whether hope-can endure against the deepening shadow that waits beyond the mists. I cannot say where this story ends, nor what became of the Wanderer or the clans he sought to bind together. But I know this: the fire he bore was real, and its embers yet glow in the hands of those who carry his memory northward. And so I write it here, not as prophecy, nor as warning, but as testimony: a recovered legend from beyond our sight, set down that we might not forget that fire burns even where we do not walk. -Brother Guy of Walnut Hill Abbey, reluctant scribe of Sir Gideon Beckett
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