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[h3][color=aba000][i]Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern.[/i][/color][/h3]

[h1][b][color=aba000]ACT I :  RISING[/color][/b][/h1][/center]

The pure mist of morning, glowing with the twilight of dawn, filled the silent grove. Soundless and motionless, the forest awaited the return of the hallowed sun to light its leaves and branches, and cast the dapple of playful shadows on the soft, leaf-strewn earth. The stillness was broken by a solitary figure, drifting through the muted woods like a forgotten dream. Garbed in the dark tones before the sunrise, the man wandered seemingly without aim, twisting and turning through the trees and brush. To the man, however, his path was as clear as any road that others may tread; a network of branches, roots, animal trails and spiderwebs. He alone saw the maze that marked his path, and solemnly walked this unseen lattice.

The invisible hand of fate guided his journey, and in doing so led him to the edge of the twilight-cloaked forest. The old sage lifted his hood, looking out over the landscape before him. Dew dripped from the simple crown framing his weathered face, and his eyes burned like stars in a cloudless sky. He beheld a modest farming village just beyond the clearing, its dutiful residents already hard at work in their fields and orchards. Settlements such as these had suffered the most since the Years of Dusk, utterly exposed to the dangers that roamed this new and strange world. This particular hamlet was far from the exception, as the winds of fate divined that even now it faced certain destruction. Arkos, known in whispers and rumors as the Sage of Waterfalls, saw in the river of time a horde of savage mutants stampeding from the south and laying waste to the village and its people. Squinting, he could even make out the inhuman forms of the beastmen in the distance, encroaching on the oblivious farmers. The old man hardened his heart; tragedy was a fate more common that most wished to realize.

Arkos continued along his path, taking an eastward route around the village, well out of the path of the nearing mutants. However, as the hour of the village's destruction drew near, Arkos suddenly found himself blinded by the fires of a destiny reforged. He fell to his knees, clutching his face in shock as the pain gradually subsided. As he reopened his eyes, he found himself looking into the blazing sunrise, the golden herald of fate's capricious ways. Armor cloaked in brilliant sunlight, a small company of mounted knights rode with great haste, swords drawn and banners unfurled. In the fields just short of the village the soldiers met the inhuman monsters, riding through the horde like a steel wind.

Mutants fell with every swordstroke, dying with horrific, gurgling screams. Even so, their monstrous strength overcame several knights, tearing them limb from limb or hurling bodies and horses across the field. Despite the terrible might of their foes, the knights pressed on, their courage never faltering. The battle was short and bloody, but the mutants were quickly routed. Arkos found that he had been wandering toward the battle without realizing it, and came to his sense as his sandal met the cold metal of a fallen knight. The mutants were far off now, their fleeing forms being ridden down by a contingent of the remaining knights. One of the warriors, adorned with more heraldry and plumage than most of his peers, took notice of Arkos and rode to meet him.

As he approached, Arkos was able to examine the knight more closely. His armor of shining steel, sullied by the foul ichor of the mutants, carried old dents, perforations and bloodstains. His warhorse was strong and hardy, but still grey and scarred. The heraldry of his shield had been worn greatly by many battles, the enamel chipped and discolored. Though clearly a veteran, he was far from the image of a regal and unsullied warrior of nobility. He came within speaking distance of Arkos, and lifted his visor to reveal a face not that much younger than the sage himself, caked with dirt, sweat and blood.

"You there, old man! Are you well? There is taint in this place, I would come no closer." He spoke in a voice that was tired and hoarse, but still commanded attention and respect.

Arkos ignored his question, as he had inquiries of his own. This knight had his men had done much to alter the skein of fate in this place, but at what cost? And for what reason? How did this village, or those mutants, factor into the greater web of destiny? He burned with curiosity to know why men had fought and died here; their cause, be it noble or otherwise.

"Tell me, Ser," Arkos began in his lilting Atlantean accent, and met the knight's dark eyes with his own unearthly gaze. "For what cause do you and your men ride? Why do you fight here, why do you die here?" Arkos bewitched his words, hypnotizing the man. He reached for the man's true thoughts, and the truth of his heart would be revealed.

"It is the duty of the true soldier, though my forebears may have forgotten it." The man answered, conviction gathering in his voice as he put forth the contents of his soul. "I swore an oath to defend common law and decency, even if the kingdom I swore it to no longer stands. Riches are worthless. My honor is my own to behold. I fight- all of us fight -because there is nothing else worth fighting for. What point is there in strength of arms or noble birth if we cannot protect our fellow men?" A single tear welled up in the knight's eye, rolling down his face to cut a clean streak through the grime of battle.

Arkos, satisfied, turned his attention away from the fading battle and back to the sun, steadily rising in the east. Dawn was rising over the Iron Kingdoms. The brightest dawn since a time long past.