Written by Sentinel Advisor Zailon Britbane
Edited by: Elder Seer Rovvigen Aniket

A weary traveler turns to you with a simple gesture and says “Come, over ancient reach, through twisted wood, and lands where mists arise, we shall journey for eight moons of the year...”

The traveler continues his story, “Our Journey started back at Lake Eonak, under the shadows of Melgorehn’s Reach, we were making camp when we were approached by a grey-clad wanderer. The wanderer was clearly old, but unbent, unbroken by his burdens. We followed closely, guided to the edge of Lake Eonak, whereupon the Grey Wanderer said, “Call the children of tomorrow, those of sight” to which, Rovvigen responded in turn “I am of the sight. Can I help you? The children of the sight are assembled. Bring forth your business. Our numbers are few, but our faith is iron, we will answer the call.”

The Grey Wanderer stated to Rovvigen, “Make your sacrifice, know that if you understood what I asked of you, I expect that you’d wither, and shrink from this burden, but prove me wrong, see what must be seen.” It was at this time Rovvigen strode forward, Tarot in hand, that a gale tore through the area, tugging a card from his his hand, as the wind pulled the card from him, we noted that it appeared to be two golden suns.

The card slipped beneath the waters of the lake, causing shimmering ripples across the placid surface. Moonlight played upon the surface of the lake, slowly dancing across the surface until they came to rest upon Rovvigen. A grimace crossed Rovvigen’s stoic demeanor and he leaned over gazing into the surface of the lake, he later recount-ed to us exactly what it is that he saw.

Rovvigen gathered us around a campfire shortly after, and retold the events he had foreseen within the lake, “The icy peaks of mountains were still in view, but so were the wide, tall, fortified stone walls of a huge city. Stretching up above the walls was a large stone keep, and countless silver banners whose blue phoenix emblem trembled in the wind.

A blink of pale green light appeared in the distance. Soon after, a small flame appeared. Then another, then count-less more. Like a roving sea of fireflies, the host of torches moved out of the dark of the wilderness, and towards the massive gates of the huge fortified city.

An army of white-armored crusaders appeared, the light of their torches cast an eerie, orange glow across their stone faces, shadows filling the creases of the crown-shaped scars along their bald scalps. They were countless, and before them walked another figure garbed in white, the collective torch light pale in comparison to the inferno of his golden eyes



The sea of crusaders approached the gates, where Hendoran soldiers lined the ramparts like a polished wall of steel. A voice, gruff and commanding, shouted down at the golden-eyed man and his army of Blameless

The golden-eyed man spoke. His voice was loud. His words echoed all around me, as if he stood before me. "Open the gates, allow Koar's work to be done."

There was a loud cranking sound, and the wide gates of the city of Lolle began to open.

The golden-eyed man marched through the opened gates of Lolle, his army of Blameless flowing in behind him. As they entered into the streets, many in the back ranks of the Blameless stopped, slowly turning to withdraw cross-bows from their flowing white cloaks. The Hendoran soldiers stood upon the ramparts, many unmoving, backs turned to the Blameless, their eyes still drawn to the outside of the city.

The echo of the crossbows was resounding. A line of bolts arced up towards the walls, where the soldiers' backs were still turned. Many cried out in surprise, as dozens fell out of sight, some tumbling over the walls, others gasping as the bolts dug into their backs or sides. Chaston paused for a moment, looking back at the gates they passed through, nodding as blood began to drip from the ramparts.

The streets of Lolle opened wide, many homes shuttered their windows. The golden-eyed man and his army continued their march, slowly approaching a hill where a huge stone keep stood as a looming sentinel over the city. At the base of the hill, a small army of Hendoran soldiers had already formed, weapons drawn, shouting at the crusaders as they approach

Flecks of light began to appear along the narrow and winding streets and alleys of homes and buildings. Suddenly, in between the Blameless and the Hendorans, crowds of townspeople bean to pour out into the streets, weapons and torches in hand.

The light of the townspeople's torches came into view, as nearly a hundred flooded into the streets. The glow of the torches finally illuminated the townspeople... and the light caught along the surface of their gold and white medal-lions and prayer beads.

The cries of battle echoed out, as if all around me. The Hendoran soldiers paused briefly, and it cost them. The townspeople fell on them like vultures, clawing, fighting, slashing, stabbing, stomping, and burning every soldier in their way. Having no other course of action, the Hendorans struck back, doing their best to defend and fight. Many of the townspeople fell quickly, no different than grain to a farmer's scythe.

The streets ran wet and red. Townspeople piled up, as did Hendorans, a sea of groaning, bloodied bodies. Soon the golden-eyed man moved forward again, he and his Blameless stepping over the sobbing, wounded bodies of both commoners and soldiers alike. Chaston made his way to the keep on the hill.

Lake a grand hall appeared. Its ceiling was expansive, decorated with huge banners, tapestries, and stone-framed windows. Columns of stone served as rows and rows of support for the huge chamber, their surfaces chiseled with patterns and other images.

The rest of the chamber came into view. Dozens of Hendoran soldiers stood before an old, stone throne, where a man of declining years sat, a parchment in his hand. There was little color left in his short, white beard. The light of the room's torches enhanced the color of the gold coronet on his head. His pale blue eyes looked up, as the doors of his throne room flew open. He let out an audible sigh.

The cacophony of battle echoed out once more. The throne room was a blur, a flurry of white, blue, and blood.

The sound of painful groans hung in the air. The carved stone columns were painted red with the blood of the soldiers, and behind them, dozens of Blameless rose back up to their feet, wounds healing as they pressed on. The Earl lay near his throne, hands almost as bloody as his blade. His blue and silver tabard was soaked with blood, his gold coronet fallen on the ground beside him. He coughed - blood, spit, and curses.

The golden-eyed man stepped towards the throne, slowly kneeling beside the broken Earl. He placed a hand on his cheek, grinning wide, his golden eyes gleaming. With his other hand, he grabbed the coronet on the ground, then tossed it against a stone column, where it clanked and bounced away. The golden-eyed man climbed up onto the throne, as white-armored crusaders moved in around the injured Earl, jerking him up to his feet

A flash of green light appeared to swirl into existence within the throne room. Three white-armored crusaders approached it, dragging the bloodied Earl with them. They disappeared into the portal, as the golden-eyed man nod-ded approvingly from the seat of the Northern Sentinel.

Rovvigen then took heavily to his feet and nodded slowly, having delivered the revelations passed to him by the Gray Wanderer, Jastev incarnate. The newly minted prophet found himself burdened with heavy purpose and thus it fell to him with the aid of Mikalmas, priest of Gosaena to gather the seers, the visionaries, and others who would not turn from the visions, those who would not wither, and shrink from the duties placed before them. Thus the Order of the Sphere and Scythe was created to provide and promote education on the practice of Divination. To provide enlightenment and a better understanding of the art of divination. To assist fellow adventurers in their search for knowledge. To promote fellowship and cooperation of all races and professions.

Rovvigen continued his missive to the huddled bunch, “We must set out in search of history. We must remind the world of that which it has lost, forgotten. We must awaken the gods again. The world has grown indolent, listless, in such turbulent times as we live. We shall set forth in search of artifacts, books, and history itself, leaving no stone unturned. We will make our way through the world visiting each cleric guild. We shall make offerings as appropriate in order to expand our knowledge and influence.

The weary traveler turns to you, his face exposed, he appears younger than you’d expect, with a peculiar braid sporting a telltale crow’s feather, and a staff that demands notice, a soulstone orb, clutched by talons, marking him as Necromancer Zailon Britbane. He turns to you and states in a quiet voice, “And that my friend, is what you’ve so capriciously stumbled upon, so, I say to you, welcome, to our order. Find your courage, open your eyes, and do not shrink from your duty.

Please join us on June 10th at 8 P.M. to start this Sacred Pilgrimage. Location outside the Cleric Guild in Wehnimer's Landing.