King Owain I

[Caster13]

[SIZE="5"][tface=callig]King Owain the First[/SIZE]

Composed by
Clara Smogson
between
the 29th of Kythorn, 1382 DR
and
the 3rd of Hammer, 1383 DR.[/tface]

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]Prologue[/tface]

“The Crown of the Isles is perhaps the most sought after artifact in the Archipelago. Legend tells that it was worn in ancient times by the King of the Isles, and that only with the Crown will another King rise. Legend also speaks to its enormous and unknown powers: control over the Mists perhaps, or access to long dead Ilythiiri magicks, or even that it may be an artifact of the Netherese. It has not been seen for many, many years, though hundreds if not thousands have gone in search of it.”

â€"Unknown

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]Finding the Crown[/tface]

Sigfried Strømme, a towering Northerner would look out of place amongst most places of the temperate Ymph. The high mountains of the Prophet’s Peaks, dusted with snow and ice, however, were perfectly suited for a man such as him.

On the morning of the 27th of Nightal, 1382 DR, Sigfried was in his element, ranging across the Prophet’s Peaks. A friend and ally of the Steward druid Emlyn ap Taliesin, he was searching for a way to fulfill his self-prescribed destiny to be more than he is; to destroy the Lichess. This morning, he was scouring the Prophet’s Peaks for relics related to the now dormant volcano he trekked across.

Amongst the sheer cliffs and precarious crags, the Northerner came across an old stone. More gray than the natural brown of the mountains, it showed signs of having been carved, to have some sort of purpose. A beacon, a marker, a guide? It could have been all or none of these things. This stone had stood for years, decades, perhaps centuries. Animals, monsters, and adventurers all have passed by it since the year of its creation. All without discerning its true purpose.

Curiosity and inspiration struck Sigfried. The ground around the stone was packed, well traveled, well explored. So, he reached into his pack and grabbed a shovel. The tall man began to dig. Many times had the stone been looked over and pass by, but when was the last time someone searched beneath it?

Sigfried’s curiosity proved to be an incredibly great instance of good fortune--the Grace of Lady Luck herself. Minutes after his shovel struck into the ground, he cleared away the entrance of something strange, curious, and worthy of mention in history books to come.

Passing through the hole he dug, the Northern found himself in a tunnel. Passing through the darkness, he came across a large, vast cave of magnificence. Light pierced through holes in the cave ceiling, illuminating beautiful flowers, strong vibrant trees, and pure ponds of water.

Most importantly, however, the light from the sky fell upon the Mist--Mist that had been locked away from years and decades. Mist that had been waiting patiently to tell a tale. Sigfried stepped forward, following a stone path, and passed through the Mists. Having finally met a living creature after so many years, the Mist was eager to speak its story:

When I came upon him the first time, I did not realise what he had just endured.

We toyed with the outsider.

We made many jokes of him, many games.

We could not see, in our joy, how his wounds were great and his free spirit lonely.

He was so weak, so broken, but he refused to die. He lived on a sliver of hope alone.

Long, long ago, when the Starchildren found the Crown, the Elders were wise and the Children obedient... use of the strange Crown was forbidden.

Visions came to we children of stars that we would one day give the Crown to one who had the right to wear it and the wisdom not to, and so would the lands be safe in his rule.

Until the next King came, but we mistook another man - Agramant, for this one. We gave him the Crown, but in the truth of things, it was He that was given to it.

Time passed, and the Mad King,as he is now known, ended his own rule. The Crown was lost.

Until, in our games, in our toying, in our jokes, we chased and harried the wounded man in ghostly form along the beaches of this ancient island.

And we found it.

There in the sand, the Crown of the Isles gleamed. We took it, we undid our horrific forms, and as one tribe offered it to him.

And he took it, and he looked at it a long time.

And he put down the Crown, and he told us: "There are no Kings among men. Only brothers."

Reaching the end of the stone path, Sigfried looked upon a stone dais. Atop them lay the bones of a man. The stone above that Sigfried had started digging near was indeed beacon, marker, and guide: it was all of those things--a gravestone, indicating a location of a tomb--the Tomb of Frederick Bresley of Sanctuary.

After a moment of silence for the dead where the Northerner reflected upon the tale told to him by the Mist, Sigfried espied a simple sack near the foot of the dais. He opened it, pulling the sack away from its content and laid his eyes upon the legendary Crown of the Isles.

Realizing what he had found, Sigfried turned back towards the mouth of the cave. He needed to see and speak with his friend to determine the next course of history on Ymph.

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]The Grand Moot[/tface]

The night of the 27th of Nightal, 1382 DR saw a letter delivered to the door of the Auld Hearth, home of the Wyrm Watchers:

Wyrm Watchers,

I, Emlyn ap Taliesin, Great Druid of Ymph's Isle and Keeper of The Ark, do hereby call a Grand Moot of you Watchers. I promise that tomorrow evening, and the news I bring, will herald the most auspicious and portentous events on Ymph for hundreds of years.

Return your Rovers. Call in your Knights. Gather even Senascherib's melancholy Circle from the woods. Tomorrow evening I will come to your Hearth--and Speak.

-Emlyn ap Taliesin, Greenseer of the Underwood

[/i]

The Wyrm Watchers agreed to the Grand Moot. By the dark, early morning of the 28th, torches held by Rovers and Hedge-Knights and other members of the Watchers could be seen trailing towards the Auld Hearth. So, too, did unusual visitors made their way to the Hearth: savages and wildfolks and Stargazers and the ever adventurous of Mistlocke came as guests, though they would leave as witnesses.

Things started poorly at first within the Hearth. When Emlyn ap Taliesin encountered Vasily the Snake, a heated argument broke out regarding Senascherib, the leader of the Forgotten Circle. Varad Zápolya II, Chieftain of the Wyrm Watchers, eventually diffused the situation, announcing a warm welcome to all present and noting that those who came to this Grand Moot did so of their own free will.

Zápolya finished his greeting and stepped aside, allowing the Greenseer to stand within the middle of the hall--the Grand Moot began with a retelling of history.

Ymph, as many know, was colonized by the Netherese thousands of years ago. Their mages did much to control the forces of the island. One is said to have climbed the Prophet's Peaks and tempered the volcano so it would never again trouble them. Another Netherese mage ruined parts of the isle in his or her thirst for domination: what was once an extension of the Underwood was turned into a dry and barren desert by a machine created underneath.

Eventually the Nethese mages turned their attention to the strange power they could not control: the Mists. In their studies and their research, in their relentless pursuit of power, they determined that four Mist dragons were the key to reigning in the most mysterious force upon the isle. They learned of Rabbanatha the Pure, Abanaxra the Awakened, Glaurophynaxa the Fierce, and the remaining fourth Mist dragon with a name long forgotten.

And so the Netherese built a great tower intended to be used in a ritual that would chain and leash one of these Mist dragons and its power over the Mists. It was the fourth dragon with the forgotten name that they managed to capture within their tower. They severed its head and from it they fashioned what is now known as the Crown of the Isles.

Thus, the Netherese did finally achieve domination and control. Thus, with the Crown, the Netherese did have Ymph in the palm of their hands.

Time, however, passes and all things change in time. Karsus' Folly brought with it the slow and eventual downfall of the Netherese Empire. During the chaos and the fall, the Crown was somehow lost. And through good fortune or ill, it came into the hands of the Stargazers.

At this point, Emlyn retold the tale Sigfried from the Mists of Bresley’s tomb: "Eventually, he spoke and he declared that there are no Kings amongst men, only Brothers. He put down the Crown. The Crown, I think, was pleased. But either way, in time Frederick would pass, as all things must, and those friends he had made on this isle would make him a tomb befitting the King he refused to be.

"There, in that tomb, the Crown he put down was put to rest with him and the Fox Tribe made of his crypt a misty paradise of sunshine and green things. A tribute to their old plaything, who had become their beloved friend. There it rested. There it stayed. There it was hidden.

"Until," these next words the Greenseer spoke with great gravitas. "We found it."

At these words, a murmur washed through the crowd of visitors, Rovers, and Hedge-Knights. Many of the Watchers, however, showed little surprise for word of the location of Bresley's tomb had already spread far and wide.

"Thus is the tale of your crown," Emlyn said, looking to Zápolya. "And the end of your long search."

Zápolya, in turn, applauded, clapping his hands together a few times. "This is the true business of our meeting, indeed. Some of you have seen this tomb, I know. Such things, once discovered, do not elude our Rovers for long.

"Let me say," the Chieftain continued. "That though the sentiment of this noble man was for the good of the isle in times past, the Crown of the Isles is no mere legend to stow in darkness and dust, to we who live upon Ymph today."

The Greenseer gave a firm and approving nod at Zápolya's words but someone else spoke up next.

"One who wields the Crown must not name himself King," said the elf Galdur, who would later become a betrayer. "For no man can rule over a dragon."

"Perhaps there is wisdom in this, yes," Zápolya conceded, but only partly. "But the Coronation of a King is the one action, the one power, in combination with the true Crown, that we possess to put an end to these days of gloom and darkness."

"My Watchers. This is the time we have been waiting for. The coming of the King. Yes, there is fear. For with all great times, there is a measure of apprehension. But this is something that we must do. It is something that we have always meant to do. To find our King. For there must be a King.

“For a King to be Crowned,” Emlyn finally spoke again. “It is for their benefit I am here today. It is for their benefit I stand ready to anoint a worthy man, and place this great task upon his brow. I am told... You have one who believes he is so worthy a man?”

Murmurs and whispers spread throughout the Hearth hall but it was a young woman who raised her voice to answer the question.

“Owain is to be king,” said Clara Smogson. Her words caused all eyes to turn towards the young Owain Aberdenn, sitting in a chair in the corner of the hall.

The murmurs and whispers became louder and intensified, many opposing the answer.

“He has the blood of the Mad King...”

“He is not of Bresley...”

“Yes, he is the blood of King Agramant,” Smogson responded to the suspicious and unconvinced around her. “And Agramant was a false king. But Agramant was a false king because of his claim: King of Old Port--when the Crown is meant for the King of the Isle.

“And blood,” Smogson continued. “Bresley refused the Crown. Bresley never became King and so his heirs cannot inherit the title, and no one inherited his blood.”

Owain, feeble and pale, rose from his chair as the crowd’s murmuring continued. With the help of Saer Emeric Guoremor, he began walking towards the centre of the Hearth hall.

“Owain’s family has always worked towards the good of Mistlocke,” Smogson spoke more words, mentioning the current Fey occupiers of Mistlocke. “And he is not manipulated by those currently sitting upon the Lord-Mayor’s chair. The Aberdenn have always fought the Count's men, always sought to keep the claws of Old Port off  this isle. Where others have become enthralled, Owain remains true.”

“Do not look at him and see weakness,” to some surprise, Vasily the Snake said between guttural noises of his throat. “He has been cruel to me, has has spat me down, but I do not begrudge him all that terribly. It does not colour what I see, because I am a knowledgeable man and the knowledge tells me that there is strength in his mind.”

“Come for then,” Emlyn’s voice also spoke above the rabble with an encouraging smile. “Let us all have a look at you. We are not looking for a warrior here. Put yourself at ease.”

“Let the boy speak,” Chieftan Zapolya said, and the crowd began to silence itself. And, after a moment of silence, Owain spoke.

“I do not pretend,” he began with a hoarse voice. “To be the saviour that you all desire. Nor can I live up to the legends of the past. I did not ask to be your hope.

“I did not ask to be cloistered here,” a cough interrupted Owain’s words, but he continues. “All I have is the claim of my blood, and it is all I have ever claimed. I honour my Father’s final act by joining you, who would defy Count Zarono Senuspur, and prevent him from ever becoming the King he seeks to be. But if the test of a King is unwillingness to be a King, then I am not the King you wish--I maintain my claim.”

A worried murmur rolled through the crowd, worried that Owain’s claim would result in another Mad King. Some, however, spoke the obvious paradox: how can the rightful King be King if the rightful King refuses?.

“It is no test at all,” The Greenseer’s voice spoke over the rumble of voices. “Attend me though, I would ask of you some questions: to know more of the man you are, and the man you are willing to be before it is decided if you can be entrusted with Ymph’s salvation.”

Owain nodded in response and Emlyn began his questioning.

“First and foremost, Owain Aberdenn, you come from a long line of proud hunters--”

“Warriors, I come from a long line of warriors.”

“--So you do.”

The Greenseers questioning went on for some time and many grumbled of the political play occurring before their eyes. In the end, however, Emlyn exacted three oaths from Owain.

The first was that Owain would cast aside foreign Gods and swear an oath to the land. Owain agreed to this without any hesitation.

The second oath generated much more discussion: whoever holds the title of Great Druid of the Stewards of Ymph would serve as the King’s First Advisor. An argument broke out in the crowd as Owain asked the members of Senascherib’s Forgotten Circle their opinion. The Forgotten Circle threw blame at the Stewards for the release of H’bala. The Stewards claimed Senascherib and her Circle a young splintering that was corrupting the land with the Heart of Life. Another Steward druid even accused Emlyn of attempting to consolidate his own power. In the end, however, Emlyn achieved his oath: Owain agreed that as King, he would see the Stewards and the Forgotten Circle merged.

Prior to discussing the third oath, Owain briefly mentioned the Isle of Blight. How it should be cleansed so that it could serve as a great meeting place for a and how he believed that it should serve as the seat of the newly merged Druid Circle.

The third oath asked that Owain would see the finder of the Crown elevated to the position of Warlord. Owain’s response was telling:

“My Great Uncle Gadyw, I understand, has erected a statue of himself in the square of Mistlocke. It is called ‘The Warlord’ they say. If the finder of the Crown desires the place that you speak of, he may take both the position and the honourific that my Great Uncle has inaugurated. And the fawning words upon the statue will be replaced by the tale of the Crown. For holding the Crown in his hand but casting it aside readily, I believe the man deserves a place in my King’s Court, and heart, for the rest of his days.”

Before the conversation came to an end, Emlyn had one more question:

“There is only one thing more I would know of you. I know you wish to put on this Crown for sake of legacy, for sake of blood. but the man who will save this Isle must be selfless indeed. You have been long cloistered from the conflicts in the west. From the death and decay. Even still, doubtless you have seen within this hall its great effect. Seen the dead, and the wounded. The withered and the blighted. When you look upon such things, do you ever then wish of your Crown for something more than legacy?”

“Of course, I do,” Owain spoke with grave honesty. “I wish it that Count Zarono Senuspur will not have it. I wish it that the Withering Curse, and the wars fought upon this island may end.”

A pause followed. And then the Greenser nodded his head. “This suffices indeed. Know that the Great Druid of Ymph approves of Owain ap Aberdenn to make claim upon The Crown of the Isles, and to unite the disparate people of this troubled place in war against H'bala. And thus he shall be Crowned. Any who would deny his right for it may speak now.”

No one raised their voice as another claimant to the Crown.

“So be it! Then this Moot has only one final thing to decide. When shall the Watchers be ready for his Coronation?”

Many answered eagerly.

“Today.”

“Now.”

“Mistlocke is tired. Ymph needs its King now.”

“As I believe you can hear,” Chieftain Zápolya spoke over the crowd. “We are ready.”

On the advice of Scrab, Sage of the Wyrm Watchers, Clara Smogson and Euwyrd Tamsvale served as runners who went to go fetch Old Muskroot from his tower. When he arrived, he cautioned secrecy ‘less the Prince of Thopsee Shee attempt some foul trickery to deny Owain his rightful Crown. He also explained that Owain must be taken to a sacred place within Mistlocke to be properly coronated as per prophecy.

The gathered Moot began to depart the Auld Hearth.

“I wish to see my home again,” were the last words Owain spoke before departing the Hearth, a place which had, for a long time, served as shelter and prison.

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]The Coronation[/tface]

As the sun began to set on the 28th of Kythorn, 1382 DR, a crowd of those who attended the Moot within the Auld Hearth gathered outside Muskroot’s tower.

Owain turned to Chieftain Zápolya. “Dear Chieftain,” he asked. “Would you give me my father's armor? I would be crowned in it if I may.”

“Oh ho!” Zápolya loudly exclaimed with a smile to Muskroot’s chagrin. “But of course!”

As Owain donned his Father’s armour with Zápolya’s help, a chosen few were selected to serve as the Kingsguard for the coronation.

“Come, come,” Muskroot warned those who entered his tower. “Before we go further. We walk now through a hidden tunnel, down into the depths of the Last Keep. There into the King's Deeps. What you will see down there, you must not share with others! It is more important than you know. Some secrets must be kept, some secrets must be preserved and protected.”

After all those present swore to secrecy, Muskroot opened a door and lead Owain and the guards through a deep, dark tunnel that twisted and wounded. In time, all of them emerged into a large, vast cave. Within the middle was a simple isle surrounded by an empty and dark chasm.

A throne sat upon that isle. A throne old, decrepit, covered in dust, yet more important  than the seat within the Lord-Mayor’s office within the Last Keep, more powerful than the throne in Old Port that Senuspur sits upon.

As Owain and the Kingsguard made their way across a precarious stone bridge to the isle, a form emerged from the darkness: the Mist revealed itself. Struck by reverence and shock, many of the Kingsguard paused mid-step, some bowed with great respect, others felt tears well in their eyes.

“The Crown,” Muskroot said as he turned to the Mist. “Found at long last. They wish to Crown a King, as has been foreseen.”

The Mist loomed and seemed to regard Saer Emeric Guoremor who accompanied Owain down into the depths beneath Mistlocke. “I smell,” an accusing and confident voice spoke. “Treachery.”

Emeric responded with a grimace before quickly turning on his heels and fleeing. Some of the Kingsguard gave chase but none of them could catch up to Emeric. It would later be learned that Emeric was and is, after all this time, an agent of Count Zarano Senuspur.

“Nevermind that!” Muskroot yelled. “We must finish the coronation! We have little time.”

As Owain stepped towards the Mist, a second betrayal was revealed. “The boy has been poisoned,” the voice spoke with assurance. “He is weak, but this is not the treachery of his guard.”

Conclusions were quickly and justly drawn. The Forgotten Circle who had sworn to protect Owain had been poisoning him after all this time. As the Kingsguard murmured, Owain reeled slightly, clutching his head.

“Owain!” one of the Kingsguard cried out in worry.

“No!” Owain steadied himself. “No, I am well.”

“Come, Owain Aberdenn,” the coronation continued as the Mist spoke. “And stand before the Throne that you would claim.” The Mist then turned to Sigfried. “Come, finder of the Crown of the Isles. And stand before the King you would make.”

As Owain and Sigfried approached the throne, the Mist continued. “Over the eons, I have watched many wield the power of this Crown, in one form or another. Often has my errors made its mark upon time. May the Mist grant you peace, Owain Aberdenn, that you may be the saviour this island so desperately needs.

“Kneel, Owain Aberdenn, for it is those that grant you this Crown, that you will serve. It is life. It is this island.”

Trembling, Owain took a knee before Sigfried who produced the fabled Crown and held it high.

“May the Gods offer us what mercy they have left,” Sigfried said as he placed the Crown upon Owain's head. “With this crown I do make you the King of the Isles!”

After Sigfried retrieved his hands, there was a pause for a moment, a silence that lasted a mere second but felt like an eternity. Slowly, Owain rose to his feet, his head slightly bowing beneath the weight of the Crown of the Isles. He took a breath, inhaling slowly, before straightening his back, looking over his Kingsguard, and clenching his fists with strength.

“Muskroot,” the King of the Isle spoke in a resonating voice. “Announce my coming. Announce my coming to the people of Mistlocke.”

With these words, the Mists all over Mistlocke, swirled with a sudden will and energy. With a strength and life never seen before by the village, the Mist filled every crevice, shrouded every person, and seemed to glow with a joyous glee. Those who were heavily Withered even felt the Mist lift a great portion of the Curse from their blood and flesh.

“There is much to be done,” Owain continued in a strong voice as the Mist in the great coronation chamber relaxed and calmed. “I shall never forget any of you. For the role you played in this. Your names shall be writ large upon the pages of history. My fellows, go above and and prepare the way.”

And so the Kingsguard allowed King Owain a moment of privacy with the Mist and departed to prepare the village for the great news to follow. Traveling back through the tunnels beneath Mistlocke, thus did the following members of the Kingsguard emerged from Muskroot’s Tower as witnesses to fulfilled prophecy and new history:

Old Muskroot
Sigvar Fjordmund
Sigfried Strømme
Emlyn ap Taliesin
Taulchun Saithe
The Drowned Man
Whrugri
Clara Smogson

[/i]

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]The First Act as King[/tface]

People of Mistlocke I declare the coming of Owain I, Ruler of Mistlocke, and King of the Shrouded Isles. I call all citizens to the square, for his Majesty to be witnessed, and his first Acts to be known.

--Old Muskroot’s

[/i]

Led by the returning Kingsguard, the people of Mistlocke gathered in the town square where the Mist was thick and cloying. Every once in a while, a bright flash of white light would signal another person being alleviated of the Withering.

The crowd stood murmuring and waiting for a few eager moments before Old Muskroot parted the crowd and Owain Aberdenn walked through it to take his place at the centre of the square. Slowly, he turned, looking over all those present.

“My people,” King Owain began. “My people! A relic has been found, a Moot was held, wise council made. Much will be revealed in the hours and days to come, there is much to say. But first know this: I have been crowned and declared King. No longer Mistlocke suffers, adrift, led by fools or fey as our enemies mass outside the Mists.

“Sigfried Strømme,” the King gestured to the tall Northerner standing nearby with an outreached hand. “Finder of the Crown, I do declare my Warlord.

“And Emlyn, Great Druid of the Stewards,” the King shifted his hand. “I do declare my First Councilor.

“Yet,” he continued, voice filled with wisdom. “I shall listen to all who have something they wish to say. We live in a time of prophecy. A prophecy of darkness and horror, yet I am filled with great hope that we may yet endure.

“But now,” Owain’s voice lowered slightly as he looked towards the Last Keep. “Now we must turn to the matter of uninvited guests.”

A thicker, whiter cloud of Mist began to pool within the square nearby where Owain stood as he raised a hand towards it.

“I summon the fey!” he proclaimed, naming the usurper of Mistlocke. “Thopsee Shee!”

In the blink of an eye, the Prince of Thopsee Shee appeared within the pool of mist. The blue-skinned creature looked about, his gold-coloured eyes wide with surprise.

“What?” the Prince twisted and turned, looking about the Mist and crowd with bewilderment. “Where? You!” He pointed an accusing finger at King Owain yet staggered back a few steps in fear.

“Fey,” King Owain spoke. “You see my Crown.”

“This is--but this is my Keep!” the Prince whined and stamped his foot, sending flashes of colour across the ground. “But this is my Keep! It was mine! It was mine! It was mine!”

In desperation, the Prince turned to the crowd. “Have I not been a kind Prince?!”

Though some enthralled by the Prince responded and begged mercy for the Fey Prince, the shouts of those who lived in squalor and starvation during the Prince's reign rung louder and truer.

“Mere hours after your most recent works,” Owain continued. “You have come here, pretending friendship, while bedazzling and involving my blood and people into your own rivalries. Your trickery shall avail you no more.”

The Prince of Thopsee Shee cringed away from King Owain as his voice begged. “Come now, good King, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement! We can arrange a great party for your coming!”

Owain looked down upon the begging Fey creature. “Thopsee Shee,” he spoke in a resonating and powerful voice. “You and all your kind are cast out! Never to return! Your feuds shall take place elsewhere! No longer shall this place serve as your sanctuary!”

“Oh, please, don’t!” the Prince exclaimed pitifully before looking around the crowd. “Vasily! Now! Now!”

The crowd looked around in confusion and suspicion as the Prince called out for Vasily the Snake. Yet, it seemed as if Vasily the Snake would not, to much surprise, live up to his title. Though Vasily was in the crowd, and though he spoke out in support of the Prince, he did not carry out whatever plan or trickery the Prince had planned.

“Cast out!” King Owain repeated.

“Vasily?” the Prince asked dumbfounded as he suddenly disappeared from sight along with a number of others in the crowd who were enthralled by the Fey Prince.

Owain turned to face the wyvern towers recently raised by the Fey at the edge of the village square. “The Fey and their works, cast out!” he gestured to them with clenched fists and a loud crack sounded through the village as cracks sheared through stone and masonry. Thick Mist surged throughout Mistlocke and surrounded the three towers and the wyvern gargoyles that sat atop them, tearing them down and crumbling them into a pile of rubble and dust.

It took many minutes for the sound of falling stone to subside and for the dust to settle. When a silence finally filled the air, it was King Owain who broke the silence.

“Banished indeed,” he turned back towards the crowd who remained still and silent. “My people, my family, it is done. Prepare yourselves for the days to come.”

Owain Aberdenn, King of the Isle, turned towards the Last Keep and began to make his way towards it. The weight of the Crown--and the responsibility and powers that came with it--seemed to weigh heavily upon him. He stumbled slightly as he depart, but despite this his steps were followed by the resounding cheers of a village that was once again free.

“Long Live the King!
Long Live the King!
Long Live Owain!
Long Live Owain!”

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]End[/tface]

Buried upon this vast and great isle,
Cursed by a Witch most truly vile,
Where black darkness will rise in the End,
Hope still exists to see the world be mend.

Within the tomb of ascended Bresley,  
A relic found that shall set all us free,
Meant for noble blood good, true, and humble,
Strength and wisdom it fills one pure soul full.

In the deep depths below our sacred home,
The True Mist watches and listens and roams,
Upon the wise, humble head of Owain,
The crown was placed and the young man transcend.

Cast out! Did the True King loudly proclaim,
And the silly Prince removed with great shame!
He saw the savage wyvern beasts torn down,
At last: the people were returned their town!

And so the crowd did cheer: Long Live the King!
Eyes wet with happy tears: Long Live the King!
Until our throats were strained: Long Live Owain!
Answered were our prayers: Long Live Owain!

Clara Smogson
The 3rd of Hammer, 1383 DR
Long Live the King!

[Caster13]

[tface=callig]Addendum[/tface]

My name is Clara Smogson.

I was a simple village girl. A commoner. I live in Mistlocke. It is my home. It is the only home I have ever known.

I’m sorry.

When it was asked who would be crowned with the Crown of the Isle, I was the one who said Owain’s name. I thought and believed he should be King, that he could be King. But I was wrong.

Owain was a good boy. A good child of reason. Instead of being driven by vengeance as his Uncle Gadyw, he sought to follow in the steps of his honourable father Arthur Aberdenn. Now, however, Owain is mad. The Crown of the Isle that sits upon his head has driven him to insanity as it has to others who have worn it in the past.

And this is my fault. And it gets worse.

A druidess who has created monsters now whispers into the ear of King Owain. I tried to stop Senascherib from becoming First Advisor. But the portal rats and the shipwrecked rats and the foreigners and the gloryhounds stopped me and I failed. When I had the chance to make things right, I was not good enough.

I have helped to ruin Mistlocke.

But I have seen how to undo the mistakes and the follies. If I don’t manage to make things right, I hope someone else will.

Much has been said and written about the Crown: so many myths surround it, its tale is whispered by the Mists itself, scholars and lorists have dedicated years of their lives to studying and researching it.

But when we had the Crown of the Isle in our hands, we were all fools. We all forgot. We all overlooked. We ignored what must be done with the Crown.

It is said that Bresley had the wisdom to refuse the Crown. But there is even a wiser course of action to take.

The Crown drives those who wear it insane because it has the imprisoned essence of a mist dragon within it. It is this dead dragon that drives the wearer to insanity. For it is the only way the dead dragon can have its vengeance. Vengeance against those who captured it, those who slayed it, and those who would think themselves foolish enough to wield the power of a dragon. The dead dragon is what lead to the fall of Nebezzdos, addle-minding the rulers of the Netherese prison colony. Its this thirst for vengeance that makes the Crown effectively useless to whoever wears it, or hopes to wear it.

Things need to be made right. Not even Bresley knew to do this.

The dragon needs to be given peace.

The dragon needs to be set free.

The Crown needs to be thrown into the fires of the Prophet’s Peak.

The Crown needs to be destroyed.

Do this--and Ymph will be saved.

Clara Smogson
The Twenty-First of Hammer, in the Year 1383 DR

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