Fintan battled onward beyond the furious winds that batted at his face as he walked. Strands of hair wondered across his face and tickled his nose as he went. I am far overdue for a cut, but I guess saving the realm from damnation comes first this time. Fintan reached a hand to his face and pushed away the pesky hairs, but it was no use after moments later when they returned to their flapping position over his eyes and nose.

It was a long stretch to travel alone. Right through the heart of Wepstwur. The Long Road it was simply called. What a fitting name that is. Fintan walked along the windy, endless stretch of cobble stone road. He had moved his scabbard from his hip side to over his back. His thigh was sore from the scabbard slapping his thigh every time he stepped, so over the back would have to do—a non-traditional way of carrying a blade for a Magi—but it would have to do whilst he had no horse to carry him.

Despite his abilities, Fintan had already tried for the past two nights to use an old Magi Mythology trick that he had learned years ago from his own master. The Horseless Horseman he had specifically remembered his master calling it. He would lay out his cloak, lay his stone out in the center of the thick fur, and if positioned just right the wind would strike it in such a way that gave off a howling sound—said to draw horses near. Fintan had felt such the idiot as he had done it, doubting his memory of when he recalled his master doing it with ease. The stones had lost a bit of magic since those days. The realm was dry of magic because of the war, and the stone's aura had died out quite a bit.

The lonely straggler frowned to himself as his hand dropped to the stone in his pouch as he thought about it. This was no time to have dull magic abilities. Soon the spell would wear off and he would remember what had saddened him so greatly a few days prior. His energy would disappear as well. At least that is one spell that still seems to have its aura strong. Fintan instantly regretted even thinking it as he felt the effects of his worn-down body begin to return to him. It always happens like that. So much of a mental game...

Fintan could see the outskirts of the city now before him as he came upon a bird's eye view of Wepstwur's peripheral city to the main Kingdom stronghold. Fintan's fingers moved to his head which was pounding now. His legs were achy and dull from long travel with a couple hours of sleep a night. It was too cold to sleep long. Not even his warm Magi furs were able to shield the wind chill of the Modena winters. He had seen black-furred rabbit scurry a few yards before him during his waking hour just the night prior. His icy fingers reached for the scabbard, which was no longer by his hip, and by the time his arm had circulated enough blood to make a calculated movement behind his head, the steel of the sword was stuck to the inside of the scabbard. Fintan cursed the frustration of having a finer sword at the cost of its susceptibility to sticking to the scabbard. When the temple is rebuilt, I'll have Blacksmith Royan fashion a winter blade. Heavy as a mallet it'll be, but no free rabbit will cross from right under my nose without my blade through its belly.

The lonely Magi felt his footing go from under him as he tried to gracefully coast down the steep drop off from above the city where The Long Road continued to down where his destination lie. Surely Gerd would be back home by now. Fintan ignored the scrape down the back of his calf as he let himself tumble softly down the gravel and rock decline. His skin was numb from the cold and he really desired a warm coffee and a hot bath. Perhaps the warm bath would have to wait for warmer days, but a bath nonetheless was a welcome thought after weeks of travelling. Fintan ascended up to his feet as he reached the bottom of the steep valley. Fairly clustered buildings lined the typical Weptswurian landscape.

Fine lords with jewels and camels roamed the streets, courtiers in fine purple robes, knights in fine patterned chainmail and helmets, and children at play contributed towards a busier setting as Fintan slipped between two fairly close together square buildings. Fintan figured it must be the hour of third meal. The Weptswurians always had a third meal between lunch and dinner when the sun hovered calmly in the winter sky. An excuse to socialize and move about through the city vendors and meat shops. It was a fine tradition that Fintan wished was a custom further north, but there was less silver and gold north thus four meals in a deal would never last. Breakfast was a rarity as it was unless wild pigs wandered north during the summers when it got warmer. Ham and bacon became a popular breakfast then, and the thought was making Fintan's mouth water until it hit him that ham and bacon were exactly what he was smelling. He peered over at a busy meat shop that were selling sticks with varieties of meat samples pierced over the top of the sharp stick.

The Magi Knight raised his black cloak hood over his head and kept fairly unengaged. Being recognized as a Magi Knight in Weptswur would hold him up for hours. Weptswurians were always intrigued and obsessed with the stone he possessed. They would heckle him for hours if they realized he had it, offering up every fine jewel and rare piece of coin they had. He remembered Gerd's tale of how he failed to recognize the culture's fascination with the stone and he almost had to abandon Weptswur civilization until he was able to safely convince the people of his city it was fake by smashing a fake rock into pieces in the city square during the sacrificial holiday of Elror Tal're—"Of Things Valuable". What a dumb holiday that is, a people notorious for their obsession with wealth destroying their singular most valuable items on one day of the year...Northman do that every day when the break their fast in the morning.

Whispered words escaped Fintan's mouth as the stone turned and twisted in his finger's grasp. He felt a force tugging on his hand as he was led towards his destination. Before dusk he arrived at a familiar sight. Gerd's home. It was a humble house on the outside. Gods of old that were known to be fake stood as statues on either side of the door. A typical offensive gesture from the old man—never changes. He let his fist ring out a couple wraps across the front of Gerd's door before he peered in through a crack in the splintered wood beside the front door. No lights on—which could be normal considering dusk was only just starting. Fintan glanced at the sky and noted the flurries pouring out of the gray skies. Surely, he'd at least have some small source of light in here with the cloudy skies threatening an early sundown. He knocked again now; this time louder.

Fintan tested the knob and it didn't budge. He's not home. I didn't travel this far to sleep outside again tonight. He lifted a leg and slammed the door down to the ground—a noise that Fintan only prayed the wanderers on the street paid no heed to amidst the third meal rush. Fintan grabbed a lantern off a table by the door and wiggled his hands over its wick and a small flame licked up inside. He held it out as he went. Things didn't appear in order as they should be. His house seemed ransacked. His library of scrolls was a mess, laying on the floor of his hallways and his front room as if someone hurled them down in a rage, searching for something. Gerd's doing or someone else's? Fintan felt the spell start to dwindle and he remembered he was missing someone. He wondered if he had actually left someone behind or if he just desired someone with him right now. He tried not to think about it.

Fintan turned the corner beyond a bedroom and found himself facing the living room. The space that he had originally met up with Gerd on his way north. Fintan held the lantern higher above his head, cautiously approaching. Someone's legs were dangling off the end of the tattered purple furniture. Scrolls lay scattered at Fintan's feet and he walked daintily to avoid stepping on them.

Fintan began to fear the worst. A Deranged Man has found his way here to murder Gerd before he is able to tell me something valuable. The great King Steed has sent a death squad here to kill Gerd, a one of his kind Magi Knight. Fintan had suddenly thrown the lantern down and hurled himself to the other side of the couch to lay his eyes upon whoever's body was lying limp upon the furniture. Fintan's heart jumped out of his mouth. A Deranged Man was laying in great pain, moaning. As Fintan stared at the pitiful being, he realized it was actually Gerd. Fintan got down to his knees to kneel beside the face of the dying man. His legs were tattered and bloodied. His cloak skin had gone from a calm gray to a vile crimson, stained by blood. His fingers were mutilated into claws and his eyes stared as black sockets upon Fintan. Black saliva and foam had been oozing from his mouth. Fintan brought his hand to Gerd's wrinkled hand. It was cold and lifeless. His skin felt like old leather, but Fintan left his hand there, nonetheless.

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Fintan felt his body trembling as he knelt with his hand in Gerd's. He was gone. Gerd was gone. The tears threatened to roll from Fintan's eyes, but he sucked them back in with all his might. A Magi Knight does not grieve over loss, it is time wasted and energy spent upon a force which transcends the ability of even a powerful Magi. Gerd had his head down and his hair had fallen across his face now. His shoulders bounced violently up and down but no sound was emitted from his trembling.

A wispy voice eked out from the lifeless form, "Don't count me out just yet." Fintan jumped, startled. He didn't even recall how quickly his sword was unsheathed and in hand, but it took a moment to realize his reflexes had taken him five steps back with his sword pointed at the pitiful being's throat.

"You live? Gerd, is that you?"

Gerd's mouth hardly moved, "You must listen closely. Much to say."

"Yes, what is it? What happened to you, Gerd?"

"Vince is good boy, taken by dark powers," Gerd's voice trailed off and more ooze trailed out from the corner of his mouth and he let out a weak cough.

Fintan lowered his sword and returned to Gerd's side now. Fintan motioned towards a cask that sat on a broken coffee table off to the side and Gerd's eyes lit up at the sight. Fintan brought it over and poured cool water into Gerd's mouth, trickling it in the narrow slit of his swollen throat.

Fintan paused for a moment and almost dropped the cask on Gerd's face as what he had just said was beginning to sink in. The boy, Vince. That is who I was forgetting, the spell—I forgot! The Creator be good to me I have remembered!

"Yes Gerd, the boy, what of this dark power?"

"The item he has taken from me, it is no stone," Gerd's talk was met by a heavy cough that spewed up blood and phlegm now. Fintan held his body upright and his eyes had a faint glow of their old blue color now. Fintan could hardly bare to stare into Gerd's eyes, but he had to. Something told him Gerd had held onto life to tell him this much.

"Old man, you must tell me, what has he taken from you? I am lost, every Magi possesses a stone of Ertorin. What else? Tell me, Magi."

"A horn. The horn of the Great..." Gerd froze now, and his words were stuck in his throat. Fintan thought he would cough but nothing came out and for a moment Fintan believed him dead—as if he wasn't already.

"What horn, Gerd? There is no horn here." His mind must be confused now. He is poisoned by the Deranged Men.

"Tell me who attacked you, Gerd. Who poisoned you? I will hunt them and bring them to justice. Just tell me who did it."

"You can't. It was me who did this. I was killed. I healed myself. Used my own power. It decayed me. Infection. Deranged Men. DAHHH." Gerd let out a pained noise. Fintan peered underneath some linens and found the culprit of Gerd's death. Fintan shuttered, there was too much blood lost, and the infection was turning him into a Deranged Man itself. A crude blade was jutting out of his side.

"You didn't have a stone? Then what did you have?"

"A HORN, THE HORN OF THE—" Gerd began choking on blood and phlegm and bile the color of the darkest black came from his mouth and Fintan knew he had only minutes to live. His body was rejecting Gerd's greatest attempts to live now.

"READ...SCROLL...MUST SAVE THE BOY...HE IS THE KEY...TO THE WAR!"

"War? Gerd what war? We just finished the war. What horn are you speaking of? You must live! I need you to explain to me what this is all about."

Fintan felt the last remnants of warmth leave Gerd's body and his eyes rolled back. He was gone for good now. Fintan slumped down onto the floor and let his back lean against the slanted coffee table now. He could feel the tears coming again to his eyes but before they could arrive his eyes met something different. There was a scroll with red ink encircling some of the text. Fintan grabbed the parchment and drew it close to his eyes. How anyone could read it, Fintan had no idea. He strained his eyes as best he could, but he would need better lighting. He found the lantern he had thrown down and held it up to the parchment. He could tell by the ripped edge that it had come from some book.

A Child Come

One for the ages, seen as a child

A child he is not, on the outside he appears

Magical and cunning is he, who sits with his horn

And uses it often, too much to be seen

It appears as a stone, bright and with glow

But underneath it is dull and fragile as skull

Here it is written, words such as these

So, one might come see, the words he will be

A creature he will conquer, for he owes it to thee

Part of its body, the child holds free

Much power he has, enough to set free

The people under threat, and most unworthy

He can't be left lonely

He'll lose his mind to thee

The horn it is sneaky

And can take hold of thee

If used properly, it will simply control

The enemy will flee, from he who sits thee

The child himself, is prophesied by thee

The one who reads this, must leave him be

Or forever regret, setting him free

Fintan shivered at the words on the page, but he felt the magic of his stone grow warm in his cloak pocket. He folded up the piece of parchment and stuffed it inside his pocket. He soon became distracted by shouts and screams of children outside at play, enjoying the last hours of sun and free time before the break of the third meal was over and back to work it was.

Another piece of parchment sat invitingly at Fintan's feet. It was hanging loosely out of a bigger bound book. The book weighed a significant amount when Fintan lifted, and his fingers had felt strained when he had to tighten his grip unexpectedly to keep the book from clattering onto the ground.

Fintan poured over the words inside the book. The title had been faded off the cover from years of wear, and some of the ink on the pages were smeared but Fintan read as best he could. Fintan sat for hours, immersed in the book's contents. It was one of much information, and Fintan was stunned at its relevancy to his current mission. Tales of the Maldur race were detailed chronically, and the killing of the Maldur King in the Meadows of Mestrane was even prophesied. The writing had given Fintan an uneasy feeling. It had to have been written hundreds of years ago based off the dates logged in before each segment he read.

He noticed it was written by a Maldur relative, as noted in the footnotes of one of the pages. The words seemed to flow perfectly across the pages, as if his eyes were meant to swoon across so naturally. He couldn't place his finger on why, but he read through the entire chronology through the night.

He came to two discoveries. The slayer of the Maldur King is now the King of the Maldurians. He has come among them and he must be found to save human kind from the evil of Ral'tor. Secondly, the Maldur are predicted to exact revenge on human kind at some point in time, and there is nothing the race of men can to do stop the age of the Maldur's return to prominence. 'Tis the will of The Creator, as it was written. "They were the first chosen people of the Creator, and they shall be the last."

It was morning by the time Fintan jerked awake. He was lying flat on the ground with papers underneath him from head to toe. The first lights were a beauty to behold, and Fintan stepped out onto the veranda outside the home to admire the morning's greeting. His mind must have been fogged though, because it was with great haste and stress that Fintan kicked into action at once. He trotted off to a nearby neighbor's stable, pushing aside the stable boy and kicking off into a heavy trot with a great, black stallion. Its noises were sure to wake up half the village, but Fintan did not have the will nor the care to prevent the issue. He had to move fast. There was a child waiting on him. An item of some mystique explained Vince's odd activity. He was such a fool for abandoning him. He needed to find him before he landed in the hands of someone dangerous who knew what they were dealing with. If Weptswur were to win the war, of which Fintan was just hearing of, then Vince was to be an essential key to that operation. Fintan was not known to ride slow. In fact, he smiled upon his horse now. He had never ridden faster. After all, the realm depended on it.