The world is a very large place, and it is a very misunderstood place. There are countless, countless stories that can be told but aren’t. Take for instance, long before even the idea of a King was born. There was a man filled with virtue and fit the very description you’d think. He is dead and gone, and his story is no longer told to even us who listen closely.

That is not to say his story can’t be told, for on the body of Carus there is certainly a wound that was carved, and it certainly made an impression on the people who saw it. And even Carus wore it proudly.

And upon the black sands, perhaps there was even a deep part of him left in the very depths of the cave. And while it certainly couldn’t be there forever, it surely made itself known at one point.

Must we not forget that because he fits the description of a king and acts with virtue we would remember him as something great, and perhaps for that reason it is all too good that memories of the dragon fade far quicker than an individual can know. For there would never be a tale told about that king again, who despite being the epitome of good delved into the greatest depths of evil.

Untold stories, countless untold stories. It can’t be exaggerated, the enormity of the idea.

But the shapes these untold stories take are different, and that is a peculiar thing. Take for instance, a moment happening just around the same time Epim and the Shade and the Fairy raised from the water.

A monstrous thing lies on the ground, panting with a saddened hum. There is no light, so only the sound of its claws can be heard scratching across the ground. Drops of saliva as well, hit the floor with a repetitive drip. Only to the observant could they make out the golden eyes, one of only two pairs of the hue in the room.

“Huhh… huhhhh…” The thing’s panting fills the room, it even starts to sound like sobbing.

The second pair of golden eyes shone as well. He had the silhouette of a man, and an oddly bright red trickled down his right hand. It lit its surroundings, and it dropped slowly drip by drip. A demented lapping could be heard with each drop, there wasn’t a single one allowed to hit the floor.

“Drink… drink…” A man’s voice. “My child, please… you must grow strong.” It sounded whispered and far away, but belonged to the same silhouette. There was a tenderness and a harshness combined with his words. “Oh, for as long as it takes…”

And there was a third pair of eyes in the room as well, watching everything even through the absolute veil of the dark. Her eyes shone with gray, and even through the dark one could tell they were stricken with grief at the sight before her.

But another time, another place. There are many more stories to tell.

There is a man who sits at the entrance of the abyss, staring at the thing. He’s solitary, but it’s clear he’s resolute.

He sits on a stone pillar, extending far out into an utter blackness. The path back down the pillar is obscured by the dark, and there is no path forward. He stared into the undefined emptiness and waited. And while there is no absolute rule that in the dark there must be no sound, here there was no such thing. The man’s breath and even his heartbeat stayed silent, as he sat there, staring at the abyss.

There is a woman. She does not know that penance is a journey, and she has delivered upon herself a punishment that saddens the world. She has sealed herself away, when she was meant to wander.

A painter, any color he touches has begun to fade and he is learning beauty beyond expression. An easel beyond any other waits for his work.

There’s a sage, an important player, but he is still immersed in the profundities of his arts. He still has yet to learn the meaning of his own mastery.

There are countless more stories, of course. And to presume that the stories that are being written now are more important than the one’s written tomorrow, that is the arrogance of the reader. But still, the tales we see in front of us are the ones we see in front of us.

And of course the relationships that exist are just as important. And of course, can not the same be said for symbols of pride, or facets of unexplainable knowledge? Stories are of the world, not just of man.

There is a book in a library, it has never been read since it was written. It sits, waiting.

A skeleton lays with its arms to the sky, that is the rumor that adventures have become infatuated by its posture.

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An effigy exists, and it has spawned a religion of a peculiar folk. They speak of something that most people don’t understand. They worship, they dance, they lament. They are the rejectors of faith but believers in reverence. The effigy, while no longer their source of connection, still stood proud.

A valley of endless winds, some say the remnant screams of something can be heard out in the distance. Rumors spread that the winds did not move the grass or dirt. It made something beyond quite fearful.

There is a beautiful bride who was waiting for her groom in the halls of heaven. Upon learning her groom was sent to the depths of hell, she slayed twelve legions of demons, returned the red sign, struck her sigil onto the land, and returned with her groom in tow.

And so, so much more. But there is a tempo, an order.

While the sceneries could be endlessly explained and each geological peculiarity could be looked at in intense scrutiny, instead call your perspective higher. The land that the people live on can oftentimes be called strange.

But oddity is something you can only discover through comparison, and to those who marched from the black desert to the world above, it will still take a while for them to understand just how incongruent the world they found themselves in was.

Weather, geological events, and all kinds of other natural occurrences happened with a rate that would seem staggering. They could be concise, they could be broad, they did not stick to definition. And, in a strange fashion, no matter the place you were in you could feel at least a hint of it, of a forceful change bringing in a tempest. And while this consistency may not seem odd, in this place that rejects the simple flow of things there is something to be feared about sharing.

There seems to be an energy in the air, something that allows beasts and life and plants and man and anything else that breathes a chance at communion. This allows for strange things, such as monstrosities that simply seem too big to function, it gave way to all that needed it. And those who knew it closely understood why the energy in the air listened. It drove many mad, of course! It gave solace to the hopeful and not the strong.

It calls to things, it rejects things, it causes good, and bad, and all in between. The energy is a modifier at its core, assisting but never surplanting the base. A companion far away but present eternally. Oh! How the energy dances in the air unseen.

Perhaps stranger, no dominant religion has ever spread. Yes, there are individualized ones, but there is not a common belief. There is no comparison to other faiths, or challenges of dogma. And the gods that the people of the land worshiped, they were very real.

Because of those sometimes tangible and understandable forms, there were those who surmised that they were not truly gods at all. There were those who believed that it only served to accentuate the divinity of such things. But still, religion’s were odd in these places. Because gods had been able to be observed, the people did not hate another for their belief. They feared each other quite a bit more. For they had seen and revered things of untold horror.

Our trio, not smart enough to, were now in a strange place called the Bewitching Woods. And their memories of the black sands would fade, at least partially. They would never remember the proud Carus, nor Erm, or the Reaper. Certainly, it could be said that it was for the best. The long journey, while important, had its time.

One final thing of note, before we return to the scene of Epim, The Fairy, and the Shade.

There of course, does exist legend in the world they live, just as any other. Legend of each virtue, sin, of any particular way of life, of any peculiarity of life. These legend’s, while sometimes true and sometimes not, have a profound effect on the belief of any people.

The Bewitching Woods too, are the focal point of a legend. And that legend is as follows.

He rules the land, and his blood pumps through our veins.

On the cliff that overlooks a sea of red and a sky of blue, a castle sits. This castle is a place of age, the materials that line its walls are uniquely a black brick, but made of a material that many do not understand.

The castle has three towers, two at the front, and one in the back which was particularly tall and wide, it cast a shadow upon the red sea.

The gates are flanked by thick walls of that same brick. The count who owns the castle, and the land, allows quite a many people to habitat a village down a bit farther away.

He keeps the land calm, and the people happy. But he never leaves, and he never calls for any.

Only, recently the land has gone bad. The crops no longer grow, and beasts lurk closer to their homes. The men are sick, the women are sicker, they can do little but hope their homes keep them safe if a beast were to come. On the night of every new moon they can hear something from the castle, yelling at the sky with fury.

Hunter’s have come recently from the forest that predates the cliff, they steal the sick and take their valuables, goods, and even sometimes them. From afar, and nearby, the Bewitching Woods call a curse to all who live there.

The count has closed his ears The woods curse those who walk, and the land rots. Fear, The Bewitching Woods.

This is where our trio finds themselves. And while they are certainly not here with great intent, they will find themselves wandering the woods as any other. But that of course, can not come until after Epim has his reunion.

And while the land may shift, and there may be gods. and horrors without description, and there will certainly be too many stories to tell, our trio came from the black sands. They would not be deterred by oddity, or by a stretch of unexplainable time.

And they may too have legends written about them, one day, and they may change just as the land does. Regardless, the legends will speak of them as they were seen, not as they were.