Deep within that space that people call the Ethereal, a realm between reality and the afterlife, a fortress stood. A place crafted of metaphor and power and in its very stones radiated the most power ever held within human hands. Great basalt stones made up the walls that climbed impossibly high, and at irregular intervals there were thirteen great towers, each surmounted by the gargantuan form of ancient dragons of all the colours of the rainbow. A bridge extended from each tower to a central room that seemed to simply hang in the air suspended by the bridges themselves defying all the laws of physics that could not exist in reality but was simply a part of the Ethereal.

It was within this central structure that a meeting was taking place, nine great thrones were occupied by nine powerful figures. Each appeared different, marked by features and skin tones of nine very different races of men, and yet they all exuded a power signature that was almost identical. These men and women were so connected as to be almost seen as merely slivers of the one being, and yet here they were locked in argument, voices raised and incriminations abounding.

One who sat on the left side of the room had the visage of a middle aged man with a full beard of ruddy crimson hair, matched by a shoulder length leonine mane and a golden circlet. His chest was broad and he bore hands the size of hams. Behind his throne hung a short broad-bladed sword with a heavy pommel and it all was surmounted by a fleur de lys, the symbol of his people, those he had left behind so long ago. He smiled to think of them, despite the years he had been gone, the flow of energy that even now came to him through the throne from them was as strong as ever. He turned his head to the man opposite him, he was not as large but he had a regal grace to him that the red-headed man could not match and he offered an easy smile to his friend as they did their best to ignore the shouts.

“Bohemund, have you felt any shift in your own energies?” The red head asked.

“There has been something in the East Roland, I am still receiving the flow but it feels thinner, and I can’t ascertain the cause.” The regal man said in answer.

A scream rent the air as one of the women fell against her throne in agony and interrupted the debate that had been raging for innumerable days so far, though the flow of time within the Ethereal was hard to track as it didn’t seem to affect anything happening within the real. All heads turned to the woman whose face was contorted in pain and whose colour had begun to leach away from her.

“Her flow has ceased,” an old man with a long wispy beard said in horror, matched by a loud roar from outside that spoke of pain and fear. His words hit the gathered members of the council like hammer blows and even Roland was now on his feet. The normally unflappable man turned to meet his friend’s eyes in shock.

Bohemund did not flinch and with a wave of his hand committed a portion of his own flow to the woman, colour returned to her features though she remained slumped against her throne. He turned to them all, “my friends, I call on each of you to share a thread with Lady Anoke, if one falls we all fall,” his voice was firm and as one the group followed his lead and the lady was restored enough to sit up and nod her thanks to them all.

“We have all felt the shift in the flows, it has been happening for half a century in the Real now and we can not afford to ignore it,” Bohemund maintained his steady tone as he met the eyes of each of his peers, “a thousand years since our ascension and since we built this bulwark against the Nether, a thousand years of holding the line, it has been so long that those who we left behind are no longer there, those we protect now have never met us we are but stories and fables to them, and this is not the first time we have seen this happen after all, our enemy is an insidious one and we know what they can accomplish with mere whispers.”

Roland spread his hands, “I have felt the birth of a new True Vessel from my descendants, with the permission of this council I would ask that we bless him,” his voice rumbled across the intervening space and drew the attention of everyone.

“Do you think the Sons of Roland deserve another Saint among their ranks?” A quiet voice hissed from between the gaps in Lord Tetzl’s front teeth, “after all you remember what happened last time we blessed a mortal.” Rolan rolled his eyes.

“Last time was not one of my people and besides, have you forgotten that we were once one of them?” Roland’s voice held barely restrained violence as his volume mounted.

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“Calm yourself brother, we are all family here, Tetzl you know better.” Bohemund chided them both, “the last Saint was a mistake but it is a mistake we all bear responsibility for, and it is not a reason to punish all of those we protect, if you’re so worried about Roland’s progeny, do you happen to have knowledge of a True Vessel?”

Tetzl shook his scarred head in acknowledgement, offering Roland a somewhat sheepish smile that looked out of place on his craggy features, “will you accept my apology brother and know that my fear makes me rash?” Roland waved a hand.

“I understand the fear brother,” he turned and met Bohemund’s eye, “I have felt this boy as he’s grown, he’s suitable, albeit young, in time he can grow into exactly what we need.”

“I trust Roland’s intuition, even before our ascension his instincts never led us astray.” The weakened voice of Lady Anoke said from across the meeting hall. This earned a round of nods from the gathered men and women of power. The largest of them, a wild man who wore scraps of fur and kept his chest bare, covered in writhing tattoos of blue ink that seemed to move across his skin, rose and approached the centre of the hall, casting a bag of bones across the floor.

The giant knelt and observed how the fragments fell, as each in turn leaned forward on their thrones to observe how his threads intermingled with the fragments. The skull of a dragon, that somehow looked diminutive in his hand, had fallen beside that of a horse, and several talons lay in a pile beside them.

“Torin?” Bohemund asked of the wild man. Torin turned blind eyes on Bohemund, the white irises filmed over like an ancient.

“The Son of Roland will face many trials, and in the forgotten lands he will find that which will save us from extinction, the vault of the first ones will reveal itself under the claw of the drake...” his voice petered out after a moment before the film retracted from his white eyes and Torin seemed to come back to himself, “I’m sorry Bohemund, my sight can’t pierce beyond that moment.” This led to gasps and mutterings erupting around the room as all the gathered men and women questioned what it could mean.

“Calm yourselves my brothers and sisters,” Torin said as he now raised his hands, “the Vault is a mystery that we have yet to unravel, anything dealing with the First Ones has always been beyond my sight it does not mean this boy is cause for concern yet,” he nodded to Bohemund, “I agree with my sister,” he gestured to Lady Anoke, “but more than that I don’t think there’s another True Vessel, and so it is our only choice.”

“Very well,” Bohemund said as he rose from his throne, “Roland, keep us apprised of this boy, when he comes into his powers we can make the decision, for now let us hope he grows strong and good.”

Roland’s personal chamber within his tower was spartan, bearing only a chair and a great glass dome in the floor. The time of the Breaching was still centuries away and so he contented himself to observing the movements of his descendants and the True Vessel that had been born to them. The millenia since his ascent had been kind to those he left behind, they had grown strong in their rule of his former lands and their numbers had become plentiful. They bickered over things like blood legitimacy which only made him shake his head in frustration, when he had still walked among them such things were of no consequence, all that mattered was the link of family, not issues of marriage.

Still he had to admit they seemed to be moving beyond such things. He watched as the True Vessel took his first steps, the small boy with his shock of blonde hair toddled around the great hall of a castle much to the delight of his family and their retainers who all cheered his little exploits of climbing the benches and tables and catching a castle dog unawares and riding it around like a great steed.

Roland smiled fondly at the boy’s antics and felt the pangs of heart ache once more, he and his siblings had given up their humanity for a great cause, but in doing so they had left behind such simple things. He remembered all too well watching his own son grow in his own long hall. The family had looked more like him in those days, with thick manes of red hair, but hose traits had faded with time, still he could see his features in them all in some form, one had his nose and another his heavy brows. He sighed deeply as he refocused on the boy and with more power than the average magister could conjure he simply waved a finger and prevented the boy from crashing into the stone corner of the great hall.

This would be his watch, the boy was his charge until he could come into his power, he would ensure he reached an age where he could become the man they needed. Roland’s head fell back as he observed the darkening clouds that roiled above his tower like some great thunder storm of old, and he felt the slumbering growls of Durendal who clung to his tower. The Breaching would arrive again before they knew it and when that day came they would need all their strength, just as they had last time, but until then he must simply watch this boy grow, and hope that the First Ones’ plan included just a little bit of luck.