ever again come to Krynn, we will want to know something
of our traditions before everything was destroyed.”
“But this is not the time to do it!” often came the curt
response from some fleeing traveler, sometimes with
everything he owned in a wagon or in a dogcart or even
upon his own back, his family often in tow.
“Ah, but this is exactly the time to do it,” returned Aril
Witherwind automatically, “before too much is forgotten by
the current sweep of events.”
“Well, good luck to you, then!” would as likely be the
answer as the party hurried off to some hopefully safer
comer of Krynn.
Undaunted, Aril Witherwind criss-crossed the
countryside, traversing shadowy valleys, sun-lit fields, and
sombre forests. He stopped at the occasional surviving inn,
passed through refugee encampments, and even marched
along with armies, all the time asking whomever he met if
he or she knew a story that he could put into his big black
book.
In time, it became clear to Aril that he usually had the
best luck with the older folks – indeed, the older the better.
These grayhairs were not only the most likely to remember
a story or two, but they were the ones most likely to be
interested in relating it. Perhaps it was because they
welcomed the opportunity to slow down and reminisce
awhile. Or perhaps it was because they had not much of a
future to give to Krynn, only their pasts.
In any case, Aril Witherwind soon learned to seek them
out almost exclusively, and his book slowly began to fill
with stories from before the Cataclysm, when Krynn had
been in what he considered its Golden Age.
He gave each story an appropriate title, and then he
gave due credit to the source by adding: “. . . as told by
Henrik Hellendale, a dwarven baker” or “. . . as told by
Verial Stargazer, an elven shepherd” or “… as told by Frick
Ashfell, a human woodchopper” and so forth.
People often asked Aril what his favorite story was,
but, with the professional objectivity proper to an academic,
he’d say only, “I like them all.”
But, really, if you could read his mind, there was a
favorite, and that was one “. . . as told by Barryn Warrex, a
Solamnic Knight.”
It had been on a particularly lovely spring day – a day,
indeed, when all of nature seemed happy and unconcerned
with the political upheaval miles away – when Aril, while
traversing the length of a grassy and flower-dotted valley,
espied a knight, kneeling at the base of the valley wall. The
knight, as luck would have it, was an old one.
“Perfect,” murmured Aril to himself as he strode
toward the grand man, stopping several paces away.
At first, the old knight didn’t seem to realize he had an
audience. He simply continued his kneeling, his head
bowed in either deep meditation or perhaps even in
respectful prayer to the recently deposed gods of Krynn.
Behind him was a low, rocky overhang, almost a cave
really, which was apparently serving as his humble, if
temporary, shelter – The Order of the Solamnic Knights,
you see, had been destroyed in the Cataclysm and fallen
into disrepute, its few remaining members scattered by the
four winds.
It seemed to Aril Witherwind that such events must have
taken a truly terrible toll on this fellow, maybe making him
look even older than he was, for he had a drawn, haggard
face; his hair, though thick, was totally white; and his
hands, clenched before him, were gnarly, almost arthritic.
Still, Aril could see much in the man that boasted of the
old grandeur of his order. He was dressed in his full plate
armor, a great sword hanging at his side, his visorless
helmet and shield resting nearby on a flat rock. And though
he was kneeling, he did seem to be quite tall – that is, long
of limb. But what impressed Aril Witherwind the most was
his truly copious moustache, a long white one that drooped
with a poignant flourish so that its tips nearly brushed the
ground as he knelt there.
A lot of pride must go into that moustache, mused Aril