(Tyvian still has the smell of heady wine in his nostrils as he drifts past the crest of thought, and deeper into the quiet of sleep. So much pain and so much sorrow. The images of suffering no longer plague his thoughts as he falls deeper and deeper and deeper…
In this temple of Bregor the Father, his mother’s voice can be heard in the simplest things – The whine of a horse on the street beyond the courtyard. The pounding of a tapestry rod as a chambermaid cleans the day from her master’s floor. The bells…the bells are ringing in the gentle desert breeze. Not the clanging alarm of distress as when the brothers summoned help to their halls. But soft, soft, soft…heavy metal caressed by the soft, gentle stroking of the wind. Her wind. Our mother’s wind. Pure and life-giving. A delicate, cool hand bringing clean spring water to your feverish forehead…)
“Tyvian Meer. My son. You have given so much of your youth. To my name you bring honor and strength, purity and piety stronger than those that have given lifetimes to my name. You, dear boy…understand the song I sing and the gift I give to this Wyrld. You know the face of my dark brother and the pain he seeks to unleash in a blight upon my green fields. My Brothers have their champions and I have mine. I will ask you to be strong for your journey has just begun. Drink of the pure water of the land and rise up each day with my strength. Go with my blessing and in the twilight you shall sit at my side as we watch together the time of this Wyrld pass into night. But do not rush, sweet Tyvian. There is plenty of time for all that.”
(Somewhere in the comforting darkness, her face shines with the light only her smile can give.)
“To you, priest of my name…I arm you with your faith.”
(Tyvian awakens in the morning, feeling fresh, alert and empowered. He looks about the small chamber in the Temple of Bregor…the sun bathing the walls in warmth and healing. Tyvian stands with renewed vigor, breathing the morning’s cool air deep into his lungs. The voice of his Mother brings tears to his eyes. He stands, stretches and looks out the window to the courtyard below. And just outside the ledge stretches an intricate spider web – the labor of a night’s diligent work. In the middle of the web, a single leaf – seeming to glow in a strange hue of purple as rich as the cloak of the Dunbach king. The leaf seems to float, held aloft by the tiny strands of silk.
In the leather of the leaf’s body is scrawled three words – simply read in the old Nyverian tongue.)
“Sanctify. Sanctuary. Sacrosanct.”