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'Tis a poor night to be a-travelling, my friend. A poorer one still to spend in an alehouse among
these rabble. What reason have ye to spend a cold, dark eve in so sorry a manner?
Collectin' tales, ye say. Ye'll be hearin' no tales in this house, friend, leastways none be
deservin' o' fallin' upon a lady's ears. Ye need not look so surprised; it takes no mage to tell
a fine young lady from the inebriated sots that fill this alehouse from dusk 'til dawn, myself
included. But mayhap I speak in excess. Pray tell, what urges ye thus to seek out tales in such
haste?
A Web Page, ye say. I know not what reason ye may have to seek this young man, nor do I know of
any Spider Lords in these parts... leastways none that would threaten you with the 11 million
bites that ye speak of in so hushed and fearful a tone. But I know that no tales deservin' such
reverence shall be told tonight.
Willin' to take any tale, are ye? Very well. If ye be that eager to hear the tales of an old man,
then that I shall do for ye. Settle back, friend, for this be no short tale. It be a long tale,
a tale of magic, and good, and evil, and dragons.........................................................................
Call me Ishmael. No, call me Bob. No, call me..... Well, it matters not what ye call me. Naught
but my tale matters. It be a true tale, no matter what the scribes and historians say, and I
know it to be true, for I was there myself, so many years ago.
In those days, this town was naught more than a tiny village, a small clumping of even smaller
shacks, running the risk of being swallowed up by the misty Forever Wood around us. People from
afar would speak evil of the forest, saying that the trees were enchanted, that evil spirits
lived in their branches, ensuring that those who entered the Forever Wood never left. There
were, of course, marked paths and trails winding betwixt the trees, but they never seemed to
stay in the same place twice, and people would whisper of evil magic, and cast furtive, fearful
glances upon the Wood.
But we villagers cared not. All we knew was that the forest had powerful magic, and that
whomever controlled the magic meant us no ill. So we lived in peace with the Forever Wood.
And once every seven-day, someone, perhaps a mid-wife seeking healing herbs by light of the
moon, would see something odd; a flash of silver, where no silversmith had ever tread, or a
strange spiral something peeking through the vines. And she would ignore it, as we did all
strange occurrences of the Wood, and go about her business, as we always did. Always, that is,
until the mage came.
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