The Weeping of Roke

There was a snow-blasted, half-deserted hamlet in the shadow of Mount Hrask--Oh Holy Hrask--where the elders traded in memories. The few people that lived there paid no tribute, and knew no Baron. Their highest authority was their youngest resident, the brewer, Evrick Shoaste, or Evrick the Blonde. Deep beneath Evrick's brewery still sleep the mummies of martyrs and murderers alike. Documents in bone. The village is called Roke, an ancient Drauvien word meaning "Antiquity."

Men from all over the world came to Roke; not many, and not often, but important men, at important times. They sought history, and left satisfied. The Elders of Roke knew it all, from beginning to end. They and their fathers we there for every chapter.

Evrick Shoaste was the son of Patre, who was also a brewer to his trade, but became a hero in the final moments of Last Battle; it was prohesied to be the world's ending, the final cataclysmic clashing of Drauv, Gods, and Dragunne, Men. Troubling then, that history continues. Apparently Men won. In point of fact, they cheated.

Evrick has just reached forty when a man from the East visits him alone in his brewery on the first night of the new moon. He carries a writ and a sword, and departs in the pre-dawn hours, leaving his writ stuck to the door with an iron nail. It hadn't been hammered; apparently, he'd driven it into the wood with his bare thumb.

It read, in ancient Drauvien: Echolum Drauva Drai. The translation was provided, though these lore-steeped men had no need for it. It meant, "Remember the Gods' Will."

Evrick was found stewing in his own still, his smile peaceful, his body unmarred, his life run out. The Elders called it the First Blood of the Correction, and all were overcome with tears, and died.