[center][color=Darkslategray][h1]The Adventurous Historian[/h1][/color][/center]

Strange things had been happening of late. The world grew colder despite the season, and at first, he assumed an early stream of eastern winds making their way west, but as things began getting colder and colder, he didn't think himself right. If anything, the northern winds should have overpowered the eastern, bringing in the heat from the deserts to warm their climate, not make it cold. And yet, there he sat, within his carriage, covered in a cloak tipped fur, shivering. He heard talk of the end of the world coming by the fervent religious few who took their religious matters far beyond the ordinary. That didn't mean they weren't religious, his people were extremely religious, yet they were sensible as well. Perhaps he was being sent out because he didn't quite share their view in religion. Oh, he definitely believed in the gods, but the tales of the many Heroes of old, that many took to be more than legend and myth, he couldn't believe. There was no sufficient proof for their existence.

He tried arguing this point with a colleague of his in the High College, but no good deed goes unpunished. If what he was doing could be considered a good deed at all. He remembered walking the marble halls of the college, its high ceiling interspersed with chandeliers of crystal and diamonds, its walls were nutmeg brown and high, tall windows that showed a view of the luscious gardens were set into them.

The historian recalled walking through the halls, his shoes snapping against the marble floor with every determined stride to show his papers. As a historian, he was allowed some strange views, and to pursue such things that could be classified as blasphemous, but he did it all sincerely out of enlightenment. His thirst for knowledge was strong, and it was that thirst that got him into trouble. He was to make a presentation on the subject of the Seven Vows philosophy, which in essence were a set of vows to live in peaceful coexistence with the world while using one's strength to protect those who could not protect themselves. He knew a modified version of the philosophy were used as a basis when the Federation was being founded. Curious about them, he searched the origins of the Vows and subsequently came to learn about Luther and the legend behind him.

The paper he took to his colleague was about that particular hero and his legend; years of research went into it, nearly a decade of traveling through Ivorine temple to Ivorine temple where he found the most volume of Luther's legend, and although he found a few documents, most of the information he had received was from word of mouth. In his papers, he wrote the legend of Luther was perhaps only a fictional tale to tell of the conception of the unique fighting style used by the ironically peaceful Ivorine monks. His colleague, although he agreed the paper was well written, took it to the deans of the college, who sent him off to the ruins of the Hirrlow kingdom to further study the legend.

And there he was now. It was on his journey west that the world slowly began to feel more and more queer. Two suns were visible in the sky, but they did little and less to overpower the cold, as if their own warmth drew back from the world. Two disks in the sky as useful in their warmth as nipples on men. He cursed silently and turned his head from the window in the carriage.

Several hours later, the carriage came to halt, and the historian stepped out into the cold, frigid air. To the east he saw the crags of the Giant's Maw Valley, and in front of him -- southward from what he could tell by the suns' descent -- he saw the ruins of the great Hirrlow kingdom. Pillars dotted the ground, half buried in mounds and burrows. Ancient stone structures were all but destroyed around, and the remnants of a great wall rose in the horizon. But the capital of the forgotten kingdom wasn't what he came for. He heard of a Grand Temple that rested here, forgotten to all save the monks, and it was to his right that he saw the anomaly in the ruined land.

Instead of a ruined temple, there stood a great temple, albeit empty, with grounds that were freshly cut, and stone walkways that looked to be meticulously tended to. What he and his hired help looked at was a cared for garden that outmatched the High College, with wooden canopies and fountains that all led to a main building that was both large and beautiful in a humble sort of way.

"Strange place, this," a mercenary hired by the college said, looking around, his hand resting easily on his pommel. The historian agreed, and walked forward into monastery and when he called out, no one answered. He called again, but again, no answer came. Deciding that whoever took care of the place was inside, he went into the building to find that unlike the garden, its insides were in ruin. As if the person who worked on the garden was too lazy, or too respectful of the place to care clean the inside of it.

The floor was made of hard stone that cracked and grew with weeds, and led to a great onyx and gold brazier upon a dais that was strangely without flame. An uneasy feeling came across the historian, but curiosity was stronger than his caution -- or his sense of self preservation for that matter -- and stepped up to the dais to see instead of embers, ashes. He put his hand inside and found the ashes cold. "Strange," he whispered to himself and stepped from the dais.

"I don't like the feeling of this place," the mercenary said, and the historian noticed he had a sudden rigid look about him, a honed sense of instinct from years on the road that told him something was amiss. "We should leave historian."

The historian looked around trying to see if there were any passages that led away from the dais. There. "Not yet," he said and approached what he appeared to be a set of descending stairs. "I think I'd like to study this ancient place a bit more."

"Not my place to say, but I wouldn't be going down there if I were you. I'll follow, but I bloody well won't like it."

"You have a sword, good friend. What use is it if you won't use it. Bring out the torch would you and handed it here." The historian took the torch and descended the stairs. It seemed to take ages, spiraling downward for long minutes, until such a point the historian thought it would go on forever. Then they reached the bottom and unlike what he had anticipated -- a dark, cold room filled with cobwebs and a suffocating atmosphere -- what he was met with was instead, a lush room with bright candles on either side with a high ceiling that had it's own candles to light the room. A miniature version of the garden above was inside and somehow the grass and flowers were kept alive without sunlight, and a feint glow emanated from them. In the center of the garden was a large stone tomb upon a white marble dais that gave the place a serene, but incredibly beautiful feel. 

He approached the stone structure and found a square stone slab about a meter before the dais with an ancient language chiseled into the rock. He recognized it as Old Hymuris and knelt down before it so he could see the words clearer and read it aloud:

[center][i]The Father of the Path of Heavenly Fists, the Sage of Peace, the Savior of Hirrlow, the Chosen of Ivorine. The Pathfinder. It was through great personal sacrifice that Luther saved our land, and allowed it to become the kingdom that it is now. I leave this garden as a gift for our savior, in hopes that he may enjoy it in the afterlife, or that those who come by may know of the great beauty that was within this man.
- King Teravor IV[/i][/center]

The historian stayed in place without moving for a long moment. A silence hung in the air as he slowly came to realize that the legends might have actually been true. And excitement filled him. He had discovered proof that the most ancient hero, save for Ansur, did in fact exist and the paper he would publish would bring him such fame that he would be talked about for eons! He stood, elated, and took in a deep breath to speak of the wonder he had just discovered to his mercenary guard when a deafening thunder-like crack echoed around the room with such force it nearly drove him to his knees.

"Arete's tits! Get back, old man," the mercenary shouted as he moved forward and shoved the historian behind him. He fell onto the floor, face down, hitting his head on something hard. Although a little woozy, he distinctly heard a sword being unsheathed and the grunt of the mercenary. He then heard a very dull thud as a body fell to the ground.

[center][h1][color=mediumaquamarine]Luther - The Pathfinder[/color][/h1][/center]

Luther looked down at the strange man that had attacked him, on the floor and unconscious. It had been by instinct that Luther felled him, but he payed no mind to the man. His eyes were wide with shock as he took in deep breaths. 

He was back. 

Why? Who brought him back? A dark sorcerer perhaps? No, it couldn't be, his flesh was too whole, and he felt revitalized. He looked down at his body, and instead of seeing dozens upon dozens of bleeding wounds, he found skin that was complete and unblemished save for his tattoos. He looked ahead and found another man beginning to sit up, rubbing his head in a sort of garden, but they weren't outside. He looked around and realized he was in some sort of hall lit with strange glass that had fire burning within them.

He descended from the dais, confused and walked up to the man and crouched in front of him. The man seemed to look as amazed and confused as he did. "Y-you're alive," he stammered.

Luther noticed he wore strange clothes, and had a stranger hair style. And from the way he looked, he could see he had Nirlos blood in him. "Who are you?" Luther asked not unkindly.

The man blinked. "I can't believe it," he said rising to his feet. Luther followed suit. "I can't believe it! How? You're alive!"

"You have a fondness of repeating yourself, don't you?" Luther said, raising an eyebrow over the sash that covered his face.

"I-I'm sorry, it's just. I didn't... I wasn't expecting you to come to life."

"I can assure you that was the last thing I expected as well. Sadly, Fate has a way of bending the rules to amuse herself. Now, mind telling me who you are?"

"I can't believe it. Luther alive right in front of me. This has to be some sort of sorcery. It has to be! You can't be real, can you? Faerthus guide us, imagine the renown I will get when I walk back the College with you in Tow! Oh, but the scandal! How will they believe me? You hardly look like you do in the drawings, and the monks! I must --"

Luther placed a hand on the man's shoulder, calming him and cutting him short. "You are a strange man," he said with a smile. "The man who attacked me was your companion?"

"Him? Oh, he was my guard."

"No harm, then. I would have been just as shocked if I saw a dead man rise from the ground. A good guard. Now, if you will excuse me, strange man, I must meditate on how, and more importantly, why I am back."

"Of-of course. By all means."

Luther regarded the strange man a moment more before walking back to the dais and sat next to the unconscious guard and cleared his mind, the world around him going dark once more. He breathed in and out in slow measured breathes, and channeled into his Heavenly Magic by which he could feel the essence of life and nature around him. He sought answers and thought of why he would be brought back. Perhaps a powerful man resurrected him from his slumber, or perhaps it was the doing of the gods who disturbed his sleep. If it was, he would need to confirm with Ivorine. Although he was a Grand Monk he was never as close with the god as he could have been, he had a fierce independence about him and relying upon a god was somehow against that. But he tried now, if only for answers to a strange riddle, but when he did, he felt nothing.

Never before had he felt [i]nothing[/i], there was always a presence. Yet, that nothing was as loud as a scream, and it felt horribly, [i]horribly[/i] wrong. Luther opened his eyes. The man sat patiently, albeit with an eager look on his face, before him. The mercenary began to stir and Luther stood. Curious, he asked. "How long was I dead, strange man?"

"Fifty thousand years."