[h1]The Patrio Gran[/h1]
	[h2]Sandro Clariamata[/h2]

	Even by afternoon, the high smooth mountains held in their restful bosoms the fog of morning. The air dense and heavy, everything sweated. From the pouldrons of the retinues to the stones of the towers that rose about the landscape, dotting each and every valley and seeking to rise above the ground-level layer of fog. The effect was not every day, but it was not uncommon. When the residents felt the cold winds of the north sweep south, bringing rain and storm they knew that in all possibility, the fogs would return, and dropping to below the trees would be trapped and held in their shade, billowing against the sides of the mountains of whose cauldrons they fell into. The silver white mist lapped against the stones and the brush of the forested valleys, driven in the same way waves move across a lake, or on the ocean.

	Riding their horses through the fog, the sounds of birds and the rustling of animals  took on a muted and distant character. Apart from the grinding of the stones under the horses hooves or their low billowing snorts all other sounds sounded and felt further a way. Or if close, heard through a wall of vapor. Even light was muted beneath the trees, with what little light that shown through the trees taking on an emerald light. The men had to go without torches, the humidity already kissing their faces and their uniform so heavily moisture beaded into droplets that rolled about with the swaying at each step; the torches would be soaked.

	But it was hardly needed, and it hardly made the voyage any less dangerous. The road was wide, so as to accommodate error. Broad leafed ferns stretched their rolling tendrils up and out into the road, where their gentle caress brushed the legs of the riders and flanks of the horses. Brightly colored orchids faded quickly into view from the thick mist as the men passed, their bright fluorescent bodies open to the misty afternoon and dripping thick with moisture and sweet smelling nectar; the bees were already hard at work with the tickling and supping from the flowers' wombs.

	The road shifted, and soon the riders were lifted up onto a mossy stone bridge. The jungle about them lifted and the light of the noon sky poured in. The glistening of a stream shone through the fog, and the dark shapes of figures in at the river side. The sounds of women talking echoed up to the riders as they passed along. Their activities obscured in the haze, but it was known and clear that they were doing laundry. They knew in a few moments, they would be coming on a village, and soon their destination.

	The shrouded village was a densely clustered arrangement of small homes around a central square. Several streets spider webbed out from the central axis, where crowning the plaza stood a small chapel. The homes, built of stone and shingled with red clay bore the flaking surfacing of cracked and split mortar, painted solid colors, from the humidity the old plaster was routinely peeling back, revealing the naked stone underneath which turned green with algae and slime. Here the air was clearer at the least, the open skies giving vent to the haze that fell about them on many occasions. Seated on boxes or wooden chairs old men with fans in their hand sat half naked as they watched the street life pass around them, the riders marching on, the chickens pecking between the cobble stones, and the children running in play, dressed only in large, thin shirts. Elsewhere beyond, the younger and abler men were in the forest, clearing timbers, tending fields, or in search of wild herbs and spices.

	Passing the village, the riders assumed their ascent and began their climb up the mountain side, soon leaving behind the misty cover of the valley before and to turn back and see the gentle rolling of its waves of mist below the tree tops. Rising like broad crowned towers, the thousands of large, ancient trees that filled the wooded realm below the rich powerful tropical trees broke the misty surface and stretched out their branches and leaves into greater platforms. And others yet jostled and fought with them, struggling not only with the fog, but with their more ancient hold fasts. Flocks of birds moved about across the surface of the great white in blackened clouds, flirting with the evaporating tendrils and diving in and out like schools of flying fish.

	Above them, looming on the edge of a granite pier off the side of a mountain stood a castle, a fortress. It's singular keep rising higher than most, especially towards the north. It's mere presence at the edge of a perepice, in difficult country testimony to the particular ingenuity and grit of its builders, centuries dead. The vines and ivy that grew from between the great white and gray granite blocks that built its walls serving now as banners, never mind the old flags and insignia's that bore the coat of arms of the old clan that lived there. It had taken on new owners since, in the time since their death it had changed hands many times, at auction, in sale, in inheritance. The new flags of the man that owned it no longer flew from the sides of the parapets, but flew atop the ramparts on ramrod straight iron poles. A yellow banner, with a red rose.

	Scaling to the main gate the riders were let in without hassle or judgment, and so they entered  Sandro Clariamata.

	They rode out into the courtyard, centered with an elaborate fountain that served to do nothing more than produce more water for an already humid air. With the horses sweating, the riders relieved them of their own weight and stepped down onto the ground. There were no special greetings for them, and in fact were treated almost as if nothing special had happened. The riders, having dismounted lead their horses to the stables, a red bricked building at the side of the courtyard, flanked by and enveloped by a larger guard house and barracks crowned with a large bastion of a tower.

	The lead rider however did not follow. And hoisting a leather bag on his shoulder stepped towards the keep. His broad chin held up as his eyes lead his gaze up the height of the tower, balconies and verandas loomed overhead, cut into the keep itself. The castle in its time had become less defensive, and more palatial.

	All up and down the keep, as with the out buildings each window was crowned by outwardly hanging awnings, carved of the native rock, they formed arching clam shells that case a shadow over the windows, often adorned with spikes to repel birds, these often failed as several brightly colored small parrots watched the man approach. As well, each corner of the keep had added even taller towers, capped and crowned with a roof, and under series of open windows set to capture the wind. The verandas and inlaid porches were themselves oriented on the keep to help catch the wind, facing predominately the north or southern sides.

	The rider stepped into the keep, pulling open the great wooden doors and stepping into the dimly lit, high ceiling chambers beyond. It was relatively cool, and a bubbling fountain that splashed with fresh water seemed to give relief to the traveller. Approaching it, he splashed cool water onto his face, and washed away the buggy stickiness that had bothered him so much on the road. He breathed a sigh of relief.

	He set off down high ceiling halls in wood paneling, and ascended the stairs. Walking into a study onto the second floor, he pulled the satchel from his shoulder and held it out to presentation to the young man seated at a chair by the window, his legs crossed as he sat half-naked reading a book. “Your honor, Franco Mersculi.” the man said in a calm voice.

	The seated man looked up and turned to see the retainer in his door. Shutting the book on a piece of cloth he rose excitedly and walked towards him. Franco Mersculi was not much in the way of an impressive man, short, flabby, and balding prematurely. His beard was thin, which he made an effort of compensating for by keeping it cut short and pretending it didn't exist. His brown eyes were a sort of sleepy dullness, but were excited and lively when he came for the package.

	“Oh splendid, you managed to get it!” he cheered happily, “For all the things I thought I would have had, I can't believe I didn't have the Epic of Atrieus.”

	“I should tell you, we have it on loan. Assandra duo Mueto would like it back. I think she's afraid of the books condition. This is a family piece.” the retainer said.

	Franco didn't seem to hear him, nor did he pretend to acknowledge. He was already greedily extracting the thick tome from the leather carrying case.

	It was an ancient book to be sure. The leather cover turning a mortuary black, the brass embellishments on its cover and protecting its corners turning a dark brown. Even the writing on the cover, eloquent and white was fading to a gray barely visible in the soft light of the candles in the study. Between the covers, the faded browning pages, sandwiched close together, lose and fragile.

	“Have you heard of Atrieus's battle with the Gorgon duo Amuego?” Franco asked, his back turned and wandering back to his window side chair. The book was open in his arms, its size was immense.

	“I'm afraid I am not.”

	“It's an amazing story. Atrieus, sent by the gods to the far north finds himself at the island of Amuego in the Nordea Islle. Sent to retrieve the fruit of the Tree of Life. In the blasted diamond cold of those wastelands he enters into a battle of not just the brawn, but of the wits, and eventually wins and brings back an apple from the tree's sapphire boughs, whence having been removed angers Calomani who seals the land forever off in an eternal storm and sends down to us the storm of winter. But Atrieus's ship is blown off course, and in the open ocean he sails adrift until finding a school of fish, which riding upon returns to the sight of land.”

	“That's quiet the tale.” the retainer said, “But why do you need to read it if you know so much already?”

	“Because it is the detail!” Franco declared, “Here, help me out.” he added, setting the book down on his chair and walking over to an ornate writing desk. Many loose leaves of paper were scattered about. Many more were neatly stacked in a thick folio, and these atop one another.

	“Tell me what you think, what can fill this sentence in.” Franco said, picking up a sheet of paper half filled with delicate cursive.

	“'Doth your rage and calumny that doth spite you.' said the giant to he, 'that doth brew from the gaping vacancy of that dreaded cave...” Franco stopped, looking up his retainer. His lack of expression and tentative silence told enough of the story.

	“It is a shame.” Franco said, “I wish I had the name. I know all the qualities and the circumstances of the legendary cave of the gorgon but not what it was called.

	“Well, I'm sure you will find it.” the retainer said, forcing a smile.

	“And much more. But thank you for the service.” Franco said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, returning to his seat.

	At that, the retainer bowed and stepped out.