[h2]Sir Roland Grey - Top of Ekilore[/h2]

Many tales have been told about the monks over many years, often evolving from place to place, and changing from era to era. They have existed for as long as the tower has, but even then no precise date of their commencement is known. Some say that the monks were sent by the Council of Nine to watch over the world of Ekilore. Others of the north claim that they are the gods of Ragnell incarnate. There is also debate about the longevity of the monks. Some believe that there were only ever these monks, and that they are more than human, but less than gods, gifted with long-lasting life. Various other stories hint that the monks are in fact human, and that when a monk dies, they are secretly replaced by some furtive means. There are countless other tales told and retold about the monks, but few facts. However, in his studies, Roland has ascertained a few: to be summoned by the monks is considered an immense honor; many find the monks highly respectable, though there are those few who believe them meddlesome; the monks on the very infrequent occasions in history have provided prophecies to those who would hear them, and they have consistently been accurate.

Roland listened silently, trying to focus on the monk’s message even if his eyes kept a good bulk of his attention as well. There was something ominous about them, as if they stared right into Roland’s very soul. Perhaps it was the gods’ way of testing him, and from the sound of it, this would indeed be his ultimate test. And the rewards promised, one in particular caught his fancy. The idea of immortality. The way they said it, it seemed as if they were appealing directly to his own soul's nature. Roland knew he would never get the fable of immortality, as these monks may or may not have. Yet immortality has many forms, and the way that one is remembered is part of it. He was intrigued, but Roland’s better judgment still found too many unknowns about this quest. Even if something about this situation called him towards it, he still felt obligated to know more. The whole idea seemed a bit far-fetched, after all. While the odd-looking knight and another agreed initially, another, darker fellow appeared more cautious. 

The unhooded monk's red eyes peered at Catskull and studied him closely. They lingered on him for the briefest of moments, before the monk gave the man a smile. "I unfortunately do not have this information in full, Lord Catskull Maclung. The text speak of something which tried to stop them; an opponent, or enemy, one whose visions for the world were misaligned. And perhaps this led to them being unable to use the stone, or to have it destroyed before its use."

The monk continued, freeing his gaze from Catskull and turning his attention to the entire group. "The Orb of Ardor is an artifact from an age in which magic was potent and continuously studied, a far cry from today's Aerion in which magic is an art that people fear and prosecute. From what research we could complete, the Orb of Ardor contains extraordinary power and knowledge within it. In the proper hands, it could cure disease, end famines, and influence nations. In the improper hands, it could cheat death, kill millions, and bring about those same things we seek to cure."

"I will not pretend to know everything however. We are the voices of the prophecies, not necessarily the interpreters of them. Our duty is to utter that which we see and hear, not decipher what is being said. The only knowledge given to us by this prophecy is that with it held the power to save this world. Yes, the idea of such an object existing is dubious. Yet throughout the millenniums of our existence, these prophecies have proven to be accurate. We present the opportunity to partake on a quest that could end in creating something that seems so unbelievable, yet now appears to be possible. Is it not worth taking the risk of uncertainty for a purpose far beyond any one individual or country?"

Roland crossed his arms and stared at the monks with a certain sense of superiority, before casting his gaze at the red-eyed monk. Even with his oddly colored eyes, Roland made every effort to put off a strong front, neither flinching nor showing signs of discomfort, though secretly, he had to admit he was quite uneasy. 

Yet what the monks said next made Roland think. The goal of creating something that this world desperately needed was enticing. But it was as the monks said: Was it worth the quest? Roland thought it over. His loyalty lied with Hector and Reigncliff foremost. He would want nothing more than to see his lord sit upon the thrown of Ethora, which is his rightful position. Roland would do anything to bring him there. If what the monks said was true, this orb could help bring him there. Through Roland’s fame and reputation upon its completion, he could be boosted into a more respectable position, which would no doubt help in Hector’s claim to the throne. But besides all of that, Roland truly recognized that there was something wrong with Aerion. Maybe it was always like this. Maybe it only recently became thus. Either way, it was in need of fixing, and Roland could think of no one more capable of doing so than himself. He pulled out his sword from its sheath.

“This quest is indeed befitting of one such as me. I vow to gather these shards and place them back together. I will not falter, and every foe that will stand in my way, no matter where he may hail from, shall be felled in pursuit of this cause. Let it be known that upon this day, Roland of House Grey, champion of Reigncliff, will see this mission done.”