~Recovered History~

The inhabitants of this realm seem to know me by the name of Wynken, though I recall naught of them.
The torn pages of this journal are illegible. The writing is my own but I have no memory of it, and this sword
chills me to the core though I dare not part from it. Such a twisted and ugly weapon would be considered
unusable by most but I feel as if it is an extension of myself, and I wield it with power and precision. So
angering that I struggle to know who or where I was one year ago but recount vividly the distant past that
has made me who I am today. Those harsh realities, lessons well learned in my youth. I suppose I can
thank my father for that in the least. He got his in the end, although those early years spent at his manor
were not without benefit, that mansion that doubled as guildhall for The Hand of Azrael.

They were a band of mercenaries, hired killers really, few in number but most efficient. Daggers were
forced into my hands as soon they could adequately wield them. I was no more than six years of age
when I received my first lesson in armed combat, and the small scar on my right hand still bears resemblance
to the teeth marks from the rat in that musty celler. One of many trials I would endure with little gained other
than personal development and a growing need to earn the respect that my father carelessly withheld.

I would not have survived my adolescence without the training I received under the weapon masters and
thieves there, as I was expelled from the hall upon my thirteenth year. Told by my own father to not return
until I could do so undetected, I took to the dank and impoverished streets of the city under threat of death
at the hands of my father's cohorts. Employing the skills I had acquired, I carved out an existence in the
city's vicious underbelly, taking what I needed to survive from those unable or unwilling to keep it from me.
Though existence became easier with the passage of time and I began to settle in to the routine of my life
on the streets, the deep seated hatred I harbored for my father was never far from my mind. I watched as
even wretched and destitute children played games and tarried in the streets, enjoying their existence in the
bliss of careless freedom. As I looked on them with jealousy and rage, I couldn't help but feel comfort in
that my existence was real, and that their happiness would fade leaving nothing to show for it.

By the age of sixteen I had grown in confidence as well as ability and began to indulge in the finer things.
Rumor of my talents spread through the city's network of underground and less than legitimate proprietors,
 and I began filling their contracts. However, with success came a level of fame that is unbecoming of beings
who make their existence by remaining unseen, and numerous times the undiscovered or unsuccessful
attempted to claim for themselves what was mine by putting a dagger into my back. It was also not uncommon
for those few who had established themselves as hired thieves, assassins, or informants to compete over
contracts or bounty, and on one such occasion, I found myself defending against a member of The Hand
of Azrael. We came together on even footing, and through the engagement he did not recognize me, though
 I did him. I reveled in his astonishment, eyes widened, as I whispered my name into his ear while the last
of his blood ran from his throat.
 
I had thought many times before of the moment that I would finally reenter my father's house, but
that incident bolstered my resolve and signified in my mind that I was now ready...

...to be continued.


There is a great deal of history surrounding the Mirror Root.  Little of which is known to any of this age,
and none by even Wynken himself because it has not always been his sword to wield, though he would
certainly tell you otherwise.  He would believe it as well, for such is the power that it holds over him. 
As many events that compose its history are the number of dark forces which were imbued upon it
during the time of its creation.  Experiments the likes of which had never previously been researched
and may never be again, for the laboratory and source documents were lost upon the death of their proprietor. 

It has been recorded that Shades mirror our conscious desires, such that if we need for war, so do they
 also, and, if we want for peace, they will be peaceful.  So is it rumored that the Mirror Root, in a twisted
variant of the Shades purpose, will reflect in us our own subconscious.  Bringing to the surface those
thoughts and behaviors that we suppress out of social necessity until they replace the pomp and polish of
such a manufactured façade with the dark and dreadful instincts of our ancestry.  

Although the history of his sword has been obscured, much of Wynken’s past in this realm is known. 
Detailed here are some of the events that led to his finding the blade for he was not always as he is now:

“Try as I may, I recall naught of my life before the wooden box. Though I'm plagued with visions of
a past existence, mere flashes of light or rather flashes of dark, if such a notion could be grasped,
I have no solid evidence of any previous deeds. Malicious shadows and mysterious blindfolds are
perhaps pieces of a greater puzzle. I seem left with one of two solutions, and neither are desirable.
Either my mind holds such a power over me so as to obscure my own past from recollection, or
my mind holds such a power over existence so as to conjure it at will.”

Still unclear about his own existence and angered that he can't recall the past, Wynken wanders from the
dojo. As his mind focuses on attempting to recollect anything from his previous self, Wynken's legs carry
 him subconsciously east and north toward the MDA lands. He had heard much about the archives and
those who tend them and had been privy to much talk about the recent campaign against the denizens of
Necrovian. "An extensive history would surely give credibility to a world beyond one's self", he spoke aloud
as he walked the nearly deserted streets beyond Marind Bell's capitol city.

As Wynken moved through the forest path, the magnificent building came into view. The meticulously
 tended gardens and wonderfully detailed architecture dragged him from his contemplation as his eyes
struggled to take in all of the beauty they beheld. Stepping into the entranceway and in to the large foyer,
another of Wynken's senses were assaulted. The unmistakable aroma of books, both new and old, filled
the room with a sense of gravity. If importance and seriousness could be described as a scent, Wynken
was certainly experiencing that now.

Drawn by that alluring smell, Wynken passed through the doorway to the left of the foyer and the grand
staircase immediately across from the buildings front, and he found himself standing in the midst of countless volumes. His eyes quickly surveyed the many bookcases that lined the walls of the room from floor to ceiling.
He approached one of rows and gently ran his fingers along the spines of several of the books there as he
read their titles.

One book caught his attention and seemed almost to leap from it's place of rest, it so stood out amongst
the others it was nestled with. It seemed almost as if the book had been meaning to be found, or that
someone had placed it there for such a purpose. Looking around to ensure he was alone, Wynken pulled
the book slowly from the shelving. It was not a large tome, no bigger than a standard piece of writing
parchment that had been folded in half lengthwise. So rich were the colors of the finely woven cover that
the vivid forest scene displayed across it and the spine seemed nearly life-like. The stream seemed to flow
gently over the rocky ford, and the bows of the trees could be imagined to sway to and fro with the breeze. Looking once more over his shoulder, Wynken opened the cover and began reading.

The cover cracked as it turned indicating that it was scarcely opened, if ever. The pages were
so crisp that the book appeared to have been fashioned that very day, but the tale it held claimed to be
of an earlier age. Skimming the pages, Wynken read of a nameless hero of the Chaos Wood and the
lands that would be called Loreroot. The book portrayed the man as a defender of truth and a boon to
the needy. Given good fortune by the magical sword he carried, the hero would travel the lands and share
his luck through charitable giving and other good deeds. Feeling a desire for privacy Wynken moved into
the Study Room, and anxiously began reading where he had left off.

So enchanted was Wynken that he failed to notice when the book had turned from recounting the exciting
deeds of the hero to detailing the boundless powers of his magnificent blade. Wynken shifted
uncomfortably and looked up from the book to survey the room before continuing. The exact origin
of the sword was neglected, but the history of how it came to the hero was discussed. Wynken paid no
mind to the book's inconsistencies in time frame or historical inaccuracies. He now focused solely on one
 passage that he deemed of great importance, a segment that he felt would lead him to the sword's current
resting place.

Visibly shaking with sheer excitement and adrenaline, Wynken surveyed the room once more and tried
to calm himself as he thought of his recent discovery. He stood and, keeping his fingers on the page of
interest, he simultaneously closed the book and applied pressure so as to tear the page from its backing.
Confident that the page was now loose and that, even if the room had been filled with onlookers, no
one would have recognized the action, Wynken moved once more to the Index Room. In a similarly masked
action, he removed the page and slipped it into his memoirs after returning the volume to the empty place
on the shelf. He lingered a while longer once again skimming the titles of books in various locations before
exiting and turning toward Loreroot.

Such hasty and materialistic action is uncharacteristic for one so skeptical of what "is". Had he stopped to
observe and evaluate his motives, Wynken may have recognized this contradiction. However, such is the
nature of the book and the enchantment written in to its pages. So focused was he on his discovery that
Wynken paid no attention to the mental distractions that he had become so accustomed to. The haunting
feeling of a past forgotten was lost in the presence of this magically inspired determination.

Wynken now calmly walked the path to the Oak Fort. The peace of the quite forests of Loreroot helped
to settle him. Wynken called to mind the heroic deeds made possible by the enchanted blade as he traveled,
and allowed his imagination to wonder about what he may accomplish with such good fortune and such
a well crafted weapon. He smiled as his mind conjured images of his great renown, a fame earned through
noble and courageous adventures to the benefit of peaceful peoples. The fort came in to view and
Wynken quickened his pace.

Moving up to the lake, Wynken again took in his surroundings to ensure his privacy. He had made that a
habit as of late, but it was one that he didn't recognize as such. Wynken carefully walked the rocky eastern
shore, if it could be called that for in places it afforded him only inches between the lake to the west and the
stone face on his right hand side. After some time, from the cliff high above, came the faint sound of
children's laughter, and he guessed that he was below Marind's Round About. Had this been a typical day
Wynken may have stopped to muse about the innocence of such a sound, but he was so close now and
every step carried him one footfall farther from ordinary.

Wasp's Totem became more prevalent and the coast behind him receded as he had finally happened on
the first evidence that the book was not a work of fiction. There in the mountainside was a small puncture.
It was an almost perfectly round portal standing chest high as if someone had carved a window into the
side of the rock. The way it was worked made it difficult to see from any angle other than straight ahead,
and it would easily be missed from a distance. The entire scene was such a microcosm for mortal existence,
the narrow path and the small opening into the fulfillment of dreams. However, the symbolism was lost on
Wynken who without any forethought climbed head first into the opening.

After weathering the short fall, Wynken found himself in a small and unremarkable cavern. It was
surprisingly dry and also well lit as light reflected from the lake's surface and onto the ceiling. On the back
wall on a small alter carved into the rock, Wynken saw what he had come for. As he moved closer, he
found that the sword was not at all as he had pictured it.

The blade was certainly a thing of beauty, and looked like silver freshly and perfectly polished. However,
it was entangled by what appeared to be a stone vine that wound up and around from the guard. On
closer inspection, Wynken found that it was neither stone nor a vine. The hilt was fashioned in the likeness
of a very miniature and very dead tree, and was made entirely of petrified wood. The guard formed the roots,
one of which wrapped clear around the blade. The grip was the trunk of the tree whose dead and leafless
branches formed a spire shaped pommel. Having come this far and marveling at the contrasting beauty of
the blade and it's hilt, Wynken picked up the sword. He felt a twinge inside of himself but ignored it as he
looked at his own image reflected in the polished edge.

At that point, reality failed and all went black.

While asleep, Wynken dreamed deeply of himself and the world in which he exists. He envisioned himself
as a mere vapor moving amongst the vast and immense celestial bodies of the universe until finally coming
to rest inside the cave beside his physical body. He watched as his body faded from existence followed by
the cave and the rest of the MD lands. Before long only the essence of his cognitive self remained in a dark expanse. He believed he saw a light in the distance, a mere pin prick in the infinite space, and then he
opened his eyes. Awakening from his state of unconsciousness, Wynken found that he felt much better.
"I suppose the past day's events had gotten the better of me", he thought while brushing the dust from his
travelers cloak. "I had gotten myself quite worked up. It's no wonder I collapsed". He rubbed his eyes
trying futilely to hold on to the dreams that now rushed from memory and lingered only in his subconscious.

Feeling somehow enlightened to the world around him, he desired to commit his adventure to paper, and
to record what little he recalled of his vision. Wynken imagined that the knowledge gained was the sword's
good fortune already beginning to shower him with blessings. However, the cave was much more dim
than it appeared when he had first arrived so he once again picked up the sword and moved to the opening
in the mountain. Realizing that he would need both hands to balance on the narrow walk, Wynken quickly
fashioned a rough holster from a linen sash, and he placed the sword on his left hip. Once outside, he was compelled by curiosity to examine his newly acquired weapon, and he noticed that the blade was showing
signs of tarnish. Possessing none of the materials needed to attend to that now, he made his way along the
northern shore, away from the fort where he began and toward Wasp's Totem. 

Finding the Totem empty, Wynken adjusted the sword on his hip and took a seat on the quiet stair case,
and, using his lap as a table, he transcribed what he recalled of his dream into his memoirs. Considering the
recent events, he couldn't accept such a vivid and meaningful vision as coincidence. He paused his writing to
 run his fingers down the flat of his sword, and to let his mind wander through his previous adventure.
"The conscious mind is a powerful thing indeed", he thought as he traced the intricate inlays that embellish
the sword's blade. "Perhaps it wishes to allow my transcendence of the laws it has established for this existence
and allow me to uncover its mysteries." As he finished exploring that line of reasoning, he was filled
with a comforting warmth. Looking again into his own eyes reflected in the silver blade, Wynken considered
that the sword was attempting to give him reassurance.

Wynken then let the sword's end come to rest gently on the stair and returned once more to his scribing.
As he smiled to himself at the thought of finally attaining the truth, Wynken was too distracted to notice
as more tarnish crept up the blade.

As Wynken finished his writings and stood from his place on the stair, something caught his attention.
The light which poured in to the Totem's entrance had moved! It now stretched its way deeper in to the
anteroom that comprised the first story and had begun to creep up the back wall. When shadows and beams
of light are as stationary as they were in the recent past, they become permanent fixtures, almost landmarks,
 as if part of nature or the architecture of buildings. Wynken would have been no more surprised had the
door or the staircase moved to an opposite place within the Totem. Still alone in the building, Wynken
furrowed his brow and peered up the stairs with a forlorn look of longing. He realized the implications of
the light which had slowly moved as he tended to his memoirs, and knew as well that Miss
Lightmoon and Tarquinas would have an intriguing story to tell about it.

Understanding that the duo were likely to be busy elsewhere, Wynken stepped into that light that now
brilliantly reflected off the lake. As the wind blew across the water's surface, ripples appeared as
luminescent serpents which writhed in the warmth of the sun's energy. Wynken also felt that warmth
and again thought of the soothing sensation imparted to him by the sword at his waist. He felt a twinge
and the feeling of Utopian perfection washed over him, and he couldn't disagree that things seemed to be
falling into place.

Wynken had taken in the beauty of the lake long enough, and began making his way through the woods
north of the Totem. He possessed enough navigational sense to realize that the archives couldn't be far
in that general direction. Wynken was glad as the woods gave way to a slightly overgrown path that stretched
to the north and east, and even more so as the familiar iron fence began to parallel him as he traveled.

Wynken found himself standing once again in the Indexed Room. Feeling that he had completed his
physical journey, his mind now also arrived at the realization that he didn't know why he had come.
Nevertheless Wynken felt that he was there for a reason and so until that reason became clear, Wynken
decided to again peruse the great collection of writings. He thought to begin where he had left off and move
to the location of the enchanted book from his previous visit, but as he moved, someone entered the hall
from the back room. Wynken quickly identified the man as an archivist, and one that he had seen before
though he couldn't recall his name.

Although the man wore a courteous smile, a guilty feeling of fear crept through him as Wynken thought of
the torn book that rested on the archive shelves. Given in to his conscience, he nervously shifted the sword
and tried to position himself so as to inconspicuously shield it from view, but in so doing, lost hold of his
memoirs which spilled onto the floor and echoed throughout the vast room. The two locked eyes as
Wynken blew a long and exasperated sigh before kneeling to recover the contents of his loosely bound
treatise. Logan Marquis was quick to help, and the two shared a brief introduction. Wynken blushed and
silently cursed himself for being so foolish as he noticed that Logan had taken an interest in one of his writings.
"This is very insightful", Logan said with a gleam in his eye. He studied the page a moment longer before
handing it back. "I hope you don't mind my being so forward, but we have a pressing need for writers
of your caliber. If you would be interested, perhaps I could arrange a meeting with yourself and Renavoid,
the Master Archivist."

Wynken again sighed but this time with relief. Though he enjoyed writing, it hadn't occurred to him that
he should seek to join the ranks of the Archivists, and he couldn't begin to fully consider what such a
position may do to spur his quest for truth. A familiar twinge of warmth ran the course of his spine and
Wynken considered that the blade was engineering yet another one of its blessings. He grinned and toyed
with the sword's hilt as he followed Logan up the stairs and into the audience of Renavoid.

Wynken enjoyed only a brief term with the Archivists.  As the sword subtly and patiently poisoned
his mind, bringing more of his subconscious desires to the surface, Wynken slowly retreated within himself
and withdrew from society.  In his solitude, the sword unlocked in Wynken memories of a previous existence
and, real or illusion, they have consumed him.