TURNING UPON A leaf on the oldest tome in the great library of House Grimuleth, the young heir of the esteemed noble family felt his body shivered with excitement. Sketched by hand, and given color by paint, upon the page was a blonde man mounted on a palfrey, his broad back away from a throng of fanged and clawed beasts pursuing in all fours, all of them seemingly starved for flesh and blood. One of his hands was wrapped around a blade with an intricate crossguard fashioned to look like a rose, while the other was maintaining its grip on the reins. Sandwiched between his lips was a scroll sealed with red wax. On his flanks were rows of ominously looking trees and bushes. Despite that, the riders' eyes glimmered as he rode along the murky forest, as if relishing the thrill of his adventure.
"Who is this man, mother?" innocently asked the young Wymond Grimuleth, his eyes glittering as if they were spewed with gold dust.
