Re: Forgotten Tales of Germania
Prologue
A lone rider traversed through the forest. He was lost and wearied, from the effort of finding the path again. He glanced around yet again, trying to find some water to quench his thirst. But all he was able to see were trees, and a faint snow falling to the ground. He rested his head on the mane of his horse, Gerolf, and whispered hoarsely, “I am parched, and cannot lead you on anymore. Find me some water, else leave me under a tree and be free.”
But by some miracle or close affinity to his master, the horse had comprehended the words and kept walking. And after some hours, of what seemed like an eternity to his master, the horse walked into a clearing passing from under an arch, and stopped near a stream and bent down to drink the water. The instant the rider had caught the sweet fragrance of cool water, he had jumped off the horse and into the stream. He gulped down handful after handful of water, oblivious to everything around him.
“You are quite thirsty, I see,” said a man who stood nearby, watching, “would you like some fruits once you thirst is sated?”
The rider leapt to his feet in surprise, and drew his sword. He looked at the man with narrow eyes, and he beheld an old man clad in coarse rags and leaning on a stick. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and asked, “Are you a druid?”
“Were I a druid, would you have had a chance to draw your blade? But no, I am not a druid, just an old man.”
The rider stared for some moments, but finally put back the sword. He straightened up and asked, “I believe you. But who are you?”
“I am the keeper of this place. Who are you then?”
“A lost wayfarer who came about this place in need, and would like to rest before continuing my journey. But what is this place?”
But as the rider had said these words, he beheld the place more clearly. The clearing had only one exit, from under a stone arch. The stream ran from the north and towards the south, near the arch. There were ruins of some crude houses scattered here and there. But only one hut stood at the end of the clearing, half hidden by the ruins. The rider guess that the old man lived there. But as the rider beheld these sights, the old man had silently pondered for a while.
Finally, he broke the silence and spoke, “This was the birthplace and the village of Adalbert.”
The rider replied with a frown, “I have not heard of him. Was he a warrior or a chief?”
“Ah... he was Adalbert of the Franks, chief of this village and its tribe, a warrior and champion of the Frankish peoples, dispossessed of his legacy, shunned of his glory.”
As the old man spoke these words, the rider had felt his heart stir and a power emanate from the frail old man. He approached the man, having been rid of fear, and accepted his offer of a meal and rest. He spoke to the old man, but now with respect and in a humble manner, “He seems to have been a great warrior. Will you not tell me his tale, Elder?”
“But it is a long tale, and will take a long time to finish. And there is winter to bear, for the air here is cold and brisk.”
“That does not deter me, if I am to learn about a great warrior.”
The old man smiled when the young rider had spoken. He gave a nod and bade him to sit beside the stack of wood he had arranged for a fire. He sat down on the opposite side and spoke to him, “Then this one condition I put on you. That you may pass on this tale to your bloodline and no one else, unless there comes one who seeks it. Do you agree?”
The young rider nodded, and bowed his head, “And so shall it be, Elder.”
“Then let us begin.”