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[Bailos]

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Quietly, off in the distance, near the Shrine of Justice, Bailos sat on a throne amongst the rubble that remained of his tower. One wall, directly behind him, and scattered boulders were all that remained from his previous tower, which was torn down in a fit of rage by the bizarre magiks of Bailos’ own hand.

Listing to his left, one hand rested on the throne, the other was propping his head up between his chin and the arm of the throne. It was a cold night, cold and clammy. A soft mist was rolling in off the water and the air hung still with nothing but crickets and night birds to fill the silence. Unmoving, Bailos remained in deep thought staring unblinkingly out over the peninsula from which his tower was perched. After several hours, perhaps only a few minutes before dawn, Bailos finally rose. Putting his hands behind his back, he began to pace around the remnants of his throne contemplating a way to regain his shattered power.

Finally, he stopped behind the throne and stooped over. He gently picked up a dust-covered, wrinkled standard left lying on the ground, and pulled it up. Spreading it out, he took a look, and with disgust, threw it aside. He immediately began rifling through a chest leftover from the wreckage that once was The Tower. Finding a parcel of his long dead sister’s belongings, he pulled out a needle and some thread and took aim at the standard.

Sitting back down in the throne, he placed the standard on his lap and began to work on it. Pulling pieces of cloth from this and that, he assembles a new standard, all the while plotting how to gain power once more. With the finishing touches, he got up and placed it once more, on the wall behind him, hanging it high. Staring at the new banner, with hands on hips and ideas flowing through his head, a smirk breeched his cold visage. Using the needle to prick his finger he drew blood and adorned the banner with an ancient runic symbol.

Sitting down in his throne once more, a sense of self-satisfaction took him over. A grin gripped him and a few chuckles escaped his lips. It was time to pick up where he left off...thinking to himself, “I have bided my time…Now I need to pay a visit to Mairsil. Soon enough, the pieces will fit in the puzzle...first Poet, then Alexander…then who knows!”

As the bank of mist covered the land, his laughter grew, echoing off the crumbled walls....And so it begins, yet again.