Spring 914 MC
Richard Fitzwilliam, now at the young age of seven, stood in Bodden Keep"s meagre library, staring at the few books that occupied its shelves. A chair was here, along with a window high up that admitted light, but the room had obviously not seen use for some time. Tracing his fingers across the spines, he stopped and picked one at random. Pulling forth the volume, he carried it to the dust-covered chair where he sat, the book placed carefully on his lap.
The cover was old, its cracked leather promising untold riches within. He peeled it open, eager to peruse its contents, for though he couldn’t read, the letters fascinated him. They were often richly decorated with illuminations, usually highlighted with gold and silver. The tome before him proved no exception as the page s
