Camelot’s king and kingdom aged into memory while
lands of Britain often green, rains of spring and summer,
and winter snow fall on men young and old.
Nine Valiants rose and Nine Valiants descend into history
as their wise tutor is carried by the Dragon’s Breath into the Shadowlands where
Roman emperors and Egyptian Pharaohs dwell in their ruins.
Deep in the ground where Man once forged crude tools an ageless wizard
of old legend and master of the Oldest Magics that have been lost lays still.
Dreams of Avalon and Mistress of the Lake lie about him on the mossy ground
where maggots and worms feast upon these specters of round tables, brave knights,
and a witch who once bested him in the heat of the day or frigid mists of a cold night.
Above him in the real time lay waste to the Old Ways once held as truth.
Magic inherited fools who held words so weak not one spell could form
and so word spread through the lands that all was dead and put to rest.
Prophets were made silent, boundaries were reshaped, and new pillars of truth
were built and still remain where legends once roamed in the hearts and minds of the people.
Yet stand silent and still in the valleys or moors to hear the soft words of an old wizard.
For Camelot, for the people, for the grace of all that is believe once again,
believe in the fiery plight of dragons, believe Excalibur cut through enemies and lies,
And see the past as it was, full of history’s lore which held a magician’s hope
long before Merlin fell asleep and mankind let loose the curse of ignorance.