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Firesmyth Mancuso threw back his hood and drew his sword.  He wore the armor of old like that in the korax carving.  His face, now visible, could have been mistaken for a man of much younger years if it weren’t for his shoulder-length hair and a neatly trimmed beard which were gray but fast turning white.  He wore a few wrinkles like a soldier wears campaign ribbons.  They showed that he had survived a few battles in life and though he appeared old, he had a vitality of youth about him as if age touched only the surface of his life.  His eyes . . . his eyes were alit with a blue flame, brilliant blue, the mark of his clan.

Upon seeing whom they confronted, the Shadow Knights drew back a step except for the leader Consus, who smiled mockingly with hand outstretched.  “What?  Does this old man best us at swordplay?”

Now Mancuso spoke for the first time keeping an eye on all who closed in on him, “This old man drew blood before your grandfather drew the breath of life.”  He spoke with a thick accent – with a stiff upper lip and rolled his R’s -- an accent no one could quite place.

“Face facts, old man.  The days of the Firesmyth clan are over.”

“Over?  Do you not remember the prophecy?

                                  When fire brands the smith of old,

                                             The stories shall then be retold,

                                  The robber shall forfeit his gold

                                             And time will once again refold.”

He waited, allowing the words to sink in.  “No, the days of the Firesmyths are not yet over, but yours is at hand.”

He saw them flinch a little in reaction, but not quite giving in to this insult.  Their training would not allow them to give in.  Instead, they resumed the walk around him drawing in the circle, burning in outward anger and inward fear.

Scroll 1: History's Mirror                                                                                    Chapter 1: Treasures from the Past