It's been a cool day. I like the grammophone Brendan and I made, it's so quality :-D! And i got cleared for classes today - finally! And i'm good. I got a sweater from Grandma! It's definitely a Cosby sweater. I'm gonna write a letter back. Let me say this right now... Bjork, the Electronic music star, they need to die right now; or i could switch it back to Ben folds five and get over it...

Foxwood is a young squire to the White Warrior, in this folk tale. He is earning his keep, many leagues to the east of and seventeen years prior to the purging of dragons of Wesailles Harbor.

"Well DONE, Foxwood! Thou hast slain the Beast of East Martin's Dale, that contemptible contrivance of the foul mind of the dark Lord of the Craven Hills. And with but one arrow thou hast slain him, verily mine eyes have seen it. All honors shall be awarded thee, Foxwood, noblest of mine servants. But come! Let us ride posthaste, for mine adversary follows close behind!"

And so the Great White Warrior, accompanied by his page Foxwood, pursued the very winds eastward, crossing the empty tundra of the Crucierras Continent. These southern wastes were perilous--

"Indeed, Foxwood, these wastes are perilous, yea, even unto death do we ride, if we do not heed the subtle hints that swiftly ride the air, nay, even unto peril and despair do we ride, if we are caught un-awares by such as a Dragon or a Were-hare. For no man can stand against such might, without the valor or courage of the mighty ancient kings. Come, ride swiftly, do not tarry!"

--And Foxwood quickened his pace a little, anxiously scanning the landscape for signs of trouble; a fleeting shadow, a change in the look of the small and sturdy trees of the tundra, which could in reality have just as easily been Trolls or something like them, swift and bloodthirsty.

For hours, Foxwood followed his master, on his trusty horse Champion, rolling his insides in misery and fright, and said at last,

"What is that over yonder in the Northern Sky?"

"It is but a cloud, do not fear, there are many"

"It went behind thither cloud! Dost thou not seest it?"

"Nay, mine eyes are sharp beyond the reckoning of mortal men, yet mine eyes catch no glimpse of, what was it you saw?"

"I know not what, but stay alert i pray thee, my master."

And slowly they travelled, watching the skies for that danger, and soon they came to the Brook of Chereth, where once great prophets had taken refuge. The waters babbled, and they drank deeply, soon forgetting their troubles. But a faint rustling in the bushes put the Great White Warrior on keen alert--

"Verily, mine ears are on keen alert, for a rustling of the bushes yonder do mine ears hear! Stand guard, Foxwood, for this could be an ambush!"

And as he predicted, they were ambushed, on all sides, outnumbered, thirty to one by the Moblins of the Company of the Guard of the Dark Lord of the Craven Hills. Foxwood cried out,

"Terrible is their bite! Worse still is their bark! And woe is me, for my pack has spilt the Map, and it is being trampled by the Moblins! O White Warrior, swift and keen, do you know how we shall overcome this great peril?"

"I do not, good sir Foxwood, for their armor is of an alloy not easily pierced, and they are accoutered in the rainments of the Gryffonlord, whose might is still mightier than thine imaginings! Gardyloo, good sir Foxwood, thine mail hast been snippeted at!"

And truly the warriors did not see their escape, which lay to the west across the puttering creek, but soon Foxwood did lift his mighty sword, and he did slay nine or ten of them, with strokes and swings containing rage and power untold. This surprised the Great White Warrior, and said he:

"Aye! For thou art possessor of arts unimaginable, both skill of sword outmatching ten of theirs, and burliness of arm able to cleave even the hide of nine, nay, even unto ten of our dark foe! Verily, Aye! For one of the foe behind me nearly hast taken a snippet off my ear! Die foul demon!"

And so they fought, and in his rage, Foxwood stumbled upon the paragraph a few lines ago, and so did he look to his right, and cried out,

"The west is to my left!" So to the left they went, escaping the confused mob of Moblins, who amidst the bloody bray had not noticed the absence of their victims. Across the quietly murmuring creek, sat the Great White Warrior, and Foxwood, who then took off further west, distancing themselves from their utter peril.

"Canst not thou run any faster, good Foxwood?" demanded the Great White Warrior, "We have not paced yet twenty leagues and already you are slowing your canter. Behold, thither sits the Golden Range of Mountains! Beyond holds the Sea of Agua-Mar! Suredly none have beheld it but the noblest of men! Come sir Foxwood, tarry not in these sullen wastes!"

"Have we not forgotten the Map, O highness? And what of the danger of the pursuant, thine adversary, the name of whom no mortal man is permitted to speak? And forsooth, it is plain unto mine eyes, we are travelling according to the setting of the sun, and not its rising! Permit me to wonder at this, and do not slay such a fool who may ask, why?"

But the Great White Warrior sternly cast his gaze eastward, over the sullen hills of the more dangerous parts.. "Foxwood, hast thou not caught word through the very airs, nay, even the earth itself shudders at the rising of every sun over the eastern lands. For mine adversary pursueth, and we ride to meet the cur, vengeance is my mission."

At length they came to the sharp, broken dales at the foot of the Golden Range of Mountains, where Foxwood took his hat from his head, and covering his eyes, he rested a moment in the shade of a Willow.

The eyes of the Great White Warrior darted to a subtle figure just to the west, saying "Aye, the darkness of ancient days, the bane of ancient kings, who other canst it be, who rideth and slinketh in shadow, among rock and root, prithee, forsooth, call out thine name!"

And at a sigh, the shape was gone..