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<poem> ''To Cyn ap [[Gamond]], as spoken by your father and recorded by his humble tutor. Lord [[Ludwell]] has asked that this record remain sealed until his son, Cyn, has taken up his duties as a squire.'' ''I have done my best to faithfully render my lords word in ink. Please Cyn, remember that your father is not an eloquent man. I have worked hard to create some coherence to this record, and admit to some wordcraft that may not be Gamonds own. His meaning is as preserved as I know how.'' ''This work began in the tenth year of King Uthers reign, the year you became the warden of [[Meliodas]] of [[Lyonesse]]. It has taken nearly three years to complete. If at times this record seems disjointed, it is because your father is a man of infrequent words and deep passion. Please keep his words as you would your own thoughts, in your secret heart.'' ''In the year of our lord 492, Berth'' My father had many failings, two relevant. One I do not intend to repeat. He left me nothing to remember him by but stories, and stories are often fancy lies. I think it fair to say I never knew my father. By speaking to you now, I hope you will know me. It is likely that we will never meet, that I will be dead before you ever come home. The second I cannot right. My father lost the [[heartblade]]. Many say it is a story and therefore a lie. I know it is not. From the moment the blade was lost in the night of long knives and turned to hate, our family has been caught in its fall. It is dragging us down, like a weight dragging us into deep water. Our fates are tied to the blade. The blade is wielded by the [[Knight of Ribs|knight of ribs]], a great evil. My friends think it is as simple as killing the knight and taking it back, but it is not. Simply taking it is not enough, it must be reclaimed by the Anarawd, but not by me. I am not a good man Cyn. I have always relived the slaughter of our family in my nightmares. Lately though, a new nightmare comes more often. [[Ludwell]] is burning, and in my dreams I feel joy. Around me lie everyone I have ever loved, all of our family, our smallfolk. All dead. By my hand. The slaughter of them is glorious, a thing of beauty. It calls to me Cyn, in my sleep. If I took the blade, I would become more terrible than the [[Knight of Ribs|knight of ribs]] ever was. Our family would be finished. But you, Cyn. You could be good. Good enough to take the blade and turn it from evil. There is a way, a prophecy. Only by redeeming the blade can our family be saved. It is because of this I asked [[Prince]] [[Meliodas]] to take you, to teach you to become a better man than I will ever be. A man that I cannot teach you to be. I hope that when you are a man grown the [[Saxon]] will have been driven out of our land, into the sea. They are a terrible enemy, these devils, but this year we have dealt them a blow. Cynic Aosa and Cynig [[Octa]] have been humbled, their armies defeated. But Cyn, instead of finishing what we started, driving home our advantage, our armies rest and the [[Saxon]] devil grows strong again. A great man among us, [[Prince]] [[Madoc]], knows. He leads men tirelessly to drive them out, but it is not enough. I led men this autumn, burned villages, hunted down warbands. In those villages I saw women, children. Old folk. They are not like us, Cyn. They are demons. The she-devils birth litters, three, four, six boys to each woman. Every man an axe-hand seeking [[Cymric]] blood. They look like little girls, like women of beauty. All I can see when I look at them is their children, babes who will grow to men who may one day try to kill you, our family. Like they did on the night of long knives. The key to breaking the [[Saxon]] is their she-devils. I, and the men with me, we killed them all. I would kill thousands to keep you safe. There is one story they tell of my father that I do not think is a lie. That he made a pact with the old ways and rose again from death to save our line from being lost. I have seen the place where he and his friends, the bannermen, made their stand. He did not make it in time to save us all, but I and my friends survived. A great mound of the dead [[mark]] their deed. We are bound, Cyn, bound to a [[lady]] of the old ways. When I am gone she will call you. Seven times. By the salt of blood and brine I pledge this bloodline to the Stone. From this day forth we shall be true and faithful. Seven times she will call our line. Seven times we will answer. In the name of the [[Lady]] and all her Crows I bind my blood to service. I know the words by heart. We have served her twice now, five remain. I feel doubt. What the [[lady]] wants us to do does not feel right. She bound us to silence and ignorance, and bade us help [[Merlin]] the sorcerer. He took king Uthers child, his heir. Every time we have done her bidding, a dread unlike anything I have known consumes me. Something is wrong. She tells us she will curse our lines to damnation and extinction if we do not obey, but what if she lies? Perhaps her threats are empty. Be wary Cyn, wary of her and what she makes you do. I love you, my son. It is a strange thing, to feel so for someone I do not know and have barely seen. Someone so far away. But even so. I love you.</poem>
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