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Imagine, if you will, a quiet little town- a village, really- situated on an inland lake. It's not a big lake, just large enough to support a little light boating on a pleasant summer's day. Like today, for example. That's where I am. Boating... and thinking.

Some folks might think that a bit strange for me to do- boating, I mean. After all, I'm a traveler by nature and a musician by trade, not a lifelong fisherman like ol' Selmo, or even really a pleasure boater like many vacationing folk who come to visit our little town. And I'm supposed to prefer dry land these days compared to someplace like good old Lake Narilan- but as my wife Ailen would tell you, I've always been a master at doing the unexpected. I guess that's why I've survived this long.

But according to Shasta, things are about to change-- and change drastically. Not about my survival; the good wizard's already assured me that I would somehow live through what's about to happen. But other things might, he said. Like the people in my life: my wife, my children, my friends. And my "fourth child", as it were, my 'Whistling Swan.' And even my plans for the next six months... whatever those were to begin with. You know, I've still never quite figured out how he's able to tell the future like he does... must be some leftovers of his former godhood. Personally, I can't be glad enough that that fiasco is over! And for those of you who don't know, trust me-- you don't want to know.

So I guess this is really my last good chance to enjoy myself and take in the peace and beauty surrounding my life and my home. And that, I guess, is why I'm out in this little dinghy. Dipping my feet into the clear waters of Lake Narilan. Looking at the myriad buildings on the shoreline that make up my home of Naridale. Staring at the spectacle that is the world famous College of Magical Arts, always being built or added to at many a wizard's or apprentice's whim. And looking at the inn-- rather, at my inn-- The Whistling Swan Inn, the very first place I ever played an instrument for money, imported piece by piece from Marnet. (Okay, so it was actually a neat bit of spellcraft on Shasta's part, but saying "imported piece by piece" just sounds a bit classier and frankly, a bit better.)

Which is where Shasta told me that my adventure was about to begin...

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The midday sun began its slow rise in the sky over the peaceful village of Naridale, known throughout the world of Three Kingdoms as the "Home of True Magic". Few seemed to dispute the dubious title, though- enough tales of what had happened to, in, and around the tiny village in its long history to cause little doubt that the village had deserved the moniker.

It was in this village that the charismatic Darrin Trailsong, noted bard and semi-retired adventurer, had chosen to make his home many years earlier, much to the delight (and partial chagrin) of the town's five hundred or so permanent residents. His inn, the Whistling Swan, teleported bit by bit by his mentor and former patron of the arts Shasta Rameikos, was a major hub of activity, known not only for its fine delicacies, foods, and house ales, but also for providing the sole 'allowed' source of lodging to the town's College of Magical Arts. But most recently (and to scholars and curiousity seekers most importantly), it had become known for its sudden importance in modern history. More than one epic battle had begun within the taproom of the Whistling Swan- most notably the Chaos War and the great Rise of Assassins.

The Chaos War was rather straightforward in its nature: one mad god, the incarnation of Chaos itself, made himself manifest in an attempt to reshape the world in his own image. He failed, however, due to the valiant attempts and efforts of great heroes and heroines: Shasta Rameikos. Darrin Trailsong. Linin and Aidan Gemsplitter. Ryld T'orgh. K'Tir. Hasane Jab'Bar and his lady Rohan. Drijian. The mysterious Fireline. And countless and nameless thousands more.

The Rise of Assassins was far more insidious, an incredibly elaborate revenge scheme between a guildmaster in far away Marnet and his renegade son, a swordsman who had dedicated himself to the causes of Light. DuCharleroi's plotting and planning couldn't save him, though, when it all came crashing down around him- and when his son Garlin cleft his father's head from his shoulders in a climatic final battle.

And through it all, the Whistling Swan, a place touched by war and flood, by fires of magic and moments of healing, had not only weathered both battles, but flourished.

"Ailen, love? Have you seen my boots anywhere?" Darrin called from the door that led from the taproom of the Whistling Swan to the bottom floor of the small two-story apartment that Darrin shared with the Avariel (or winged elves, as they were more commonly known) heroine Ailen Arrowshaft.

"I believe that you left them next to the dresser last night," Ailen called from behind the bar, washing glasses furiously. Normally a woman such as her would be considered far from unattractive, with her distinctive elven eyes and fair skin, her blond, back-length hair, and her innocent-looking sky-blue eyes. What made her stand out in any crowd, however, were the two giant alabaster-hued wings that stuck straight out of her back, wings that had been there since her birth over a three and a half centuries ago.

"Thanks, love. Any idea who's coming to entertain this eve?"

"The list is behind the guest register, dear. Where you put it three days ago."

"I knew that," Darrin grinned, without missing a beat.

"Sure you did. Oh- and one other thing."

"Which is?" Darrin finally found his boots and slipped the left one on.

"It's your sword- the one hanging over the bar. Moonfyre- Linin's blade, I think it is." She smiled and muttered, "Not that I could ever keep the two straight, mind you. And I mean the twin blades. Linin and Aidan... well, they're another story entirely." She cleared her throat and shouted up the stairs once again. "More specifically, hon, it's the gem in its hilt."

"What, does it need polishing again?" Darrin began muttering under his breath, putting on his act of being thoroughly annoyed. "I swear, enchanted stones attract much more dirt and grime than regular ones..." He pulled his right boot on while hopping down the stairs on his left- an incredible show of dexterity for the normally uncoordinated bard.

"No, Darrin," she said, setting down the current glass and staring seriously at him. "The gem is glowing."

As if on cue, the door opened with an overly cliched and drawn out squeak- whether it was from the morning winds off the lake or from someone entering the taproom, the couple knew not. "Whoever did that has an absolutely sick sense of irony," Darrin muttered quietly to himself. "Guess this means the bar is open for business, then..."

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