It is known that the Glen of Crown Thorn is enchanted and that there is a cadence voice in the breeze. Through the blackbark and emerald leaves it is singing that there is magic within the trees.
Though many claim to know the secrets there are few undaunted who dare, venture the dense weeps of paths thickly shrouded for The Knight of Moonlight haunts the air.
Perchance he guards Excalibur, or feasibly Merlin’s cloak, but no one grasps true what’s entombed behind the keep of Crown Thorn oak. They fear the Knight of Evening not for what they know but for the murmurs spread by tongues that scorn him be alone.
“He slayed the ones who raised him, a curse rests on his back, he devours helpless children’s souls, his armor crusted red and black!”
The liquid silver lilies that smell of mountain streams are the only things that have ever heard the Knight of Moonlight’s dreams. If their voices happed be less dulcet they would tell you of his gentle hands, how his eyes glint aflame as opals and he yearns for adventures grand.
Alas too far from him are thriving cities, the nine towers of Airdsgainne shroud in distant mist. Far off the vibrant banners wave lucid of the Kingdom carved from mores and cliff.
Estranged he was not to malice, many ghouls he’d fought and won, but it was mere is garden effulgent and not the haven of the sun.
Oh, but neigh was grass there greener beyond the haunted Glen of Crown, for the inner walls of Airdesgainne were wan with weeping eyes and frowns. The King sat with knitted brow upon the carven marble thrown while his youngest daughter yearned for him to pride her as his own.
The people waited earnestly as noreast winds did blow, for today was the Hunters Feast of Pheasantsreach, which each year the King did throw. Soon the castle gates were opened and they came in from the storm but didn’t see the other gale brewing from the youngest maidens scorn.
Beast and fowl were served at haste and minstrels sung ballads of Lore, voices merry as great the winds, blew a mystery to the grand iron door. A rasp, a tap, a wooden staff, of a figure shroud in mist, was blown into the raucous hall of Royals and bellowed in their midst.
“Quiet! All who value life and all who dark death fear, I beg you head my wary words for lurid days draw near! Your bards croon songs of mighty Lore, The Author behind the storm, who with his blood scribes our lives, of what is past and what shall become. But whine they not the arcane yarn, of what should hap if you found His lair, what gift He would bestow to you if you were found within his favor. Grave things I have seen of late and have heard your thoughts dear King! The time has called for a hero strong, for your kingdom in under siege! A Knight of Darkness will seek The Book, though nebulous to us, when altered by the pen of man could turn us all to dust. A warrior is want to race with devilry, a brave soul we shall mourn, for the way to find the words of Lore, lies deep in the eidolic wood of CrownThorn.”
The clock was struck as was the spirits of the nobles in the hall, and in the eyes of man and dame did every robust tower fall. But mindful was the youngest heir as she watched her father weep, the least of all those worthy the quest, but still stood slowly to her feet. Long it seemed while bore the eyes of all who silent sat, in wait for someone else to stand and claim the fatal act.
“I take this venture upon myself although I mere, a dame, will storm the fouled woods of oak so you shall know my name!”
  A gasp rippled through the crowd and the ripe knights sought a quarrel. The Kings eyes did not haste to dry for he knew the road before her. What was unspoken seemed to scream though outward all were dumb. Her quaking, small but taunting voice cried, “WITH ME SHALL NO MAN COME?”
The staffed stranger approached her slow and said in hushed a tone, “My dear you were first and proud this quest to claim, I fear you go alone.” And handing her a tight bound scroll, sent her on her way with armor gleaming on her form as light faded from the day.
Long she traveled the arduous road as she opposed the greatest test, to ruin the fabled insidious crypts where the ghouls would play and rest. The black-bark oaks called out her name, as did the treasure in their arms. Whispering, “Ailis, come abide with us, we will never do you harm.” But the shadows were no maiden’s friend and drawn constant was her steel, torments beat and bruised her down, the thorns clung to her heels. The answer lies within the heart about this putrid place. Could it be Excalibur or even Merlin’s drapes?
At last was reached an open moorland strewn with lilies of the night, their soft and incandescent glow offered some ease to her frights. All the maiden’s strength now spent, the forest lilt a lullaby, the screams of goblins distant, she closed her weary eyes.
When the youngest heir awoke, the morn had not yet broken, the trees breathed “Aurora Musis amica”, a language dead was spoken. She sat up airy in the haze of morning, as the lilies closed their blooms, passion hummed in the blue-grey light, fate covered her like dew.
Near to her the answer felt, and to her great surprise, stood close a knave with raven hair and opals in his eyes. Tired and startled she stumbled back but flee she not the garden, for safe this place was though misunderstood, for the people’s hearts were hardened.
“Who are you? Why do you watch me so? I’ll break you should we fight!”
“Pray! Stay your blade m’lady fair, I am mere the Knight of Moonlight.”
Slowly he approached her form and took her hand in his, like snow-broth the lies did melt as her fingers he did kiss.
“ I am no fire belching dragon, I keep close no furtive powers. My only want is wanderlust and all that is mine are flowers. Please tell me your name and what you brought you to this prison. Why dare you journey so grave a place? It is surely dark a reason.”
“I am the youngest heir of Airdsgainne and I seek a claim to fame, to find Great Lore behind the storm for the King from whence I came. I bare the title Ailis for I was birthed from nobles and out of all the hardships I have faced be this most vexing of my troubles. Upon this scroll are the answers though their meaning is much too dim. Is there magic that could aid me somewhere hidden in your glen?”
The Knight of Moonlight sat with her and gently held her hands. He knew he’d give her anything if he but had the chance.
“ I offer nothing but my sanity and the safety of this den, my strength of mind and body and the evening buds I tend.”
“Be your mind as strong your body, be your head as clear as spring. Perhaps to you this riddle will open and it’s meaning you will glean.”
He took the curling paper and began to read aloud. His melodious voice was carried far with vehemence and pride.
Stand where you are invisible but where you are most seen; In the place where the four winds crash but all is calm and serene.
The lucid key unfurled swiftly, and he told her what she sought. Plough she through the storm and to its eye to find Great Lore she must. But as the words bore into her that decimation was yet to come, the voice of trees whispered defeat that her journey here was done. She knew too well this quest of fame was not hers for the taking, and that the relic for which she’d sought was the knave she’d threatened breaking.
His eyes shone in the golden sun as did his porcelain skin and from this moment on she knew this quest was to be his.
  “Why do you weep my Ailis? Those tears ought be the rain.”
“This journey of pride is no longer mine, so shall be the fall of Airdsgainne!”
  With sorrow pulsing in his heart, he brushed the diamonds from her face, and kissed her long upon the lips and vowed go in her place.
“ Long I have yearned for thrilling venture to seek The Writer of Life, and I promise you as last my breaths, your Crown shan’t see demise. Stay here safe within my Glen as I seek the begetter of the storm, and aft’ I seek The Words of Lore, to you I shall return.”
The Knight of Moonlight dawned his crest and forsook the tomb of thorny floor, with zealous peril in his eyes, blind he was to the maiden smote with dolor. Fighting his way through the gale, the clouds bruised a decaying black, his strength tunneled in determination, as teeth of ice ripped at his back.
When at last all was calm the Knight of Moonlight kneeled, invisible but most seen he was, lightning cracked and thunder peeled. As touched his foot the thresh of clouds the eye’s quietness was split, a black armed fist struck hard his head with a heavy steely hilt. Fierce his cry rang out, his hair wet shown like ink. Quick, the light that framed his silhouette, gave Godspeed to his feet.
When age-old books and scrolls surrounded him, he drew his august blade, and turned to meet his infernal foe who no mercy he would bade. The Knight of Hades faced him, his armor black and red, and the Evening Warrior dared him forward, that dismount would be his head. Fought they hard and bled they much in the Library of Life, until finally the Vicar of Night ran corruption through the side.
Scarlet ichor dripped from his sword as he approached The Book of Legend, the quest was won, the enemy vanquished, but still it loomed before him. As his palms brushed its ancient pages and his fingers took up the quill, in that moment he was overcome, with a deep bone-wrenching chill. Gazing at the pages, its story none but his, he knew the sharpness of a sword and now the mightiness of pens.
Written fresh before him was the ballad of his life, the lies and misconceptions, the pain and vast the strife. How he wished ardent for adventure and how a maiden his heart tugged, how fated he was for greatness but for a disastrous end of love.
Faced he would be with a choice that would hold erect Nine Towers, or with selfish taint would bring them down and render him a coward. Slain was all he held besides the flowers of the night, and turned he from the fate before him as tested was his might. Turning to the body that slept eternal on the floor, he begged The Book not be true that this should be his gore. And taking off the helmet, a tempest of tears begun for the Knight of Moonlight had slain the Maid of Sun.
Would he rewrite history and reclaim his lovely maid, or would he fill his destiny and raise the Crown of Airdsgainne? With tears and blood he penned fervently away, of the Maiden Ailis, of how beautiful her name, how forever would wave the flags of  King’s and none would be more famed, of how he himself was called to fight, and the truth from where he came.
It is known that the Glen of Crown Thorn is enchanted and that there is a cadence voice in the breeze, whispering to all who venture there that there are no greater words than these.
No magic lies within the woods, no great love within the den, no sword sharp enough that could ever smite the power of a pen. And here one in Great Lore’s favor, among the lilies lies, a knave with pitchy raven hair and opals in his eyes.