Date: Fifteenth of May, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)

Job Arseoth stood to the side of the high road, just on the lip of the ditch, and stared down its length. It was a cobblestone causeway, raised a good three feet up of the level of the ground, sloped for drainage into two ponderous ditches. Not sixty feet away was the bank of the new (as nations measured these things) Westmarch-Glacierheart Canal. A sparse but steady stream of steam-powered barges plied the canal, moving grain and ironworks from mountains to sea. The high road itself was barren of carts and wagons, but the occasional horse-back rider on foot-bound wanderer, such as Job himself, walked its length.

Ahead, not two miles distant, was… Job wanted to call it a monastery, but it bore no holy symbols or iconography. There was a singe tall tower, either a bell tower without a bell or a watchtower, Job couldn’t be sure from this distance. The stone wall wrapped about the place was thick and old, pierced by four gates in each of the cardinal directions, and surrounded by wide fields of grass. The roofs of a set of buildings peaked overtop of the wall. The whole edifice was set back from the High Road, and had its own intersection.

There had been no other building that might be "the Shrine at the Stand" back along the High road form where Job ow stood, so Job though that this must be it. If not, then the gatekeeper would surly know where the shrine itself was. Job stepped back onto the road and set off, Mr. Nibbles perched on his shoulder, to see what he might find.

As Job approached the gates, he had to stop and stare at the heraldry carved into their fire-blackened panels. On the leftmost gate, stood slightly ajar to allow passage to any who desired admittance, was a great tree atop crossed battleaxes. Its shape was eerily familiar to Job, but his mind could not quite place it. The right-hand gate was carved with a list of names: Gonukk the Dark, Bumob the Cold, Mourn the Vicious, Imvel the Forsaken, Kuro Dall, Zoni Manur, Alazaren Syallahne, Arovo Corros, Nyako Khatiti, Oni Ife, Roho Sarda, Ifama Danlami, Ladi Seghen. The names meant little to Job in and of themselves, but they were clearly a monument to the fallen. With that in mind, job turned and looked out across the grasslands about the walls and spotted row upon row of neat headstones. Taking a moment to step from the roadway, Job walked a circuit about the shrine complex, just past the first row of gravestones. Many of the gravestones were blank or nearly so, bearing only one of four icons: a diamond on a plain field, a pair of crossed Battleaxes, the tree, or a crossed pike and grain scythe.

Job returned to the gate with the names and stared up at it.

"Who were these thirteen, and why are they remembered when so many others are not?"

A gatekeeper, an ork in a black robe, answered him, "Because The Chronicler recorded their names, and The Singer wove them into the clan-song. They stood as part of the Eighteen on the first night. They held this gate against eight hundred foes and sent two hundred and ninety-four of them to their eternal rest."

"And the nameless graves?"

"The unknown dead. Cut down by battle, by blast, or by cold; none remained to sing of their names and deeds. It is not that they are forgotten, just that their songs are lost."

"And this place is?"

"A place of learning, that knowledge may spread. A place of remembrance, that history may not be forgotten."

"May I enter?"

The gatekeeper looked Job up and down. He had dressed in his wine-dark robes for the day, his battered backpack on his back. Job met the gatekeeper's eyes and was startled to find that there was something off with his eyes. They were storm-grey instead of the usual orc red.

"Very well, you may enter the Ironbark Outpost. May Aris Cretu, The Chronicler, watch over you."

Job blinked, looked at the tree on the left-hand gate, and suddenly placed it. Aris Cretu, Lord Trebor, had fought here before coming to Altheim.

He does indeed watch over me, doesn’t he? I wonder if Black Cloak…? 'Ascended Outsider'? Lord Trebor is still alive, so it's not him. A facet of, a channeler of…?

"You know The Chronicler?"

"Lord Trebor? I cannot claim to know him well, but after a fashion I do."

"Then enter and be welcome."

Job nodded his thanks and entered the Ironbark Outpost. Its outpost origins were clear in the walls, the watchtower, and the converted barracks buildings. A large library had been built where the parade ground once stood, with a small (by the standards of large cities anyway) mage tower at the back of the building. There were a few more black-robed humanoids walking about - orcs, humans, and half-orcs alike – who where clearly the ‘monks’ and ‘nuns’ of this place.

Job took careful mental notes ah he passed. He saw many storm-grey eyes as he walked towards the library for lack of a better place to go. It was also oddly quiet. Not silent, but the background chatter of conversation was oddly muted, as if there were fewer voices speaking aloud. Job could feel several insubstantial somethings brush past his mind as he entered the library, insubstantial touches that reminded him of Black Cloak’s voice.

“+ Welcome Job Arseoth. +”

“Who…?”

“+ Lajak the Quiet, Head Librarian. I believe that I know why you are here. Would you mind meeting me in my office on the second floor? Third door on your left up the stairs. +”

“Telepathy…?”

“+ Indeed, a gift from our Patron. Come to my office, and I can explain in greater detail. +”

Job looked about, found the stairs, and started climbing. They were a wright iron spiral affair boring up through the floor in a semi-convenient corner. Job turned left after he exited them and went down the row of office doors the third one on the left opened as he approached.

“+ Job! Come on in. +”

“Lajak. You were expecting me?”

“+ Not until the gatekeeper warned me of your approach. +”

“Telepathy again?”

“+ Yes. We of the Ironbark Outpost don’t exactly take a vow of silence, but we many of us prefer to use The Chronicler’s Gift. +”

“And others do not find it… disconcerting?”

“+ Some do, others do not. It matters little. We do strive to use our physical voices enough that we do not lose them however. +”

“Hence ‘the Quiet’.”

“+ Indeed. But you did not come here by accident, nor is this the destination of your journey. What is it that you seek? +”

“My own memories, lost, taken, or hidden from me. I had hoped to find Mull the Silent on the recommendation of multiple others, including Lady SiDiabolo.”

“+ Hmm, The Silent can be elusive. She seldom lingers in one place for long but has grown more… sedate… with age. I think you might find her where our ‘order’ was founded, the beginning of the Grey Road. You will need to speak with one of the Glacierheart shamans to find it; they do not lightly spread that information about. Mention that I sent you to speak with The Silent, and they should agree to guide you to that place. +”

“Is it sacred, or merely secret?”

“+ An interesting distinction, one I had not considered. It is a bit of both, in that it is used by more then one group. The Druids and shamans of Glacierheart hold it as sacred for some of their public rituals, and in addition keep its nature as the beginning of the Grey Road secret. I would say the many know where the location is, but few know what it is. +”

“A ‘stolen letter’, hidden in plain sight.”

“+ Indeed. And I must ask, you have had contact with The Chronicler? +”

“Yes, at least I believe that it is the same being that you call The Chronicler. I know him as Black Cloak, on account of that being just about the only memorable feature to him.”

“+ That accounts well with my own recollections of The Chronicler. Ha he granted you any Gifts, the way he as unto us of The Shrine at the Stand? +”

“Yeas and no.”

Job held up his left arm, letting the sleeve of the robe fall back to his elbow and revealing its metallic nature.

“This, and my left leg, are replacements for undue damages suffered in his service… and as recompense for his failed attempts to heal the initial damage.”

“+ Golem limbs…? +”

“As I understand it, they share at least some similarities the how golems are constructed, but not are not pure analogs of golems. There are bones of runed iron, ‘muscles’ of brass, and the steel plate ‘skin’ on the surface, much the same way a natural limb is constructed. Golem limbs, form my scant knowledge, are often skeletal or hollow and rely on magic to provide motion instead of ‘muscles’.”

“+ Interesting indeed. It has been Illuminating to speak with you Job Arseoth. May your journey be peaceful, and your search for knowledge fruitful. +”

“And yours as well.”

Job turned to leave, aware of the whispering threads of telepathic communication brushing against his mind as he left the library and the Shrine at the Stand.