It was one of those wild, clear, winter nights when the stars are like clouds covering the sky. The air was crisp and the moon was yet to rise.
Silhouetted upon the church tower stood a very large man. His hair was long and rather unkempt. He wore a coat of fur and held a staff in his hand. His head was upturned to the sky.
Then on the horizon, like a red jewel, was Mars, twinkling like a fire, peering down upon the earth with its martial gaze. The great man looked upon it and sighed - not with the sigh of despair, but with the sigh of determination.
Dire times were at hand. The flicker of Mars brought to his mind the flicker of fire - fire consuming British villages and churches; a fire set upon the land by Saxon hands. He briefly closed his eyes and tried to shake the vision from his mind. He crossed himself, and turned to descend the tower.
As he did so, the moon began to rise and a prayer formed in his heart: a prayer for Logres, for the school, for the King that would lead the Britons and what remained of the Pax Romana on the island. They were the last wall of defense for British Christendom in the days ahead. And with that prayer, Merlinus bade farewell, for now, to the stars.
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