Fog heavily ringed Ganymeade. The island was unknown in its existence within sailing distance from Briton and hidden completely except to those who knew its way. A myth in and of itself, like the Greek Gods or Mythical creatures.

The group of men stood to the feilds at the southern end of House Sabrehagen, looking to the North. Wind came from the West and smelled of rain, but Hedric ignored it as he rode the old warhorse towards where the men were grouped together.

He watched them talk among themselves and motion at times towards the North. Blues cast a look then to the North, half a league from where the rocky cliffs fell away into the rough, coral barbed ocean below.

"My Lord!" One of the men shouted, relief washing over the man in brown tunic and trousers that headed towards him.

Hedric frowned as he turned away from the strange accurance that had them nearly with pitchforks and knives in hand. Sabrehagen dismounted the roan. A billow sleeved shirt without a doublet or jerkin was tucked into a pair of trousers. Sturdy boots sounded against the rocky ground as he moved towards the men.

"Hail, men. This is it that you called me to." His voice was not so much a question but a statement. Hedric scratched lightly against a salt and pepper beard as he stared at the strange swirled circle of light and colors. "How long has it been there, Matthew?"

Matthew looked looked as if he had come from the highlands themselves. His hair was long with some of it in clan dreds. A tartan had more color than those back to the whole-lands. And his beard was scraggly and to the middle of his chest with a couple of braids in it. The man's large hand rested to the grip of his shortsword that hung at his side. "Three hours ago seen, but longer if it happened before the noon or even earlier."

The elder knight frowned more into his beard and a frown furrowed his brow. "Talk to the men and keep them quiet. I want their silence on this as long as possible." Hedric turned to Matthew. "For coin, if necessary, my friend. And send them back to work."

"Understood, my Lord." His fist beat smartly against the left side of his chest and moved on away from Sabrehagen.

Hedric stood there and stared hard at the odd sight.

For hours more, the three men did nothing.

There was little, if any, talk of the event. Event, Sabrehagen called it. Would it pass away like some ill meant storm' It seemed as plausable as an unexpected storm at sea that stayed longer than any were known to.

The elder knight sat to the old stump near the fire Matthew had built. The man was good with his hands and had quickly crafted together a spit and had two rabbits that Buton had trapped and skinned while Matthew had made camp.

Hedric reguarded Buton for a while as he settled thoughts of what to do with the Event for a few moments. Buton was a small man, short and to the shoulders of most of the men he had working his land and house. His hair was black and left long at his neck and his beard was nothing to be found except for a youth's stubble yet. Reedy, he looked underfed though he ate more than three men combined at any meal. What was being turned on the spit tonight would only be a morsel for the young man. Buton was loyal though and served House Sabrehagen with fierce loyalty. So much that he had to be calmed at times with the zeal that was in that man's soul, so ready to draw a blade.

While Buton took the skinned, roasted rabbits from the fire and started putting them to pewter plates he had brought from the manor house Sabrehagen turned back to watch the colorful display the continued to swirl with life, light, and color. They had decided to make certain it was not something that wavered or suddenly winked out of existence. If, by the fall of night the next day, it was stil a constant thing, they would dare more.

Mayhaps a passage from Ganymeade, but not by any ship on waters the knight had ever travelled.

Time seemed to stand still. Light and dark about him in such a rush that it reminded him of rapides beating against stone in a ferocious river.

When the other side was reached he was gasping for breath and his heart rammed at his chest wildly. He stood there and bent at the waist to grap as his right knee and support himself from falling over.

"Hag's teeth!" The curse spewed out in alarm when he looked up. What he saw was not Ganymeade. The land he knew well. Nor was it Briton or any of the lands near it. He pushed himself up until he stood to his full height.

The Event had deposited him on a mountainous slope with a thick treeline that began within yards of where he stood. He turned back to look down to the sprawling, large city below. "Hag's teeth," loosed the curse again but not so venomously. Blues turned to hear something leather and moving on the wind, but it was at such a distance and towards the light of the sun that he could not see what it was.

Sabrehage reshouldered the pack, glanced around, and started down the rest of the mountain and in the direction of the walled city below. The distance seemed further to him than it first looked, but paced himself. He passed a couple of homes along the way but outside of those walls there seemed few buildings. No small village living from the offgivings from a hiarchy, it seemed. But he reasoned that perhaps the king or queen of the lands kept all of her peopl within those grey walls.

It was almost as cold there as it had been on Ganymeaded. He was glad he'd kept the old cloak on, over that billowed sleeve shirt. Black doeskin trousers were tucked into sturdy boots of dark leather. About his waist was a thick belt, holding pouchs, sword, dagger, and their sheathes.

When he breached the gates, they stood wide open. Gloved hand, beneath his cloak, remained lightly about the grip of his short sword and loosened it a little in case there was need for it. What great city did not have guards standing sentry and their gates standing wide for all of this world to walk into?

Hedric frowned into his beard. He didn't have time to ponder it too long. Not twenty feet passed what appeared to be a Gate House blues started to see things he did not think were possible. Little things, at first, then larger ones.

Peoples with pointed ears and very lithe, angelic grace moved among the milling crowds. A very pale man with elongated, sharp teeth bared them in a grusome smile. Then, to make the elder knight pause a moment was a centaur.

"Hag's teeth." Muttered under his breath. "I have died in that hole of light and woken not in Heaven but in a bard's nightmare."

The aged knight could not sleep.

Another land. There was no need for ships to weather storms or horses to tire from a haggard, long jouney.

Hedric paced slowly through the solar at the manse. The fire that roared there had begun to die down. Its dimming light cast heavy, slowly moving shadows in the room, but he didn't seem to notice.

Teeth clicked against the stem of the pipe carved with a stag on the bowl of it. Sweet, cherry smoke drifted up to the bowled ceiled. He came to stand before the windows and pushed the right one open. Pale blue-pink light on Ganymeade's rough horizion was watched by him until the sun had begun to rise.

His thoughts were of his wife, recalling how she loved to see the sun rise or set. He smiled sadly to think her laughter and her zeal would not be known within those walls again. Since her death, it had been too quiet there.

Mayhaps it was why he pressed to go back through the Event. It was a gateway to purpose where there was otherwise a heavy dulldrom at the manor house.

Sabrehagen turned to glance about the solar. Every rich tapestry, every silver candlestick and piece of lush furniture was a reminder of her. She used to sit in that chair. Elsbeth had chosen that tapestry of the battle of men.

The door was turned for and took the pipe with him. It was morning and there was much work to be done. Much to say without saying anything. He had no intention of promising to his men or the workers of his house and land that he might spend more time in the newly found land than in Ganymeade. If he told them he might be escaping memories they might think him mad and tie him down for his own good.

No. It was a venture, a journey. Enough for two fortnights. That would be plenty of time to see more of the large city and see who or what lay within its towering walls.

Matthew followed Hedric from the manor house.

With every breath the coming rain could be smelled and tasted. Wind gusted, only to die but the men and those hurrying about to ready for the elder knight's journey ignored it.

Sabrehagen shoved the cloak over his right shoulder and adjusted it so that it fell and flowed over the left side of him as he drew nearer the old warhorse the stableman's son, Nykl held firmly by the reins. The boy was twelve - strong as an ox and and nearly a full head taller than most youths on the Isle of the same age. He nodded to the blond headed boy who handed the reins over to him.

Left boot was was fit into the stirrup while and hauled himself up onto the roan. Leather groaned as Hedric settled into the dip of the saddle of wood and animal hide. The front and back of the saddle that could have easily sat two rose with carved wooden pieces. The same decoration was on the front of the stirrups. The halter about the horse's face was leather with wooden toggles with leather tassles at the bottoms of them just below equine jaws. Behind the saddle was a bedroll and an extra cloak. Saddlebags were near his knees and on the left, in its sheath, was his longsword.

At his right, his hand shifted his shortsword comfortably to keep the pummel from digging into his ribs. A dagger in one of his boots and a few weapons that weren't readily seen were on his person. Hands in the pair of old riding gloves gripped the reins to hold the warhorse still while the packhorse was tied to the roan.

Hedric turned to look to the manor house that stood with a sour, forlorne disposition. Three stories tall, its greystone walls spoke of nothing cheerful. From one of the windows on the third floor, empty and dark, he looked to the main doorway where the solid, thick doors stood open.

"My Lord."

He blinked, glancing away from the house to Matthew. A frown furrowed a salt and pepper brow. "Yes, Matthew?"

"The horses are ready. Perdy has enough supplies on his back to get you through a month in the dead of Winter."

Sabrehagen stopped listening for a few moments. Matthew was thorough. He had always been thorough. In fifteen years, Hedric had never known the clansman to forget anything or have a lapse in duty and loyalty. "You have said that. Three times, Matthew." A smile for the man who was almost as old as he was, he bent in the saddle to clasp forearms with him. "I will weather whatever storm comes, my friend."

The saddle protested as he righted himself. Farewells were best when they were kept at a decent length. Another glance about the area, to those standing near the house's main door and the small group just outside of the stables, he pulled the reins and guided the roan North. Back towards the Event.