Sit down by the fireplace and listen to the story behind the Yule Crown of Winter, the tale of Arduina’s first hunt…

When Meirothea first walked with humankind, she gave them the moon, so they might see into the dark. She gave them language, so they could shape stories, remember their dead, and ease the weight of sorrow. She gave them music, so joy could rise even in the leanest days.

But with her also came the first winter, and despite the moon’s gentle light, Man still feared the long night. Snow drowned the familiar paths, the forests turned silent, and the living felt as lost as their memories were fragile.

Seeing this, Meirothea called upon Arduinna, the wild fay of the deep woods, whose feet knew every hidden hollow and whose heart beat with the promise of spring.

Arduinna answered without a word. She ran into the snow and the darkness, her Golden Hind at her side, and where she passed, new paths unfurled behind her, trails that had never existed until she willed them into being. Paths that curved toward shelter, toward hearths, toward safety.

The living followed those fresh tracks through the night, finding warmth and one another once more. At dawn, Arduinna’s Hind returned to Meirothea with berries caught in its antlers: bright seeds of renewal, gathered along the run to remind the living that winter is only a season, not an end.

Thus, the Gallians craft the Yule Crown of Winter in homage to the Arduinna and her Golden Hind. Worn at the close of the Yule procession, it honors Arduinna’s gift: a sign that after mourning the dead, the living must step forward again, and that even in winter, new paths can still be made.

Have you crafted it yet? Share your screenshots in the #screenshots channel

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Happy Yule to the Paxian Community

 Hello Paxians, Happy Yule to everyone!  Sit down by the fireplace and listen to the story behind the Yule Crown of Winter, the tale of Arduina’s firs...

Segurant and the Pit of Lyonesse.jpg

A letter found in Lyonesse.jpg

From tower high in Lyonesse, he kept his watch alone,
Where forests deep in darkness lie, and winds like trumpets moan.
One night beneath a pale moon’s light, a cry broke through the air,
Half a roar and half a wail, of grief and of despair.

Sing, O sing of Segurant,
Knight of the dragon dread,
He rides where none dare follow,
Where only saints have tread.

Again it came on another eve, with smoke that trailed the skies,
A dragon’s breath, or spirit’s curse, in dreadful, mournful cries.
He rode to where the black smoke curled, and found the gaping pit,
And from its depths came voices strange, a weeping infinite.

Sing, O sing of Segurant,
Knight of the dragon dread,
He hunts through smoke and shadow,
Where grieving voices led.

He told the hall of Arthur’s court, he spoke of what he’d found,
Of smoke and moan, of shadowed depth, and cries beneath the ground.
Then Merlin rose and warned him straight: “This is no beast of bone,
But shadow vast, that if unbound, may swallow flesh and stone.”

Sing, O sing of Segurant,
Knight of the dragon dread,
He swore to chase it downward,
Though all the court turned head.

So forth he rode with company, into the forest’s gloom,
And there he found the yawning pit, wide as a giant’s tomb.
Alone he dared descend its depths, alone he sought the sound,
And thrice his horn rang through the dark, before the earth fell down.

Sing, O sing of Segurant,
Knight of the dragon dread,
He blows his horn in darkness,
And stones fall on his head.

The cliffs gave way, the stones poured in, the echoes rolled like thunder,
The path was sealed, the knight was lost, to shadow’s endless hunger.
Some say he hunts the dragon still, where endless caverns wind,
Some say the pit devoured him whole, with nothing left behind.

Sing, O sing of Segurant,
Knight of the dragon dread,
He hunts the beast forever,
Though some declare him dead.

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I writ ye quick, for I found marvels here no man shuld pass by. In them black woods I seen a queer plant, thorn’d and twisted, bleedin sap like gold, warm as flesh. When I broke a branch the juice run on me hand, and I swear I heard a voice, soft like a chapel song, then another, low and thick, like a belly growlin afore a feast.

An there be stones too, black and carved with holy words, glowin yet like altar candles. I took three, for priests will pay good coin, even if they call ‘em cursed. Fools! They hum like church bells, and I feel strong as a knight bearin ‘em.

Since then I dream of tables groanin with meat and pies, fish fat as hogs, bread white as snow. I see us both sittin there, eatin till we near burst, laughin like lords. By Oroael’s bones, brother, I woke with my mouth waterin.

I tell ye true, Thomasin, this land is rich. I’ll go deeper yet, to the pit where smoke rises. There be more wonders hid below, gold enough for us both, food enough for all our kin. When I bring it back, none shall hunger in Kerys again. Pray for me if ye like, but I think the Divine hand guides me now.

Tales of Lyonesse II (Lore) auf Englisch

 Segurant and the Pit of Lyonesse From tower high in Lyonesse, he kept his watch alone,
Where forests deep in darkness lie, and winds like trumpets mo...

Lay of Fair Lyonesse.jpg

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Green were the vales of Lyonesse,
Shining with dew at dawn,
Apple and oak, and corn in sheaves,
Gold on every lawn.

No man hungered in those days,
Nor child went lean with need,
For there was set the Cauldron vast,
That never failed of feed.

They ate, they drank, they ate again,
Till bellies swelled with more,
The gift was turned to glutton’s curse,
And spilled upon the shore.

So feasting drowned the fair green land,
The valleys sank away,
And only waves keep memory now,
Of Lyonesse’s day.

To the Most Reverend Father, Keeper of the Keys,

Be it known that certain specimens, lately transported from the province of Lyonesse, have been placed into the custody of the Papal Arcanists for trial and discernment. The plant in question bears dark and thornéd boughs, yet within them runs a golden sap that glows and hums with uncommon force. The learned masters have given it the name Ambergrasp.

The first examinations have yielded most favorable signs. Distillations of the sap did stir the air as though graced by a hidden breath, and when applied to relics of minor sanctity, the objects shone more brightly and seemed to answer to prayer with greater fervor. In disputation, it was concluded that within this sap abides some portion of divine spirit, not unlike the virtue that clings to the bones of martyrs or the stones of ancient shrines. The masters are confident it may serve to fashion relics and artefacts, or to lend new fire to miracles.

Encouraged by these findings, the Arcanists humbly petition leave to establish an outpost within Lyonesse itself, so that they may conduct their operations upon the field. They believe that by certain arts of soil and blessing, the growth of Ambergrasp may be hastened, and its yield multiplied.

This officer recommends the request be granted, for the gain of Holy Church and the discomfiture of her enemies.

Signed and sealed,
Brother Matthias of the Inquisition
Faithful Servant of the Holy See

Italian Landscape with the Ponte Lucano over the Aniene River 

Tales of Lyonesse (Lore) (auf englisch)

 
Lay of Fair Lyonesse Green were the vales of Lyonesse,
Shining with dew at dawn,
Apple and oak, and corn in sheaves,
Gold on every lawn. No man hung...

This is the last text from Thelonius. You can find the previous texts in our earlier blogs listed below.



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The Destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum

, painted by John Martin in 1822.
The Last Word, 

, the world did not mourn. It began to fracture.

Loïos left no edict, no successor, no temple. Only silence. And in that silence, rot was revealed. Nearly every throne and altar had been claimed by corruption. Lords clothed in scripture, bishops perfumed in gold, aldermen preaching peace while bartering with demons. 

, once raised to resist such decay, saw only what it chose to see.

. The kingdom had never been fully subdued by the 

. Its rivers, its deserts, its broken towers remembered too much. In the mountain holds of Pharos and the libraries of Damat, quiet circles formed. They did not worship 

From these rose new fellowships like the 

, seekers who strive to rekindle knowledge from the Age of the Ancients and the 

, warrior-scholars who studied the sacred geometries of Armozel and reforged his designs in iron and purpose.

, the spark of revolt was faint, but not extinguished. The old chants returned. Stone circles once abandoned by the Papacy were quietly restored by a half-secret fellowship of master builders known as the 

. Officially, their path to mastery required a pilgrimage through the known world, each member completing a 

 to earn their place. Unofficially, they gathered knowledge, exchanged techniques, and safeguarded the secrets of sacred architecture, continuing the legacy of Meirothea, Armozel, and Eleleth. I am certain their quiet labor was crucial in preserving the 

, thrones had fallen long before. But out of the fractured land rose the 

, a patchwork of herbalists, smiths, and wandering knights. They built shelters with old stones, mapped hidden paths, and taught children to remember the stars.

 remained silent. Its zealots had long buried doubt.

 surrounded himself with coin, parchment, and ceremony. Beneath his feet, the 

. It was no march of banners, no war of conquest. It was a defense of thresholds, of places too sacred to abandon.
From the fellowships I have named, and many others now forgotten, the righteous rose quietly, across every land. They restored the teachings of the Redeemers. They carried light into caverns and ruins, into the broken mouths of old sanctuaries. They sealed corrupted wells. They wove wards from ash and honey. They carved sigils with their own blood and sometimes even surrendered their names to preserve the lives of others.

The Inquisition branded them heretics. Entire lineages were marked with the 

, even those whose forebears had once stood honored in the Age of the Kingdoms. The 

, all condemned. Their names cast into fire. Yet it was their hands that held the last bastions of grace.

Among the scattered faithful, no crowns were raised, but new names were whispered and kept: the 

. Some still endure, guarding wells, relics, and one another.

But it was not enough. Once more, the demons rose.

, the catacombs rang with songs no living tongue confessed to singing. In 

, the fountains ran sweet and black, and children spoke with voices too old for breath. Yet this was no siege. The cities did not fall. They dissolved. The people changed. The bells tolled for things no longer sacred.

. Only the sanctuaries protected by the righteous held firm, and even then, only for a time. Villages turned. Bourgs fell. Cities followed. Where swords were not strong enough, the cultists came with smiles, with promises, with honeyed scripture. And when they met resistance, they broke it. The unyielding were tortured, their limbs scattered, their remains displayed like trophies, warnings etched in flesh and bone.

Soon, even the righteous were surrounded.

Storms rose. Winds stripped forests to bone. Rain fell like iron. The sun stood for forty days, then vanished. Salt burned the soil. Rivers bled. Beasts twisted. Crops died without rot.

For more than a decade, there was no rhythm. No season. No balance.

 fractured. Holy places vanished into fog. In a few corners of the world, rituals were kept. Sometimes only in memories, always at the price of blood.

They did not rise from tombs, nor fall from stars. They simply appeared. Full-grown. Quiet. Uncertain.

Some bore no name. Others spoke in tongues no living ear remembered. They returned to places they had never seen, and built with tools they never learned to use.

The druids, those who still whisper to the roots, call them 

. Heirs to Creation’s sap, vessels of knowledge that was never written.

 calls them blasphemies, to be silenced and unmade.

They fall, and yet they rise. They walk the ruins without fear, as if the stones remember them. They stare into the future with the gaze of those recalling a forgotten dream.

I do not know what they are. They are not like us, but they carry something we lost.

And if any thread still runs through the tattered tapestry of Creation, it may yet pass through their hands.

Thus ends my telling. I let the wind bear what remains and the light find what may still grow.

And if the Divine listens, I beg them to not yet close the book.

Once again, I take up my quill, though my hand trembles. The candle is low. The ink thinned. This may be the last time.

They told me they would come again, the Fay. And I feel them now. Just beyond the Veil.

This morning, a bird came to my window. The first I have seen in years.

It bore a letter, wrapped in worn cloth. Its feathers were grey, its eyes bright. When I unrolled the parchment, it did not fly away. It stayed. Watching. Silent. It did not sing.

The letter was from Elric, a young scribe of rare promise, whom I once met in the vaults beneath Kerys, while aiding Lady Duine and her Sanctuary keepers burying relics from the reach of evil hands. He writes now from a hollow in the mountains, where a few still endure.

He writes from a hollow in the mountains, where a few still endure.
He writes of snow and roots. Of a well that runs clean.
Of elders who remember the Redeemers. Of children born in silence, taught to pray with their hands.
He speaks of wanderers who walk beyond the veil, and of stories whispered in firelight.

He writes with doubt, and with hunger.
He asks after the Scions.

He says a druid spoke the name once, before vanishing into the mists.
He says they do not sleep, but rise from the dark.
That one of them wept when a vine reached across a shattered shrine.

What are they?
Why do they return?
What thread, do they carry? And to what loom?

I do not know how to answer.
But I know this: if Elric is alive. And others, too.
If he speaks the truth, then there is still some hope.
There are still righteous. There are still echoes.
There are still hands that reach. To remember, and to hold.

I have no strength left for a full reply. But I leave this page open.
Let the bird carry what it can.

If you read this, know you are not the last.
Whether you were born beneath the storm,
or rose from sacred stone,
you are part of the turning.

The world is not yet unmade.
There is still time to turn toward the Divine.
And still time, perhaps, for the Divine to turn back.

They told me they would come again, at the end.
I feel them now, just beyond the Veil.
Not wind, not rain, but something older.
A grace that watches, and waits.

If they come tonight, I will go to them.
Not in fear, but in faith.

I leave these words in Lunthyr,
where the dead still dream.
And I go to rest among them.

—Thelonius the Scribe
Last Keeper of Hidden Light
Scriptorium of Lunthyr, Year 3999

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part VI (End) (auf englisch)

 Hello Paxians This is the last text from Thelonius. You can find the previous texts in our earlier blogs listed below.

 
 
 
 
  Illustrations:
The ...


This is the one before the last text from Thelonius. You can find the previous texts in our earlier blogs listed below.



Thelonius 5 Age of the Papacy.jpg

, the Eighth Redeemer. She brought neither fire nor flood, but 

With scripture in her left hand and the seal of the Divine in her right, she reopened the gates of 

, restoring communion between the Four Kingdoms. Her voice was not loud, it was final. Her word ended quarrels, stilled armies, and bound kings to a common path.

 were raised: great standing stones, carved from sacred granite and engraved with the sigils of the Holy See. Within each, it is said, was set a relic from the monastery of Oroael, touched by the Sixth Redeemer himself. These stones carried doctrine across the realm, and when needed, called the faithful to arms… or sent the Papal troops to a valley. They became pillars of unity, and of discipline.

Mellephaneous ruled for one hundred and twelve years, unwavering, untiring, unchanged. When she vanished, no tomb was found—only her robes remained, folded upon the seat of judgment.

But peace, left too long in silence, begins to harden.

The Divine did not send another Redeemer. The faithful believed none were needed. Yet while the altars gleamed, the old sins returned. They wore mitres, kissed relics, and echoed the language of sanctity.

The Papacy reigned uncontested. Trade prospered, fields flourished, and cities gleamed beneath painted glass. But thought dimmed. Curiosity slowed. The word of the Holy See became law, and law replaced learning.

The first Crusades marched against demons. Others followed, targeting the Fay, the shamans, and the singers. In time, no one was safe who remembered too much.

, who kept the rites of the Great Mother, was the first condemned. Their groves were cleared, their chants silenced beneath liturgical proclamation.

, claiming bloodlines from the ancient dragons, was erased. Their halls were sealed in salt and their names struck from memory.

, once guardians of the Golden Stag, were declared heretics. They had stood too long with the druids and sang too often in the old tongue.

 would not kneel. Scribes and sages who knew no throne but the one bound to the roots of the world, they vanished into the forests, taking songs and stories with them.

In the soot-blackened ruins of Oroael’s monastery, a spark remained. From scattered scrolls and broken tablets, the 

 emerged. They taught that balance was not rebellion, and that justice could still be lived. Papess Elusphan declared them dangerous. They were pursued and scattered, but they were not erased.

Even the scribes were watched. In the name of simplicity, storytellers were banished and their verses burned. In the name of purity, inquiry was condemned. The Holy See taught that if the Divine wished something discovered, They would send a Redeemer.

Some popes were wise. A few were kind. Most ruled only briefly, their names lost among the incense and stone. But there were others, remembered not for their virtue, but for how deeply they wore their masks.

, remembered as a scholar and builder, enshrined pride. He filled the cathedrals with his own image and rewrote the psalms to praise his name. He declared the Papal Throne second only to Heaven, and the people rejoiced, unaware Heaven had turned away.

. Its structure echoed the armies of Anatolia, a gesture meant to honor the Eastern Kingdom. In truth, it hollowed it. The finest soldiers pledged not to king or country, but to doctrine. Within a generation, the Inquisition became the greatest military power in the realm.

 ossified the Church through silence. He wrote edicts more often than he spoke them. Councils bloated. Reform died stillborn. Sloth grew in the corners of the sanctuaries, unnoticed and unchallenged.

, whose laughter once brought joy even to the dying, turned levity into ritual. She made fasts into parades, shortened prayers into rhymes, and turned sacred vigils into games of wit and charm. Laughter replaced awe, and holiness became a performance.

None of these sought ruin. Each believed themselves righteous. Each followed the path of virtue into darkness, and never looked back.

For more than eight centuries, the Papacy endured. Eighty-two names are carved into the pillars of the See. Some polished its walls. Others watched them crack.

Then, one morning, a man arrived barefoot at the gates of Axis Mundi.

He carried no seal and wore no title. He asked for no crown, made no claim. He only asked the people to rest, to remember, to listen. His voice was quiet.

Some say it was fever. Others whisper poison. Some believe no Redeemer dies without purpose.

 began to hum. The leylines rippled. And though the cathedrals still stood, the earth beneath them had begun to stir.

But in silence the wind no longer carried.

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part V (auf englisch)

 Hello Paxians 
This is the one before the last text from Thelonius. You can find the previous texts in our earlier blogs listed below.

 
 
 
   The ...

Thelonius 4 Age of Kingdoms.jpg

. Trade flourished, roads were laid across sacred soil, and cities rose, crowned with cathedrals, observatories, and guildhalls. Mankind reached a height of beauty and learning not seen since Atlantis.

But nothing fashioned by human hands stays pure forever.

As the kingdoms grew, so too did the cracks within them. Nobles plotted behind carved doors. Assassins walked among acolytes. Cults whispered from crypts and cellars. Relics from the Surge changed hands in secret, and ancient sins crept back into the dancing shadows of people who only watched the light..

She had already been walking the world. Even though she was a bishop from the city of 

, she had never dictated from a throne or a pulpit. She was known as a 

 and imbuing the fearful with the blessing of faith. Her virtue was 

, not of the flesh, but of the spirit, the strength to keep seeking, even when the path turned to shadow.

She studied the Enemy not to worship, but to understand. From ruins, scrolls, wild tribes, and the silence of the Fay, she gathered broken parts of a forgotten whole. Her gifts were many, 

, the deepest wound still open in Creation. It bears her mark still.

And each kingdom remembered her differently.

, a spirit in flesh who knew the names of demons and the words to unmake them.

, who whispered blessings into steel and carved protection into the stones of homes and chapels.

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part IV (auf englisch)

  
 
  The Age of the Kingdoms (~2350 to 2996) It is said that  Oroael’s teachings  paved the way for the Four Kingdoms,  Gallia ,  Gothia ,  Iberia ,...

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Happy Yule to the Paxian Community

Tales of Lyonesse II (Lore) auf Englisch

Tales of Lyonesse (Lore) (auf englisch)

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part VI (End) (auf englisch)

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part V (auf englisch)

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part IV (auf englisch)

Midsommar - A Hallowtide in Pax Dei

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part III (auf englisch)

Beltane

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part II (auf englisch)