In Gallia, when the longest night settles over the forests and the breath of winter stills even the streams, the people gather for the Rite of the Goat Mask. This custom is not a somber ritual, nor a celebration. It is something in between, a dance of memory, as old as the first paths Meirothea opened through the dark.

At the height of the Yule feast, the fire is quieted and all lights but one are dimmed. From a wooden chest, worn smooth by generations, the Goat Mask is lifted. Carved in the likeness of Meirothea’s guide, bearing her symbols, it is passed into the hands of the first performer.

When the mask is worn, the wearer becomes “the Goat.”

Not a person, not a villager, not someone bound by debts or quarrels or pride.

The Goat is a voice for the dead, free of judgment, free of shame, free to speak truths that living tongues often swallow.

One by one, those who take the mask must offer something to the night: a tale of someone who passed beyond the Veil this year, a song they once loved, a dance that echoes a shared moment, a poem that frees a buried grief, or simply a memory too heavy to carry alone.

Laughter is welcome. Tears are welcome. Silence, too, is welcome. For behind the mask, no one knows who speaks, and none may hold a grudge: Gallians say, “Chievre qui parole. Nuit qui prent.” What the Goat says belongs to the Night.

When all have spoken, danced, sung, or simply breathed out their sorrow, the final bearer of the mask steps outside into the cold.

There, they raise the mask toward the sky and trace a slow circle with it. It is the circle of the goat’s ancient path, the one believed to lead spirits from the world of frost to the moonlit road beyond the Veil.

Then the mask is lowered.
The lantern is brightened.
The fire roars again.
And the Goat’s work is done for another year.

Gallians say that on this night, the spirits walk lighter, and the living do too.

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The Consecration of the Goat Mask (Li Sacre du Maske-Chievre)

 In Gallia, when the longest night settles over the forests and the breath of winter stills even the streams, the people gather for the Rite of the Go...

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...

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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)

 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...

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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)

 
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.

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

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

 
 
 
 
  Illustrations:
The ...

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The Consecration of the Goat Mask (Li Sacre du Maske-Chievre)

Happy Yule to the Paxian Community

Tales of Lyonesse II (Lore)

Tales of Lyonesse (Lore)

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

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part V

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part IV

Midsommar - A Hallowtide in Pax Dei

The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part III

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