T oo long, have I hidden myself away from the eyes of men. Too long, have I cosseted myself in my cozy cave. Too long, have I scanned the ancient scrolls. My eyes have grown weak and my body has become soft. It is time and past time that I return to the race of the rats. My scrying has told me there is something afoot in Camelot which I do not understand, nor do I have a liking for it. Arturos, it would seem, has thrown in his lot with this new God and declared the Old Ways anathema. Does he not recall that it was the Old Ways that gave him his birth? Has he forgotten that it was the Old Ways which guided him during his early years? Does he not know that it is the Old Ways which protect him still? Far beneath the feet of DinTagell, I have dwelt these many years, caring little for the daily doings of kings and kine. Once I had seen Arturos to manhood and set him on the path to greatness, I thought sheer momentum would carry him through. I had not counted on the interference of this Christos, this pale child of the fiery God of the Jews. How does one who preaches meekness and mildness and moderation in all things gain such a stranglehold on the minds and hearts of men? I must go and see for myself. I must go to Camelot and refresh a few memories. The Elder Gods and the Old Ways have brought us this far. I must ensure they are not discarded by the side of the road, like so much excess baggage. Packing for my visit is a simple matter. I throw a few "necessities" into the center of a faded square of cloth and tie the corners to make a bag with a shoulder sling. I cast a glamour upon my staff, so that it appears to be nothing more than a crooked old walking stick. I don a tattered but clean robe of the simplest cut and I am ready to go. Though the "official" entrance to my cave is via the opening near the sea, I have many back doors to the place. From the rear of the cave, three tunnels open into a labyrinth which would raise the jealousy of Minos. Each of these branches into a new set of three, and these do likewise. I will not claim these to be enchanted, but they follow a different set of laws. Time and space and distance are warped in the old ways ascribed by some to the Faerie mounds. With the proper sequence of twists and turns I arrive at a great stone door, not far from fabled Camelot. With a slight change in my path, I could have been at Ebrauc, Din Eidyn, or a host of other places, all in about the same few moments. For now, though, I am near my current goal. I trace a sign in the air and sing a small chant. The door swings open and I step from a cairn on a hillside above the fabled city. It is but a short walk to the gates of Camelot and the warmth of Arthur’s great hall,Ehangwen.