Another enduring folk myth is that of The Guardian. The Guardian is usually depicted as an elderly man or woman, one who has collected the knowledge of their society and culture. After an undisclosed disaster, in which most of the population is wiped out, The Guardian is visited by a helpful spirit, which stops them from aging. It is The Guardian's role to shepherd the survivors of society, usually infants and the infirm, and to rebuild what was taken by the disaster. Interestingly, Calkus is not the only region where this folk tale is told; each continent seems to have its own variation.

Extract from Calkus Folklore by Sylas Trein

Bryn peered through the cracks of the shuttered windows, catching only a glimpse of light. He stood outside the small cottage in thick darkness. It was certainly isolated; scanning the horizon, he could see only the occasional forest, with no other dwellings in sight. A fitting place for a scholar, he thought. He hoped it would be worth the three-day trek from the Hinterlands. A warm southern breeze whipped his light cloak and gave limited relief to his sweat-plastered face. Bryn had no love for the heat. He would never have visited the blasted south if it wasn't for his need to cure the Duke. He had spent a long day looking like an idiot asking tavern owners, beggars and scholars alike where he could find knowledge of the old world, and dead languages. Eventually, a youth in grey rags had pointed him south, towards the coast; strangely, the vagrant had declined his offer of a silver peak in return for the information. Regardless, his desperation had forced him to trust this unreliable source. He gave three loud, clear knocks on the rough wooden door and waited. Nothing. He hammered the door harder this time and was rewarded with shuffling noises from within. More waiting. He was raising his fist for another knock when the door creaked open. A chain stopped the door from opening completely. Bryn peered through the gap and was greeted by a single eye, narrowed in suspicion.

"What could you possibly want at this time, traveller?" The voice was raspy, as if the speaker was out of practice when it came to conversation.

"You have knowledge that I need."

"Oh? So you're a bandit, come to steal my scrolls? Don't think so, highwayman. I caught a swamp man in here just the other day, trying exactly the same thing. Begone!" The door slammed in Bryn's face. He sighed.

After another half hour of furious knocking, Bryn's hand felt like a piece of tenderised meat. He slumped against the rough stone wall next to the cottage and sighed. If the old man would not let him in tonight, he would try again in the morning. He listened to the howls of nocturnal predators from the nearby forests and eventually sank into a restless sleep.

He awoke next morning to the merciless sun beating down on him. He felt like he hadn't slept at all, but that wouldn't stop him. His stomach growled an appeal. Plenty time for sleep and food after I've found the answer, he thought. He approached the cottage door and listened for sounds of movement. Nothing. Judging by the position of the sun, it was still early morning; Bryn knew from experience that scholars tended to stay up late and sleep in. That probably went double for eccentric hermits. Again, he gave three clear knocks with his bruised fist. He heard swearing and movement through the door. The door opened a crack and the scholar's eye greeted him once more.

"Mr Highwayman? You're still here? I told you, you're not getting my scrolls."

"And I told you, I'm not here for your damned scrolls. I just want to talk to you."

"What could a bandit and a scholar possibly have to talk about?"

"I want to know about the old civilisations and dead languages. Can you help?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the scholar replied. "Are you going to leave or do I have to come out there?"

"I'm not leaving. Please do."

"You asked for it, highwayman."

The door closed abruptly. Bryn stepped away from the doorstep and brushed his hand against his right hip, feeling the reassuring weight of his knife. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. A moment later, the door flew open, and the scholar emerged brandishing a rapier, the point aimed at Bryn's chest. The scholar's voice fit his image perfectly: a great mass of matted grey hair, loose robes which were torn and stained beyond repair, and a wild, animalistic glint in his amber eyes. He advanced with surprisingly adept footwork and thrust the rapier's point towards Bryn's chest. Bryn pivoted to the left and took a step back.

"Is this necessary?" he said, locking eyes with the scholar as he backed away.

"You've made it necessary. Begone!" The scholar advanced on him once more, thrusting the rapier forward in a quick succession of strikes. Bryn dodged each one as his hand flashed instinctively towards the dagger. No. He needed the scholar alive. He continued dodging the blows as they danced through the overgrown grass. Bryn noticed beads of sweat beginning to pool on the Scholar's forehead. He probably hadn't fenced for years; he was getting tired. Bryn was pushed back to the perimeter wall and hopped over it, putting some distance between them. The scholar followed, lunging over the low wall with another stab. He was slowing down. The scholar must have noticed that his energy was running low, as he put all of his strength and speed into a ferocious lunge. Bryn sidestepped a little too slowly, as the rapier bit into the flesh just above his hip.

"Enough!" he snarled. He advanced on the scholar, who attempted another quick stab. It was not quick enough. Bryn's forehead collided with the scholar's nose. The meaty crunch caused the scholar to drop his rapier as he fell. Bryn grabbed the sword and tossed it over the wall.

"You hit me, you animal!"

"Well you didn't leave me with much choice," Bryn said. "Now, we're going to have that talk."

The interior of the scholar's cottage was more bizarre than Bryn had anticipated. Strange symbols were carved into the wooden walls at seemingly random intervals. One corner held a stack of cages. Most were empty, but Bryn sensed scurrying movement from one of them. Stacks of books and scrolls were scattered over every available surface, including the floor. Dust and darkness joined with a musty smell to create an oppressive atmosphere that Bryn could not wait to leave. Not until he found what he was looking for. The scholar slammed the door and stormed in, dropping his rapier back into the rack beside the front door. Strange that the rapier is the only thing he puts in its proper place, Bryn thought.

"Right," the scholar said. He slumped into a rocking chair by a shuttered window, surrounded by stacks of books. "What's so important you forced me to wake up and have a swordfight, then?"

Bryn decided to ignore the swordfight comment.

"What does the word Asser mean?" The scholar leaned forward in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. After a few moments, he stood up.

"How rude, I completely forgot. Would you like some tea?" Bryn glanced at the counter which held the kettle; decomposing foodstuffs and stained mugs littered the area.

"No. Answer my question, please."

"Well, in what context? I've studied dozens of dead languages, and some words do tend to cross over, you know." The scholar sat back down. Bryn racked his brain.

"Asser... sa lace?"

"Oh, Azarr sa lase? Well, your pronunciation is atrocious, but that is interesting. Definitely rings a bell. Now, why don't you apologise for hitting me with that monstrous head of yours, and I might feel kind enough to take a look for you?"

"I'm sorry," Bryn sighed. "I'm in a rush. Can you help or not, scholar?"

"Of course," the scholar said with a smile. He proceeded to methodically rifle through every stack of scrolls in the room, moving from one to another with a quiet confidence, as if he was working under an unknown but highly effective system.

"Ah! Here we are, then. It's Crontish." The scholar looked up with a satisfied smile.

"That doesn't help." Bryn sighed. "What's Crontish? What do the words mean?"

"The Crontans were a people who populated this very continent around four hundred years ago."

"At the end of the last cycle?"

"Indeed. As for the words..." The scholar savaged a few more piles of scrolls. "Azarr means a formless being, a shadow or a ghost? Strange that it's always written with a capital letter. Perhaps it was the name of a person or organisation?"

"I still don't understand," Bryn said. "What about sa lase?"

"Sounds similar to Ecran, the language they speak in Ecre."

"I know what Ecran is."

"Well, can't be too sure, you seem to know very little for a man of your years."

"What does it mean?" Bryn said sharply, struggling to keep the edge from his voice. He suspected that aggression would lead to another farcical fight.

"Lase... travelling, returning, arriving. Something along those lines. Sa simply means 'will'."

"So, shadow will... travel? Return?".

"Perhaps." The scholar scratched at his unruly hair. "Remember that the translation won't be perfect, this is a dead language we're dealing with after all."

"Well, thank you," Bryn said. He was no closer to a plan, but it was a start.

"Let me ask you, bandit, do you feel anything unusual when I say the word Azarr?" The scholar trembled slightly as he said it.

"Can't say I do," Bryn lied, unwilling to reveal his weakness. "Apart from a slight annoyance that I don't understand it better. Why?"

"For some reason its mention chills me. I feel like a wild animal, sighted by the hunter. Have you heard of ancestral memory?"

Bryn shook his head.

"It's a strange phenomenon in which an individual can know about, and have emotional reactions to, things they couldn't have possibly learned. Things from previous generations."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Bryn asked. He didn't have time for a wild tangent.

"Well, perhaps there is a reason I fear this word, Azarr." He shivered again. "Be careful, bandit."

Bryn thanked him and bowed, glad to leave the dingy cottage. His next step would be to ask around in Bellais for information about Crontan scholars and ruins. He began the long, sweaty trek towards the Hinterlands.