Epilogue for November 2025

As the power over stories was stripped from the Dreamer’s hands, ink began to return to the pages. It started with drops and then rivers and torrents. Each word repenning itself back into the paper. Each drawing reillustrated by an artisan’s hand. People began to remember the stories once more. Though if you weren’t a Hero of Travance you wouldn’t notice the changes to the tales. 

Maeve once again regaled her daughter with the tale of Ser Alfid and the Lochmire Beast, albeit with the addition of a rather grumpy  lawman who aided the knight in her quest. The skald, telling the story of the Wolf, gave mention of an enterprising lord within the edda whose signet ring could rally a pack of wolves of his own. The Chosen did not face the Wyrm alone but instead an army of warriors with emblazoned spears made their way into its lair. Elaine could not help but chuckle as she sealed away the First Books within their wards, thinking about how the tales have been changed for the better by the intervention of Travance. Hopes and dreams were not just restored. They were emblazoned. 

      Ser Calenhal noticed just how different his story felt when he returned. A day or so before he found himself thrust into the real world. The reveal that he was a story did not hold weight to him. The virtuous actions of the Heroes of Travance did hold weight to him. He played with the gold coin in his pocket as he reminisced, a gift from another world with good people and virtuous knights. The Archmage Mirion found in their time in the proper a boundless curiosity that rivaled their own. They studied a journal given to them by an enterprising mage, a piece of the world they visited that they can always study. The Princess saw from the Heroes kindness and willingness to admit fault. As rugged and cruel as they can act they were willing to hold themselves accountable when they knew they were wrong. She gazed upon a small statue made of a corncob upon her mantle, a token of the friends she had made. 

         Naiche awoke from a nap in a sunbeam, a steaming mug of cider near them. They grabbed a blanket that was crumpled on the floor as they experienced the cold of the December air. Being real meant that they had to learn a lot of new things. Though these new things were strange to think about, such as cooking or the cold, they have friends that are willing to teach them. Naiche never had friends before. No story would ever let them. But they're not a Trickster anymore. They're Naiche. They thought about all the tricks they played on Travance as they lazily wrapped themself in the blanket. Their tricks are theirs and they wouldn't have it any other way. 

       The Chosen took a moment to reminisce upon her story before she heard the call to action. Once upon a time she was a humble scholar, a scribe of Chronicler. She was loved. She had friends and family that cherished her. She had a home where she was truly herself, ever devoted to the Great Story . But that was a chapter in the tale of the Chosen. She was no longer a scribe. She is a Tale. She is a story. “In this moment and all others, my feet tread this path gladly”. Words uttered upon a battlefield that now carry the Chosen ever forward. 

And they all lived happily ever after.