Let every record show, that I, Gable Thandril, owner of land and purveyor of metal works; Father to my sons; Ran, Isdrilin, Grandorn, and Tertial, and to my daughter Frandril; and Husband to my wife Sartha; willingly enlisted into the Army of his King. I serve him with all honor due a King, from all strength of a Father. I serve him as the Third Field Marshal, under the sightlines of The Second above me, Dranmore Gardton, and he under the sightlines of The First above him, the noble Karlorn Skinmore. I, and the Marshals above, serve the Seventy Seventh from the Dead, The Dead King Vidda. 

The Slip-Key is safe.

We, the men of Third Control, have been under Siege for 264 days.

I will attempt to keep this record as best as I can, for I fear that we may not survive the siege of our enemies. Should I die, and these words are all that is left of Third Control, let it be known that we fought to defend the ways of our King until our final breath wrestled its way from our grasp.

We retreated here, to the Outer Court of the Docklorn outpost, number 37.64, after a battle with the creatures of Blackburn Mountain. Vile beasts, with more teeth than brains, erupted forth from the minseshaft of Gorthlorn the Fourth, abandoned in the year of my grandfather’s grandfather for lack of minerals. With sword and shield we held them at bay for three settings of the Purple Sun, maintaining no losses of life. 

Myself, Gable Thandril, wielding Ackthran, the sword of my father’s father, let fall four hundred and fifty three creatures, their black blood staining my armor to the waist. 

Second in command below me, Dorschfern the Mighty, Father to Dorschhern, and wielding the sword of his Father, Dorschgern, named double for its twin blades, fell six hundred and thirty three creatures.

The other men of Third Control, fifty men in total, each wielding the swords or weapons of those who have gone before them, swords and polestars alike, altogether let fall five thousand eight hundred and forty four creatures, before we were forced to retreat. For any that may receive this file, and answer our call for aid, let it be known that they attack in half waves. A small number, advanced upon us, with our backs to the Outer Court, and were killed as we laughed and mocked. It wasn't until we were collecting their Adren Bags, a transparent sac located under their chin and filled with enough chemical to power a thousand fires, that another wave, twice as large, attacked without warning. Once dead, another half wave approached within not enough time to even clean our weapons. Be not deceived by small forces, for more lie out of sight.

As the Purple Sun rose for the fourth time, the ground beneath us shook as boulders began to crash through the coiled branches of the Althtrees. But these rocks were nothing in comparison to the height of the horde before us.

At once I called for us to create the Shelm Formation, a three sided star, as we advanced backwards toward the gate of the Outer Court, entering it before the creatures reached us. Once inside the safety of the Gandrite Walls, a rock whose density will increase when force is applied, able only to be hewn by Phos-Wires, we were finally able to clean three sunsets of battle born blood from our weapons and armor.

A fortress well built to stand any siege that may come against it,  Docklorn Castle has never fallen.

Day 333:

The Slip-Key is safe.

A man from Third Control has now passed to the stars, succumbing to a wound born fever. Gridlorn Lockjaw, father of Skarlorn Lockjaw. An archer well suited to the needs of Third Control, who has proven his worth in many battles. My friend. My brother. 

On the third battle of the second day, a creature of [INFORMATION MISSING] with [INFORMATION MISSING] fell to the sword of Brond the Brave, but not before its claw, in a mighty arc, landed with dread atop his thigh, penetrating between the plates of his armor.

His name shall be held forever more, as a protector of the Slip-Key and, Sword of the King, a Father. A brother.

Day 458:

The Slip-Key is safe.

Our supplies run not short, for what the beasts have not known is that Docklorn Castle was built upon a planet wide vein of the rock named Salth. The very reason why this fortress was built here, was because of this. Such a mineral, acrid to the taste, is able to supply any who consume it with energy and nutrients, enough to live, should their stomach be able to settle its taste. For two thousand Cycles, the rain of this planet settled nowhere apart from this vein, enriching the salth with every nutrient and vitamin a Cyronian needs. Yes, our strength is weakened, and should our enemies by chance breach the walls, the fight they shall meet will be fueled more so by our will than by our bodies.

It will be, however, a glorious fight. For the men of Third Control, though we are the smallest regiment of our King’s Army and least in glory, we are mighty in mirth. The songs of our ancestors, sung loudly through the bitter breath of a salth diet, ring out in defiance of the snarling creatures who have ceased to attack the Gandrite Walls of what we have accepted to be as the place in which our bones will grow dry.

"For er' more, and er' more. With sword and shield we'll fight 'er' more.

Pain nor loss, b'yond our shores, the Throne of  Cyron stands er' more.

A King of love, a King of war. The Throne of Cyron stands er' more. 

A King of love, a King of war. The Throne of Cyron stands er'more.

Will falling be, our blood to ground? And life and song, no more r'sound?

Will wives and kin, mourn at graves? Our fam'lies stand with hearts so brave?

Cry not for me, my wife my dear, hold my daughters,  show no tears.

Rise up my sons! Rise up strong! Lift your sword and sing this song!

"For er' more, and er' more. With sword and shield we'll fight for'er' more.

Pain nor loss, b'yond our shores, for the Throne of  C’ron stands er' more.

A King of love, a King of war. The Throne of Cyron stands er' more. 

A King of love, a King of war. The Throne of Cyron stands er'more.

Fel-ling foes through the night, steel on shadow,  glorious fight.

And when we see the breaking sun, rise gol-den or’ the fray,

We’ll fight and sing for we will won, our blood’s last will drop take the day.

Again we’ll stand er’more through day.

Again we’ll fight er’more through day.

Again we’ll die er’more through day.

Day 600:

The Slip-Key is safe.

We have sent a signal, I believe, to Station 13. If our records are correct, Station 13 is a refueling depot on the third Moon from this Planet. The certainty, however, of our signal reaching the station, remains unsure. The possibility of the relay action being intact, is even more unsure. In times of plenty, the equipment necessary to send such a signal would be a Phos-Coil Radio Buster, tuned to 77K lumens, embedding 30KG’s of data in its light stream. However, we have no such equipment. What we do have, after happening upon a cache of old mining equipment, is a spool of Phos-Wire. Our comms Officer, Lorntrun Deedflint, son of Lornfrun Deedlflint, was the first to suggest that a rudimentary Buster could be fashioned from the spool of Phos-Wire. By the light of so many candles, and through the crass and loving heckling of his brothers in arms, Lorntrun son of Lornfrun, sent a simple message by Phos-Wire: “Third Control is under siege. Docklorn Castle. The Slip-Key remains safe for now.”

Day 601:

The Slip-Key is safe.

Docklorn Castle, a fortress well suited to stand against any that may come against it; Third Control, men of whom my life would be lain at their feet should they ask, trained under the throne of the Seventh from the Dead, soldiers of the Cyronian, an Empire who knows no shade, have reached the first sunrise of a second Cycle. Should the bards sing our song, should messages carried upon Phos across all systems speak of what we have done here, should whoever shall be the next from the Dead speak the names of the men of Third Control, lauding them for their courage or seeking to understand how a man can remain under siege for an entire Cycle, and should this message that I now pen, escape these walls; we, the men of Third Control, swords of the King, have but one thing to say, should these things be said: “Your ability, fellow Cyronian, to stand while others lay, to run while others stand, and to kneel while others refuse, can not be summoned forth in the moment of decision. There must be honor within you, sewn in by hours of honorable duties, should you wish for honor to come forth from you. Do you wish to live honorably? Your memory being one that others will look upon with respect, using your name and your actions to empower those who will come after you? Do you read of our action here this day, this Cycle, and think to yourself “They were brave, they were Knights. They, though they were small, were men of whom our Empire so desperately needs.” Should you think such things, and when ideas of us pass through your mind, pulling forth from your heart a want for a glory unseen since ages long past, then let the immortal words of King Cyron, first of the Dead Kings, founder of the undying Empire, burn themselves into the soft flesh of your beating heart to such a degree, that everytime you are to think of yourself, you will think of his words. “Let your end burn as brightly as your life.” When nothing is left of you but ash, waiting to be blown over oceans blue, do you desire that the work you have done will be remembered with grandeur and grace? Will the memory of your memory live with fire in the bones of your descendents? Then live every single moment, brothers and sisters, from the time you first came screaming from the womb of her who carried you, until the day long written down when your heart shall fill your chest with its final chorus of glory; as if it carries with it a divine and transcendent purpose. For it does. Each moment, given to you not by the means by which you were born, not by parents, not by blood, not by soil and not by sword. Each moment of your life is a moment to be seized. To be taken. To be controlled. To be held as tightly as your weak hands and hollow back are capable of holding it. For if you do, then no longer will your back be weak. But strong. No longer will your chest be hollow, but full. Should you take each day, Cyronian, as a chance for fire and fight, for love and leisure, then when that day comes, reserved for you to lay down and never rise again, then your great grandchildren’s great grandchildren will speak to their friends, using your name as the adjective to describe the grit and glory of their family line. “He is of us”. They will loudly proclaim to all whose ears may be bent towards them. If you wish your ending to burn as bright as the Seventh Sun, then live your life as if the Seventh Sun was created intentionally to shine its light upon the actions you take for King and Empire.

For it was.