Seven hundred and forty-eight years ago, three children were born in Llan Galadh, land of light. One, was a strapping great lad, another was utterly beautiful and the third - the third child was wise...

Ah yes, the Wise Warrior. Such an enigmatic child he was as many still remember. Born in the same year as Hwindohtar, both children became as brothers, along with Ram en' Ondo. They would frolic amongst the trees, fight great wars, ride their war chargers into battle, and they would dream - that one day they truly would fight together. Their chargers would not be wooden boxes but great white steeds, their weapons not twigs and branches but finely wrought bows and swords, and their uniforms not loose linen tunics but finely crafted leather and silk.

Oh the dreams they shared, the plans they made! We still remember their childish giggles, still blissfully unaware of the horrors of war. And yet in one thing, Idhrenohtar began to shine for you see, his mind was sharp - extraordinarily so. He began to question the statements of others, refute their arguments much to his mother's embarrassment. He would correct the reasoning of his elders and make no excuses for doing so. There was no stopping the mite and so, in his free time, he would sit and read, read, read! Every book on philosophy, on faulty reasoning, on refuting, on ethics and fallacies, every morsel of knowledge that was to be had in our humble library had been borrowed by the infant philosopher, and promptly devoured, as fiercely as Hwindo used to gulp his pea soup; and let me tell you, my friends, that that was a marvel to behold, if not somewhat disconcerting to Amareth, who would always fret over the ensuing flatulence and awful bouts of burbing. I, however, would laugh my Silvan head off, for is it not true? Peas are veritably the grapes of Morgoth...

His poor father! I say. He had dreamed of passing on his knowledge of foresting to his only child, but the boy would not have it. He would stand and scowl and cross his arms in utter refusal, like an ass unwilling to cross a stream. He would not accompany his father into the woods, for there were stories to read, no sages to understand!!

Other children laughed at him, called him *snoutband, but he would simply cock an eyebrow at them and ask them to explain the wherefore of their humour. He was no fun, they decided, an utter *cumberworld and eventually, much to the boy's hidden relief, left him to his own, strange devices.

His two childhood friends loved him as a brother though - he was not wont for friendship, and never would be, for these three had sworn an oath no sooner they could speak.

Erthoron, Silvan leader of Llan Galadh,  once travelled to the city centre on some such business. On the off chance,  he had begged the king to concede books for their humble Silvan village. Our somewhat absent monarch had granted permission, under the supervision of his own librarians for he would not concede the more valuable tomes. The result was a cart full of books that accompanied our leader back to Llan Galadh, a day the villagers would never forget, indeed neither will I!! I laughed and laughed whilst the others stood open-mouthed and his red-faced mother cringed, seeming to shrink into her cloak as her eyes darted from one neighbour to the next, bracing herself for their witty comments she would surely not appreciate.

The child philosopher, upon spying the cart and their beaming leader, ran straight for it and then vaulted upon the books as if he were a fruit bat in flight, eyes wide, breathing harsh for where to start - where to start!!!! A trembling ball of pent up energy, hands clasping desperately at the bound leather lest it disappear before his very eyes. He opened almost every tome, and then immersed his entire face into the parchment, smelling them noisily, as if he would eat them all, lick the ink that sprawled upon the pages, ingest the knowledge to be had within. Just thinking about it now, makes my mouth water...

The fact of the matter is, that he was not seen for weeks, until his friends finally decided to wrench him from his reading lest his eyeballs shrivel - indeed only they could achieve such a thing, for if this wise child loved reading as much as he did, so too did he want to be a warrior.

Incompatible, you may say. For what has a philosopher to do with a warrior? Yet the child himself would calmly explain the relationship he so clearly saw. To fight, to kill, to defend - to fight what? defend what? Kill for what?" It was all he would ever say, for was it not as clear as day? he would ask, as if we were all boil-brained!

One day, much later in life, they had agreed to create a warrior name for each other, one that would define them in some way, and for this wise child, there had never been any doubt. Amidst the giggles of adolescent children, the Wise Warrior was born - Idhrenohtar, or Idhreno, venerable archer and philosopher of The Company, beloved child of Llan Galadh.

But come, look at him once more - can you see the wisdom in his eyes? The book in his hand? The determination upon his face? He will need all these things for what is to come. Let us hope the Gods see fit to preserve him, return him to us, his proud people.

*snoutband = weirdo

*cumberworld = waste of space