Solasta II Story community

Hearken well, good traveller, and draw near the lamp-light of the Hall of Records, for I shall speak.

I am the Archivarius of MysterionGaming.com, keeper of shelves uncounted, watcher of ink and parchment, guardian of tales both merry and grim. Many a wanderer hath crossed this threshold: knights with dusty boots, bards with bright eyes, merchants with pockets full of rumor, and quiet folk whose stories weigh more than gold.

Here are gathered the chronicles of strange lands and stranger deeds. Great tomes bound in leather sleep beside thin little booklets that chatter like sparrows when opened. Scrolls lie coiled like patient serpents, parchments whisper when the candles burn low, and even the stones upon the floor remember a tale or two, should one care to listen.

From lands beyond misty mountains and over foaming seas do strangers come hither. They arrive with laughter, with sorrow, with cups of ale and heads full of adventure. Some bring sagas of dragons and storm-tossed ships. Others carry small and curious tales: of wandering cats, crooked wizards, talking turnips, and boots that walked away of their own accord.

All tales are welcome here.

Long tales that wander like forest roads.
Short tales that leap like sparks from the hearth.
Round tales that end where they began.
Flat tales that lie quiet until some clever soul lifts them again.

The Archive is a patient creature, slower than a tortoise and wiser than an owl. Should a storyteller grow weary and leave a tale half-told, the shelves do not complain. They simply wait, for they know that stories are restless things. A tale may slumber for a year and then awaken in the middle of supper, demanding ink at once.

Look about thee and thou shalt see stories everywhere. They hide in dusty corners, perch upon ladders, flutter through pages, and sometimes run laughing down the corridors like mischievous children. Some tales are merry, some sorrowful, some sweet as honey, and some sharp as a winter wind. A few are dangerous indeed, and must be kept between very stubborn covers.

Yet fear not.

For within these halls no tale is lost. Here they are kept, remembered, retold, and celebrated. The candles burn, the quills scratch, and the laughter of storytellers echoes between the beams.

So enter, good traveller. Hang thy cloak upon the peg, warm thy hands by the fire, and open thy satchel.

If thou bringest a tale — whether grand, foolish, crooked, glorious, or utterly impossible — thou hast found the right place.

Welcome, friend, unto my domain.


“Then open the great doors wider, good folk.
Let the wind carry in the wandering tales,
let the travellers warm their hands by the candles,
and let the shelves make room for yet another story.”

The old Archivarius sitteth deep within his great chair beside the hearth, where the fire crackleth and gloweth bright. The flames cast their dancing shadows upon the stone wall and the countless books that rest upon the shelves behind him.

Within his hands lieth an ancient book, its pages yellowed by many passing years. From time to time he moveth his hand slowly across the parchment, as though marking a line known only unto himself.

At his feet lieth his faithful sniffing hound. The good beast tilts his head, as if he hath heard this tale a hundred times before, and yet still findeth it worthy of hearing again. Now and then he snuffeth softly, as though somewhere in the chamber a new story hath caught his nose.

Upon the mantle above the hearth stand candles, an old skull, and several curious things whose origins none remember well. Perhaps they are trophies of forgotten adventures. Perhaps they are simply objects that once carried a tale of their own.

The Archivarius lifteth his gaze and smileth gently, and with great care he closeth the ancient book.

As though he would say:

"So then… shall I tell thee another tale?"

And herein lieth the wonder of it all:
None may know whether he shall tell a story…

…or whether the travellers themselves shall bring one with them.

For an archive liveth not by parchment alone,

but by those who come to tell their tales.

Then shall we not sit idle beside the shelves.

If the people come not unto the Archive with their tales,
then shall the Archivarius take up his cloak and lantern.

For stories wander the roads,
they linger in taverns,
they whisper in forgotten villages,
and they hide within dusty corners of the world.

And so the keeper of the shelves shall go forth
to gather them.

For every tale, whether grand or humble,
deserveth a place within the Archive.

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