Gwenael stepped forth, his four owl wings slightly picked up off the ground as he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Great Ones.”

He looked up, posture straight, “I come to you today with unanswered questions.”

“Explain,” Jomil spat with bitter apathy.

Gwenael's wings drooped to the ground again, unable to hide his lonely sorrow. Yet, he extended his hand. Between him and the heightened Thayne, he caused a glyph with the symbol of a clock to form. Rapidly, it moved. The hands flew back and forth at the speed of light as the amber glyph gleamed and shimmered. Finally, at last, it reached a a decided time. The big and little hands landed on twelve. Distinct information flickered above the glyph:

Year: 1746.
Location, Deerhorn, Eiskalt.
Time: 12:00 P.M.

“Eiskalt?” Y'edda raised an eyebrow.

“That insignificant snow ball?” Hromagh scoffed.

“That 'insignificant snow ball,” Khal’jaren reminded him, “Has one of our highest followings.”

“What happened in 1744?” Jomil asked, “You were not even created yet.”

Gwenael developed an oddly amused expression. His eyebrow was raised, a weird smirk on his face. “You thought I came here for me?” He almost laughed, “I am but an insignificance. I am but a pioneer through time and space, fixing the cracks and repairing wounds in time. I watch the life threads of many, intervening to preserve the best timeline. I have no place in the world, I only swim through its currents.”

The glyph projected an image above the timeframe. There, the golden brown image shone. He appeared to be your standard Eiskaltian, black hair and blue eyes. In his hand, however, was a bloodied longsword. Surrounding him were countless victims, all neanderthal. Men, woman, children. All were in a pile of corpses as the champion roared on top.