Now if this was classic children’s book, I might begin with something like ‘Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning.’ However, this isn’t fit enough to lace the boots of that story. Instead, I want you to close your eyes and imagine the scene as if it were a Technicolor masterpiece, some hope. Try to visualise the wind roaring past your face, feel the drizzle streaking down your face, drips forming on the end of your nose as I start the story for real.

The kingdom of Moltmangrese is a long way from here, a real long way. It’d be easier to fly there, ideally on the back of a large dragon, or maybe a haltersnozzel. You swoop past the power stations at Dragonsword, over the rich cornfields of Wheatberry plains. The skies grow darker by the minutes as you flash above the barren heather moorlands of Despair, the purple blooms resplendent at this time of year, lost in the grey mist. Dip your feet in the water of the Great Eastern Sea, careful not to be caught in the jaws of one of the mythical sea beasts that trawl this ocean.

Through the large fjords, home of the fearsome giants of Amhilda. One bite from their teeth enough to separate life from any mortal creature. Snow starts to fall lightly as you navigate the Mountains of Midnight. Yet despite the chill in your bones, you push on with your quest. The deserts of Quarabag warm your body as you flash on through the valley of the Dead, a place where there are only bones and weirdly a solitary cactus. A place designed to lower your resolve; make you turn back, forget what it was that drove you this far. Skirting the great city of Marbunga you reach a wild seemingly impenetrable woodland. From here you must dismount as the next part of our journey is only reachable by foot or hoof, depending on your bodily form.

This is a place where even the wild things dare not stroll, a land where the Gruffalo was hunted into extinction. Even the very hungry caterpillar does not nibble at its leaves. Yet hidden in this Elysium Forest is a Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race), the last in our world, waiting to be awakened. It’s been here since the elves departed for Middle Earth, the last bee’s left for pastures new and the last faeries took flight to Dingly Dell. The Chronicles of Father Robin tell only that those truly worthy can penetrate and enter the hallowed ground. You can literally feel the magic that crackles through this dense wood.
Deep in this mangle of branches, leaves, roots and gnarled trunks is a building, sadly neglected by its owner. A palace is a vision of enchanting elegance, a grand castle that stands tall against the horizon with its majestic spires reaching for the sky. The walls are made of smooth, pale stone, shimmering slightly, kissed by centuries of magic. Ivy winds its way up the towers, framing tall windows with intricate, stained-glass panels that depict scenes of nature, royalty, and enchantment.

The central tower, the highest of them all, glows faintly under the soft light of dawn or dusk, housing the room where the Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race) waits in slumber. A grand bridge spans a festering moat It feels as though the palace is frozen in a dream, waiting for the moment when life and light will once again flow through its halls.

Time has been stopped here for the last hundred years. Inches of dust cover every surface. Once shiny floors that reflected light from the one hundred and seventy-six chandeliers, now are dull and grimy. The silver of the fittings tarnished, waiting for some tender love and care. Mirrors that lined one of the sixty state rooms no longer reflect those standing in front of them. Over the furniture are dust sheets that appear to be made completely from dust themselves, so long have they waited to be uncovered.

It’s hard to imagine the parties that once took place in the royal ballroom. Here the local beauties danced with their beaus late into the night, notes danced through the air powered by a small orchestra. Beasts gazed through the window in awe at the majesty of the place. Now all is quiet, apart from the scurrying of spiders which are weaving their magical webs over every surface.

The grand regal staircase still sweeps upwards from the main hall. No longer does its luscious red carpet draw people’s eyes to the golden balcony. Here the Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race) used to greet her guests, sure they would have the time of their lives.
If you follow the staircase upwards, you’ll arrive at the door of the great tower. Sweeping back the cobwebs, careful to avoid the dinner plate size spiders, you push open the door. I guarantee it will creak and make you jump half out of your skin, so be prepared. In front of you a spiral staircase made of the most exquisite marble you will ever have seen. Reportedly hewn by dwarves deep in the mines of Scarsdale Gorge, it used to glisten with magnificence. Now like the rest of this once proud palace it is covered in the dust of a century.

It's a long way to the top, round and round and round again until it feels like your lungs will explode with pain. Then on again for it seems like you’re walking the stairway to heaven. At the very top, a simple wooden door. Nothing remarkable, yet it hides the lair of the Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race). Brushing away again a web so thick it might be linen, you open the door.

The room is quiet, eerily quiet. It’s a barren place, the window only showing clouds, so high is the tower. A lacklustre brass chandelier lurks on a sideboard. In the corner though is the Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race). She looks down, her face frozen. She waits for the key that an adventurer will one day bring. When inserted the Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race) will awaken and life will once more return to the castle.

So dear reader, will you take the journey I have described and awaken the Chroniker (All hail the Chroniker, last of their race)?