The Ordo Septenarius

Long ago, in the early days of our heroes' youth (well, our human heroes' youth, anyway!), many a late summer afternoon was spent relating their favorite tales of adventure. Armed with their trusty long swords (stout, oaken branches), magical staves (the same), and mounted on their faithful steeds (the versatility of a stout, oaken branch really is amazing!), these young hopeful heroes saved the world from the evil hordes of chaos almost every day. Always these fantasy adventures were fueled by the latest news and rumours of those legendary figures referred to collectively as The Circle of Eight. The young friends, our heroes-to-be, wanted nothing more than to experience for themselves the storied companionship and mythical exploits of the renowned Circle of Eight.

Ah, but the innocence of youth fades. The school-age fantasies make way to more mature, more adult, responsibilities. This age-old story is well known to most, and all succumb to the pressures of adulthood

...all but our intrepid heroes, of course!

These fast friends grew older, but their enthusium for death-defying adventures never dwindled. If anything, they only yearned for the exciting life of a true hero even more. Long ago, during one of those whimsical battles with oaken swords Klak! Klak!ing in the woods, they had formalized their small band of aspiring swashbucklers -- they would forever be called, "The Circle of Five" (nobody wanted to play with those weirdos and their fake swords; they had to make do with just 5 in their circle). "The Pentagon of Pioneers!" was their battle-cry a few weeks later. "Stand guard, evil-doers, you face the wrath of the Fearsome Five Friends," was heard echoing out of the woods later that year. A little while later, after little Timmy moved away with his parents, they quickly became, "The Circle of Four". Many geometrical shapes were undertaken and just as easily discarded. The friendship which developed, however, lasts to this day.

As each reached adulthood and began their lives in earnest, they maintained these bonds of comradery. Slowly, they formalized their relationship. They agreed to rules of conduct, and terms of membership. They settled on a hard limit of 8 members (shocking!). They conducted extensive research, interviews, and mock-battles with prospective new members to be sure only those most dedicated to a life of high adventure could join. Secret handshakes were invented and practiced. Code-signs were memorized. Decoder-rings were put to use for all communiques.

In short, they started their own private club; their own secret society. They were on their way to greatness, they were absolutely sure of it! If only the rest of the world would take heed ...

Oh but you knew it was coming, didn't you, dear reader? The inevitable tragedy. The oh-so callous hand of Istus always intercedes. Only a few short weeks ago one of our heroes, a founding member no less, was taken by a terrible accident. "Move on," they were counseled, "Istus can be cruel, even unkind, but She cannot be denied!" Heads hung low, our group of friends began to acquiesce. "It was all a stupid, childhood fantasy anyway," one was heard to say.

"Never!" cried the noble Moonglum. "We will defy the odds! We will rescue our comrade from the hands of Istus," he proclaimed. "Are we not heroes-to-be? Are we not gallant? Do our aspirations not make us exemplar? How dare we surrunder now, when our noble confederate needs us most!"

"Yes," they all agreed. "Yes! Istus be damned!" they exclaimed.

Plans were made. Maps were consulted. Sages were hired and challenged. Rumors were gathered and investigated. Answers were ... scarce. The eight, now seven, could not agree as to a proper course of action. Which of many promising leads to follow was debated for days; then weeks. Finally, a daring proposal was, er, ~ahem~, proposed.

"We should split up," spoke the studious Maalcyor. "No less than two to a group. Each proposal can therefore be investigated more efficiently. If any of us believes that a true solution is at hand, they others can be summoned. In this way we will arrive at both our objectives simultaneously. Each group is sure to undertake an adventure the likes of which bards will sing for centuries, and as such, a remedy for our fallen associate is virtually assured!"

All around the circle heads were nodding. Cliques were formed. Expeditions were planned, and at last begun. Maalcyor and Moonglum, with but a glance, confirmed they would be travelling together. The news of wonders and riches being found buried deep beneath Castle Greyhawk, no-less than the ancient home of Zagyg himself, cried out for exploration and discovery; and so close to home, too!

The final meeting of the eight, as they embark on their quest, consists of one final accord: until their lost ally is found, they will henceforth be known as The Ordo Septenarius; their rallying cry and their motto: "Quae erit octo!"*.

*translation: The Order of Seven; "We will be eight!"