In the shadow of the hills known as the Warlocks Chair, stands a large limestone manor house. The grand old house had been built in the latter half of the eighteenth century. But the land had been dwelt on for many, many centuries before that. Legend told, that at the dawn of time a great castle keep had stood guard on the site. It was said that Ravengaard, a great and powerful wizard, had ruled over the lands from its dark tower. But one stormy night, the keep and all its occupants had disappeared, never to be seen again. 
Soon afterwards, Baron Etran Darkiron, one of the last Warrior Barons of the old kingdom, had build his stronghold on the lands. But that too was fated to be destroyed in a maelstrom of bloody violence.
Stories abound about the house and its surroundings. Of strange whisperings and ghostly shadows, of mysterious things caught out of the corner of the eye. One story, past down through the ages, told of the spectral image of Ravengaard’s dark keep appearing above the manor house, glowing fires of ethereal energy crackling around it. Only for it to wink out of existence again, as if it was never there.

                   Myths and Legends of Shropshire. 

THE PAST,
Throughout countless millennia many a story would be told of the Faerie Folk that inhabited the area that would become known as the Warlocks Chair. Stories of Elf, Dwarf, Gnome and Troll and a host of other characters that inhabited their world, all passed down into mythology and legend. Stories were told of how they lived and died, of their heroes and villains, and of the magic and great battles that were fought across the lands.
 
And of the coming of man into their world. 

At first they had lived in harmony, each benefiting from the other. But it would not last. As man grew more powerful he became greedy, decided he would take the lands and all they contained for himself. So started a war, a war that would last for centuries. Neither side would concede defeat and so the endless conflict continued. Thousands upon thousands would lose their lives in the senseless slaughter. 
Until…
Ceradin Ravengaard, a rich and powerful warlord sought out a means to unlock an ancient magic and destroy the world of Faerie once and for all. A great darkness fell across the earth, threatening all the races, Man and Faerie alike. Mankind saw how powerful Ravengaard had become and grew fearful of their own fate.
An alliance was formed with the Faerie Folk, and after a great battle Ravengaard was defeated and banished from the lands. Sent into the endless void that is The Evermurk, The Dark Abode. The uneasy truce between the races of the Alliance held for a while. But soon old wounds where reopened and once again war ravaged the land. Eventually the Elves wearied of the fight, a fight they could not win, and they withdrew from the sight of man. One by one the other Faerie races grew tired of the endless fighting and they too disappeared from the face of the earth. 
Over time, the age of Faerie passed slowly into myth and legend and except in stories meant to amuse children, was forgotten.  
But deep in The Evermurk, Ceradin Ravengaard seethed with anger at his banishment. In the dark place where time stood still, he built himself an army and had his Acolytes seek out a means of escaping his prison. 
An ancient portent spoke of three children who would come to dwell in the old Faerie lands. It told that they would be the beginning and the end, it did not make clear which. But when they arrived, the time would be right to make his move on those who had imprisoned him.
The passage of time meant nothing in The Evermurk so Ravengaard watched and waited for the prophecy to come true. That time is… 

…NOW,

       THE RANGE OF HILLS KNOWN AS THE WARLOCKS CHAIR straddled the English-Welsh border. It was so called, because when viewed from certain angles the rolling landscape looked like a large comfortable old armchair. That, and the fact legend told of a powerful Warlock who supposedly once ruled the lands that surrounded the hills. On the English side of the Warlocks Chair, nestled at the head of the picturesque valley formed by its three peaks, stood the manor house. A building of some kind had stood on the site for many centuries. Castles, keeps, houses both large and small had graced the land, keeping watch over the valley and any travellers who passed that way. But over time each had been destroyed, ravaged by fire and war. Each time a new construction had been built by the various owners of the land. At present an eighteenth century Georgian style house stood on the land. Its elegant three story limestone façade gave unrestricted views out over the valley. Behind it, the main hill of the Warlocks Chair towered above the house, with the two smaller hillocks spread out on either side.

        It was an early morning in late spring. The days were getting longer and warmer. The first rays of the sun rose over the rim of the Warlocks Chair and consigned the last dregs of the night to the distant horizon. With the rain from the previous evening cleared away the day promised to be hot and sunny. 
       On the valley floor a low mist hung over the fields either side of the ribbon of water called the Coblyn. But even now it was beginning to clear, driven away by the hot sun that had begun to climb above the surrounding hills.
       High above, dark against the blue sky, a large bird circled. With a flap of its inky wings it swooped and landed on the parapet of the manor house.
       The Raven had been coming here to this same spot, for several weeks now. It was unsure why, just that it felt compelled to come every day to watch the house and its surroundings.   
       It sat patiently, the rising sun glistening iridescently off its jet black feathers. Around it the dawn chorus gradually reached its crescendo. 
       The Raven watched and waited. 
       As the sun inched its way towards midday the Raven surveyed the lands spread out below its perch. The once neat gardens and lawns directly beneath had become overgrown with weeds after several months of neglect. Out past the gardens and high stone walls that surrounded the buildings, meadows spread verdant down through the orchard to the river, which sparkled brightly in the morning sun. Beyond that was the roadway that followed the path of the river as it meandered out across the valley floor. Watching over road and river, stood the Wiccanhyll, a mount of hardened rock, topped by a stand of tall pine trees. It had survived the glaciers that had once scoured and shaped the valleys and the hills that surrounded them. Then more fields spread like a giant’s crazy chessboard to the distant horizon. Turning its head, it saw the trees of Whytewytch Woods decked in their new green foliage.           Stretching away on the other three sides of the house to where the hills of the Warlock’s Chair loomed.

        From its perch on the roof of the manor house it could just make out the spire of the church in Coblynbridge, a small pretty village nestled in the lee of one of the hills. Straddling the river that gave the village its name it comprised of a dozen houses, the church, a public house-come-restaurant and a couple of shops. One of the shops doubled as the local post office. 
        Everywhere lay still and silent. With the heat of the midday sun the bird song had faded away. A movement caught its dark eyes. Sunlight flashed on the windscreen of a car as it pulled in off the road and headed up the lane towards the main gates of the house. The car stopped and a man got out and gazed up at the intricately wrought metal sign which arched between the large grey stone pillars that formed the gate posts…

                                                      RAVENGAARD MANOR

         …he pushed on the heavy gate and with a rusted squeal of protest they swung open. He got back in the car and drove up to the front of the house.
         The man and a woman got out of the car. The bird recognized them from a previous visit, when the large vehicles had been here, furniture and many boxes had been unloaded and carried into the house.
         They opened the rear doors of the car and three smaller figures spilled out into the bright sunlight. Children, it thought, their excited voices carrying up to where it was perched. The younger two ran laughing and screaming across the gravel driveway into the garden area, chasing each other around the flower beds. But the eldest stood looking up at the house, unsure.
         The man crossed to the older child and put his arm around her, pulling her close. ‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine, just you wait and see,’ the bird heard the man say.
         The man called out. ‘Do you two want to see inside the house?’ 
         ‘Yes, Dad,’ they replied in unison.
         ‘Come on then, lets go.’ 
They ran back to their parents and the family made their way up to the large front door and disappeared inside.

         Far away in a different time and place, lay the domain of The Evermurk.
         The Dark Abode. 
         Its portal sealed off from the gaze of man with arcane magic woven long ago by powerful sorcerers.
         High on a towering rocky outcrop stood a great crumbling fortress.
         Castle Ravens Bane.
         Time and the elements had ravaged its dark structure. Rain cascaded down the ruins of its battered walls, pouring from the high steep cliffs and turning to steam as it plunged into the deep lava-filled gorges that surrounded the ancient keep. Leathery winged creatures flitted and swooped around its battlements, claws scrabbling for purchase as they sought shelter in the clefts and fissures that scarred its surface. Overhead dark clouds scudded across an obsidian sky that was devoid of any stars or planets. They formed a swirling vortex in the heavy churning winds. Thunder rumbled in deep rolling peals and lightning crackled all around, striking the earth sending up great plumes of smoke and molten rock.
        In the highest tower of the fortress a dark figure stirred and rose from the large ornately carved wooden throne he had been reclining on. He staggered and grasped the arm rest to steady himself. 
        The sending always drained him. 
        There was a dull ache behind his eyes and he took a moment to gather himself. Flexing his fingers, a large raven-headed ring and other jewellery glinted in the torch light. He reached for a goblet on a nearby table and drank deeply. Feeling revitalized, the figure stretched easing the tension from his body. Tall and thickset, he was dressed in blood red robes, tied at the waist with a black sash. The likeness of a great raven’s head was emblazoned darkly across the chest of the robes. A long black cloak, with the cowl pulled low concealing the features, completed its appearance. 
        A toad-like creature with scaly green-brown mottled skin slithered out from the darkness behind the throne and slipped serpent-like around the figure’s ankles. About the size of a large dog it stretched upwards on muscular rear legs, balancing itself with a long whipping tail. It hissed almost inaudibly. A purple tongue flicked sinuously out from between rows of needle sharp teeth and licked roughly at the figure’s hand. The hand reached down, and stroked along the thick crest that ran along the creatures back, then gently pushed it away.
        ‘Not now, Sscarr,’ the dark figure scolded. ‘I have other matters to attend to first.’
        The creature pulled away, hissing loudly it slunk back into the shadows. 
         Finally the figure pulled the hooded cloak tightly around his frame, warding off the icy winds which howled through the stone work.
         Drawn to a rocky dais in the centre of the room, the figure crossed to a large liquid filled bowl. Crystals beneath the surface pulsed with strange light, causing the waters to boil and froth.
         He stood before the vessel, hands sweeping above the steaming pool he murmured mysterious incantations.
The waters stilled, became calm and mirror like. The figure pushed back the hood to reveal the countenance beneath. Long black hair and a beard streaked with silver, framed strong features. Below a hooked nose, the thin cruel mouth continued to utter the words of magic. Under a heavy brow, dark eyes glistened like coals as they peered into the silvery pool. An image appeared. Three children running through a garden. laughing and screaming excitedly. It was the same one that it had seen through the eyes of the bird. The figure stilled the image and studied it closely. Finally they had come, as prophesied, they would either be his way out of this hell, back to what was rightfully his, or his death. He was determined that it would be the former. 
        Then they would all pay for what they had done to him.
        Ceradin Ravengaard smiled a terrible smile.
        ‘Thank you my friend,’ he spoke in a deep hollow voice. ‘Soon I will return.’
          
        Far away across the barriers of time and space the Raven spread its wings and lifted off the roof, it circled once then flew back towards the rocky craigs’ high on the side of the Warlocks Chair where its brethren had started to gather.