My brothers, the monks, are dead. My father, the prior, is dead. Our world has ended. I take up my quill now, though I believe the effort probably in vain, in order to give account of the apocalypse that came upon us at our priory at Lyndesfarne this ante diem sextum Idus Tanitarias, (or, as the vulgar would have it, the eighth day of Aerralitha) in the Norrani Year seven hundred and ninety-three. I do not know what purpose my account may serve, except that I pray that other souls may take warning and prepare before our doom befall them as well. I have been a scribe my whole life, now the only one left alive on the island, and I feel myself called, in this as in all things, to write. 

      This year, 793 N.Y., has been an even harder on...

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