It is that night, that we lay our scene, in fair Bastonne where the herald of better days was to be born. Three knights of heritage impeccable, warlords of proud Mousillon and loyal Lyonesse and stalwart Carcasonne, endured the winter’s raging temper and bravely their pure-blooded steeds marched on through the frozen grass plains. Their companionship was born out of virtue and hope after leaving their assailed homes in mid freezing months, their paths guided by providence. Lost in the sea plains of grass of the heart of our land, they met as whispers and dreams had paved their way there.  In silence and patience they awaited the next sign to show them the way. One of those chivalrous warriors suddenly rose, pointing at the sky, where a star of unknown beauty brightly shone brighter then the two moons combined. A shining call, it beckoned them to pursue their venture. 

A godsend, they followed it with all due haste, their tracks soon covered by fresh snow. They set upon a carriage, upturned and forlorn in the white landscape, tracks of man and beast to that star thus they marched on soon seeing foul dots of cursed green amongst the purest white. They did battle with the kin of greenskinned and smote them on a snowy battlefield, vert blood staining the argent soil. Appear it did that the foul beasts of destruction were failing in their turn tracks of another kind: light feet had made their way onwards to that bright star of hope. Not resting the three valiant knights rode on into the night.  

Soon they arrived at a village of herders of sheep where great upheaval and feast was found by the trinity. A child of a lord was born amongst these humble hovels of decent men. Guided they were to a stable where a woman sat next to a wicker basket bearing a newborn son. A proud father gazed to the little heir with great affection, his livery discerning him to be the lord of this land. The three humbly bowed before this warrior of great renown who addressed them shortly after.
“What brings sons of three tribes to my lands on this desolate but happy day?”
“The fates would have us here, it seems, noble warlord.” Did the one, kissed by sea, answer.
“To bless a child to proud warriordom.” Continued the lillybearer.
“To safeguard it from perils green.” Added the son of rugged lands.
“They pursued us still?” Inquired the great warlord Bastonnian.
“That they did but no more as their bodies are broken on winter’s soil.”
“Truly you are true great knights. I would have you bless my son thrice into this world for he shall need it.”
Thus they blessed the unnamed newborn with three gifts, he’d bear always. From loyal Lyonesse he received the lance that would destroy a wyrmkin. From high Mousillon a sword that would slay many greenskinned. From stalwart Carcasonne his shield which heraldry would inspire fear into hearts enemies’.
Once more did the father of the son speak. “We shall name him Gilles, good sirs.”