At exactly 12:34 on the morning of August 16th, 1945 a peculiar young man was born. He was given the name Erik, after his father's childhood best friend. It was a good name, a strong name. Like Erik the Red, the great Viking warrior. Erik's mother had given birth in her home. No one to help her. The father was across the sea, fighting in the Great War. She didn't know how long it would be before the soldier would meet his son. Or that he would

ever have the chance. Over the next few weeks, Erik's mother welcomed the cries of a newborn baby. The silence of the house over the last few months had nearly driven her mad. All she had to keep her mildly sane was a small green book she had since she was a child. It was full of old Irish folk tales and mythology. She soon began to introduce her newborn child to the wonderful world she had partially lived in most of her life: the world of Fae.