It is said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. So too must a website begin with an opening paragraph. Here begin the prophecies of the Mage King Kalzon. As it is written, to understand one must seek, and while seeking one must learn. In such a way as this, does it begin.

7/16/05 - 8/16/05

Their dreams in the night were of star shine and moonbeam. When the Lunar Productions staff awakened, the aspect of that sacred grove of the White Witch assumed an entirely different aura. Gone were the small, cold stars. In their place was the soothing sun, and the whispered embraces of soft breezes and calming branches of the willow trees. The White Witch lay, undisturbed and asleep, in the center of the forest, her hair mingling with thorn and vine. Mr. Cox, the first to awaken, stepped carefully over the comatose figure of the White Witch of the Northern Woods and gingerly retrieved the Book of Souls. Though he already knew what he would see, that Magus of the Path opened the Book. Where once were written incantations and spells in the elemental magicks of old, said to be inscribed in blood, now was written… nothing. The pages were blank as the day they were created, and already the edges of the book were curling up into smoke and disappearing. One by one the staff assembled around the White Witch, staring down at the figure who had, only hours before, attempted to destroy them all. Her eyelids stirred; her raven hair became more distinct from the forest floor, and her avatar solidified.

"I greet you, followers of the Path."

Mr. Biersteker bowed his head, and replied, "I greet you as well, Wanderer in the Wilderness."

Gradually the events of the previous night became clear: when the Council, in their fear and their ignorance, captured the White Witch in order to coerce her to pen the Book of Souls, and so hold back the Lurkers in the Dark (led by the Stranger), her essence was separated into two beings. The Book had taken something from her, and left her to wander the borderlands of madness in the quiet places of the world. Mr. Cox, acting as the unwitting pawn of fortune, had delivered the book to her and had incited her to repeat some of its dread incantations, and so released the parts of the White Witch which remained trapped there, unifying the whole.

Now that the haze of madness had passed, the White Witch brought the staff to a place of standing stones, in a pleasant clearing in the forest ways which only she knew. There, amidst the creeper vines and sparrows, they were served jasmine tea flavored with wild honey.

"The Way before you will be long and hard: I tell you these things not to warn you, but because these things simply are. In the times ahead you will need renewal, healing, and caution. Know that, though you have escaped the Nether Beings for now, the Opal Tower is still fallen. The age of light has passed, and it shall require stout hearts the mend the rifts in the world. This is the place prepared for you."

There was truth in this, and so, passing down the road to destiny, the website was updated.

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1/17/05 - 7/16/05

Though the day outside was bright and cheerful, the copse of trees stood in almost total darkness, filled with a chill, biting wind. Wolves spoke to their own in the mountains, crickets sang in the valleys, and Mr. Biersteker pulled his jacket close around him, looking at the moon that ought not to shine at such an hour. The wolf-speech sounded ever nearer to that ever-wandering staff, causing Mr. Biersteker to draw his pistol, loading it with the silver bullets that make the lesser beings of night to recoil. Mr. Cox thrust out his hand, and with a word, the gun was returned to its holster. The magi was not focused on that esteemed master of webs, however. His eyes, glowing the pure white of prophecy made being, were scanning the trees, trying to locate the mote of moonlight that danced on the wind. With a sudden intake of breath he found what he searched for, and bowed low. The others, confused, did the same, as the moonlight and shadow warped and bent into a form.

"What way does the sea move when all lights have lost their spark?" asked the now visible form of the White Witch. Flipping wildly through the pages of the Book of Souls, Mr. Cox arrived upon an answer.

"The sea knows no tumult or chaos save in its own mother-depths. It mov…" but the Magi was interrupted, as the Witch, her wild hair moving of its own accord, grasped the book with her long, bony fingers.

"You dare to bring that tome to me? That, which is the symbol of my suffering and torment? What madness possesses you?"

"Peace, good Lady," said Mr. Correll, approaching the Witch with an outstretched hand. "We mean you no harm." The White Witch of the Northern Woods considered the spinner of stories, and her mind decided, thrust him to the ground with a bolt of lightning, summoned from the edges of her fingertips. He lay motionless on the ground.

Next she grabbed the Book of Souls from Mr. Cox's resisting fingers, chanting Words and Names that no mortal had heard before. The unwritten final pages began to form, on letters glistening with the red of fresh blood. The shimmering lands that run tangent to our own drew close to the Witch, forming a light that eclipsed even that of the unnatural moon. Knocked to the forest floor Mr. Biersteker, in a last fit of strength, updated the website before succumbing to the White Witch's power.

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8/16/04 - 1/17/05

The roaring waters of the Mississippi rushed past the Lunar Productions staff, rivulets of water surrounding the hastily improvised raft in a way that brings to mind a pack of sheep dogs, herding the staff to some location, they knew not where, but even the whispers of the wind brought tales of the importance of their journey. It was on the third day of the trip down that great river where wash ashore ballad and story, that Mr. Cox, glancing once more through the Book of Souls, came across a passage that spoke of a light shining in the deepest forest, in a place of shade, and was enlightened.

"I sense soon that we shall meet with the White Witch of the Woods, she who sings in starlight and knows the Names That Should Not Be Named."

Mr. Correll, knowing but little of the tale of the creation of the Book of Souls, responded with disbelief. "It is said that there is no White Witch, that the Book of Souls was written by spirit and moonlight, guided by the Council in those portentous years before the fall of the Opal Tower."

"You speak both truth and mistruth, as with a blind general directing his troops. I am one of few that knows the true story. It is said that the Council, having unknowingly allowed the deceiver within them, sought a path through the darkness, a way past the dark gate that stood in front of the Council and its will. To do this it captured a spirit of the north woods, she who was lauded before ever mankind set foot on these shores. Within the circle she wrote, penning the stories of all the souls touched by the forces without, and the ways that one might pierce the shroud between magic and truth. When the Falcon descended, on the night of the Hand, the circle keeping her within was broken, and she fled to her homeland, leaving behind the as yet unfinished tome which I now carry. It is said that she dwells there still, maddened by her captivity but still in tune with the Path, although her path leads through different roads, within the myriad lights of a clear night with stars."

Mr. Biersteker saw the truth in this, but knew that, like the half-truth story of Mr. Correll, it was missing a vital segment, a key that would turn the lock. Seeking this within himself, and within the great web that connects us, he updated the website, willing fortune into being.

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7/6/04 - 8/16/04

Long had the followers of the Path toiled in silence, working without revealing, their struggle unnoticed by all. Mr. Cox, endowed as he was with the future-sight so valued by the Magi of old, what is called the "Cursed Gift" among the students of the Arcana, saw this period of isolation in the fall of cherry blossoms, and in birdsong. Winter had passed to spring, and summer had been revealed, before the staff of Lunar Productions gathered again in the hills of dawn. Mr. Cox, holding an illuminated ball of light in his cupped hands, looked at the swirling colors of the ball, trying to find the ordered randomness that indicated that the Way of the world was coming into focus. Clearing his throat, he began to prophesy.

That which was broken shall be repaired
That which was dusk shall be dawn
That which was old shall be made new again
In that time when the freedom of men is once more at hand.

Mr. Correll, also in tune with the rhythms that guide the chaos around us into order, began to decode the cryptic vision. In it, he saw new beginnings, the ending of that time of mourning known as school, but the meaning of it escaped him. Suddenly, Mr. Biersteker, reflecting on the wise words, discovered the meaning hidden in the phrases and images of the future-sight. Turning to his computer, he realized what must be done. Taking a moment to reflect upon those who were lost to the Path forever, he began to update the website, long left derelict and by the wayside. Mr. Cox saw this, and knew that it was what was meant to be, and that his prophecy had begun to be filled. Still, long was the road left to be traveled, and many the dark forces placed in the path of the Lunar Productions staff, they who are whispered of in the grey halls that mark the location where the Opal tower fell.

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12/28/03 - 7/6/04

Mr. Biersteker writhed in preternatural agony, the horror of the Dark filling him with madness and strife. When he awoke, he lay in the underworld Temple where Lay the 10,000, rumored to be the location of the last stand of Isaac of Templeholm during his crusade in the Darkened lands. Immediately, Mr. Biersteker was besieged by dozens of creatures of the Forbidden depths, crawling on the ashen walls and scattered columns of the Temple, some say mausoleum, where Lay the 10,000. Mr. Biersteker, weaponless and broken, focused inwards, and let the spiritual energy course through his chakras. He shaped this chi into a lantern, a light that pierced the hearts of every denizen of darkness in the 10,000's resting place. The tomb-world was lit with a small glow, but it drove back the creatures who had never before witnessed the power of the light.

After some hours had passed, the glow began to fade. No great Magi like Mr. Cox, the Warrior Mr. Biersteker, Webmaster to all who are downtrodden, let the spell die and instead used the chi as Zeus does lightning, striking the Dark Ones investigating the sudden illumination with bolts of magick. The nearest, unwary Dark Ones fell quickly, but Mr. Biersteker knew he was fighting a losing battle. With every Dark One banished, his powers in this darkened place waned, like the moon in eclipse. It seemed hopeless, the scar on Mr. Biersteker's body beginning to glow in a shade that spoke of malice and death. Fearing for his soul, the esteemed Web-master prepared a final incantation, to destroy as many of the elder beings of darkness before he was forced to the place where no shadows fall. The Dark Ones closed about him, as buzzards around a fresh kill, warily but with hunger. It was then that a voice pierced the darkness.

"Stop, nether-beings! I will not let you have him!" the voice proclaimed, generating an aura of power about the fallen webmaster. Mr. Biersteker turned to the noise, and beheld an Oracle, clothed in glory, driving back the daemons with mere power of voice. Those too slow to flee were struck down, a staff weaving paths of light amongst the herd, scattering them to the winds. Mr. Biersteker, with his battle-sight, recognized the Oracle as the famed elementalist Mr. Tucker, writer of story and song. The dream battle was finished, the Dark Ones dead or dying, and Mr. Biersteker awoke to full sunlight next to the Volkswagen, a new figure next to him. Mr. Cox and Mr. Correll bowed deeply, and welcomed Mr. Tucker to the Path.

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9/27/03 - 12/28/03

The Rocky Mountain winds bit deeply into the Lunar Production's staff, flakes of snow adding a white overtone to the gray rocks and verdant moss. However, the cold the Lunar Productions staff felt was not entirely due to the weather. The Dark Ones, after their puppets the Thousand Fists failed to deal with the chosen of the Path, were forced to eliminate the upstarts themselves. Three creatures cloaked in shadow now circled the camp, seeking an opening.

Mr. Correll, aided by the spirit-vision of the Sacred Mist, saw the three creatures as clearly as day. The first one, an abomination of blood and black, moved with the grace of a cat towards Mr. Correll. Not completely unprepared, his katana was already anticipating the strike. Mr. Correll scored a glancing blow on the creature's side, drawing forth blood the color of sulphur and suffering. The Dark One's claws scraped against naught but rock, and the creature spun around for another strike. This time, the katana's edge was merciful, decapitating the Dark One with a quick slice. The other two creatures were cautious now, changing form to that of a cloud of choking black smog. Mr. Correll concentrated on the closest form, trying to draw it back into its own shape through sheer force of will. He had nearly succeeded, causing the cloud to waver at the edges, when a scream broke his concentration and ended the spell.

The wound a Dark One had given Mr. Biersteker now glowed with malevolent force, making the Webmaster's back arch with pain. Mr. Cox turned to him, and prepared the poor soul for its coming spirit battle with the darkness that was trying to well up in him. For now, he could do nothing. The Dark Ones now attacked the Conceptual Consultant en masse, seeking to master him while he was distracted. Mr. Correll, predicting this action, placed his hand upon the unopened chakra on his forehead. A beam of light pierced the two Dark Ones, forcing them back into their original states. The links tying them to this world were tenuous now, and the creatures retreated back into the Darkened Realm. Nonetheless, the damage had been done. He that dwells in fire, master of a thousand webs, was now plagued in the world of dreams. There, no aid could reach him, no spell could find him. Only his update of the website lent him some comfort in the battle ahead.

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7/27/03 - 9/27/03

As the sun descended in the west, infusing the Lunar Productions staff in golden hues, the very land itself seemed bronzed and yellowed, the dancing firelight of dusk moving like will-o'-the-wisps over a quiet and foreboding forest of light and shadow. Finally, the sun's light was extinguished, a swollen moon now playing with the dancing beams of darkness. The lone hoot of an owl added a mystical air to the tale which Mr. Cox was beginning to weave. Sparking flint against steel, the rosy roar of a fire now completed the scene. Turning to his companions, he began to speak.

"You all know of the Mage King Kalzon's wisdom, his strength in troubled times. What then of the Opal Tower, his helper in time of trial, home to the ancient Rite of the Descending Falcon?"

"I am well aware of the tale of the Opal Tower's fall, and the Night of the Open Palm. Trouble us not with these sad things," began Mr. Correll, sharpening his blade with swipes of sparks and power. Only Mr. Biersteker, staring ahead into the firelight, seemed ignorant of the tale. It was for his benefit that Mr. Cox continued.

It was the seventh age of Autumn when the Mage King went forth from the land of the Dark, there having defeated the Second Shadow, the One Who Comes in the Eclipse. Of this deed he writes only this: "Does not the maple seed spin in its descent, holding back the downward wind? So then was the Shadow held back." So it is written by the Mage King, so it shall come to pass. Returning from the Darkened land, it is said that he paused by a willow tree, taking ease from the drying heat in its dangling branches. It was there that he began the ceremony for the drinking of tea; by the time he had finished a cup, the Opal tower had fallen. It is said that there is no light without a shadow, and the bright candle that was the Opal tower created a very large shadow indeed.

It was there that the Falcon Descended, but it would be some time before it would Ascend into open sky. During the seventh age, there came a man to the tower, cloaked in black and with a sword that hummed with power. Turning to the gatekeeper…

Mr. Cox had no time to finish the tale. The nefarious tinges of black advanced upon the camp during the telling; it seems the task of Lunar Productions was not quite complete. His eyes glowing with battle-sight, Mr. Biersteker whirled about the camp giving orders.

"Mr. Cox, retrieve the Sacred Mist! Mr. Correll, hold the daemons at bay. As for me, I will update the website!"

And so it came to pass.

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4/17/03-7/27/03

So it is written by the mage king: Does not the willow tree, bending towards the sun, drink deep from its roots? So too should you seek the path which leads to enlightenment. Do not what is good, or good in seeming, but what is necessary. Drink your fill from the fountain of knowledge, seek ye too the rays of the sun. For how can the willow grow without the light of the sun, and the clear water? It does not seek happiness, but is that state not thrust upon it?

Wise words indeed, but the Lunar Productions staff held them not in their hearts. All yearnings led east, despite the forces that stood against them. Mr. Cox now meditated often, seeking with the mind what others saw only with their human eyes. Mr. Biersteker began to melt silver over a crucible, sheathing his bullets in the only metal which harms the creatures of the dark. The crimson shades of sunset had cast a oppressive air over the assembled party. Mr. Cox saw in this the coming of a Dark One.

The tale of the Dark Ones would be long in the telling. Suffice it to say, they mean naught but ill for the ones who follow the Path. Mr. Biersteker turned quickly as the thing approached, and Mr. Cox directed his hand. Once did the shots of the webmaster light up the night sky, then twice. The Dark One, the thing, screamed as the fresh cast silver invaded its flesh. The scream was hellish, like a child screaming with fever, a woman screaming in pain, and a man screaming in anguish, mixed with undertones whose origins naught but Fleshless Ones could guess. It fell, sucked back into the void from which it spawned, its left wing striking the hand of Mr. Biersteker as it fell. When the esteemed webmaster woke from the fever, the website was once again updated. But by whose hand?

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1/29/03 - 4/17/03

Wiping the sweat from his brow, our webmaster Mr. Biersteker attempted to restart the broken-down VW microbus. Nightfall was fast approaching, and the Lunar Productions staff had no illusions that the Thousand Fists had forgotten them on the distant shores of Korea. Perhaps it was some prescient knowledge, but conceptual consultant Mr. Correll could sense something amiss. Only the whispered warnings of his spirit guide (Al'zharu, the Wind of the Falcon) alerted him to the unsheathing of cold steel inches behind him. Gathering his chi around him, Mr. Correll caught the ronin's fist, stopping the blade which it carried mere molecules away from his heart. drawing his own katana, the sparks of steel on steel provided the only illumination in the darkened microbus. "Tell me this, thousand fist… do you have the courage to join me in the halls of twilight?". The ninja responded only with a thrust of his blade, easily parried by the adept with which he now sparred. But that simple movement provided just the opening the ronin needed. Throwing a smoke bomb upon the floor, he disappeared as quickly as he arrived, in a flurry of black cape and half-remembered song.

When at last the sun rose in the east, the Lunar Production crew was still wary. Mr. Cox had prepared an incantation, reading from the Book of Souls, penned in secret by the white witch of the northern woods, The smell of incense and magick filled the air, and only faint shimmerings belied the powerful forces at work in the aethers around the group. And so, eased but not secure, the Lunar Productions crew updated the website, preparing for the long drive east.

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1/19/03-1/29/03

As the tides on the shore of life change, so does the Lunar Productions website. Perhaps it is then fitting that the staff has returned from the Shadows of Ignorance into the fires of the Forge of Knowledge. Sleeping only in a rusted VW microbus, eating tabasco flavored slim jims washed down with a six pack of Tab, we learned to love this great country of ours. In the bypasses and highways of our great land, we recovered our psychic strength from the paranormal battle that had so recently torn our psyches apart. When our chief animator Mr. Cox awakening from catatonia, his eyes stinging from salt and his clothes saturated with seawater, it was with a heavy heart. True, the Lunar Productions staff had completed many things. But where were these things? Could not the public enjoy the products that many had given their time, nay their very lives, to create? And so it came to pass, as dictated by the Mage King, in the seventh year after the fall of the Opal Tower, that the website was updated.

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12/13/02 - 1/18/03

We were a little worried that we wouldn't get a chance to update our website again when we woke up in a rice patty outside of Pyongyang. A nearby guard happened upon our position, but our chief animator Mr. Cox managed to knock him into unconsciousness with a swift kick he learned from his 3 years of Judo training. After procuring the guard's 9 mm, our gang headed down the slope into the city proper. There, with the kindly words of the matron sage Lu-Tzu, we were guided into the palace of the pig-headed merchant Isamu Bae, leader of the thousand fists, and murderer of the mage-king Kalzon. After our webmaster Mr. Biersteker subdued the fiend in the sands of the arena, we were granted passage on the fishing boat Josaru-maru. However, the thousand fist were not done with us yet. A few shots from our now trusty pistol eliminated the spy, but an errant shot had winged our conceptual consultant Mr. Correll in the shoulder.

Only the remembered wisdoms of the sage Lu-Tzu and a well made tourniquet by Mr. Biersteker saved his life. In his fevered dreams of near-death, Mr. Correll was greeted by the five-headed Phoenix of the Mountain, who guided the motley crew to the shores of America, the battered ship Josaru-maru having only barely survived the traitorous winds of the monsoon season.

Truely, the Golden Gates were a glorious sight after the months at sea, but we remembered well the dying words of the mage-king: "When the moon reaches the halls of the west, then shall the eagle catch his prey". So it is written by the mage-king, and so it shall come to pass. Only with the aid of the voodoo priest Mr. Tanako did we escape Isamu Bae's last vengence, the dreaded curse of the nether daemon. The ichor and gelatinous remains of the creature transmogified into the ill-famed "waters of the aether", which nearly turned Mr. Biersteker from the Path forever. And so it came to pass that the Lunar Productions crew entered the lands of the West once more. This is why the website was not updated. That, and the fact that the entire staff was playing WarCraft III nonstop. But mostly the nether daemon. Yeah... that's it.

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