Edmund became a Moulde when he was eight years old, after lunch, on a day not otherwise particularly different from any other day.
Spring was coming to a close and the harsh sunlight of summer was struggling to slip through the giant black cloud that filled the sky. Edmund was sitting on his stiff bed, writing a poem about the holes that riddled the warped window shutters.
Edmund had taken to poetry.
Sir Edmund Moulde, a gentleman for whom no introduction could be either required or sufficient, is a mysterious and complicated figure. For one who so singularly affected the destiny of nations, very little is known for certain.
This is not to say we know nothing. While countless documents, diaries, and letters were lost in the Great Brackenburg Fire of 1954, every recovered document written by his hand has undergone years of study and interpretation by the great scholars of our time.
