Beragald draws from his cloak a shiny black flask. From cabinets in the kitchen he pulls a pitcher and three glasses carved from wood and inlaid with silver and gold...kitchen-ware made for princes and lords long passed from this aging universe. The flask, pitcher, and glasses he places on a bejeweled tray and he beckons you to the tower’s ladder. “Come quietly, there is something you must see.” You follow him up the ladder, his grace and balance not diminished by his ornate golden armor.

You soon come to the top level of the stone tower. It is ringed by a low wall, and topped by a slate-shingled roof...and the view is unblocked except for exquisitely carved wooden posts.

Beragald sets the tray on the edge of the low wall. He takes the flask in his hands and bows his head. His lips move in silent prayer and he pours a thick golden liquid into the pitcher...light glints off the liquid’s surface as if it is molten gold...and the wind brings to you a smell like a thousand fields of sweet flowers. Your hearts beat faster...and both of you feel the powerful goodness and life that has been distilled into this sweet mead.

“This precious fluid is Pekoen Mead...taken with respect from the pollen-gathering Pekoen. The very essence of the flowers is condensed and distilled in a three month secret ceremony...it is aged in casks beneath the golden palace for centuries. Very few of our race get to partake of this treasure in these latter days. Vorgan wanted you to experience the Golden Mead...so that you could see what we fight for...so you, in the tough days ahead, could meet the world as one of the Golden Race.”

Beragald pours out three thick draughts of the mead into the princely cups. He takes one of the three and waits for each of you to take yours. He raises his cup high and offers what appears to be a traditional toast. “To times past...to great bloody battles against the Knights of Shade...to the sacrifice of the valiant...to technology lost...to a day when the Golden Race rises up to strike down those that would diminish the light. May men always sing songs of our struggle against the Dark...”

The thick mead tastes impossibly sweet in your mouth. It burns down your throat and you close your eyes tight. Your last image of the city reflects in the darkness of your closed eyes. The golden spires of stone inlaid with metal...tarnished and old, the over-grown gardens, the vine-choked fountains, the rubble-strewn streets empty of people, and in the midst of it all (condition of power-core, depending on earlier in the night!) at the heart of the ancient city.

When you open your eyes a veil has been lifted. Hover cars flit and buzz past your tower. The golden spires shine in the setting sun with an unnatural yellow glow. The gardens are well-tended and filled with all manner of beautiful flowers. The fountains gurgle out a melodious bubbling song...and the streets...the streets are clear and filled with people. The city for as far as you can see is occupied by the proud tall men and women of the Golden Race.

You look out over this glorious vision of a thriving metropolis, and you find it hard to believe that this place full of life and power could ever fade-away or diminish in any way. It is only then that you realize the sacrifice that the Golden Race made in directly assaulting the Dark Vilars. The light of Tibaroe was dimmed, but not extinguished, in the muted light of the Midnight Star of Vilardeen. For several minutes you see the city as it once was...the Golden City of the distant past...but then you blink, and the glory is gone. Reality has taken hold of your senses once again...Time and Entropy insist on having their way...

And you feel a presence...a darkness that clearly does not belong here. Away in the fallen city...beyond the walls of the city...a fresh evil, foreign to this world...But then Beragald speaks, and your attention is distracted from the darkness.

“So you have seen the Golden City as it should be...as it once was. The slaves...the rebels...they were the workers, the knowledge...the cleverness of our people. The Golden Warriors were the spirit, the strength, the pride of our people. As long as we are at war...the Golden Race is broken, and nothing can bring it together again...nothing...” He stares off into the west...towards the “Wilds” where the rebels make their camps. And now the Tikari, they become more bold, more organized...they have purpose, where before they had none. I fear my Jedi friends that you have come to Tibaroe in time to see the final fall of the Golden Race...”