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Let's get something straight right from the start, shall we?!. People called me Artrose the Bear, not ""Arthur Bloody Pendragon""! That was a title --- Pen Draig in Cimru or what you British call 'Welsh' --- that my father Uther took when he became the 'dragonus-rex' or war-leader against the raiding Saise or 'Saxons'. I was born in what the Christians call the year 510 AD and my real name was and still is Artrose ap Uther ap Hector of Dunn Harrow. And I was then and still am now a bloody handed bastard! Like most men in my clan, I grew up a part-time farmer and full-time soldier. And a warrior was all I ever wanted to be. But for over a thousand years now, you people have been making up stories about me - most of which are just one great, ever-growing steaming pile of shite! Dragons, shape-shifting wizards, fancy jousts and extravagant tournaments! There were no magical swords pulled from bewitched stones, no holy quest for a cup that fools believed once held your Nailed God's blood. All of that is just 'gold cloth and silver lace' draped over a wild-eyed, gore-smeared soldier newly back from the killing fields --- a pitiful attempt to sweeten the sour taste of cold, cruel war! Well, I'm sick of the lies, and I've finally forced my restless spirit back here to set the record straight! My tale is about joy and sadness; kept promises and broken oaths; honor and revenge; betrayal and regret. It tells of the glorious promise of youth, the heady heights of power and fame, and the loss and loneliness of old age. All this while wading through rivers of blood, guts, and shite found both on the sunlit battlefield and in the darker, more dangerous shadows closer to home.

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