The stone plate rattled melodiously as cutlery were placed upon it; the diner took up his goblet, traced his finger around the entangled dragon expertly embossed upon its pewter surface; wiping the sweat of the vessle upon his chin, he quaffed the remains of his chilled wine and sighed. He looked up at the moon, his secret mistress, and raised an eyebrow at finding her dishabille. He leaned back and drunk in her beauty and her teasing flirtations as the clouds she robed herself in slowly began to fall away from the fullness of her form. The heat of the afternoon had been so fierce as to drive all but a few into the depths of the castle; now, in the quiet of the secluded courtyard, lit only by lanterns and the glory of his Love, he and a few intimate friends finished their anticipated repast.

While he was enthralled with the patient empyrean display a smile, wink, and nod rippled its way through his companions. With a sip a stately bearded man leveled a cold stare, and with the dew of the goblet glistening from his grey whiskers softly stated, “Let me see, it's been,” he stroked his beard in concentration, squinted then said, “three hundred years now hasn't it, Oathgar?”

Oathgar drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaling broke his heavenly gaze and in an equally quiet, yet more youthful voice said, “It seems it has. Three hundred years this very night.”

“It's a terribly long time, isn't it?” questioned a strikingly beautiful woman opposite of Oathgar. “Nearly five generations have passed from this world and into the next in that length of time, and yet here you sit, not looking a day over thirty,” she offered coyly. Toying with a ringlet of her hair, she teasingly asked, “How ever do you manage to stay so young?”

Oathgar grined, “With stony resolution my Lady.”

“It must be hard,” she retorted.

Oathgar burst into mild laughter at her little jest, “My Lady de Wyntur, once again you find the end of my wit.” He offered her a little bow of his head.

“Alas, I cannot accept your praise, for you are only newly awake. I caught you off guard.”

“My Lady, you of all people should know it the charge of my kind to always be on guard, and as to that, I should see to my duties.” Oathgar made to rise but was interrupted as a page came bursting into the courtyard.

“My Lord, and Lady,” panted the page, “terrible news!” The page stole a nervous glance at Oathgar before continuing. “The other gargoyles have returned to stone.”

“What?” bellowed Oathgar. “What diablerie is this? Where are they? Where are my kin?” He stood up so quickly his bench was hurled through the courtyard and splintered against a wall.

“They are in the Great Hall. They had finished their meal and while leaving froze in place and are not moving.”

“Are there any strangers at court my Lord,” Oathgar addressed the bearded man.

“Some, of course, but none that I know who posses the strength or skill to undo the spell which brought you all to life.”

“There was one woman who came to see me this morning. I didn't think much of it, but she was inquiring about our wards who sleep by day. She had an imposing air about her. Surely she couldn't be the one responsible.”

The page cleared his throat. “Was she arrayed in a green cloak, m'lady, with fair hair, and complexion, but an odd stoop?”

Lady de Wyntur thought for a moment. “Yes. Have you seen her?”

“She sits in the Great Hall even now.”

Oathgar bounded out of the courtyard, and flew down the stairs. He found the Great Hall darkened, the torches and lamps extinguished Cautiously he strode into the room wary of making any noise that might alert the witch. Without warning every torch, lamp, fireplace, and brazier burst into sudden flame, and in that instant he spied the witch, eyes gleaming with mirth and mouth twisted in a flashy smile. The room erupted in cheers, and Oathgar found himself in the middle of a festive feast.

“What gives?” he growled at the nearest gargoyle. “I was told you were all frozen by that witch.”

With a laugh and a smile the gargoyle clapped Oathgar on the back. “Did you think we would let the passing of your third century go quietly?”