Player: Aaron P
Rank: Commoner (Rank 0)
Religion: Church of England
Reputation: Decent
Email: johnathon_weis@albion.chaosdeathfish.com

A Sorcerer of some talent. Claimed to be a student from the Zaubererakademie in Wittenburg who just happened to have popped out for tea when the infamous Incident occurred. Once popular with the King. Originally considered a dreadful cad, but had become widely respected recently due to his help in the near-disaster at the Invisible College - could even be considered a hero, in some odd sense of the term.

Recently appointed Senior Lecturer in Sorcerous Esoterica at the Invisible College, shortly before his mysterious death in Yorkshire.

The petty conman who called himself Jonathan Weis is no more, his body broken and burned, the remains of his spirit subsumed within the mysterious entity known only as The Hive. With the destruction of the Isle of Lundy and the Hive in tatters, it seems that the petty conman and Sorcerer born Johnathon Wilkins is doomed to end in dust and obscurity - much as he began.

Or is he….?

Across England, the bees begin to stir. Witches of all stripes, even those not normally sensitive to such maladies, begin to report strange disturbances to their dowsing-rods and scrying pools, odd buzzing sounds at strange hours of the night, and a smell of honey and brimstone born on the Eastern wind.

The Hive - what is left of it - is no more for this war-torn land…

Stories begin to filter across the Atlantic of a ghost-ship making the crossing to America, crewed by dead men and flying the black-and-yellow sails of plague. None dare approach this daemonic vessel, but mariners report that the slick buzzing sounds of the knife-sharp hull cutting through the waves haunt them even in their dreams.

Within a few months, the ship has disappeared even from tavern tales, driven underground by talk of war and revolution, pestilence and flood. Within a few years, even the tales of the ship's ghostly crew, who apparently made beach-head somewhere in the North-Easterly reaches of the continent's main bulk, have faded from pamphlet and memory.

Within a generation, Clan Seillean, the Clan of the Bee, the half-living warriors won in righteous combat from the clutches of the Munroe of Munroe, is no more. The Native nations have completely absorbed those fire-eyed and fair-haired Highland warriors, and their tribal elders keep the Tale of the Bee - as the clan's history is known - along with their most sacred histories and religious texts.

Perhaps the Hive is gone, lost in the vast stretches of wild sagebrush and plains grass of the Americas. Perhaps Johnathon Wilkins' legacy was lost overboard somewhere on the tossing Atlantic, and the black-and-yellow tartan is doomed to never be more than a splash of decoration upon a Choctaw brave's spear-case or a Shawnee medicine pouch. Perhaps…