"I can't say how far the time that spans between us," Felwinter said, looking perhaps mildly peeved. "But from what little I have learned from Ikora, I can say that there is no great city and no Vanguard in my time, not yet." People were too scattered, too preoccupied with trying to survive daily while mad warlords ran rampant, power-hungry and with little other direction. Pre-Golden Age games were the least of anyone's concerns.

And yet there were perhaps tiny bits of Stark's explanation that sounded familiar in some way. Felwinter looked to each of the items as they were pointed out, and then down as the one ball went rolling on its merry way to him. He picked it up, turning it in his hand. His initial directive had been to learn art and culture, but much of those memories were lost as with most Risen. Bits surfaced here and there, fragments if anything at all. "Upon a table," he said thoughtfully. "A geometrical game."