High Lord's Tower, second moon of the greening, eight year of King Elrick the 13th, Oilean Liath…

Long ago, when I was mortal, my strange sapphire eyes out upon a simpler world. My hands held objects that felt solid in my grasp, and my mind was as reef water. Now my words are all I have, memories of others woven into a thread for me to leave a tapestry of my distant and dying kin. Soon, that will slip from my fingers too.

In that long ago lifetime, my name was Kalan'd… Lost Heir… In the tongue of the dark elves, fitting considering my past. Now, I answer to Lord Liath or High Lord, how I yearn to hear that name spoken again. Oh, to be a simple mage dancing to the song of magic and elements singing in my blood, and not in near-immortal ghost. Such times are dust in the past. Now…

For 200 years I have been High Lord of The Laith, answerable to no one but my fellows upon the Council. I look over the records of that time. Now, ascribed in my spidery hand. It was stumbling across one of my journals preparing for the ascension of my successor that turns my mind to the tales of my kin. The tales entrusted to me will be my last gift to them…

I pause, the memories are not hard to recall, but the colors have faded and I must rely on the spidery hand of the mortal I once was. I glance about the tower I have called home, it will soon pass to another. I try to ignore that fact. Looking down at the writing I still possess. Let the Scribes figure it out, it will be no matter to me…

The Dragon's Fyre, long years have passed since I crossed that threshold. It Is a travelers inn built by my thrice great grandfather, Manus. Now it is a way station of sorts, more local business than outsiders from far away. It has 40 rooms divided into two wings and three stories, encompassed by stone walls, from stone dug from the surrounding land.

Common room is spacious, with a large Hearth shared with the kitchen. One wing was family quarters, where generations of my kin sheltered their heart. I thought it strange its rival was the supposed den of depravity called The Blackened Coin, but now I know that was but a rumor.

It was within the walls of the family wing my tale began and where years later; it passed into the hands of my brother after violently being taken by another of our Kinsman.

The world flows as I pause again, to add a shawl to my shoulders. The first time in near two centuries, I am cold within my tower room as a scribe comes and begins recording. A pay no heed, as I am drawn back into my memories…

It feels strange To be back within the walls for my long road began. I do not recognize it; save for the lingering smell of blood in my all to keen senses. It is the remains of my family, carelessly slaughtered and for what… It does not matter now.

I do not know what compelled me to answer the summons of my estranged kinsman. I know why I was summoned though, the guild still lists me as master of the inn in its records. Before then I had thought all records of my family's claims had been destroyed to obscure them, but the guild has a long memory. One that will serve in the transition of The Dragon's Fyre from the keeping of my cousin to my brother. With that I am grateful, work means my family is avenged.

A few hours more, and the Dragon's Fyre will again belong to one named Windrider. It is because of that, I cannot help but think of what I discovered in the counting room close to where I now sit. I kindled there all the hate that once burned my heart, and it was there I extinguished it.

The High Lord's Tower, Oilean Laith, a few hours later…

My fingers ache as I wrap them around a warm mug, a reminder of my age, as I write this tale. My successors retinue arrived from there tower not too long ago. It feels strangely likely when the dragons fire tests my brother, Nevelan'd.

They troop through as if I am invisible, though I have yet to relinquish power. I say nothing, for they will soon have the "pleasure" of being the one force that keeps the in balance. I hear the scribble of the scribe, writing my last hours as high Lord, and smile.

In my own way, I to have been a scribe, either at my masters knee or as a now empty my head of the memories I have stored for so long. The ones entrusted to me. Others from my scarred soul. Much of my life remembered in ink. Stranger still to me doing it on the page, and to think it all began under dark winter's night, forever etched into my memory…