High Lord's tower, second moon of the Greening, eighth year of King Elric The thirteenth, Isles of the Gray…

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

In that long-ago lifetime, my name was Kalan'd… Lost Heir… In the tongue of the Dark Elves, quite fitting considering my past. Now I answer to Lord Grey or High Lord, how I long to hear Kalan'd spoken again. Oh, to be again just a simple Mage dancing to the Song of Magick and Elements singing in my blood, and not a near-immortal ghost. Such times are dust in the past now…

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

I pause. The memory is easy to recall, but its colors have faded and I must rely upon the spidery hand of the mortal I once was. I look about the tower I have called home, soon it will pass to another. I try to ignore that fact, looking down at the still spidery 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 was a Traveler's Inn build by my Thrice Great-Grandfather, Manus. Now it's a way station of sorts, more local business than travelers. It has Forty rooms divided by two wings and three stories, encompassed by stout walls of stone harvested from the surrounding land. The Common Room is spacious, with a large hearth shared with the kitchen. One wing always held family quarters, where many generations of my kin sheltered their hearts. I always thought it strange its only rival was the den of depravity known as The Black Coin, but now I know why that is so…

It was within the walls of the family wing my tale begins and where many years later; it passed into the hands of a close kin after so violently taken by another…

Time passes as I pause again, this time to add a shawl to my shoulders. For the first time in near two centuries, I am cold within my tower room as a scribe comes and begins recording. I pay no heed; I am again drawn back into my memories…

It feels so strange to be back within the walls where my long road began. I almost do not recognize it after so long; save for the lingering smell of blood in my all too keen sense of smell. It is the blood of my family, so carelessly slaughtered for what… Even I do not remember now.

I do not know what compelled me to answer the summons of my estranged kin. Perhaps the Guild will list me as the master in its records. I had thought all records of my family's claim destroyed to obscure it, but the Guild has a long memory. One that will serve well on the transition of the Dragon's Fyre from my cousin to my brother. For that, I am grateful, for it means I finally avenged my family.

A few hours more and the Inn will again belong to one with the name Windrider. It is because of that I cannot help but think of what I discovered in the small room close to where I now sit. I kindled there all the hate that once burned in my heart and long after extinguished them as well.

The Gray Lord's Tower, a few hours later…

My fingers ache, a reminder of my age, as I write this tale. My successor's retinue arrived from their tower not too long ago, much like when the Inn went to my brother. They troop through, even though I have yet to relinquish power. I say nothing, for soon they will have the "pleasure" of being the one force that keeps fate in balance. I hear the scribble of the scribe, writing my last hours as High Lord, and smile.

In my way, I too have always been a scribe, either at my master's knee or as I empty my head of the memories I have stored for so long. Others have entrusted some of them to me, while some come from my scared soul. So much of my life to be remembered in ink. Strange still to me even seeing it on the page and to think, it all began on a dark Winter's night forever etched into my memory…