It has been too long. I left these lands in disarray; confused, bitter, led astray by nobody's fault but my own. Long years have turned most details a hazy mess, like a drunken nightmare that persistently gnaws on one's thoughts after waking. Amongst them, the very reason of my departure, the true motive behind the lies -both those spoken to others, and to myself-, seems to elude me. It makes little difference. The times have changed, I have changed; yet everything remains eerily familiar.
I return now, after years of absence, to find a town both untouched by the passage of time, yet also unrecognizable because of it. For every difference, there is a similarity; for every change, a persistence. The new faces bear a striking resemblance to the old. The new powers tread upon the same paths laid by those before them. Shall the same end await them, I wonder?
Of the times of old, few remain. I know too well the possible reasons behind the disappearance of the rest. This road we walked, this road some of us still walk, is unkind to its travelers; perilous and lethal in its every twist and turn. The ones that fell, those that lost their way, those that are no longer among us, shall not be mentioned here; nameless they will remain, as they always were. We weary few who are left behind, their living legacy. A legacy unspoken. A legacy cloaked in shadow.
I am older, now. Older than I ever thought I would be. Many of my past actions, my previous deeds, are held to scrutiny. There are things I would have done differently, but I regret none of it. Merely bumps along the road; one that I apparently still tread on.
There is much to discover. These new currents, not unlike the old, need to be charted, navigated, explored. Bree was always an open book, with hidden meanings between every line. It remains to be seen whether that, too, has endured, or whether the book has turned to a children's story.
Time to spread these wings once more.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
