The author of this particular chronicle is one Teská Nefrette, yours truly, being a plain-spoken elven woman of the sea.
Now to be clear, I am not the sort of elf that spends all its time underwater, and I certainly doen't have gills. I swim alright, certainly better than you my dear reader, but water is not my natural element. No, I am what men commonly call a "golden elf," one of a race of elves famous for its seamanship. Legends tell of great fleets lashed together out on the open sea, and of long-lived souls that never set foot on anything more solid than the deck of a well built ship. Your legends pale in comparison though my friend, as a child raised on the decks of those very ships can promise well and sure. I would certainly call the sea my home, but truth be told, it is the surface of the sea with which I am most familiar. From the nursery ship on which I spent my childhood to the battleships on which I was trained, to the odd vessel I now calls my home, I have spent virtually my entire life aboard a ship of one kind or another.
If modesty permits, let me say this, that I have never been lacking in the gift men call intelligence. Amongst my own people, the gifts of my judgement were noticed early. Tutors lobbied hard to win my interest for a variety of pursuits, and indeed the proponents of Wizardry had almost won my heart at an early age. Sstill, the craftsmen who built our vessels always had an edge in the fight for my loyalty, and spellbooks never held so much magic for me as the shape of a rudder or the design of a sail. In then end, I took up the crafts of a shipwright and a weaponsmaker, seeking to add my own craft to the fleets which keep my people dry and happy.
Having never learned a spell, I was taught to use a spear and a crossbow at an early age. This is no great matter as it is incumbent on all golden elves to learn these weapons, at least if they have no other combat skills to boast of. I mean to brag, for sure, but near every crewmen on one of our ships is a fine marxman, and near every crossbow is a work of art for which the land-bound would gladly pay a high price. When one of our ships takes to reducing an enemy crew to its watery grave, it seldom takes more than a pass or two with every sailor on our boats doing his finest. To see a Golden Elf vessel pick apart an enemy crew is a work of art which few visitors to the sea have witnessed and lived. So, the choice of my weapons was hardly a stroke of brilliance on my part; it is what was to be expected.
Apart from a little more accuracy than my seagoing companions could normally boast, my martial skills were quite normal. I might have regretted if only for a moment, neglecting my studies in magic, but in my adolescance I took up the role of a common deck-hand, and a warrior. I have always helped to craft weapons and to repair the vessels on which I sail, but these are common skills in my kind, skills of which I was in my youth but a little more adept than the average sailor. I am skilled and I am competent to handle many tasks, but I am no leader, and I am no hero. To this day, in the thick of battle, I will hold my own, but I am not the core of the fight.
In my younger days I had thought I might lead a normal life, at least as measured by my own kind. In recent times, however, I have stumbled into oportunities I had never thought imaginable. I now travel with an unusual crew on unusual mission. It is no noble affair that I am presently pursuing, but it is a powerful thing to this humble sailor and craftswoman to have taken part in the extraordinary events which I am about to relate.
Before embarking on the effort to describe the better part of my adventures, I must first address a certain prejudice. I do not mean to speak of prejudice on the part of someone else my gentle reader, we will not be gossiping about the failings of other people's minds here in these next few paragraphs. Instead, I must be very clear and to the point with you. It is your prejudice of which I speak, you, the very person reading these words at this very moment. What great bigotry, you may ask, lurks in your soul for me to point and accuse? Yes, you may ask this. And fair enough, I do not mean to be unnecessarily cruel, but I fear you will not travel much further with me if we do not first cross a very real and very serious hazard which awaits us at the outset of the journey. The hazard of which I speak is your own expectation, your own sense of who your narrator ought to be and what she ought to do in her stories.
I fear my dear reader - and do not be too quick to assure me otherwise - that you will be expecting me to talk of battles against Ogres, to tell tales of victorious conflict with miserable orcs, or perhaps even to boast of victories against goblins, dragons, and such. Do you wish me to tell you that I and my companions have saved villages or rescued damsels in distress? Should my story end with a land freed of its greatest foes, a people eagerly awaiting an era of peace and tranquility? No, my friend, that is the prejudice of which I speak, and if this is your expectation, you will soon think me an unjust and terrible narrator, ...this at the very least.
I must tell you at the outset that I do not travel with humans, at least not many of them, and I do not (for the most part) traffic with fair elves, brave dwarves, or clever gnomes. My sole hobbit friend is not the sort to save your world from some terrible demonic foe, and he certainly wouldn't do it at the expense of his own life. Charon will escort the dead by foot accross a frozen river Styx before I and mine save the day for the innocent victims of a Danish troll. No, my friends, the Minotaurs in my stories fight beside me against the noble heroes of your own, as do the orcs, the goblins, the ogres, and even the shark-woman who swims beneath our vessel. The other elves on my ship are (with one exception) quite dark of both hue and heart. We do indeed have humans among our crew, and a high elf or two, as well as other creatures you might find comforting and loveable. But since we are unlikely to meet, and since I want you to understand matters full well, let us be clear about this, the fair races on my ship are none other than those you would call traitors. You would not wish to meet them on the high sees anymore than you would want to fall within grasp of the Ogre stomping across our deck. Let niether you nor I shrink from this one very important fact, those which whom I sail are the villains of your stories, and they are villains well and true.
So, you have a decision to make, don't you? Will you sail with me, so to speak while I relate dreadful deeds and terrible conquests? Or will you wince in fear at the death of so-called innocents? It is your choice to make, but do not say that you were not warned. I am no hero, and neither are those I count as my friends. To us kindness is but a strategem, and if we have regrets for our misdeads it is but a longing to have committed many more. If we do a good deed today, it is only that we will do a greater ill tomorrow.
I will not apologize for my choice, though I have to admit it was indeed a choice to make. It is by no means written on my soul that I must side with villainy and sail against the hopes of the gentle and just. I could as easily have sailed with kinder friends, as I have most certainly done in days well past. To board a ship with such heineous villains was my choice, and it is one I most certainly do not regret.
But be sure of another thing here my friend, I will not humor your judgement of my soul. I am unimpressed with human justice. The kindness of common elves does nothing for me, and the gentle meekness of hobbits gives me cause to part with my latest meal. I could easily point to the injustices of slaughtered orc villages, or trolls slain without so much as a moment of pity. What, I could ask, is the reason for waking a dragon that sleeps a hundred years, only to slay it in defence of a city that was perfectly safe so long as the wyrm slumbered? I am continually amazed at the foolishness of human heroics, and the moral magic of two-faced story-tellers genuinely sickens me to the core. Your greatest and most glorious can accuse me of naught but a weaker sword grip. Were I a stronger warrior, had I slain more in my day, perhaps I would rewrite this whole story and tell you that I am savior to a race of innocent fey. Such stories go down easily with a pint of ale, especially when all who would gainsay them are already dead and easly libelled in their graves.
I could count me and mine as heroes if I wanted to my friend, the pen in my hand would as easily ink the story in such a manner as not. But that will not happen as I haven't the gall to pretend to the glories of your favorite heroes. No, I will tell you my tale as honestly as I can. It is not a tale of heroics, not one of great deeds, but of adventure just the same. You will need a strong heart and a strong stomach to continue on dear reader, for I will claim your loyalty, just as any other storyteller you have seen. I will claim your loalty and I will take it to dark lands and places of woe. And I will ask you to stand beside me as each episode is resolved, but nor for the betterment of all, not for the cessation of suffering, and certainly not for the feeling that justice has been served.
I wll take you to new places and I will relate to you stories of great conflict, but we must be clear you and I, in this story goodness and justice will not emerge victorious, at least not if I am still here to write the final chapter.
Now to be clear, I am not the sort of elf that spends all its time underwater, and I certainly doen't have gills. I swim alright, certainly better than you my dear reader, but water is not my natural element. No, I am what men commonly call a "golden elf," one of a race of elves famous for its seamanship. Legends tell of great fleets lashed together out on the open sea, and of long-lived souls that never set foot on anything more solid than the deck of a well built ship. Your legends pale in comparison though my friend, as a child raised on the decks of those very ships can promise well and sure. I would certainly call the sea my home, but truth be told, it is the surface of the sea with which I am most familiar. From the nursery ship on which I spent my childhood to the battleships on which I was trained, to the odd vessel I now calls my home, I have spent virtually my entire life aboard a ship of one kind or another.
If modesty permits, let me say this, that I have never been lacking in the gift men call intelligence. Amongst my own people, the gifts of my judgement were noticed early. Tutors lobbied hard to win my interest for a variety of pursuits, and indeed the proponents of Wizardry had almost won my heart at an early age. Sstill, the craftsmen who built our vessels always had an edge in the fight for my loyalty, and spellbooks never held so much magic for me as the shape of a rudder or the design of a sail. In then end, I took up the crafts of a shipwright and a weaponsmaker, seeking to add my own craft to the fleets which keep my people dry and happy.
Having never learned a spell, I was taught to use a spear and a crossbow at an early age. This is no great matter as it is incumbent on all golden elves to learn these weapons, at least if they have no other combat skills to boast of. I mean to brag, for sure, but near every crewmen on one of our ships is a fine marxman, and near every crossbow is a work of art for which the land-bound would gladly pay a high price. When one of our ships takes to reducing an enemy crew to its watery grave, it seldom takes more than a pass or two with every sailor on our boats doing his finest. To see a Golden Elf vessel pick apart an enemy crew is a work of art which few visitors to the sea have witnessed and lived. So, the choice of my weapons was hardly a stroke of brilliance on my part; it is what was to be expected.
Apart from a little more accuracy than my seagoing companions could normally boast, my martial skills were quite normal. I might have regretted if only for a moment, neglecting my studies in magic, but in my adolescance I took up the role of a common deck-hand, and a warrior. I have always helped to craft weapons and to repair the vessels on which I sail, but these are common skills in my kind, skills of which I was in my youth but a little more adept than the average sailor. I am skilled and I am competent to handle many tasks, but I am no leader, and I am no hero. To this day, in the thick of battle, I will hold my own, but I am not the core of the fight.
In my younger days I had thought I might lead a normal life, at least as measured by my own kind. In recent times, however, I have stumbled into oportunities I had never thought imaginable. I now travel with an unusual crew on unusual mission. It is no noble affair that I am presently pursuing, but it is a powerful thing to this humble sailor and craftswoman to have taken part in the extraordinary events which I am about to relate.
Before embarking on the effort to describe the better part of my adventures, I must first address a certain prejudice. I do not mean to speak of prejudice on the part of someone else my gentle reader, we will not be gossiping about the failings of other people's minds here in these next few paragraphs. Instead, I must be very clear and to the point with you. It is your prejudice of which I speak, you, the very person reading these words at this very moment. What great bigotry, you may ask, lurks in your soul for me to point and accuse? Yes, you may ask this. And fair enough, I do not mean to be unnecessarily cruel, but I fear you will not travel much further with me if we do not first cross a very real and very serious hazard which awaits us at the outset of the journey. The hazard of which I speak is your own expectation, your own sense of who your narrator ought to be and what she ought to do in her stories.
I fear my dear reader - and do not be too quick to assure me otherwise - that you will be expecting me to talk of battles against Ogres, to tell tales of victorious conflict with miserable orcs, or perhaps even to boast of victories against goblins, dragons, and such. Do you wish me to tell you that I and my companions have saved villages or rescued damsels in distress? Should my story end with a land freed of its greatest foes, a people eagerly awaiting an era of peace and tranquility? No, my friend, that is the prejudice of which I speak, and if this is your expectation, you will soon think me an unjust and terrible narrator, ...this at the very least.
I must tell you at the outset that I do not travel with humans, at least not many of them, and I do not (for the most part) traffic with fair elves, brave dwarves, or clever gnomes. My sole hobbit friend is not the sort to save your world from some terrible demonic foe, and he certainly wouldn't do it at the expense of his own life. Charon will escort the dead by foot accross a frozen river Styx before I and mine save the day for the innocent victims of a Danish troll. No, my friends, the Minotaurs in my stories fight beside me against the noble heroes of your own, as do the orcs, the goblins, the ogres, and even the shark-woman who swims beneath our vessel. The other elves on my ship are (with one exception) quite dark of both hue and heart. We do indeed have humans among our crew, and a high elf or two, as well as other creatures you might find comforting and loveable. But since we are unlikely to meet, and since I want you to understand matters full well, let us be clear about this, the fair races on my ship are none other than those you would call traitors. You would not wish to meet them on the high sees anymore than you would want to fall within grasp of the Ogre stomping across our deck. Let niether you nor I shrink from this one very important fact, those which whom I sail are the villains of your stories, and they are villains well and true.
So, you have a decision to make, don't you? Will you sail with me, so to speak while I relate dreadful deeds and terrible conquests? Or will you wince in fear at the death of so-called innocents? It is your choice to make, but do not say that you were not warned. I am no hero, and neither are those I count as my friends. To us kindness is but a strategem, and if we have regrets for our misdeads it is but a longing to have committed many more. If we do a good deed today, it is only that we will do a greater ill tomorrow.
I will not apologize for my choice, though I have to admit it was indeed a choice to make. It is by no means written on my soul that I must side with villainy and sail against the hopes of the gentle and just. I could as easily have sailed with kinder friends, as I have most certainly done in days well past. To board a ship with such heineous villains was my choice, and it is one I most certainly do not regret.
But be sure of another thing here my friend, I will not humor your judgement of my soul. I am unimpressed with human justice. The kindness of common elves does nothing for me, and the gentle meekness of hobbits gives me cause to part with my latest meal. I could easily point to the injustices of slaughtered orc villages, or trolls slain without so much as a moment of pity. What, I could ask, is the reason for waking a dragon that sleeps a hundred years, only to slay it in defence of a city that was perfectly safe so long as the wyrm slumbered? I am continually amazed at the foolishness of human heroics, and the moral magic of two-faced story-tellers genuinely sickens me to the core. Your greatest and most glorious can accuse me of naught but a weaker sword grip. Were I a stronger warrior, had I slain more in my day, perhaps I would rewrite this whole story and tell you that I am savior to a race of innocent fey. Such stories go down easily with a pint of ale, especially when all who would gainsay them are already dead and easly libelled in their graves.
I could count me and mine as heroes if I wanted to my friend, the pen in my hand would as easily ink the story in such a manner as not. But that will not happen as I haven't the gall to pretend to the glories of your favorite heroes. No, I will tell you my tale as honestly as I can. It is not a tale of heroics, not one of great deeds, but of adventure just the same. You will need a strong heart and a strong stomach to continue on dear reader, for I will claim your loyalty, just as any other storyteller you have seen. I will claim your loalty and I will take it to dark lands and places of woe. And I will ask you to stand beside me as each episode is resolved, but nor for the betterment of all, not for the cessation of suffering, and certainly not for the feeling that justice has been served.
I wll take you to new places and I will relate to you stories of great conflict, but we must be clear you and I, in this story goodness and justice will not emerge victorious, at least not if I am still here to write the final chapter.
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