He stood at the base of the ancient shadowtop tree with the heavy, chipped, rusted iron shovel in hand. The elf named Zandro hated it in a misdirected way, but it was the nearest tool at hand when he needed it. The man of trade he'd taken it from had tried to protest, but the look he'd seen in the elf's eyes was more than enough to stay his hand ( Read more... )

You ask me what motivates me? Many things, friend, many things. But above all, grief and regret. I'm motivated to hide myself away in this place where no one knows the real me because everyone who dared get close to me, everyone I shared myself with on any level more than simple respect, is gone, murdered by hands too quickly gone to ever be ( Read more... )