Past and Present Musings of a Vengeful Elf

[Torgerias]

Past and Present Musings of a Vengeful Elf
The unedited and unabridged collection of notes, letters, and incoherent scribblings of the last son of ( REDACTED )

Entry dated 13 Hammer, 1212 DR:

Upon this very old scrap of parchment are drawn yellow pointy-eared stick figures draped in garishly colored robes being stabbed by a much larger pointy-eared stick figure wearing a poorly illustrated crown. Copious red pastels are used for the gushing blood and the large figure is shouting "Die, die, die!" in childlike elvish script.

[Torgerias]

Entry dated 5 Flamerule, 1350 DR, Darkhold:

As I stand here before these gates with the bitter cold whipping at by back and biting at my skin, I am forced reflect upon my current position. The fire kindled by my exile to the west burns within my blood. It warms me and keeps me from the cold even as it threatens to boil from my pores. I touch the ring of my right hand, my delicate fingers sliding across the needle-fine pin along its edge, and feel the longing for freedom of the tumultuous ichor in my veins. I resist the urge, keeping the fire within to steel me against the winter wind. It will be long before I can leave the cold.

The screech of steel upon steel interrupts my brooding as the spike-plated guards at the gate shift their weight to attention. Another caravan, laden with the goods of a fat merchant and his fatter purse, is here to help fill our coffers. The foppish man, clad in ill-fitting silks of various garish colors poorly suited for the cold, lumbers down from the wagon as his two guards make their way to the fire. He moves to speak to me, presumably to request quarters, but thinks better of it and wanders away to find someone less disagreeable to receive him. It is by our work only that he can travel through these lands with such a light company of protection and peddle his spices, dyes, and other luxuries to the wealthier humans who have crawled to the top of the pile.

In the brief days since my arrival I have walked among them. They scurry about in their hurried lives, rushing to and fro to dole out justice and maintain the peace and order of their world. The goodly orders, so convinced of their superior moral authority, have a substantial presence here and use their force to tell others how to live their lives. To the uninitiated, their orders must seem insurmountable, but I can see the cracks. The tiny fissures, opened by their arrogance and short-sightedness, shine on their facade. One need only find the proper frequency to crumble the stone walls.

I pull my cloak tighter as the strength of the wind grows and spins blossoms of snow across the courtyard. The merchant has retreated to the warmth of the guest tower and his guards are deep in the bottom of their drink. I remain, my gaze falling to the south as the blizzard begins.