I have had legions of quiet
times. I spend time with my daughter in Ar. I visit my daughter in Port Kar, I
fawn over my grandchild, and I wait.
For long years I have been
adrift, my sails tattered by doubts, my navigation blinded by the fog of
forgetfulness, for I have forgotten what it is like to live.
There is a tale to tell, one
yet unwritten, a story that writhes just on the cusp of the next horizon, one
that will become a history written not in ink, but in blood. Cold revelations
reel around my head, a taste of winter taunting my tongue. I see, but I do not
yet understand.
A storm is coming, one of ice
and iron, forged from night and tempered with controlled chaos.
And I am ready.
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