Estan immo I'neälé , antan len nyarna nieron.

("I call myself Reverence Lost, I present to you this tale of tears." written on the inside cover)
Perhaps this will help clear the foggy remnants of my mind since returning. I do not know how else to describe it. Resurrected? Yet I did not die. Not exactly. Who am I to pretend eldritch ways of priests and wizards. Some memories are clear as summer's day, others as hazy as fading dreams, and dark is the reality in between. So I recollect in the here and now, in this changed world. I feel so alone. The few friends I have made provide some comfort. And so if you are reading this, my friends, it means I have come to my final end. Or, after all that's past, perhaps not. I wonder.
 
If so, I am no longer with you, so let this serve as my testament and will. My lassamaica [ i] leaf blades[/i ] I leave to dearest *****, and my bow to *****, may they serve you well. I have little else as of this writing but for that gained during recent venture. Turcana, my horse to Shalynx. We have traveled far and wide my friend, may he take you further, and with only one boot, you might need the help. Other earnings and anything from this point forward should be sold and divided equally among you, but for a quarter earnings. That I would like to go to my bother to aid my mother if he can be found, and she for that matter, with news sent of my passing. That will not be an easy task. Perhaps the druids I went to see may know of him, that's if he ever came to Tetharia and remained. I did not inquire, I never know who to trust in this retched land, but the chances are slim. I wait at least until returning to the druids with good faith news, once we resolve the riddle of the awakened forest.
 
So, I begin the tale as I began, born under the Winter Court on the eve of an eclipse, U'riel (Moon Whisper), daughter of Cornaith Ráviel and Haera Winyara (shimmering river). Father was absent early into my childhood. Mother never spoke of it, nor my siblings, as if it were taboo. I wasn't old enough they said, wait until my nameday. We were of the river alver, of humble means, so much so my mother gave birth to me in a cave, living on the fringes of the glades and deep forests of the Kai river. I took after my mother's family, embraced the wild places. My haven.
 
Growing up, haven from the children who whispered behind my back, who thought me odd. As most alver, I had a great reverence for nature, the woods and groves of Alverheim were my rapture. A connection that grows now as it did then when I was young, the more I put my mind to it. Like riding a horse, forgotten talents surface, talents that once so many years ago had come to fruition. I know that for certain, because they led me to the here and now, and the very reason for writing to piece together the troubling in my mind. Among us alver are the aical, walkers as we would be called in the human tongue, possessed of the sense to see hidden fui (paths) to fey as mortals say, rather from home to other realms. Funny. After arriving here the first time, I wondered just how did they think creatures like the pixies answer their summons so quickly.
 
Yet still others, aicalelya, like myself. Who sense the deeper primal order of nature, and fu the meloncholic, despair, an emptiness in the natural. Some weak, some strong, brief but always threatening contagion. Like bubbles popping on the surface, rippling across the harmony of still water. The shattering breaks of only one fu, fui'ngorthrim (paths of the dead) as we call it, beyond them lies the realm the high ones (high elves) here call dor gyrth i chuinar, (land of the dead that live), that which men call Shadowfel.