I stare at the paper and I just don't know.
Turning the key on the lantern, I hear the soft ticks pick up in pace and a gentle white glow fills the room. The solarium batteries got a full recharge in the morning sun, so I've plenty of light to spare. It doesn't help though, I still find myself at a loss for words.
The stories have all been heard before. Some are taught as history, others recounted over a pint or four and grow more elaborate with each telling. No one is a stranger to the excitement, bitter success, tragedy, or the stunning victories in those tales. So what have I to say?
What could I say?
Then, as sure as a comet breaking atmosphere to strike the ground, or an overwound mainspring breaking from abuse, an idea flashed in my mind.
No one fully remembers where it all started. Not how it started. There isn't anyone that remembers where those people were when desperate actions and bold gambles planted the seeds of tomorrow that we now call 'today'.
I quickly checked the plunger in the pen, nearly dropping the whole thing. The inkwell was full. Touching the nib to the paper I felt the words rise like warm memories. I wrote as fast as I could manage ...
One hundred generations ago, the First Ones - the Forerunners - arrived from across the Deep Night. They named the world 'Fiven' and called it home.
But between the shattering of the moon, the Shifting Plague, then the Time of Empires, the Forerunners were forgotten. Our history was lost.
At least, it might have been if it weren't for a researcher from the Wayfarer League and a young thief who tried to rob him ...