It seems to me that this should be harder than it is. One thing in common between a man on the road and a man on the run is that they must both travel light; I'll be damned if I know which one I am. Still, I leave here with little more than the clothes on my back and a sack full of keepsakes in the hopes that one day I'll remember why they mattered. To the best of my recollection, I have always lived here. Here, in this glade, surrounded by the ancient yew trees. I was born here, not far from the Abbey. I grew up here, took a failed apprenticeship here, built my home here in a little clearing in the woods. I took and lost a wife here, served a Captain and his men here. The images, the sounds, the scents of these moments are all as real and vibrant to me as the present moment. Why, then, does it feel like I have always been on the move? Connemara... I have heard the tales. Many of those who told them claimed to have heard them first from me. Sometimes I would nod while I listened, and pretend that one thing or another seemed distantly familiar. I knew my friends, knew their faces, had fond memories of evenings spent in the Knight's Rest; but I must admit to having had to feign a memory or two of adventures and intrigue, tales of wizards and daemons better belonged in a child's storybook. I am not so foolish a man as to believe that they believed these things were anything but real; I only know I'm not the man they seem to have recall. Perhaps this world they remember actually existed once. Most of the faces I recognized have stopped coming around. I don't know if they've grown busy with their own affairs or if the tavern has become less fashionable or if they were never really there to begin with. All I know is that this place, these walls, these woods... they grow harder and harder to reconcile with the memories I hold. A play is a fine sight to behold, but eventually the painted scenery must be brought down and turned to splinters. I looked through the door around the halls of the Rest one last time, half-hoping that some random bauble in some random corner would trigger the slightest sense of nostalgia which might convince me to stay. I sighed, because I felt that was what I was supposed do in a moment such as this, and closed up shop for the last time. South, I figured, would be the best direction to go, if for no other reason than that I was already facing that way. When I reached the pond, it seemed appropriate to turn around for a last look. What I saw was just as I had expected: nothing. An empty lot of green grass waved lightly in the breeze, a perfect clearing between trees with nothing to spoil the perfect shaft of sunlight it cut for itself. Perhaps it never existed at all. Where was I going now? I didn't know. What would I do when I got there? Live, I suppose. I cannot say what of the stories are true and which are myth. I cannot say what of my own knowledge of myself is true. King or tavern-keep, warrior or wayfarer, hero or homebody. I know not how history shall measure me when the time comes; all I know is the contents of my heart. And that can never be taken from me. When one has too many pasts to make sense of, it must be time to begin fresh, and that's what I shall do. I'll create a new history for myself, one day at a time. All the old tales... let them be told as they will. That man is no longer who I am. I am Aedon Durreah. This is my story.