I have a name, but I will not share it. It is not that I fear being known, but rather that I wear a disguise and have no desire to exchange it for another. I am high born, that much I will tell you, or as those who know less would say, an elf. I am old, even for one high born, I am old. I do not show it in my face or hair, my eyes do not grow weak, nor do my legs fail me, but pleasure, simple pleasure, becomes harder to find. With each life time of the simple folk that slips and fades away, the stars hold less enchantement, and glowing pools in the grandest earthen halls hold less mystery. So now I hunt for love. I whisper in the ears of the wicked midnight stallions and they trust me, and follow me like lambs. I charm proud wyrms, and they leave their frozen halls and eat flesh from my hands, like puppies, with no fear or anger. But the creatures that awaken the hard stoked fires of my desire, more than anything else, are the faerie hounds, the great wise hunters who war like a mountain falling on their enemies, but eat fruit and cabbages like rabbits. Their trust is harder to earn than most, but even they fall like the others, under the skill of my voice, and the light touch of my fingers. Then they are loyal like no other, and heal my wounds, and defend my honour, and will do anything for me. So I test them. I take them to others of their kind, their children, their lovers, and tell them that if they love me they must destroy them. And they try, for me, for their new found love of my voice; they use all their strength and cunning and take on the terrible burden of slaying their friends and family. But they are weak. I have turned their world upside down and much of what they knew, they have forgotten. My love has made them soft and foolish, and they fail, every time they fail – and as the panic dawns on them I tell them they are not good enough for me, their new found God, and cast them off, and tear them with my fire, and they die with a whimper. And always I look them in the eye to see that moment when I reject their love, and turn on them with hatred and fire. Some turn to me and weakly try to exact some kind of revenge. Most fight on, bewildered and broken, until that last moment when their life drains into the sand, and they cry their last prayer for mercy and forgiveness. I am old, even for one high born, I am old. I do not show it in my face or hair, my eyes do not grow weak, nor do my legs fail me, but pleasure, simple pleasure, becomes harder to find.