No preamble, no introduction… I just want you to understand the agony of writing a character who, in a fit of what was clearly self loathing, I decided would speak in rhyme whenever he appeared. -_-
“The False King is collecting magic, the effects of which may well prove tragic. I have no desire to see my power, captured, abused, locked in his tower. Wistar is not the rightful King, and through the land his rule does sting. His wolves, his laws; they all do ring with the fire of hate and ugly things. Had I the choice I would take wing but this is my home…” the elf trailed off. Something thick and grey leaked from the corner of one half-lidded eye.