I become acutely aware of the smell of burning tallow and old parchment as I lean back and close my weary eyes. I have been working at this for days now, and it seems that I have made little progress. Ordinarily such things matter not to those with lifespans as long as mine, a life long enough that mortality seems to be the problem of the lesser races.

I am old enough now, though, that mortality is very real to me indeed, and I face it with mixed emotions. Like most of my kind I view it as a chance to finally rest, to escape once and for all the trials and tribulations of a millennium and more of life. On the other hand, the biggest issue facing most of my race at this stage is boredom, and that has never been my concern. It would have been much more likely that I develop a terminal case of excitement than die of boredom.

So in a way it is therapeutic to get away from the world while I write this book. It does bring back a lot of memories, though, and even the good ones are laced with pain. So many friends, so many good people long turned to dust. It is only through a sense of great duty that I continue this work, that I attempt to pass on wisdom hard won through centuries of blood and pain and loss. My vain hope is that such a work will help to spare others the same or worse, but I remember myself all too well at that age to be able to fool myself much.

Still, I must try. For now, though, I need rest so that I can begin again fresh. It is a long and tedious process to sift through so many entries, making sure only the useful information is compiled into this central work. As unlikely as it is that anyone will read the edited version, it is nearly impossible to imagine anyone reading all the individual journals, much less keeping the time line straight.