I sit at a small table of roughly hewn wood, on a plain wooden stool, with a long black feather of a Great Wing quill in my hand. The quill hoovers over brown-stained paper, brittle with age so old I fear it will disintegrate into powder before I have told my tale. Behind my right shoulder a rectangular shaft of bright moonlight splashes across my back and spills onto the cold stone floor of the dungeon cell, illuminating portions of the old paper and much of my desk. A thick candle, half consumed, with a dim flame, assists the moonlight in my endeavors to record the events of my past.
I sit at a small table of roughly hewn wood, on a plain wooden stool, with a long black feather of a Great Wing quill in my hand. The quill hoovers over brown-stained paper, brittle with age so old I fear i
