The man's thoughts were scarred and callous. What...the hell...had become of him' Memories span decades, but oh-so-blurred. Things just weren't supposed to turn out this way...he was supposed to live, and then die, and that was it. A certain...incident...with a certain undead queen...had left himself dead...or, undead, rather. Still unsure as to how to handle it, after leaving her lair...he just kept going. He walked the streets, that hooded cloak blanketting his entire being. His boots produced a symphony of dull sounds against the cobblestone path. A nod was given to those who passed by, a word to those who asked of him, but nothing beyond that. He was lost, confused, and his outlook on life itself questioned...and all in that first cold breath he'd taken when those damned brown-tainted-grey eyes opened again...when they shouldn't have.

He should be dead.

What bothered him the most, oddly enough, was his book. It was the journal that his grandfather Menithes had started...his father Marcus had added to...and even Raevan and Aiden had began to scribble into...the two men that both resided within this walking, talking, spirited, stalking dead body...and he could no longer even remember most of it. After a dozen readings...he could have recited the better part of it before this...and now, he'd have to read it again. Oh, the irony...a book about the quirks of life, and since his had been taken, the knowledge had vanished...

He felt different. Many of the same feelings and thoughts and loves and hates, oh yes...but he felt different...his body was cold, but still, he shivered. His mind was blurred, but at most times, he could claim some sort of opaque clarity in his thoughts. He now had two arms, and a dozen more unseen...he could see...SEE...from a mere shadow... and all because of that one...cold...breath...

Coming to the end of this particular seemingly ten-mile path, he simply took a seat upon a low, flat-ish rock...that cloak draping all around the sides and rear of himself and his new perch. His book produced from the folds, he opens up to the very first page...blank. The next page, a few scribbled words in some elf dialect...nothing important, sure enough. The page after, a few notes on a make-shift family tree, with the the word...or...name?..."Alexandyr" at the top, then Menithes, then Marcus, all in the same writing. A new penmanship has "Aiden" written below that, then "Raevan" in a third...a pen produced from the cloak now, and after a few moments of staring blankly into that page, a name is written at the bottom of that list...his own name...simply "Xandyr".

Now, that pen replaced to the darkness of a dead man's cloak, he flips the aged paper to view the next...the first entry.

~{Alexandyr, October the 14th}~ Menithes, it's been over a year since I found you that fateful night along the coast...You've always told me that you don't want to be forgotten by your people. This, I can understand...which is one of the few things I've been ABLE to understand about you...but I still feel as though you're a part of my family...with no family to speak of, I'm honoured that you've taken my name as your surname. With my time coming to an end, I give you this...to scribe your story...to write yourself into the memories of those to come. This is as much a gift to myself as to you...because in your blood remembering you, I am remembered in turn. To a gracious road, Menithes... His hood raises ever so slightly as his gaze shifts over his surroundings. Noone is around...not a sound save for the infrequent call of a bird, or the breeze...as the hood dips once more, a dull swish signals the turning to the next page...

~{Menithes, July the 28th}~ It's been a month or so since Saive Alexandyr's passing...the nexus, surely, as taken him somewhere kinder than this damned land. Dynesia...while more sane, more stable than the realm of Rhy'Din was, is not without an irony in the fact that the elven clan who'd saved my life upon my accidental arrival is now waging bloody war on this new human "threat". After they'd finally moved out of the valley where Saive's cottage is, I returned...they'd taken his body by that point...so I looked...and to my amazement, here is this journal...and even an entry began...it seems he knew his life was nearing it's cold end. I never realized the elf-the man-who treated me and took me in...thought so much of me. Saive Alexandyr...you will not be forgotten, my friend...unfortunately, either your people or my own will be with you on the other side of the nexus soon enough...One people must conquer, or assimilate, for peace to thrive...and this is life's final lesson. To a gracious road, my friend.

The book slapped closed...not in anger, not at all. His face, if seen, would seem as calm and unphased as a man who had woken up a mere instant before his viewing. He stood, cloak sweeping behind him as he passes back onto that cobbled path he'd walked to this end, book still in hand. His head was focused, now...all that bounced in his mind was the idea that this book he'd based his principles of life on...begins with death...just as his current existance does. And again, he walked...listening to the symphony of stone under his footfalls.

His eyes burst open, without so much as a thought, the cloaked man is shot to his feet and that hood is flung around furiously, arms risen to cradle his head. The visions of the scythe that ended his life swings through his mind, reflections of the world around him, his family, everything all at the same time. After a moment, he lets out a slow exhale...he's on his knees" His head straightens out a bit and he rises, composing himself in the fashion of patting down his cloak, readjusting that hood, and- his gaze catches the book lying on the ground. He reaches down to grasp it, pulling it directly into his chest, and turns back to the bench...why not...his schedule wasn't exactly packed. He moves his arms and legs...and especially that neck....about for a few minutes, stretching as conspicuously as possible after that sleep...it seems that after being in the same position for a few hours, the undead get...stiff...pardon the pun. A long, slow, completely unfreshing sigh erupts as he sits again upon that bench, cracking open that book again. Something interested him in this journal...perhaps just the mere fact that he wanted to remember...but it kept him reading. After a moment, he came back to his place and trailed his eyes over the next entry...

~{January the 6th, Menithes Alexandyr}~ Our first village, they've named Beldan, after the only man to survive the trip back to Rhydin to call out the rest of the vessels. Thayn and Karrak will be remembered, and are the names of the next two building sites to be constructed. Tonight is my first, and last, night at home in the village of Beldan for a bit...it seems the elves are more numerous than originally thought. Our men in the north have lost their commander, and I'm to lead them in their defense. My leaving of Beldan will be more of a strain than I'd like...My wife, Chreshia, has become ill. I've never seen anything quite like it...but surely, things will work out for the best. Marcus is still with her, and while only a mere 9 years old, he is my son, and I know he will help her with her chores. All will be well...and by the time Chreshia is healthy again, I know she will have a proper land to live in. Only if I go take it, of course. Life's final lesson is...if you cannot take it, then it'll never be yours unless given to you...and we've never been given land to live on.

Again..."life's final lesson"...how many "final lessons" could there be? His legs stretch out in front of the bench...whatever. Probably just an expression...he flips the page and drops the hood back away from his face, his greying skin finally coming forth, neck still heavily stitched the entire way across the front. His eyes begin to bounce over the words before him...

~{February the 3rd, Menithes Alexandyr}~ It had been near a week since Chreshia's passing...I can only hope that our son isn't permanantly silent. Marcus hasn't said a word since she first got sick...I swear on my life, I saw the boy sneeze without so much as a sound the day I had time to return to their home. Their home...my home is the battlefield the past month. I don't know what drives these elven aggressors...whether it be us entering the province at all, or the clearing of a few acres of woodland...but we're the only human inhabitants as of now and these elves are quite unlike any I've ever come across before. My contingent fights mercilessly, we're feared across half the province. All who oppose this new human Dynesia live only to meet sword or hammer, scream, and burn. Of all I've learned, this is life's final lesson....All men have a destiny, and some are much darker than others...one must live to embrace it.

And with that the book is closed softly. He speaks lowly to himself, "His wife has died, his son...alone...and still, he knows war" Menithes seems more and more unreal...is this the blood that runs in my veins?" and a disappointed sigh, eyes closing, " ...ran...in my veins?" His chest seems heavy as he stands, his steps...awkward. His torment seems to come in bouts, never constant, but always present. The cascade of flowing cloak trails his movement down the path and after a short time, he come to his senses and reaffirms the hood overhead once more. He begins walking toward...forward. He knew not where to go now...where should he consider home" In any case, he walks forward listening to the stones shift underfoot.