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Notes

Each player can receive one of these papers by using the (quest) Torn Out Page lying on the ground in eastern Upper Roshamuul, south-east of the central mountain (here).


If this book is ever to fall into the hands of my people, I am as good as dead. Although I would flatter my people with the assumption that mere death was all that would await me. I would have done the same thing to others a few hundred years ago. But now I'm tired and would almost welcome death to halt this never-ending cycle of intrigue and bids for power. I never imagined how hollow all those things would become that I carved for so long. But after losing and winning all over and over again, it all grows stale. All my accomplishments are only adding to the amount of reasons why I have to watch my back. After gaining all this power, you have to invest a considerable deal of it just to secure it. Though you then have the power to make decisions, the good ones only lead to envy and minions undermining them, and the bad ones might give a rival the chance to strike at you. However, this should not turn into a philosophical treatise of some sort; neither become an excuse for what I have done. I have committed all atrocities deliberately and freely. I feel no regret; but seeing the futility of our ambitions, I feel incredibly tired and disgusted by our trivial ways. Perhaps I have outlived the timespan I can endure. With stolen life-force and dreams I prolonged my life for so long that I often cannot tell what really happened and what I might have imagined, or what is a lie told so often and casually that I forgot the truth. While I watch the newest bid for power of my people, I write this down to tell the people of other times about what happened here.
While I feel that the recent plans of my people will not play out well, I think they will add to all the futility in my lifetime and our people’s, and that whatever happened here will be completely forgotten to all but the uncaring gods and, perhaps, some of our surviving enemies. I write this down in the tongue of the gods, hoping that their vanity alone is enough to ensure that this gift to their followers be preserved. I write this down on mere paper instead of using the dream crystals of my people. This way it might escape the watchful eyes of my colleagues long enough to outlive them.
Much could be told about my people. It would fill volumes and yet only scratch the surface. But this is nothing I could accomplish at all, and nothing I'd even care to try. If I am right, my people will be dead soon enough and just another side note of history. I somewhat relish the thought that we will be the subject of speculation and myth, so it suits me well that those who will come after us are not too familiar with our doings in history. That being said, a few things should be mentioned just in case we are completely wiped out from not only existence, but history as well.
First of all, the name of my people is nothing meant for vocal chords. It is a thought pattern, half a dream and untranslatable into any tongue. As is the language we use with our own people. It was a hard thing to learn to communicate with others. It is somewhat disgusting , having to rely on grunting and gasping to communicate with our allies. The latter gave us many names, rarely though to flatter us. Dreamstealers, dreamvampires, dreamshapers and so many, many more that I've forgotten them. Most of the times I preferred to refer to us simply as the dreamers.

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