How do I know all of that in such detail? The simple answer is: I don’t. But I do know it has happened. The details are an educated guess. I am not Donash Fateweaver, as people have started calling him, nor would I wish to be. I have no desire to control and manipulate in his pupetteering ways.
It has been long since I first read the necromancer’s book, which was while the events I am to describe came to pass. It is a curious read, to say the least. Only upon my second reading, or maybe the third, did I start to grasp the true meaning of it all. Perhaps the most confusing part was how the tale was written on roughly half it’s pages. A man such as Donash would surely be aware of the amount of space he’d need for his writings. It’s as if the emptyness that follows is as much as statement as the text itself. And for much longer than the text, has the meaning of this statement eluded me.
Now, I finally understand the invitation implied. Donash wrote an unfinished tale and left the necessary space for its completion as legacy. I no longer have any doubt that he provided for exactly as much pages as I need to bring his foreword to a conclusion. But again, I must stress that I am not writing about hapless puppets in a storm of my own making. Their destinies, their fates and fortunes are their own. I will, as much as the telling allows, stick to the one heart I truly know. The one I can feel beating within my own chest, here in the eye of this rising storm.