(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

A bleak silence fills the air as Ileron joins the rest of the crowd. Aside from
Oudilin who sits in his chair at the side of the stage, the other storytellers
mingle in the front row: a disparate new clique, no few of its members
glancing at another now and again like strange cats still unsure of one
another. Ileron gives the rest a disdainful smirk, and stands on his own.
Moments tick by, one after another. Small motions ripple through the
crowd, and each time one moves a hundred eyes flick over to stare, seeking
the next storyteller. Yet each time it is simply a barmaid taking mugs, or a
sod stepping out to use the latrine. It couldn't be much more now, but
patience is wearing thin.
A murmur begins to build, and Oudilin licks his lips. "Where is it?" is the
question on everyone's lips. "Where's the next piking journal?"
Finally a figure stands, "It is gone."
His voice is hoary and dry with age, and for a moment it is difficult to
identify the one who spoke. But he wades forward, hands folded before him
as if in prayer. His cloak is the shimmering blue-black of a beetle's shell, its
folds long and flowing. Nails laquered blue-green press tip-to-tip, and two
feathered fronds sprout from his odd headpiece. The voice belongs to an
elderly main two steps from the grave, but the face that spoke those words
is smooth and ageless. Those eyes, green as polished emeralds, bear the
self-possession and weight of many years.
Oudilin tenses as if struck, and he sounds hoarse as he speaks, "Gone?"
The figure nods, spreading his arms wide. His long sleeves billow out, and
the smell of dry incense fills the tavern. The hundred questions and shouts
of outrage threaten to fill the air in angry cacophony, yet the silence of a
temple, or perhaps the quiet of a mausoleum, keeps the peace.
"Peace, young deva, and allow me to explain. The final journal of The
Nameless One is indeed destroyed, but despite this the tale will be told.
"I am Keeper-of-Forgotten-Thoughts, and I hail from a barren space in the
Astral where dreams go to die. Long have I traversed the Silver Sea,
collecting ancient knowledge long forgotten: thoughts beautiful and vile,
grotesque and sublime, legendary and mundane. These I keep, locked away
in bottles and vials for all eternity in my shadowed halls.
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