An immortal elf meets the much better known immortal elf. Wariness, tenseness, then laughter and talks of old times at a table with drinks and introductions of friends. -- Anon Guest
The problem with being immortal and ageless is having to move to a new country every five to eight hundred years. Well. It is if you're an Elf. Humans have it worse, having to shift residences every decade or so. Some just surrender and live a life on the road.
Dragons just don't care. The ones who achieve immortality are praised, and might be pestered for their secrets.
It could be worse. One could be immortal without the agelessness. Those sorts oft get mistaken for Liches before they finally wither to nothing. That's not a fate anyone could want, but I digress.
My name is Phieryth, and I have seen empires rise and fall. Some are names none care to remember. Some have become curses. Some, like the Elven empires, have become stories of hubris. I have seen wars waged over pointless opinions. I have seen endeavours begun that took lifetimes to finish. I have seen new species evolve and, in one case, gain intelligence.
I have entirely forgotten how I became immortal. I didn't even notice until I was well into my fourth millennium and realised that everyone I knew had perished of old age. It doesn't matter in the end. All I know is the name of one other like me.
Wraithbind.
Well. That's the name ze chose upon reaching hir first century in age. Thousands of years before I drew first breath. Ze saved my town when I was a child. I'll never forget the look in hir eyes when ze lifted me up and looked into mine.
Maybe I'd been born immortal. That curse happens from time to time.
Now, in a country that had not existed when either of us first met, on a land mass that also had not existed at that time, we meet again.
I could easily say that ze'd fallen far. In the company of a Kobold, a D'varuv, and a Bugbear... but the wraith binder had always chosen less valuable company.
Ze had taken an oath on a god's heart to make the world a better place, and the gods were holding hir to it.
I, with my millennia of a life, had done so little in comparison. I moved, I studied my new homeplace. I wrote of its curiosities, language, delicacies and so forth. I mapped a few cities or the polity itself. I made a few notes regarding the neighbours and travel options... and I moved on to the next.
I had effectively done nothing but journal my travels. I helped none. Merely documented my experiences. Publishing under the same name every time.
I had contributed nothing but worthless, insignificant words.
Would ze judge me? This hero and maker of heroes? This sire and grandsire of nations?
"Phieryth? Is it truly you?" ze seemed... joyed. Glad to meet me? So ze didn't know. Ze didn't know how much time I'd wasted with ink and page.
"It is," I confessed. Ready to shave myself bald in my shame. "I regret to inform you... I've done nothing but scribe worthless words all my long years."
"Worthless? Worthless? My dear Phieryth! Your travelogues are priceless! I've made sure to look and see if you've been anywhere I'm going every time I enter a book shop."
I confess, I nearly fainted. "I thought I'd wasted all my time. That I wound up helping nobody..."
"My friend," Wraithvine beamed. "You have no idea how many you've helped with your words. Even when they're out of date, historians clamour for copies. Your words are wanted, anticipated, and loved... perhaps by millions."
Millions. I could not fathom it until Wraithvine showed me.
All my travels. All my words. Bound and copied and filed according to vintage. I had no idea.
Nobody had thought to mention it to me.
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