â€œI theorized once that the admiration of storytelling in your culture was actually of Elven origin.â€ Koralheim explained, finding a chair he seemed to find appropriately comfortable before taking a seat. â€œGiven the patchwork nature of your speciesâ€™ past, it seems possible. There are few drakefolk or elves still living who have any sort of insight into the matter, Iâ€™m afraid.â€ Koralheim explained. He propped the scroll up lightly so it was visible as he spoke into Kalaâ€™s mind.<br/><br/>â€œVery well, then. Weâ€™ll share a story now and rest up, then weâ€™ll go where we will.â€ he decided. â€œPerhaps I ought to tell you why those angels are so keen on finding me.â€<br/><br/>Koralheim shifted slightly and rubbed over the tattoo on his back. â€œShortly after my wife passed away I went on a trip out into the wastes. I was young and grief-stricken, and I did not take the precautions I take nowadays. I wasâ€¦ apprehended by a flock of angels after I strayed too far into the wastes.â€ he continued, his eyes distant and full of remembered excitement. â€œI wasnâ€™t even frightened at the time; perhaps I was too numb after my wifeâ€™s passing, but the sight of it, an entire lost human city below me as we rose into the clouds that clung close to its high spires. It was tarnished and green like copper left in the rain.â€ he continued.<br/><br/>â€œAnd there, in its center, was a great spire that stretched up into the clouds. The angels had their stronghold in this tower alone; the rest of that immeasurable city was vacant beyond scores and scores of undead serving lich necromancers and the like. It was a necropolis, certainly, but it seemed as though the angels and the living dead had some accord; the angels would venture out and battle the mechanized monstrosities of the wastes to keep the cityâ€™s walls standing, and the dead-lords and the like would leave their tarnished tower untouched by their decrepit minions. I found myself imprisoned, and it was there that I was branded with this tattoo; it acts almost as a beacon. Any angel can sense my presence through it.â€ Koralheim explained. His fingers drummed lightly on the edges of the scroll.<br/><br/>â€œIt also contains a secret; I made friends in that prison with an old elf theyâ€™d kept alive in the dungeon. I was certain that, despite his tendency to ramble and shrink away from the slightest sound of feathers, that he was a survivor from the great war itself; he had been there for almost a thousand years, and he insisted until the last time I ever saw him that the world had been fooled. The war had never really ended, and that when the Fifth returned we would all be in grave danger. He was also quite the artist, and he modified my tattoo with translations of some runes that had befuddled artificers and scholars alike for centuries. That, however, is a later story. The fun of it was really the escape.â€<br/><br/>Koralheim adjusted himself again and leaned back into the chair. â€œThe angels kept single prisoners as sources of entertainment. I was confident that with some tweaking I might be able to teleport to safety, but without knowing how far in I was, or if there were barriers of some magical variety in place, I couldnâ€™t risk it. Their warband was led by an angel unlike the others. She was tall, pale skinned, with wings of impressive span and darkness, and fierce eyes with black irises. It seemed that every time she stared at you, light radiated from her in a way that filled the room with an icy chill. She was beautiful.â€ Koralheim reminisced. â€œAnd it would seem that I amused her. I would speculate on aspects of history, and she would simply laugh at first, correct me later. She would share meals with me, and gave me leave to adhere to the rights of remembrance on the anniversary of my wifeâ€™s death. I think the entire time, she knew I was gathering information. She willingly gave it quite often.â€ Koralheim speculated.<br/><br/>â€œIt would seem that the angels easily grow bored; without the prevalence of demon summoners, they have nothing to hunt. They desire a quarry, and after I made my escape, it would seem that theyâ€™ve found a reason to mobilize. Khestra, the warbandâ€™s leader, must have known I would diffuse the secrets Iâ€™d learned into the world.â€ he continued, closing his eyes. â€œI can feel her right now, her presence is almost persistent, like someone hovering over your shoulder. It is oppressive but comforting; she wants her hunt to be sporting. There is honor in it.â€<br/><br/>Koralheim opened his eyes again, the bronze orbs again cool and calculating; aged. Heâ€™d moved past his amusement. â€œI would assume the angels will kill me after recapturing me. It would be an honorable death, though there are worse cataclysms that will befall us in the coming days. The Fifth is coming, and I plan to be very far from Northpeak when he does.â€