In my younger days, I had power. Power I wielded like a hammer. With it I shaped myself and my world. I helped build a dream. A shining example brought low by a tide of petty evils. By the end my friends were dead and our allies scattered to the winds. So much power, power enough to shape a world but not enough to keep it. I was so tired but the fires of creation singing through me would not let me die. People say that I was tricked into the tree. In reality it was the only oblivion I could craft for myself. I slept fitfully, the passing years playing out as a dream. Something wrent the tree from its mooring and I stumbled out. Kept strong by its roots deep into the Well. I blinked and saw sunlight for the first time in more than a thousand years, just as a bright sword stabbed out of the sky with a keaning wail. The roar was deafening, the howl of metal tearing. I didn’t think. I lashed out with my will. Anything to make the noise stop. Now they laud me a hero. When what I am is just a frightened old man.