It felt like the pages to a great colorful biography were spilling over me in a great torrent of fluttering water. The harsh slices of the paper rushing over my skin worked hard to distract me, but I remained desperatly trying to focus my eyes on the words and images as they rushed by. All the while it seemed as though a great spectral light glinted off of the glossy pages, flickering on my face and reducing my pupils to mere pinholes as they ziged and zagged back and forth to no avail. Here and there I could catch glimpses of myself on the pages, smiling and laughing with people I didn't recall ever meeting and in clothes I can't recall ever wearing. Was that really my face? How could it have been? For thirteen hundred years I have walked this world and like a great vault my mind has held every moment. There is no face I can't recall, and no word I can't repeat. But now after one single electrifying image it feels like every action I have ever taken was false, and that perhaps my very life was in jest. A dark perverse puppet show, except now I'm aware of the strings and laughter.
In the fogiest haze I recall giving permission for another to act in my stead over my beloved city. Although in truth I can not tell you either his name or his history, just merely that the High Council of the Camirilla waned me to give him control. They said it was for my own good.
Valdred it seems is no longer my name, and it would seem that identity has come to and end. I could ask who exactly I am now, but the real question is who have I been before?
I hate goodbyes.
It's strange to see Valdred, er... "Valdred" with so much emotion.
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