Time was not always time, don’t ya know. No, Time before time there was, and then came the creator came and made the wheel of existence. Then he made his choir, his Tong, and they became the stars. His Tong didn’t all sing to his liking, and he went about to name all the good ones. Then the dark one, the one best not to name even at mid-day, well he did name himself, and all those with him. You don’t want to be named by him! No ya don’t. Well then, there was trouble, and from that trouble was born our little Har, the world, so to say.

Then the creator and ‘is Tong did make the good folks, the men and the elves, the dwarves and the half-pints. And that ‘ol dark one, he did no like that. He created his own races, but they were all twisted, looking like twisted ‘flections of the creator’s stuff. Them we call the roe’yen. Means "twisted ones" or some such in the old tongue, in Torkmanish. Now I don’t be knowin’ much of that, but all people can see that the name holds true. Not that I’d seen one, mind you, I live my life in Margole’s name, I do. But I hear, I do. And there’s worse things. Things that can freeze the air and make walls of ice, kill men with a glare, and send fire from their hands. Warriors they were, and still are. They are the Dreadlords, and they drive the armies. What they are, well, it’s best not to think ‘o that ever, but mind you they were once the best of us. That’s why we don’t think about how they could become the worst. Bad things. None worse.

Now then, we walk in the light, we do. Follow the Tong. Mihhalel for justice, Stephnos for the sun, Aragoth for truth in battle, Jagaroth for weather (fair and foul), Goetheyn for luck, and a whole slew of others. But we be wary of those who walk in the shadow. We also watch out for those who pry into our business. We respect them, they respect us, and we all get along. We’re Jansen Field born, and we know our place. We follow Bale Lewsmon, he be the lord of our territory, if such could be said. He lets us alone, only interferes when he needs to. Lost his wife, he did, none to long ago. She was an outlander. Met her when he, Luhhan the blacksmith, and the old merchant Jesso went away all those years ago. Came back with a wife, that ‘ol grizzled woodsman Jaslou, and the illuminator Lews. They all did then build our little keep, organize a guard, cleaned the place right up, they did. All settled down to life, most have families, just like the rest. Some say they used money from abroad, some say they just learned a thing or three in the rest of Har. Me, I just think they wanted the best for us, and that’s what they give. Them and the other men. Jak Thurmond, the carpenter, Togath Jasterfel, the thatcher, they all serve well, too. Most others, as well. We haven’t had no trouble here (‘ceptin that made by some young boys I know...) in many a year. We’re a hard people, despite. Tough as old roots, some say.

Not that that means much to a roe’yen...