People say the lowspeakers give prophecy, but those people are their delirious adherents and shouldn't be given the slightest stock in such grandiose things. Truth is, no prophecy has been laid since the old days of the Mage Lords, who called themselves the Order of the Fieri. Nowadays, men and wives tell only tales of the lords, who could move continents and wrote libraries documenting the whole past and future of the world, all lost to history in the cataclysm following their implosion. It was their destruction, however, that regular folk are always wincing away from, the ugly ignored aspect wherein the last true prophecy is hidden: the Deceiver won, and will arise again.

The world is arguably better off without the dark magics of the Titans, and although the Mage Lords commanded incredible powers of their own, I have observed millennia after millennia of relative peace in the lands of men. Of course, Kindgoms squabble, tribes raid and savages pirate, but they have found no demon lords enslaving multitudes, no entire kingdoms consumed for the life energy. Things have been good for Humans.

Not that they've done anything with their opportunities. They still brew only the most rudimentary libations, which is a scourge I am forced to endure at nearly every turn. Even in the halls of kings, low ale is commonplace, as if the words "vinification" and "distillation" were as lost to their language as magic was to their spirits. These lowspeakers are a perfect metaphor for it all - traveling the lands, begging to help from being starved and offering almost nothing, just a bunch of mumbling, for who would brave the smell alone to try to be close enough to hear the words? I for one am convinced there are no words - and that perhaps they themselves are a prophecy of Man, evoked from the very dregs of their own.

Still humans have fared better than dwarves, elves (stories of whom humans have forgotten entirely), the zill, or the panthene, although Zill mermen yet thrive in the southern seas, and Panthene societies found a home in the  jungle sea across the ocean. As nomad tribes of demi-human are impossible to reliably observe without subjecting oneself to considerable danger, as well as a definitive lack of brewing culture in either applicable case, I therefore, obviously, choose to while away my decades among the humans.

Recently a girl came to me with a box that I puzzled me. Of course, this fact itself is remarkable and worth recording in a journal. Box was inlaid with a material with a darkly fluorescent sheen, the walls seemed to be black glass. I had a hard time appraising it, but it was obviously of some value.

-"Hmmm, very interesting."
-"Is it, you know...."
-"You do realize, dear young lady, that I serve the function of appraisal, and can provide no other service?"
-"Of course, you're not a trinket dealer, I get it."

She went to take the box away, as if in embarrassment, but I stopped her. There was something odd about the box, something arcane about it besides the foreign materials used to create it. I wanted more time with it, and I asked her to stay another moment. I noted a few measurements, mentally. The mechanism was effective and not prone to rust. The size of the box indicated it was used for a particular purpose. The materials were incredibly rare, and I wasn't sure they even had a word for either in the common language anymore.

-"Hmmmmm...."
-"So?"
-"Where did you find this?"
-"Questions aren't your function."
-"This box is invaluable."
-"What does that mean? I can't sell it?"
-"It means that no matter what you sell it for, you will have sold it at a loss, and the person you sell it to could have made the best purchase of his or her life."
-"What's so special about it?"
-"For one, neither of these materials exist in the world of Man."
-"Why do you say it like that? the world of man."
-"Dwarves and Elves could work with these materials, but they haven't inhabited this continent, or perhaps this world, for a long time, which leads me to believe this box is very old, and was likely created by a mastercrafter."

She looked visibly perturbed and I could tell the enigma alone of the box would lead her to do something rash, like bury it. She bit her lip and almost flounced from hip to hip, clinking something and sighing twice.

-"So...you don't want to buy it?"
-"I already told you--"
-"Yeah, but, all that other stuff about 'best purchase of your life' and--"
-"Pray tell; why would you part so easily with such an obviously important item? If it is with you, perhaps it is meant to be with you."
She sighed. - "I would rather have some coin to eat with, maybe enough to buy my chains."

I had only then noticed she was shackled at the leg, though only three links led away from her manacle, a symbolic statement of status that could not be mistaken.

-"Who owns your chains?"
-"Stableman Heller."
-"You remain surprisingly clean for a stableman's slave."
-"Sometimes it's good to be covered in shit. Other's can't see you. Sometimes it's better if they don't smell you."
-"Ah. Wise, albeit hasteful."

I remember her eyes, dark and full of brine, as they affixed me then. I saw a spark of something golden there, amid her very pupils, and she took a deep breath as if suppressing some rising feeling. Of course her pride was flaring up, but was it something else as well?

She grabbed the box and thanked me for the advice, saying she probably would not sell the box. Then, just before leaving --

-How do you know so much about elves and dwarves?

I suppose I could only return her dark glare, as no smile is yet possible around the subject.