There was once a half-elven prince who knew so well the Craft that
upon mortal instruments he found some small joy in driving to tears of
divine sadness those who would open their hearts to the Song.  Still
he was half-mortal, and the ranks of his forebearers were long lost to
memory on these shores.  The sea of gray faces would not hear, and in
words mixed his devotion to the outgassings of swine.  He cried as
they laughed at his tears.  So he played his chords upon the backs of
their minds, learned their cruelties all too well and turned them
against them with a calm viciousness that would pale the mortal heart.

They grew to fear him, even as he huddled in his empty corner, too
timid to speak, consumed with black brackish liquers.  Still, in his
heart, he longed only for the One who would hear his Song and love him
for the threads that held together his memories, and tend a lifetime
of wounds, and who he could love.

But too well did he learn the tricks of depravity and too readily and
expertly with words did he cut down the few that had heart to dare to
approach him.  He had become poisoned with bitterness, a dying thing
hung from immortality amidst unlight, and he watched the world change
until they became like him, a rusting antique.  At last, bereft of all
save that one memory of wonder and purity he could never share, he
died alone.