Even a thousand lifetimes would not be long enough to forget the face of a loved one, or so say the immortals with which I now dwell. I remember well the night on which I arrived here at the Palâis des Vampires. I remember how hesitant I had been as I gazed up at the moon over the jagged peaks of the mountains that marked the border between their kingdom and my own. The air seemed almost sweet on my tongue, yet bit with a frigid vengeance if one breathed it in too deeply. The path beneath my feet continuously shifted, making the journey difficult. I suppose it had been especially difficult for me due to the fact that I had always been pampered, allowed on peoples’ shoulders as a child and carried upon the back of my mare, Gwynn, as I grew older. That night had been my first real experience of walking anywhere on my own two feet. All of those years of being a spoilt young woman had hardly prepared me for the trail, or trials that would lie at its end. At the time, though, I was merely cursing my misfortune at being made to follow a fading decorum, the tradition of passing into the immortal country of my own free will and my own efforts. Little did I know that I was forfeiting my very life to those whom I had so desperately longed to see.