The facilities are not comfortable, but it has been centuries since I've had anything worthy. First, the laboratory—working with death to grant more power. The Empire, always that cursed elven power, maintaining it at all costs. Then, the realization that we were facing the species' decay. Being relieved of my duties as instructor and researcher, watching my comfortable offices at the University of Autumn Breeze turn into a cave—a lightless cavern, devoid even of the writings of my own kind! That was the most exhausting part of all. I found myself degraded to reading the books of every other race: moldy treatises on species they didn't even know they possessed, some etched onto tree bark, vulgar poems by satyrs, dwarven legends, things that certain dryads had tattooed upon their skin only to be fossilized in wild resin. All of it pointing to one thing: the origin of magic.
Things are different now. I have no need for food as such—I'm not the only one, am I? That necessity vanished a couple of years ago, just before I set the plans in motion. I knew I would die alone; I had seen what the King did to those who knew secrets of this magnitude. He called himself my friend, even at the end, but the letters had been written long ago—before my arms failed me, before the rot of death reached me. Just as it invaded you. I don't want to imagine the final days of your life... old man, mortally wounded, protecting everyone even in that state. Well, you see, that won't be a problem for much longer. I admit, my dear mana well, that I underestimated you. I thought you were ripe fruit two hundred years ago, barely a century after I first read of your existence, of our true nature. I dedicated the strength that all elves would envy—all my power, the power held within my parasitic artifacts. Look at the irony of being helped even when they didn't know it! Everyone was so thrilled by my artifacts that maintained their status while using so little magic, but they were using even less, and the rest was sent to me. I know my King copied the idea; I know about the tattoos of these invaders. I'll do something about that in due time. But back then, without realizing it, I began to weave runes without ceasing. Dominating you cost me my sleep, my hunger, and in the end, my life. Yet, how close I am now!
Of course, I could do nothing during these three decisive years. It wasn't my fault, believe me. The seals I placed upon you were losing their vitality, so the first thing I did was recharge them... All right! Don't get angry. The first thing I was forced to do was heal myself. That bastard was powerful indeed! He didn't just force me to spend nearly half my magic on protection; I imitated his spell without even knowing what I was doing. I felt as powerful as in the old days. That magic shouldn't exist; it is devastating and requires no one to die but the one attacked. To think how I managed to elude death, how through enchantments and curses I managed to send the missives demanding more lives—the very lives that allowed me to retain my consciousness. That is why I revived so many of my subordinates; once they kill, I grow stronger. But I digress, you old heap of bones! That human should have died, but he didn't. Nothing I hurled at his refuge killed him. Now he is whole again, searching within the King's castle. That wouldn't be good, but I know the truth. Knowing it before he does gives me such an advantage that I shudder. It is not like it was in the old days; I don't have decades here. I barely aspire to a few years at most... Look! Some of your offspring are loose. Don't be a grumpy old man (curious to say that, having lived five thousand years and more than a thousand of non-life), but you have so much more within you. It's true they were easy to catch; my magic is powerful, not because of its potential, but because it controls the life, the emotions, the sensations of your progeny. That is why you couldn't kill them, though it won't be necessary. Those "organized" dwarves? They are wiping them out. But why Earth Dragons? Don't tell me there's no juice left for more summons. Don't worry, you are almost mine. All that power will be. For now, I will revive your idiot lizards and use them to harvest a few more souls. Don't resist! ... Curse you! Did you see what you did? They're dead! I couldn't claim those souls. Don't you understand? You are mine! You and your meager eggs, so stop snatching my subjects away from me.
Regardless, it doesn't matter. Those lizards were useful, but by saving them, you exhausted yourself a bit more. Now my troops can enter the mountain. Let's see if I can get them there. Let's see if death is the only thing that binds you. By the time the month ends, you will be mine, Obsidian, Protector Dragon. No one deserves your power. As soon as I have it, I will use it to enter the Hellmarks. So much magic, it makes me salivate... well, if I had saliva. Anyway, it's foolish that my people called you that, but you were the most perfect thing they had ever seen. We knew you; you were the source of our power. Perhaps I am the only one who knows that you took that power from us. I still don't fully understand the reasons, but I've waited centuries to see you this weakened. Time is short. My pets continue to appear, keeping the "Dark Lord's" hordes occupied. The humans barely know we exist. The dwarves are completely isolated. The elves believe everything is the fault of the idiots dwelling in the old Alcázar. All the idiocy is concentrated, as always, serving my purposes.