This story is best told by starting at the end.

Though, of course, the beginning is the most logical place to start, it is not how best to tell my tale. Thus, I will begin with the end, at how I arrived to come sit by this fire in a small cottage at the edge of the world.

You remember, do you not? I came at night, just over a month ago. I was battleworn and weary and had naught but my broken lyre. Ten strings it should have had, but only one or two were left truly playable. My wondrous tail was thin and twiggy, with the colour mostly dulled. What was once bright and clean, vivid colour ...

I must have looked awful.

Unclothed. Uncouth. Undone.

I apologise. How the ending began of this story was not my fault.