I would leave you theories, outside your retreat, in this interim space between order and chaos. I would leave you gems and data vessels, but the data vessels have become corrupted and I have run out of gems. I would warp you back to the Mists in a transparent energy shell but I fear we would both be driven mad by the etchings of boundless energies.
When you were born, your mother told me, a hush fell over the asura physicians present. A great lacertilian crease covered your face, or perhaps it was just your face. No one knew what to say, so you cried to fill the vacuum. I always admired you for that; that you cried to fill whatever vacuum you found. It helps to remind me that you will always be a bookah. I began to manufacture noise-cancelling devices, just to enable you to deploy your unwholesome talent without affecting any asuran progress. The wrinkles faded by the time you were six to make you look like all the other porcelain-faced humans, and had gone completely by the time we met, but your need to prattle to fill the empty, and my cure for it, remained.