The pages of this book—memory?—describe a heated argument between a group of well-dressed elves inside an elaborately arched pavilion on an island floating in a void. In the distance, haloed by a blizzard of light, thousands of elves are maintaining an elaborate magical ritual that pulls raw essence from the Fade, funneled into a sphere in the air. Through the lens of the sphere can be seen a world of indigo waterfalls and rust-red jungles, and a temple palace so frescoed and cleverly carved, it is a masterpiece in itself.
The well-dressed elves' shouting grows so loud, it can be heard over the magic. One leaps at another, howling and pulling out a knife burning with prismatic flame.