Bast hummed as he fitted the picks into the lock. His face underwent a change; he seemed young and carefree, as if he was finally free had to do something irresponsible, something dangerous.

After fiddling around for a few minutes, a soft click was heard. Bast reached out to open the door; then stared in confusion. With a sudden smile he bent down, picked off the brass doorknob on the floor, and used it to lever open the door.

It still refused to move. He grunted and gave a full-bodied shove; on the other side of the door a dresser swayed a bit, then hunkered down for the long haul. The black autonomous scrael watched in silence at the strange fight being waged.

Five minutes later Bast stood at the entrance of the room, sweating. An empty doorway behind him. A scratched floor and heavy dresser in front. Eight black spidery beings to his right. A peacefully snoring mass to his left.

Bast crouched, taking it in. He remained still as stone, watching and waiting, and) listening to the scrael. They scuttled slowly, more sluggish, somehow, than usual. Their coal black bodies sideled seamlessly in and out of the morning's light, seeming to disappear for seconds at a time. Bast watched them. Only a soft heaving of the chest signified his life; only the quick darting of his cat-like eyes signified his alertness.

Then he struck. A palm of steel bore down on hard porcelain body. It twisted; it collapsed. It uttered no dying sound, save for a brief scrabbling as its nerves tried to activate once more. Bast struck again in the confusion, crushing the bodies of two more scrael, quick as lightning.

Yet still the scrael did not reply. They made no response to the attack, their legs still making a steady clicking as they scuttled back and forth, back and forth. Bast watched them for a moment, then relaxed. He might as well wait to get some answers. He settled down on the floor, crossed his legs, and laced his hands behind his back. He leaned back and closed his eyes in a semblance of sleep. Only his sharp ears betrayed his lack of trust.

The man stretched, he groaned. He knew he ought to get going. He had an appointment with Kvothe and putting it off wasn't going to make it go away, or make Kvothe any less mad when he didn't show up.

Chronicler opened his eyes. It took a moment before his eyes adjusted to the room's dim light.

"What in the world are you doing in my room?" His eyes darted from Bast, to the door, to the upended dresser several feet away, to the deep scratches on the floor that came marked where the dresser had moved. "And why couldn't you come in through the window like you normally do?"

Bast gave a sharp snort of derision. "And what are you doing, keeping scrael in your room? Talk about scratching up the floors…" bast eyed the scrael and the deep gouges made under their incessant parade.

Chronicler colored slightly. "Well, ah, I didn't think of that."

For a second, there was nothing more to say between them. They had reached an impasse, two creatures from different realms facing stonily against each other.

Silence. All was still.

The air, Chronicler realized, was unbearably hot. He threw off his blankets, but that only served to remove the separation between the air in his skin. He moved restlessly, he shivered.

At last he spoke, abruptly. "I took the scrael because I didn't think Kvothe had seen the last of them - and I was right. I did not kill them because I was tired and not thinking of the consequences when they found me. My thought process was that a wise man never throws away a useful tool."

Bast made a strangled noise in his throat, and Chronicler smiled thinly.

"Yes, anything can be made a useful tool, in the right hands. In the hands of a namer especially. These scrael are now tame. And their rarity that causes the mystery behind their workings that much harder to unravel - that was another reason I kept them." He sighed wistfully. "How I wished I had a Common Draccus to experiment with, as Kvothe did.

"But the real reason, i suppose, is one that I only realize now. It was because it is a link to my past. And my past," Chronicler's sad voice came out hoarse, "is slowly draining away."

"..."

A long pause.

Bast snorted. "You think I care?"

"No," said the sad, echoing voice. "But you asked; I answered."

The voice sounded of ancient anguish. It brought to Bast's mind blue water crashing over rivers' rocks, forever and ever, always doomed to repetition, always the same strong as before, but tired, so much more tired, as the years and decades went on.

The ancient voice of Chronicler spoke another word and the remaining scrael collapsed, lifeless. In an instant, their lives were snuffed out, easy and quick as breathing.

Bast shivered.

"And that's it, I suppose. My past. Gone."

The old man - Bast had never thought him especially old before, but he was certainly so now - seemed to sink, breathe more heavily, his eyes gone a dull, faded out blue.

Who was this man, Bast wondered. Who could kill in an instant, then sink into oblivion as if it were nothing? Or was the question rather…

"What are you?"

The old man gave no answer. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow.

Ah well.

As Bast turned to leave, something caught his eye. It was the papers, the ones that Chronicler had been so keen to keep out of his reach the night before. Now they lay on their back, invitingly.

Bast reached out his hand and with only a twinge of remorse, picked it up.

Immediately, Chronicler bolted upright. His face could only be described as fury incarnate, a monster unleashed.

"Who are you to touch those?"

"Excuse me," Bast asked offended. "Who are you to tell me what to do."

"A namer."

"A member of the fae."

"That gives you no right-"

"That gives me every right, manling." Bast's expression of anger turned a shade to match Chronicler's own. "Do mistake me for my mask. You see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath."

"I mistake nothing, faeling. I know your kind well. I have visited your realm, killed your kind, and lived to tell the tale. I have spoke to the Cthaeh and earned its respect-"

Bast gave a snort of derision.

"-very well, if not earned its respect, I have frustrated it, scared it, and humiliated it. Is that not enough for you?

"You see me and grow confused. Am I human or no? Am I a powerful namer the likes of which you have never seen, or a doddering old man with some tricks up his sleeve. The answer is both, the answer is none. The answer is too terrible and complex for your feeble fae-mind to comprehend."

"Try me."

"What?"

"I said try me. You convinced Kvothe to tell his own story, very well, let me hear yours."

"My story is not an easily told one, with adventures and happiness and misery mixed in with an even proportion. Storytelling is not my first profession. I am no dramatist as Kvothe is-"

"Oh, spare me the epithets, I-"

"The epith- what language are you speaking?"

"What?"

"You said 'spare me the epithets,'" Chronicler said slowly. "That doesn't even make any sense."

Bast frowned and made a dismissive gesture. "Whatever, it sounded like a good word to use. The point is, I saw enough on your paper to understand it was your chance at telling your story. And you came to the same problem my Reshi did: You discovered the written word is too hard to get right the first time, so you couldn't get past the first couple of pages."

Bast paused, then added, "But I, I can offer the solace you need."

For the first time Chronicler noticed something like empathy in Bast's eyes.

"What do you gain? You care about Kvothe far too much to waste any time on petty me."

"And you're important to him," Bast countered. "It makes sense that I should learn as much about you as I can. Plus… I'm curious. That's a common quality in us faelings."

"Failings, more likely," Chronicler muttered.

"What?"

"I said that's more than likely."

"Oh… well, thanks."

"My story," Chronicler began, "is not some children's tale, that begins and ends and has a few plot points in middle." He held his hand up irratibly to stop Bast from speaking. "I'm telling the story now, so I get to decide how to say it. If I want to imitate Kvothe, I can.

"I have been called by many names, as would be appropriate for someone like me. My father named me Devan, which means "sharp". I have been called Quickfingers, Runt, and Goldenboy. I have been dubbed The Chronicler and The Debunker. I have been mentor, student, scribe, and, not least, friend. I have been called Master at the University, if only for a short time. I have been called thief all my life, and a thief I remain. But let's dispense with all this Kvothe talk. Let us get on with the story. Yes, let us start.

"My story is an ugly mass full of rough patches. Death and discovery, thieving and getting thieved from. It is not a pretty story. It is not funny story. It isn't even a fae story.

"But it is the truest story I know. I hope I will do it justice.

I never knew my mother. Whether she died in childbirth as I always often assumed, or if my father had taken me away from some reason, as I later suspected, I did not know. When I was young, I asked and received no answers. Once I grew old enough to know about such things I stopped asking.

The simplest explanation is that I was scared. I feared I would learn things about my mother, or my father for that matter, that would estrange me from them. I was afraid my father would tell me I was not his son, only an orphan like the many other children in our band, and that I certainly had no wish to know. So I clung to the childish belief that my mother was perfect in every way; kind, caring, beautiful, yet frail; in my dreams she would dote over my infant form, even as she grew weaker and weaker with some unknown disease. Until at last she kissed me a goodbye of love.

My father was a different matter, but I loved him well, and if you had known him you would have believed he married the mother of my dreams. He was tough, but had so many a soft side that the toughness rarely revealed itself.

Then there were the others in my group, some boys, some men, a few women. We traveled town to town, stealing what we could, sometimes robbing a store or two. However, the difference between us and every other band of thieves was our efficiency. I, in particular was a child prodigy in the art. With my clever fingers, my youthful demeanor, and small hands, I was said to be the best thief in The Four Corners.

I say that not to brag, but because it is the simple truth. Our band in particular was infamous for its daring thefts and escapes and, more importantly, never getting caught. The fact that we tried to target wealthy and corrupt people who could afford to lose the money might've also played a part. But it was well known that there was one young boy who had the quickest fingers of our band, who could nick a woman's purse, a nobleman's watch, a prince's necklace, all without them noticing a thing. Thus, I was dubbed Quickfingers by the world at large, and over time by some others in our band.

I cannot attribute it to my skill alone. Many factors influenced me. My father, for one, was the leader of our band, and he always made sure I had the best instruction. But I was also hardworking and observant. I would study plans in great detail, and bow out if the risk was too great. I trained myself to notice whether someone was the type to forget about the money they were carrying, or whether they looked for theives in every corner. Such observation was the cornerstone of my success. And I had other methods as well.

Nevertheless, skill and luck can only take you so far. After enough time, it was inevitable that I would run into trouble.