He’s one of them rangers. Dangerous folk they are — wandering the wilds. What his right name is I’ve never heard, but around here, he’s known as Strider.
I began my life as a freak exhibit with my hands and feet bound to the bars of the cage, so that I could not hide my face from the prying multitude. My first appearance had been a disaster that produced something dangerously close to a riot when the angry crowd demanded their money back; they could see nothing because I cowered in a corner with my arms wrapped around my head.
I wonder, but I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.