I know what they say of me, the lack-legged ones. Evil, they name me, malice made flesh. They claim Darkness is my vomit. They cannot see in the Dark, these lovers of starlight and moonlight, and they fear what they cannot comprehend. What they fear, they revile and call Evil. Though it is true, some of what they say. I do produce the Deepest Dark. It flows from my body as water from the distant mountains. It slides outward and downward, taking with it the decay of the world, washing clean the follies of the light. In my Darkness, room is made for the New. Were it not for the Dark, there would be no rest, no renewal, no rebirth. All would remain stagnant in the light, never growing, never changing. But the lack-legged ones do not understand this. They lack the wit to understand.

I know what HE calls me, too, there in his Tower so deep within the Broken Land. "His cat," he brags to his lieutenants. He calls the meat he herds to my lair "dainties for his cat" and thinks that in return for them, I guard his pass. How little he knows! My lair is my own, to guard and protect for my purposes, not his. Were he to enter my lair, he too would become my lawful Prey. He knows this, but still he does not truly comprehend.

He knows even less than the light-lovers. He will not produce the Deepest Dark. He will not even enter it. Rather, he remains in his Shadow and calls himself Dark. Fool, his arrogance will be his undoing. He would do well to learn and understand, but he will not.

In all my long years, only one has come close to understanding. Only one truly knows the Dark, and even he is corrupted by the trinkets of the world. He whimpers, he lies, he flatters, and thinks he fools me. He does not, but it pleases me to let him believe otherwise. He will bring me fit Prey if he thinks his flattery has appeased me. I need fit Prey, something better than the foul Orcs.

For I am the Predator. All who enter my abode with blood rich in their veins are my lawful Prey. It was this way when first I arrived here, fleeing the great flood, and will be this way until the very end of time. I serve my purpose here, in the Dark, and need no other excuse for my existence. I stray not far from my lair, neither for the hunt nor for sport. I grow not beyond the bounds of what can support me here, unlike the Men who ever expand, claiming all that is in their path. I leave not when my life becomes difficult, as do the Elves who flee for the West. I care not for conquest, nor slavery, nor destruction for its own sake, nor even the trinkets and tidbits HE is so fond of. I claim only my rightful due, take only the Prey that comes to me, as is my right and purpose.

My flatterer has returned. I can smell him. He has brought something tasty, I know. I can smell that, too. It has entered my lair, and is doomed. I must hunt.