Tragically to admit with each passing year our grace of enchantment dwindled away as we faded more and more from the world in which we had chosen to remain a part of. Our people fled beyond The West; yet, we who remained became as mortal as men by each dying year's end. Even in our new customs we took on that mortal garb of their affairs. For death had its own day of remembrance.
The very day that the first among us fell into that eternal slumber; Lord Symodare himself, the ending of our days began.
We so marked the occasion as a solum day of fasting and joyless song with a single evening meal. The Feast of Lights it came to be known on every October's New Moon, because candles were set afloat upon paper swans. They sailed beyond the Bay's cliff gateway just as the real ships had done before. We recounted each name and deed, while crying in our hearts knowing some day our own would be listed among them as well. Upon that beach amid the gathered people stood The Watcher's Urn beside a torch for each one so inturned.
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