Even as a child, I had with the usual group of the village's most mischievious, stolen into the old manor of our Western forest. Awestucken, myself and a few of the other lads had found the Portrait of tale, draped by the most sheer of silks, as was told by the traveling bard. She had been the daughter of the King, who had lain with one of the Elder daughters of the land. Some call them the children of the forest... nothers call them elves. None-the-less, she had come to pass, a half human, and a half elf. Legend says she had given her heart freely to a lad whom gave in kind and belonged to the House her father was feuding with. Names were long forgotten, but her tragic end, and her father's great love for her echoed in the ancient hall. We had stood there, in the slanting light through the manor's high windows, the overgrown vines creeping along the walls to encircle and twine about her portrait. We stood there, and even as children, we knew and cherished her story.