It may seem an odd thing, darling child, that we are not Roccabaran by birth, given our station here now.  I can see it in your eyes- you may know it, but you hardly believe it.  Sometimes I cannot believe it either.  You’ve heard stories, though, whether from me or auntie Arthea about our lives out east before sailing here, or perhaps from Marcus and the rest down in the wine cellar.  I can tell from your red ears that you’ve been sneaking down to listen to them, no doubt had your head filled with vulgar talk and much bravado.  Don’t believe half of what they say.  They are good and honest men, but apt to embellish when in each other’s company, as adventurous folk are want to do.  Even those tales are mostly of our time on the Isla Medea, situated in the great sea that cleaves the continent, rather than on the continent proper.  Sure, I call Roccabara, where you and your mother and our lands are, home now, but in truth we’re mainlanders by blood and I’m Medean by upbringing.  What sort of father would I be if I did not teach you your history- the sort of father that finds himself in Anomura’s belly, should the end times ever come and he take the Great One’s shell for his own.  Don’t give me that look, come and sit.  I’ll boil some mint leaves, and look here, some honeycomb to chew as you drink it and listen.