The old man paused in making his way across the huge tiled expanse of the main floor of Wayreth Tower, leaning on his worn quarterstaff, listening as two junior mages halted in their discussion to whisper heatedly;

Do you know who that IS?

Some old codger, maybe a hedge wizard who's come out of retirement?

Thats Marten! THE Marten! What's he doing in WHITE?

Who is 'The' Marten, then?

In the recent history of the Tower, I only know of one Mage who has turned down a place on the Conclave, not once, but several times. Also..you ever hear about the destruction of the Alter of Tahkisis? The entire Grey Tower was blasted to a standstill and defeated by THREE Magi! Nallawen, her consort Kehladrin and one Marten. Thats him.

If that's so, he must be old by now. And where has he been all this time?

Well, some say he abandoned the Art to live as a Hermit somewhere. Others that he was the last Renegade, the one they never found. Still others say...see he built this machine that could see the future, only it did more than that. It was actually a Gate to other worlds, they say. He used to spend hours, days, communing with the thing. Some people think one day, just then things were going all wrong...he stepped through, never to be seen again.

The old man smiles sadly and continues to make his steady way across the floor, down the stairs and out of sight.

My name is Marten. I've never known any other name, though many robes have I worn. The whispered hissing of youngling Mages follows me through the Tower these days. Perhaps they are right to stare and whisper.

They would laugh themselves hoarse if they but knew the truth. They wouldn't understand it, so they would laugh.
Sooner or later, I know that the Conclave will remember me, learn that I have returned and call for me. I must answer for the crimes of my past here. Thank the gods they don't know about the crimes of my future elsewhere.