Here we shall write the adventures of the Chunaché Family, being composed at this date of Kyunké, Halanké and Goyaké Chunaché. They descended into the Faevelt by night, in a hired ox-cart, and settled in the little tile-roofed cottage at the end of the winding path that leads upward from Zéloc Vale.
Who were they, these hawk-nosed sisters and their lazily smiling brother, strangers whose grandfathers we did not know? We the people of Zéloc were a laughing race, known throughout the Faevelt for our valour and our beauty, for the richness of our soil and for the sweetness of our songs.
Into our midst came these wheat-skinned strangers, tall and silent and aloof, responding to our eager questions with cool monosyllabic replies, smiling always, yet so coldly that their smiles drove us away faster than any ill-humour could ever have done. Hastiness of temper is doubtless a grievous fault, but an endearing one nonetheless; these sad proud smiles with a hint always of unpalatable irony within them – these we did not understand. They chilled us and drove us entirely away.
And yet, today when we of the Faevelt write these chronicles of the Chunaché, we write of them in some sort as our people, our kin, our own kind, despite their dark skin and their alien ways. For fifty years they dwelt among us, and we did not know them. Now that they are dead, we begin to know of them.