I was on a yacht at night. Venger had lured me to a dark corner, and we stood with our backs to the water. He told me that he knew I wrote of him and the Realm, and that he had read some of what I'd written and was intrigued by it. He said he'd read works by other writers, but had read none that had come close to getting the history and situations and his background right, as mine had.

Suddenly, I noticed that every notebook in which I had written even a mere thought on a single page was stacked before me. It was a considerable amount. He wanted to see everything I'd ever written having anything at all to do with the Realm of Dungeons and Dragons. I started trying to gather them all up in my arms, but there were too many. I didn't mind him reading everything, but I preferred to present them in my own order and explain some of my ideas along the way.

He talked much. He was very flattered that someone would want to write about him, that someone would be so interested in him that they would take the time to explore his character so intently. And he seemed to want to know me, as well. He wanted to know what kind of person could take such an interest in him as to write such accurate details.

I kept expecting him to vanish, as though the whole encounter were a figment of my imagination, but he stayed by my side. We went into my cabin on the yacht. He lay down on my bed and propped himself on an elbow as I sat on a chair just off the foot of the bed, still holding my notebooks. I wasn't looking at him as I was talking about how interested I was to come to know and understand him and his goals and what drove him.