Sometime during the winter at Belegost, near a fireplace after a long day of research in the Library and much fortified wine.
"Heh, my name is still in that book."
"What book."
"The book at the entrance to the Temple of Mourning... well, that one. The one made of skin. The scribe sitting there, it was his skin the pages were made of, and it was still connected to him as the flesh was magically slowly peeled off of his body."
"Ew! Gross! Ryde, couldn't we talk about something else...?"
"And he asked us for our names. First 'Thifmir', then 'Vaklyre'. Then the Hobbit traveling with us who had no name and the Scribe became upset and worried and insisted that he have a name and agreed eventually that he could write down 'Mister Green', trying desperately to avoid the end of the page so that he would lose no more skin. Then he asked me my name, and screamed as he had to turn to the next page while I said 'Lord Rydetalin Tethamagrion daraChinstal Clay'."
"Somehow, all my oaths to kings and dragons seem like the merest flickers of allegiance. My name is remembered by enough enemies, and not enough friends. At least not by friends who still breathe the same air and tread the same hills."
"Ryde, what's your point?"
"Hmmm, oh, no point really, just remembering tiny details about the several curses I've had to bear. I'll tell you about the forges of Eagles Reach next if you'd like. That has a happier ending. Who wants more wine?"