I am Oudif (or Odif, if you don’t mind pronouncing the latter). I love all my names. The Latins call me “Korvos,” the Greeks “Korakos,” the Spaniards call me “Maria,” while the English call me “Kraw.” As for me—whether I’ve told you already or not—I prefer that you call me Oudif, for it is my most authentic name, the one closest to my heart and in perfect harmony with my soul.

Alright, I won’t keep you with too much chatter. I’ve come to share an entertaining tale. Do you like stories? I believe everyone does. I promise you that today’s tale will be different—it will slip along your edges and send shivers through your body. Perhaps you’ve heard it before, but in a different way. I see no harm in you hearing it today from the very mouth of Oudif.

I see you trembling! Don’t you like to gaze at my face for too long? Yet you cannot deny that my voice draws you into my story—rich, and seeping deep into your weary, restless soul.

They say history is written by the victors—why not let it be written once by the vanquished? Will you doubt the truth of my tale? I do not blame you; I do not seek your blind belief. I know that perhaps I do not inspire confidence. But know this: old Oudif does not like to lie.

Perhaps I won’t reveal the entire truth; maybe I’ll hide parts of it. Perhaps I won’t tell you the truth at all! But I promise to pose fresh questions that will compel you to wonder and think deeply.

Alright, let’s leave the prattle behind. Why not continue with the tale?