In the days of streaming there arose one whose voice carried across the currents of the Net: Carp, they were named, and for five years they shone, and a fellowship gathered round their light. This fellowship took unto themselves a name: The Carp Society, united in their purpose to preserve the utterances of Carp and seek wisdom within them. From these words was first wrought a collection of eight hundred sayings, bound into the earliest Book of Carp.
But that tome was lost, swallowed by silence.
Yet from that loss came vigilance. So long as Carp's voice remained, The Carp Society tended each utterance with care. A greater gathering began. Words were preserved anew, and from them the present Book of Carp was born.
Still, the day came unforeseen when Carp's voice was heard no more. Silence fell where once had been light and living speech, and the Society stood as those who watch a star go dark: bereft, yet bound still to preserve what had been given. The Loremaster and a few faithful members of the Society carried the work onward, guarding the memory through the years.
But time is cruel to fellowships. One by one The Carp Society departed—where, none can say. Now the Loremaster alone remains, keeper of words spoken by those who have passed beyond knowing. Thus the Book of Carp endures: not the first, but the lasting relic of a vanished stream and a fellowship dissolved.
So long as its words are spoken, Carp's voice shall never wholly fade.