Phoebe's Tale

The strange, withered and desiccated little girl in the tattered robes and frayed hood looked at the reanimated corpse before her, its lifeless eyes staring back, devoid of emotion or understanding, yet, in her desolation, she yearned for someone to listen, someone to share her burdens with, even if that someone was an empty vessel. 

"Listen closely," she began, her voice tinged with bitterness and melancholy. "I was just a child when the Blight ravaged our world. The Bechtlarite Empire and their allies, in their delusion of power, sought to destroy our lands and our people."

She paused, remembering the makeshift tea parties and games she played with the reanimated corpses in that abandoned mining town. The companionship she found in the sad spirit of Charlotte.

"But it was all a facade," she continued, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "The investigators, sent by Mr. Stapleton, found me and dragged me away from that small glimmer of happiness. They had no idea who I truly was, that I was a royal princess, but Mr. Stapleton, that man with his secrets, he knew more than he let on."

The girl took a deep breath, filling lungs that no longer functioned autonomously, now lacking any real purpose aside from expression as she struggled to push down the surge of emotions welling up within her. The memories of the airship, the fierce battles, and the ultimate destruction of her home haunted her thoughts.

"We were taken aboard the airship, the Fettered Cloud, and fled the clutches of the enemy. But they pursued us relentlessly," she recounted, her voice tinged with a mixture of fear and determination. "The battles raged on the decks of the ship, Seanachaisian forces clashing with the Bechtlarite mercenaries. And then, a ritual, a dimensional rift, and a fragment of darkness hurled towards my home, the Isle of Seanachai, obliterating everything."

The girl’s voice quivered, and she struggled to maintain her composure. The overwhelming loss of her family, her friends, and her home threatened to consume her, but she refused to let it.

"I awoke in the wreckage, transformed by the Blight. My body, a shell of what it once was, grey and withered. I could no longer weep, my heart breaking, yet distant," she confessed, her voice hollow and detached. "I searched for any signs of those I had once loved, but they were gone. I was alone, surrounded by the malevolent creatures of the Blight, their hunger and hate permeating the air."

She clenched her fists, anger seeping through the cracks in her otherwise lifeless demeanor. 

"But I refused to succumb to despair. I refused to let the darkness consume me. There was a glimmer of hope, a sliver of something left, and I would find it," She declared, her small voice tinged with a newfound resolve. The girl looked at the reanimated corpse, her only companion in this desolate world. 

"And now, here you are. A reanimated being, devoid of life, but perhaps still capable of hearing and understanding. I needed someone to listen, to bear witness to the tale of my existence."

A mixture of anger and sorrow clouded her gaze as she concluded, "This is my story, a story of loss, of despair, and of an undying will to find purpose amidst the ruins of my world. And now, here we are, united in this desolate wasteland. Will you listen? Will you be the one to share this burden with me, even in your lifeless state?"

The corpse remained unmoving, aside from the subtle swaying of its form, still not entirely stable on its feet, its grey, glassy eyes locked upon the face of the girl, devoid of any real sense of awareness beyond her voice. She scowled at the creature, studying it for a moment before drumming her fingers along the spine of the book she clutched to her chest and continuing.

“I was only nine years old when the Blight that nearly ended the world was called down by the Bechtlarite Empire and their allies in a vain and misguided attempt to obliterate the lands of my people, the Seanachaisians for refusing to fall in line with their world order. I didn't really understand all the politics and nuances of the plot, and truth be told, even now, two hundred years later, the details seem to make little sense. I died that day, high above the Ephemeral sea aboard the airship, the Fettered Cloud…or perhaps it was the impact with the ground that snuffed out my spark, it’s hard to say.” 

The concept seemed to amuse her, as she wrinkled the remains of her nose and grinned, looking down at her hands. For a moment, she resembled a little girl again, but as quickly as that nearly lost aspect of her mortal life showed through, it was gone, that grin replaced once more with a blank, emotionless expression as her now dull eyes slowly rolled upward to regard the audience of one.

“I had been kidnapped some time ago by agents of the Bechtlarite Empire, but they had no way of knowing that I was "special", and soon regretted their decisions. I had a strange gift, one that blurred the lines between the living and the dead, one that granted me dominion over the forces of both, and while I was too young to fully fathom the ramifications of this, my captors...the ones that survived...abandoned me in a small mining town on the fringes of the Empire's borders, in an abandoned dig site that had been closed following an accident that led to the deaths of several workers whose bodies had never been recovered. Using my gifts, out of fear and loneliness and boredom, I reanimated those corpses, much like I did with you. I could sense them laying there, buried beneath the rubble. I built a makeshift table, long enough to seat them all and myself, and, along with a sad spirit of a young woman named Charlotte that had been drawn to me and had taken pity on me, I would while away the hours hosting tea parties and playing games with the dead workers, while Charlotte watched on, the ghost seeming to find renewed purpose in my company.”

The girl paused, looking wistfully out into nothing for a moment, the hint of a smile touching her lips as her companion swayed silently, eyes still blankly fixed on the girl. She forced a sigh out of her lungs, an act that now took conscious effort, but she believed that nuance and conversational cues remained important.

“This facade played on for some time before the investigators sent by Mr. Stapleton found me and pulled me out of that hole. They had no idea who I was, that I was a royal princess of the Seanachaisian Empire, but I suspect that Mr. Stapleton knew a great deal more than he let on. I was, after all, a lot smarter and more wise than my small stature and young age would lead one to believe!”

Her small frame straightened up to her full height, still a mere child in stature, but trying her best to appear larger.

“Thanks to the efforts of those brave investigators, and Mr. Stapleton too, I was eventually reunited with my mother, Queen Bridgid, who had herself been captured by agents of the enemy while on a diplomatic mission to try and avert war. I was overjoyed to be returned to her company, and the Queen was as well. She told me in whispers again and again how relieved to be reunited with me, her youngest child she was.” 

The girl paused, teeth grinding softly as she willed herself to remain distant from the memory she was reliving, forcing the emotions welling up within her down as deep as she could stow them. Her eyes closed with an unnatural slowness, as if lacking the moisture to allow the lids to slide easily shut, and stood there for a long moment, regaining her composure before carrying on.

“Together, she and I were spirited away upon the airship, the Fettered Cloud, and while I didn't understand the full scope of the situation, there was a severe sense of urgency to our flight.” 

“The enemy was upon us quickly, and the fighting aboard the airship was intense. Seanachaisian and Bechtlarite forces engaged one another on every deck, while Stapleton and his investigators battled hard to protect myself and the Queen. Everything happened so fast, and the violence was tremendous, leaving so many dead in the wake of our flight through the ship decks. Bechtlarite commandos, an elite team of mercenaries, and even a huge shadowy dragon assailed the battered airship, which was tearing through the sky, ablaze from the fighting and going down, just short of our destination. All seemed lost. I could feel the hair on my arms standing as, from somewhere below, a ritual that pulled upon the power of thousands of mages and clergy came to fruition, and from above, a dimensional rift had been torn open that led to some place of unimaginable darkness, a shadowy nether realm filled with unimaginable horrors, and from that place, a fragment had been wrenched free and hurled at my home, the Isle of Seanachai, insuring the destruction of everything I ever knew.” 

Her grip tightened upon the book she still clung to, the weathered skin of her hands creaking softly across the leathery bindings of the books cover as a soft, green light began to illuminate from somewhere deep within her dull eyes, a sickly hue that emanated from deep with the hollow of her soul. She continued, her voice quiet and seeping from between clenched teeth, hollow and issuing out without her lips moving, as if the sound was coming from within her rather than the words being formed by anything natural.

“In desperation, I made a decision. Using an ancient book, this book still in my possession, we were able to open a portal of our own as the airship began to plummet into the chaos and destruction that was occurring below us. The investigators, one by one, seemed to see things that no one else could see, and one by one, stepped through the portal to wherever it led...all but one. Mory Wickeltongue.” 

The girl seemed to relax slightly, her grip loosening and her expression softening as she remembered the musician, her humor and spirit always such a welcome presence in the midst of the turmoil her life had been near the end. Mory was many things, but her ability to make the girl laugh in spite of everything had been a balm upon the ravaging and invisible wounds that life had rent across her heart. Her eyes opened once more, the lids parting slowly, revealing even more of that unearthly, green glow, the luminous sheen cascading across the decayed features of her companion, giving the two of them an eerie pallor in the darkness of the snaking tendrils of mist and fog that surrounded them.

“Mory stayed behind for whatever reason, and with that, the portal closed slowly, and I, Bridgid, Mory, and Mr. Stapleton embraced one another and said our final goodbyes as the Fettered Cloud plummeted from the sky and was engulfed by the black mists of the Blight that had descended upon our world.” 

“And then...nothing. It was as if I had fallen into a place that was there and yet, not there. I had died in the ensuing crash, clutching that ancient tome as my small frame was tossed about in the ensuing impact with the ground, ripped away from the loving arms of my mother by the tumultuous, end over end calamity of the Fettered Cloud striking the solid ground and being ripped apart as it rolled across the blasted earth before sliding to a stop. I have no idea how long I remained there in that place, my tiny frame, crushed and broken, but still clinging to this book.” 

The cold glow of her eyes slid down once more to the tome still clutched tightly in her arms, beholding it for a moment thoughtfully, before raising her small head with a nearly inaudible creak and a pop to return her ghostfire gaze to the lifeless thing before her.

“The vile tendrils of the Blight enfolded me like the arms of a living entity, seeking a way to use what remained, attempting to wrest control from my spirit and to dominate my mortal remains, but as I said, I am "special ". Whatever powers that reside in this place, they could not dominate me, and in time, I awoke. Changed. My eyes fluttered open and I beheld the dust covered wreckage around me. I felt different. My eyes beheld colors and tones that I didn't know existed, and my body was numb and unfeeling. While I had a moment of panicked impulse to try and draw breath, I quickly realized that this too was different, that I no longer needed to. Looking down at my hands, I barely recognized them. The skin was grey and withered, my fingers skeletal save for the leathery flesh that clung to them. All around me, the strange flowing mists of the Blight drifted, as if alive itself, and beyond, in the shadows that lingered, I could feel the presence of thousands of malevolent creatures, filled with hate and hunger, eager to throttle the vitality of the living in a myriad of ways each more horrible than the last. I dusted myself off as best I could, and stood, struggling a moment to find my footing, realizing that my broken body was still knitting itself back together. I wondered over this for a moment, but even that curiosity was overshadowed quickly as I realized that I was entirely alone. I searched the wreckage for some time, seeking the remains of those I was with before the ship struck the ground, but there was no sign of my mother, Mory, or Mr. Stapleton. I reached out with my senses and could find no trace of them. Forlorn, I tried to weep, and found that the tears simply were not there. I could feel my heart breaking, but it was distant, as if slipping away slowly.”

As she spoke, one small hand, skeletal and barely covered with skin moved in a slow graceful arc from the book to her chest, resting atop the spot where her heart once beat. Her expression slid away into something melancholic and wistful, her eyes moving in a patient arc across the darkening landscape of the wastes that spread out around them before returning to focus on her companion.

“How long had it been? How many years had passed while I lay here in this wasteland? I had no way of knowing, but I was still here, and that had to mean something. If I remained, surely others did too. It appeared that, as far as my existence was concerned, I had all the time in the world. Death had not consumed me, the Void around me could not conquer me...but despite this, deep down, the horror and realization that my home, the paradise that was the Isle of Seanachai, was gone. Obliterated. My brother and sisters, my father, my friends...all of them were no more. I could feel it, like a spiderweb brushing my cheek that I couldn't seem to grasp and remove. I had not seen home since my kidnapping so long ago, but the image of it, the memory was as vibrant as ever, as if I had just beheld the splendor of that magical place yesterday. I could picture my room, and the large, cozy featherbed with the intricately carved, ornate headboard, and the murals upon the wall of places beyond the realms of Cairne, Fae places filled with wonder and magnificent stories. I could remember the smell of fresh foods cooking in the kitchens below, and how I loved that the scents would carry through the windows of my room, waking me from simple dreams and gentle fantasies. I can still faintly hear the sounds of ethereal music as my family, each of them an astounding musical talent, harmonized in song with one another from various rooms in the palace, a breathtaking chorus that seemed to just, fall into being as each one individually sung their own song and yet, somehow managed to weave into all the others creating an audible tapestry and lyrical grace and pulse quickening beauty.” 

Her eyes once again closed slowly, and from within her, a soft melody began to sound, though her lips still did not move. It was as if the memory of that time was resounding through her, drifting outward like a disembodied dream across the empty expanse of nothing that surrounded them. Had anyone been there to hear it with mortal ears, they would have fallen to their knees with cheeks stained by an ocean of tears. For the first time, her companion moved, its focus shifting as if seeing something moving before its eyes, one hand clumsily moving, trying to catch some invisible strand before it, its fingers closing with a stuttering quiver around nothing at all before returning its arm to its side and glancing around as if confused for a moment until the sound faded into a sweet echo, and the silence once again renewed its prominent place in the scene. 

“I would try and add my own voice to the weave of sound, it was a soft, young voice, I remember. I could also remember the love in the eyes of my siblings as they sang, the opalescence glinting in the soft light of day that seemed to somehow filter into every corner of the palace.”

As the reality of her situation once again faded into being, the memories dissipating before the onslaught of darkness that eddied and swirled around her, the girl’s heart sank once more from its elevated place, held aloft by the wings of nostalgia. While she may have been immortal, powerful, dangerous even, deep down in the depths of her core, she was still that nine year old girl, who just wanted the comfort of her mother’s arms, and the security of a warm bed, things that she now believed she would never see or feel again. With that realization Phoebe Íonachta, last daughter of Queen Bridgid Íonachta of the Seanachaisian Empire, clenched her teeth and set out west. There was still something out there, a tattered remnant of her world. There was still work to be done… 

Stapleton's Tale

A tattered note written in a shaky script that blew in from the edge of the void and was found by a small Ventryte child, who tucked it away in a small box that was left forgotten in a bag they carried as their family moved from place to place. 

As the flames engulfed the airship, casting an eerie glow upon our faces, I stood there with the weight of the world upon my shoulders. My name is Mycroft Percival Stapleton, and I am the enigmatic owner of Stapleton Investigative Services, a realm of truth amidst the turbulent chaos of our world. But now, in these final moments, truth seemed elusive, and the boundaries between right and wrong blurred into insignificance. I gazed upon Queen Bridgid Íonachta, her regal and breathtaking visage marked by both relief and sorrow as she held her daughter, Phoebe, in a tender embrace. Their tears mingled, like a river pouring out into the sea, tears of joy for their reunion and tears of sorrow for the impending doom that awaited us, their bond, so strong and unyielding, radiating a beauty and melancholy that defied comprehension. It was in that poignant moment that they began to sing, their voices intertwining in a haunting melody that pierced my heart and made me nearly choke upon my own grief, calling forth a wellspring of emotion that I had fought for so long to tamp down and hide away. Beside them stood Mory Wickeltongue, my only remaining investigator, a bard whose jovial countenance had been replaced by a resolute grimness, and a friend whom I had come to respect and admire for her ability to find light in even the darkest of places. Her tear-stained face mirrored the weight of the impending tragedy, and with a flicker of recognition, she met my gaze and offered a weak, lopsided smile. She extended her wineflask, me knowing full well that its contents held something stronger than mere wine, I took a long, fortifying drink, savoring the bittersweet taste that burned down my throat and felt my muscles ease and relax just a little. I was thankful she was here, for what it was worth. THere was comfort there in that smile, and the bitter spirit, whatever it was she had given me, muddled my mind enough to allow me at least a passing second of peace.

As I returned the flask, my arms instinctively encircled the three figures before me, drawing them in and feeling their presence in that space. In that embrace, we sought and found solace, drawing strength from our unity in the face of certain death, and as I closed my eyes, waiting for the darkness to envelop us, my mind wandered back to the path that led me here, the choices I made, and the lines I may have crossed. In my pursuit of truth and justice, I had ventured into the darkest recesses of our world, facing down enemies both known and unknown, losing friends to both circumstance and sadly, on occasion, to my own hand. The consequences of my actions weighed heavily upon my soul, for I had done things unimaginable, at least to the mind of the young man I once was, yet, in this moment of reflection, I questioned if I had gone too far, if I had become a perpetrator of the very evils I sought to eradicate...Had I done enough? Was all of this somehow my fault? I bit my lip hard enough to draw a small fleck of blood without realizing I had, the copper taste upon my tongue barely noticed as my mind drifted. Memories of my father, a stern and distant figure of wealth and privilege, flooded my thoughts. His love was elusive, buried beneath lectures and rigid discipline, but there was one moment, the day I left my family home forever in dear Belarian, when he softened slightly, and offered me words that resonated deep within my being. I clenched my teeth, recalling his voice as clear as a bell, delivering his final advice before I embarked on my own path.

"Son," he had said, his voice tinged with both regret and a flicker of warmth, "in matters of fact and truth, the notions of good and evil fade into insignificance, for what matters is the unwavering pursuit of what is, rather than what is desired. Let your moral compass be guided not by the whims of subjective judgment, but by the relentless quest for knowledge and understanding. Seek the truth, even when it unsettles the foundations of what you hold dear, for only through the pursuit of knowledge can we hope to transcend the limitations that confine us. Forge your steel in the crucible of reason, tempered by the fires of critical thought, and let it guide you through the labyrinthine corridors of discovery, where the boundaries of right and wrong dissolve, and the essence of knowledge remains untainted. I…yes well, good luck."

As death hurtled toward me with merciless velocity and the darkness swallowed the Fettered Cloud, I clung to those words, finding some speck of light there. I had stayed that course, and the steel I forged was in the hearts and minds of those brave souls that fought so hard to get us here, no matter the outcome. They yet lived, and as long as they did, so too, would Cairne. I embraced my companions, feeling their presence as a balm for my weary soul. In that final moment, I found succor in the knowledge that I had fought for what I believed in, however blurred the lines may have become!

With a resolute heart, I surrendered myself to the inevitable, a silent prayer whispered upon my lips to Goyne. As the world around me faded into oblivion, I knew that even in death, the legacy of Stapleton Investigative Services would endure. The truth, in all its elusive glory, would persist, carried forth by those who remained.

With the echoes of Bridgid and Phoebe’s haunting melody in my heart, and the final words of my father resonating in my mind, I embraced the darkness, knowing that my actions, however tumultuous, were driven by an unwavering pursuit of justice and the hope for a better world. 

Strange how things work out, isn’t it? 

Ioelena's Tale

Amidst the twisted fragments of my fractured mind, I find myself wandering in the desolate wastelands that were once my kingdom. The Blight, a merciless force, has ravaged our land, leaving behind a barren and poisoned landscape where vibrant forests once thrived. The Spirit Tree, the lifeblood of our people, is withered and teetering on the edge of oblivion, its fading vitality mirrored in the deterioration of our sanity, as the specter of madness consumes us.

I, Ioelena Lurie, once stood as the Supreme Grand Master of Autumn, the Queen's Guard, the Knife of Our Mother, Lady of Artifice. I wore these titles with pride, serving our beloved Queen, Sharvisal Gwhynndahris faithfully, but the blight's venom seeped into her veins, twisting her perceptions into a gruesome delusion. She became convinced that only bloodshed could restore life to our dying tree…And so, the order was given. I led my contingent, a legion of my kin, through the sacred groves, cutting down the halflings who had long been our neighbors and allies. Their cries of pain and terror echoed in my ears, piercing my heart with each strike of my blades. Yet, I pressed on, following the orders that dripped with madness, but fate, it seems, had a different plan for me. 

Amidst the chaos and carnage, I stumbled upon a small, trembling child, abandoned and defenseless. An albino orphan stripped of everything, this fragile being triggered a flicker of compassion within me, and a rebellion rose within, an urge to resist the brutality that stained my hands and soul. In defiance of the commands etched into my mind, I refused to continue the slaughter. Clutching the child to my chest, I turned against my own kin, my brothers and sisters in arms. The battlefield became a twisted maze of despair and madness as I fought to escape the relentless grip of bloodlust. The weight of guilt bore down upon me, my sanity teetering on the precipice of fragmentation, but I was among the chosen of Shah’s people, and there are few who can deny my passage. I escaped with the child, and went into hiding as my mind slowly slipped further into disarray.

Time passed, and I found myself in the aftermath of another senseless massacre. A human research team lay slain, their bodies strewn across the barren earth. Among the remnants, a lone survivor stirred, a woman on the brink of death. Her voice, weak and desperate, pierced through the shattered fragments of my mind, triggering a torrent of memories. The echoes of the halfling slaughter surged to the forefront of my consciousness, overwhelming me with the horrors I had witnessed and committed. I crumbled beneath the weight of my memories, tears streaming down my face, as the darkness threatened to engulf me completely.

When I regained a semblance of composure, the woman had fallen back into unconsciousness. With tattered rags from my torn garments, I bandaged her wounds as best I could. The urge to protect this fragile life awakened a glimmer of hope within me, a flickering light in the midst of my encroaching madness. Carrying her in my arms, I embarked on a treacherous journey through the unforgiving desert. The hunting parties of my kin prowled the night, relentless and lethal. I evaded their vigilance, driven by a desperate need to keep this woman safe, to shield her from the horrors that lurked within me as well.

As we traversed the arid wastes, she stirred from her slumber. Fearful of the chaos that simmered beneath my fragile facade, I silenced her attempts to communicate with a stern gesture. My mind, plagued by disjointed thoughts, hallucinations, and paranoia, had to be contained lest my simmering madness spill out and infect her too.

One night, as if summoned by the enigmatic workings of fate, a figure cloaked in a gentle azure glow emerged from the horizon. I watched in both awe and trepidation, clutching my bone knife, torn between suspicion and longing for solace. The radiant woman appeared to slumber, an ethereal beauty suspended in a timeless trance, one of the Seanachaisians that had been the target of the Blight, what was she doing here? How did she wander this far unscathed? This couldn’t be real! Bound by uncertainty, I dared not move, transfixed by the surreal scene unfolding before me. The figure halted a short distance away, then turned and spoke in a voice that danced on the edges of my consciousness, a lilting melody that reverberated through the barren wasteland.

"Where the wound splits 

The ragged skin 

Where the bleeding feeds the sin 

Before the last lonely and shattered heart 

Of the people who are not there 

There shall be forged the chains of freedom 

Hope is but a tattered dream 

And the dream is but a tattered hope 

But in chaos lies a path 

The way out

 Leads within 

And the scarred hands of yesterday 

Shall present the key that has no lock 

To the one that shall illuminate the future 

And shine the light of knowing Upon the keyhole."

Once her utterance was complete, I found myself lost in a labyrinth of confusion. Reality and hallucination intertwined like thorny vines, piercing the fragile fabric of my mind. Was this a manifestation of my madness? Had the torment finally shattered my tenuous grasp on reality? Paranoia clawed at my consciousness, whispering dark secrets of deceit and manipulation. In a surge of frenzied desperation, I lunged at the human woman, driven by a maelstrom of emotions I struggled to comprehend. My knife pressed against her throat, a crude display of power born from fear and uncertainty. Wide-eyed and wild, I demanded answers, my voice betraying the rarity of its use, but the woman, resilient and unyielding, refused to succumb to fear, and instead, she met my gaze with intrigue, her silence an enigmatic response. Minutes stretched into eternity as we remained locked in this moment, each seeking resolution within the other's eyes. My mind whirled, contemplating the consequences of my impulsive decision to save this stranger. Doubt crept into the recesses of my thoughts, questioning whether it was a mistake, a grave error in judgment, but in a moment of lucid clarity, I rose from the sand and extended a trembling hand, offering an uncertain truce.

Tap. Tap. My fingers brushed against my temple, a feeble attempt to signify my fractured identity. "Ioelena Lurie," I managed to utter, my voice laden with the echoes of a thousand fragmented selves. I then gestured towards the scholar, a silent invitation for her to reveal her own name.

"Airtam Morenthall," she replied, her voice carrying a gentle melody that clashed with the cacophony in my mind. A flicker of recognition stirred within me, a flicker that defied reason and sought solace in the connection we had forged. With a wordless understanding, I motioned for Airtam to follow, and we embarked on a journey across the unforgiving expanse of the desert. Step by uncertain step, we traversed the shifting sands onward. I knew where my feet were taking me, but though I could not convey this to the woman, I too felt as though I was being led.

As we pressed on towards the desecrated Grove of Shah, the ruins of my once-vibrant home, my senses heightened, my every instinct honed to survive in this perilous realm. The human scholar followed in my footsteps, her curiosity now mingled with awe and trepidation. I remained resolute, providing her with sustenance and protection, even as her attempts to communicate gnawed at the fraying edges of my sanity. Night after night, I stood guard as she slumbered, her breathing steady and peaceful. The darkness embraced me, and within its depths, the faded echoes of screams haunted my thoughts, the weight of my past transgressions threatened to consume me, but I held fast, determined not to succumb to the abyss that beckoned. I was still needed…

The woman's health steadily improved under my watchful care, and her spirits seemed to lift as we neared the edge of the ruined Grove of Shah. The remnants of our sacred land lay before us, a poignant testament to the devastation wrought upon us by our own hubris. I tread cautiously, navigating the treacherous terrain, evading the hunting parties that roamed the area, and yet, fate conspired against us, and our presence was discovered by a small group of elven hunters when the human stumbled and let out a sharp, inadvertent cry, alerting our pursuers, and like phantoms, they vanished into and emerged from the sand, their eyes gleaming with a feral hunger. My knives gleamed in the dying light, a testament to the years of training and mastery that had forged me into the lethal force I had become, and with a primal snarl, I met their savagery with my own, moving through them like a spectral dancer of death, like the Master of Autumn I was born to be. The skirmish was over in mere moments, the hunters lying lifeless at our feet. The human remained unscathed, her eyes now wide with a mixture of awe and fear. I offered her a helping hand, my leg throbbing from a shallow wound, a reminder of the lives lost and the torment that plagued my people, and the fact that every one of the lives I took would never be whole again, that their spirits would be denied the immortal birthright of our people, and that it was my hand that robbed them of it.

Nervously, I led Airtam towards a gaping hole in the ground at the heart of the Grove. Pain gnawed at my flesh, a reminder of the sacrifices made to protect the one last flicker of hope I hid within this desolate place. With a gentle touch upon her cheek, I whispered my apology, my voice trembling with sorrow. Turning away, I revealed the concealed hollow beneath the bone-strewn surface, and taking Airtam's hand, I guided her inside, where a single candle flickered, casting a dim light upon the small figure nestled amidst old cloth and rags. I called out in my native elven tongue, stirring the child from his slumber.

The young boy, with his albino features twisting into a grimace of fierce defiance, and clutching a cookpot and a knife, his tiny form a testament to his will to survive, roused and sprang to his bare feet, but in his eyes, I glimpsed a glimmer of vulnerability, a spark yearning to be nurtured. In light of this innocent tragedy, I collapsed, once again overwhelmed by my inability to think in straight lines mingled with my grief, guilt, and the pain of my wound. Airtam, in an act of unwavering kindness, extended a morsel of food, and bridged the chasm between fear and hunger. As the child cautiously accepted the offering, retreating to the shadows to devour it, I moved closer, tears streaming down my face where I collapsed to the ground, clutching my wounded leg, the pain mirroring the agony of my fractured mind. The child, his growls transformed into hesitant curiosity, emerged from the darkness, sheathing his knife and approaching cautiously. I told the human woman, this scholar, Airtam, that he is the last...That I saved him, hid him away from death. That the boy must live...

Airtam nodded, her gaze filled with understanding. Within the confines of the bone-laden hollow, we spent three days, our whispers echoing through the darkness, but within that time, we devised a plan, though it would be a dangerous path to tread. Airtam believed the boy would find refuge in a boom town at the edge of Ventryte lands, the frontier not beholden to the laws of her Empire, nor the madness of mine, while Airtam would return to her University, promising that her reports would be entirely selective in revealing the truths she had unearthed.

The southward journey through the desert wastes was an arduous dance upon shifting sands, where reality and illusion intertwined like serpents in a never-ending embrace. As we ventured forth, the scorching sun bore down upon us, its rays searing into my mind, amplifying the torment that dwelled within. The boy, his presence a flicker of innocence amidst the chaos, clung to my side, his pale visage and defiant spirit stirred something deep within me, a connection that defied the bounds of reason, yet, my thoughts, fragmented and scattered, struggled to comprehend the blossoming emotions that intertwined with my madness. Confusion became my constant companion, whispering doubts and planting seeds of suspicion within the recesses of my mind. Airtam, the enigmatic scholar who had woven her way into my fractured existence, remained a beacon of light amidst the storm that raged within me. Her words and gestures, filled with warmth and understanding, touched me in ways I could not fully fathom, and yet, the tangled threads of my thoughts ensnared me, pulling me deeper into the labyrinth of my own madness. Hallucinations danced at the corners of my vision, taunting and beckoning me towards their ethereal realm. They whispered secrets and unveiled hidden truths, their voices like fragmented echoes of forgotten memories. I fought to maintain my grasp on reality, but the line between the tangible and the illusory blurred, leaving me disoriented and vulnerable.

As we trekked through the unforgiving desert, the boy's laughter and Airtam's unwavering presence became my lifeline amidst the maelstrom of my mind. Their unwavering trust in me, despite the fragments of my sanity that threatened to consume me, ignited a spark of purpose within my fractured soul. In moments of respite, as the sands embraced our weary bodies, I stole glances at Airtam, her features a tapestry of curiosity and compassion. The intensity of my emotions, swirling like a tempest within me, both thrilled and frightened me. How could I trust these feelings when my own mind betrayed me at every turn? The weight of my own instability bore down upon me, casting shadows of doubt over the fragile connection I felt, and yet, the journey continued, each step carrying us closer to Abattoir, the boom town that would become the boy's sanctuary. Airtam's unwavering support, her patient understanding, began to chip away at the walls I had erected around my heart. The lines blurred between protector and protected, as our destinies entwined like vines reaching towards the heavens. In the depths of the desert, amidst the swirling sands and the haunting whispers of my fractured thoughts, I yearned for clarity. My mind, an intricate puzzle with missing pieces, sought solace in the presence of Airtam, and though the confusion lingered, the tendrils of affection took root, intertwining with the chaos that defined my existence. With each passing day, the journey became a symphony of paradoxes, madness and love, uncertainty and devotion. I clung to the fragile threads of my sanity, desperately seeking a glimmer of understanding amidst the storm, for in Airtam's presence, I found solace, a flicker of hope that guided me through the treacherous labyrinth of my own mind, drawing me closer to the truth that lay hidden within the recesses of my fractured soul.

As the time came for our paths to diverge, a heavy cloud of melancholy settled upon us, casting a pall over our fragile bond. Airtam and I stood there, on the outskirts of Abattoir, our hearts heavy with the knowledge that our futures lay in separate realms, separated by empires that would never embrace our union. Her eyes, pools of understanding, mirrored the ache that gnawed at my own heart. We both knew that our parting might be eternal, that the currents of fate may never guide us back into each other's arms. The weight of that realization pressed upon me, threatening to shatter the delicate equilibrium I had painstakingly maintained within my mind. I reached out a trembling hand, fingers yearning to touch her, to hold her close one last time, but hesitation gripped me, born from the labyrinth of my own fears. How could I burden her with the chaos that resided within me? The disarray that threatened to consume any semblance of stability in our lives. Airtam's voice, laced with emotion, broke through the barriers of my uncertainty. She spoke of gratitude, of the profound impact our shared journey had carved into the fabric of her being. Her words, like a balm for my tormented soul, whispered against the tempestuous storm that raged within, and in that fragile moment, with the weight of our unspoken desires hanging heavy in the air, our eyes locked in a silent conversation, and in that exchange of gazes, an unspoken understanding bloomed, a recognition that our destinies might drift apart, but the connection we forged could never be erased. With a courage I scarcely recognized as my own, I leaned forward, my lips brushing against hers in a bittersweet caress. The taste of her, the warmth that radiated from her presence, imprinted itself upon my fragmented senses. It was a single unforgettable kiss, a union of souls amidst the backdrop of aching farewell. As we pulled away, tears welled in both our eyes, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. The farewell was laced with a sorrow that resonated through every fiber of my being, a farewell that carried the weight of an uncertain future.

I watched, my heart both heavy and defiant, as Airtam faded into the distance. Her figure, dwindling against the horizon, stirred a fire within me, an unyielding determination that whispered within the recesses of my fractured mind. I would not let our parting be the end. I vowed, an oath spoken upon the trembling chambers of my heart, to find her again one day. The chaos that danced within me, the hallucinations and disjointed thoughts, would not deter me. No! I would embrace the madness and channel it into a relentless pursuit, a journey to bridge the chasms that separated us, to defy the boundaries imposed by empires and fate and the devastation of my own psyche. 

With resolve coursing through my veins, I turned my back on Abattoir and set forth on a new path, a path that wound through the labyrinth of my own mind, seeking clues, unraveling mysteries, and weaving a tapestry that would hopefully lead me back to Airtam. I knew not when or where our paths would intersect again, and the uncertainty of our future echoed the tumultuous nature of my own existence, but in the depths of my madness, I clung to the unwavering belief that destiny would conspire in our favor, weaving its threads of chance and opportunity until we stood once more in each other's embrace. 

Percival's Tale

A page torn from a journal, found next to the corpse of Percival Blackthorn, the victim of the outbreak of plague and subsequent fires that destroyed the fringe town of Abattoir. He appeared to have been ripped unceremoniously from his bed at the Black Tooth Grin during the chaos that claimed the town and the vast majority of its citizens. The relic mentioned in the journal entry was not recovered and is still missing.

The weight of my actions presses upon my weary soul, threatening to suffocate the flickering ember of hope within me. The Blight continues its relentless advance, devouring everything in its path, and with each passing day, the world crumbles further into darkness. The despair and desolation gnaw at my spirit, leaving me trapped in a labyrinth of conflicting emotions. My discovery of the hourglass, Le Sablier de Tempscristal, granted me powers over time, a gift as dangerous as it is beguiling. The ability to manipulate time within my grasp is both a blessing and a curse, and I am torn between the desperate desire to turn back the hands of time and undo the cataclysm that shattered our world, and the paralyzing fear that this relic, this beacon of hope, is nothing more than a lure, a trap set by the very powers that seek to exploit our broken reality.

Whispers in the shadows speak of influential forces vying for power, hidden within the Blight's murky depths. The stories I have gathered tell tales of individuals and sects with insatiable appetites for dominion, craving the authority left vacant by the absent gods. Could it be that one of them deliberately placed this ancient artifact in my path, manipulating my journey to suit their own sinister agenda? Doubt creeps into the deepest recesses of my mind, weaving its toxic tendrils around my every thought. Is the potential to rewind time but a ploy to lead me astray, to bend me to the will of these shadowy puppeteers? Or could it truly hold the key to undoing the Blight's curse, allowing the world to blossom once more in the embrace of life? I am haunted by the potential consequences of my actions! Should I choose to unlock the relic's hidden power and rewind time, I fear the repercussions could be dire. What if the world I knew is irrevocably changed, twisted into an even more wretched existence? What if my actions unknowingly unleash an even greater evil, one far more devastating than the Blight itself? My dreams are haunted by visions of dark, violet colored eyes in the dark, staring into me with a hunger that makes me terrified, yet, the ache in my heart, the longing for a home made whole again, consumes me. Belarian, my city of birth, lies in ruins, a mere husk of its former glory. The shattered remnants of my memories whisper to me, urging me to take the risk, to seize the opportunity to mend what was broken, but at what cost? Can I bear the burden of responsibility for a potentially catastrophic outcome?

These sleepless nights, plagued by the weight of indecision, reveal the depths of my turmoil. The path ahead is treacherous and uncertain, shrouded in a fog of mistrust and the unknown, but as the last remnants of hope flicker within me, I cannot turn away from the possibility of redemption, from the chance to restore balance and heal this ailing world, can I? I must tread cautiously, for every step taken may plunge me deeper into the clutches of those who would exploit my vulnerability. I will not be a pawn in their game! The hourglass will remain my secret, its power guarded with utmost care until I can discern the true motives behind its presence in my hands. For now, I shall continue to navigate this desolate realm, wielding the limited time-bending abilities at my disposal, but I must use them sparingly, judiciously, lest the relic's energy wane to nothingness, leaving me defenseless against the horrors that stalk the Blighted landscape.

The burden of my choices rests heavily upon my shoulders. I can only hope that in this precarious dance with time, I find the wisdom to make the right decision, the strength to resist the siren's call of manipulation, and the courage to face the consequences, whatever they may be.

I am Percival Blackthorn, and I carry the weight of a shattered world upon my soul. 

Maxwell's Tale

A letter recently found scattered and pinned up all over the capital city of Armuun

My Distinguished Citizens of Armuun,   

With a heavy heart and a resolve unyielding, I, Maxwell Eisenhardt, humbly address you in a missive form intended to bring to light certain truths buried like ticks in the dog’s ear of our esteemed Bechtlarite Empire. Cairne, a world that once teemed with promise, was marred by a cataclysmic event, orchestrated by our forebears nearly two centuries ago. A nefarious plot sought to decimate the Seanachaisians, a people of incomparable beauty and prodigious talent, residing within the expanse of the Ephemeral Sea's grand island nation, yet, the machinations of mages and priests spiraled into uncontrollable malevolence, inflicting devastation upon our world, culminating in a Blighted wasteland where the proud Isle of Seanachai once thrived, and leaving its inhabitants scarred for generations to come. In the aftermath of this tragedy, the world endeavored to mend its fractured self, but the toll of reconstruction was not evenly borne. Our Bechtlarite brethren lost significant power during the tumultuous War of Human Attrition that ensued, and the passing of our Sovereign, Daimus III, left a void of authority, which only served to further fracture our once-unified Empire. Emerging from the ashes, we were left with four distinct factions, and a new Sovereign to ascend the throne. The scars of conflict have not endured in the people of the West as they have elsewhere. Will we never learn?

It is within this intricate tapestry of our world's history that I, Maxwell, nurtured my passion as a young man, a tinkerer and inventor of humble origins. My inventive nature thrived within the bustling embrace of Armuun's Industrial Ward, where the spirit of our great society cherishes ingenuity and innovation above all else. Adorned with minor accolades, I ascended the ranks of our intellectual elite, introducing creations of humble yet utilitarian nature. This rise to prominence offered me access to wonders and enigmas, the most extraordinary of which was the revelation of the extraordinary metamaterial, Null Metal,a substance uniquely capable of resisting the lingering energies of the Blight, known colloquially as the Void. It was the transformative process of Void Compression, brought to life by the brilliance of Ephram Nadus, which kindled the fervor of progress, enabling the creation of the Hammerdrive Engine, the marvelous invention of our esteemed Culvarkt allies. This marvel, constructed with the aid of Null Metal, empowered the Becht and Culvarkt empires alike, leading to the construction of locomotives and other technological wonders that will allow us to travel and trade across the Blighted Lands and the Eastern Wastes with relative ease in comparison to the past. My soul veered toward a path fraught with ill-advised desires, driven by ambition, I erred gravely, surreptitiously purloining a fragment of Null Metal from Ephram's Workshop, a misstep that birthed calamitous consequences. Unbeknownst to me, the prying eyes of the Bechtlarite Intelligence Bureau, led by the enigmatic and influential Milton Petal, observed my every move. Accusations of association with the elusive and feared Seanachaisian terrorist faction, the Burnt Crows, befell me, casting a shadow upon my once-promising existence. I was kidnapped on the streets of the very city I was born in, not more than mere blocks from my home, bound and beaten severely, and thrown into a dank and reeking chamber where the bag was removed and, to my shock, the strange and unimposing man, Milton Petal sat across from me in the smoke filled gloom of the small room in a plain wooden chair, smoking a long pipe and looking at me intently. I recognized him immediately, the Nonpareil of the Bechtlarite Intelligence Bureau himself, and one of the most powerful men in the Empire, and the world at large. With an emotionless smile and a disconcertingly calm demeanor, Milton began to interrogate me, first with direct questions concerning my intentions and then moving on to accusations of working with the notorious Seanachaisian terrorist organization, the Burnt Crows, who had been operating in the shadows of the Empire for much longer than I had been alive. Doing my best to answer honestly as any good, upstanding citizen would, did not seem to gain any ground in my defense, and though Milton's eerie and stony expression never changed, the blows to my already bruised cheek every time I answered a question spoke in volumes. Eventually, the questions blurred together with the disorienting pain, and I began to lose track of what was happening. Seeing this, Milton relented, dragging my battered form to my feet and moving me through wherever this strange and dark place was. 

The confounding reality unfolded as I found myself amidst the imprisoned and faceless captives of the Bureau’s clandestine operations and discarded unceremoniously in a black place where misery and suffering seemed to find refuge. The disheartening panorama unveiled the sorrow of countless lives as I witnessed the unwashed and tattered mass of my fellow captives. Becht, Dwarf, Elf, Volrishtad, Seanachaisian…this dire and horrifying scene of abuse reflecting a harrowing tapestry of our world's diversity, and all of them in various states of injury and neglect. I could hear the quiet sobs and grumbles of anger as they flashed past my sight. I saw children in chains, unmoving bodies in corners, and the smell of decay, sweat, coppery blood, and death caused me to recoil as my senses swiftly returned. At this time, Milton spun on his heel, and with surprising strength, hurled me into the holding cell where I stumbled and tripped backwards over a still figure lying on the ground and tumbled into a huddled group of people on the floor, who did their best to catch me and set me down. Milton wordlessly slammed the barred gate and the clack of the soles of his shoes on the cold stone slowly faded in the distance as he walked away, the echo of a heavy door slamming and locking to punctuate his passing.

I was not sure how long I lay there in the dark, surrounded by shivering and emaciated figures that felt as though the concept of mercy died in there with them, and her body was wasting away in their midst. As the throbbing in my head began to subside, my swollen face pressed against the cool stone of the floor, I realized there was a sound coming from the back corner of the cell, a scraping sound like stone upon stone followed by the soft padding of careful footsteps. I slowly raised my head and turned towards the sound, as a small glimmering glow began to fill the room, a phosphor stone! It was held aloft by a woman who's eyes lit up in the dim light with a strange opalescent quality, and in that glow I could see the lines of scars that snaked their way across her cheeks and forehead. Even in my condition, and despite the scars and hooded mask, I could not help but notice there was a fluidity and beauty about her that was enough to give me pause. Three more figures dressed in similar garb followed behind her carrying burnished muskets, and took up positions around her, scanning the area carefully. Her voice did not sound so much as float gently across the room, brushing my senses tenderly with an otherworldly charm as she spoke,

"A anamacha bochta," she murmured, her words a haunting melody that resonated within the depths of our souls. "You've felt the Empire's heel, I'm here to offer you the Crows' hand. You don't have to fight, but I'm not leaving you here to die. Not like this. On your feet if you can manage, carry those who can't. We only have a limited amount of time."

And as quietly as possible, the detainees did just as the strange woman said, and with great care, she and her allies ushered them out through the concealed hatch they came in through until there was just them and me. I sat there, dumbfounded for a moment, not sure what to do next. My mind raced at the implications. If I stayed, if I held on to my loyalties to the Empire, it would be the Bonescrap or death for me for sure. Milton wasn't playing around, and my misstep, though innocent enough in purpose, had crossed a line that would mean  my end...but what awaited me through that tunnel? As if sensing my trepidation, the woman kneeled down in front of me with careful grace, and slowly pulled down her mask, revealing a gentle and scar crossed smile, one that, even here and now, put me at ease. I knew that face. I had seen it on countless warnings and wanted posters in Armuun since I was a child, and that face seemed just as vibrant and young as mine save for a weary kind of sadness in her opalescent eyes. She brushed the dust from my face with a soft, gloved hand and looked me in the eyes thoughtfully, as if considering what to do next a moment before she spoke.

"I can't leave you here, mo chara daonna. What's it going to be? Freedom, or..."

And with that she waved her hand at the darkness around us, bringing my attention from the soothing mutable colors of her eyes, to the stark and harsh reality around me. I swallowed hard and thought, my mind clear now, perhaps more so than it had ever been. 

My own people brought me this low, held progress back for the sake of their own accomplishments, hoarded the finite and precious new resources that were just becoming known about, and left me sitting in a dank cell, likely to die or be exiled, all because I wanted to use my talents to help further along the wonder of the Empire that I called home. Anger took me in that moment, and I set my jaw and looked back up to her, chewing my words as I forced them out of my throat.

"I'll fight."

Take heed, fellow Bechtlarites, for the winds of change sweep through the Empire's corridors. Within the heart of Armuun resides a dangerous adversary…one of your own, armed not only with stolen secrets but also with the unwavering determination to see the Empire falter. To those that would oppose us, to the Milton Pearls and his ilk, I tell you this with every bit of venomous malice my tongue can push into your hearts and minds.

I know where you sleep.

Ón luaithreach, ardaigh muid!

Maxwell Eisenhardt

Daimus III's Tale

Taken from the private collection of the historical archives in the University of the Lighted Way

Today, I find myself grappling with a decision that weighs heavily upon my conscience. As Sovereign, I have overseen the unification of Cairne under the Bechtlarite flag, fostering peace and prosperity among its diverse races and nations, however, the island nation of Seanachai stands as an exception, steadfastly rejecting all offers of cooperation and negotiation. The Seanachaisians possess extraordinary talents granted by the peculiar powers of their island, making them a sight to behold with their exceptional artistry and musical skills. Though impressive, their perceived haughtiness and disdain for the rest of the world have ruffled the pride of our united realm.  

My advisors, representing The College of the Arcane Arts, the Divine Order of the Seven Wonders, and the Elk Riders, have urged me to take drastic measures to subdue Seanachai and integrate them into our unified Cairne. Over the past three years, we have imposed a naval blockade, isolating the island from commerce and travel, aiming to destabilize their economy and sway public opinion against their rulers, but much to my frustration, the Seanachaisians have proven resourceful, using their smaller crafts to slip through our blockade and sow dissent and subterfuge on the mainland. Efforts to counter their influence have met limited success, and tensions have escalated with minor clashes at sea. Despite these aggressive actions, the Seanachaisians have not yielded. Instead, they responded with guileful raids that caught us off guard and inflicted unexpected losses upon our navy. In a moment of frustration, I ordered the shelling of coastal settlements, causing massive devastation and loss of life. This entire campaign weighs heavily upon me. I do not hate these people…in fact, quite the contrary. Why can they not see the benefit that I offer them? A unified world of mutual prosperity and harmony. They could offer so much to the rest of us, but selfishly hold back their wealth talents, choosing to remain an isolated enigma, floating out there in the Ephemeral Sea.

What have I become? A monster? Though I cannot show it outwardly, I can feel the weight of all the blood on my hands. My advisors had assured me they would have submitted by now, and pressure me relentlessly to move to more extreme measures. I do not care for their ambition, but considering who they represent, the highest intellectual, wise, and even divine authority, am I to place my own conscience over such counsel? I am Sovereign, to be sure, but my duty is to the world and people that I now hold myself responsible for, like a father tending to a large brood of children, not that I would know of this. My own ambitions have robbed my attentions from such things. Once this is done, then I shall be able to relax and settle, and to hopefully produce an heir. After all, I am the Sovereign, the keeper of the unified Cairne. I have sacrificed for the greater good, or so they whisper to me, but in the depths of my being, I cannot help but feel as though I have betrayed my own principles, forsaken the very essence of humanity that binds us together as an Empire. This mantle is a crushing weight upon my shoulders.

It will all be over soon…
.
The Archmage Vedakrhi has brought before me a subversive, albeit extreme plan, one to end this foul conflict once and for all. The cost will be very high, but I must look past the now and into the horizons of tomorrow, to the future of our world and the security and economic sanctity that my actions, no matter how they burn my heart will bring about. We have the blessings of the gods, as I have been assured countless times by High Priestess Vrend, and the oversight of the Elk Riders, who would not dare to allow our actions here to unhinge the balance of the natural order, and with University of Arcane Arts designing this ritual they keep talking about and implementing it on such a scale as has been described, the end result should be not only a success, but one that secures my reign as the greatest of the Sovereigns, to be remembered for all time, and to secure the Daimus line for eons to come. When they see the world I will build out of the ashes of this conflict, they will understand my vision. This is the right path, it has to be.

Besides, our subterfuge is already in play, and the Seanachaisian royals have already accepted our false terms of truce. This still feels horribly dishonest, but I suppose tainting my own soul with this treachery is a small price to pay to secure the thousands, if not millions of lives I will save by bringing this conflict to a close. At least one of the Íonachta royals will survive, though I imagine Bridgid will never forgive what is about to happen. It pains me to think that I may not be able to let her go once this is over. She is a dangerous woman, and I would not wish to see her so vexed as she will undoubtedly be once she discovers our plot. Xendal, the Archmage Vedakrhi assures me she will be no issue. I will leave it in his hands.

Now if I can just keep that stone in my boot, Stapleton and his obnoxious underlings chasing shadows just a bit longer…This is almost over. Time to go and meet the Queen of the Seanachaisians, she should be arriving any moment. I may as well do my best to keep up appearances. 

Belinda Gray's Tale

The last page of the diary of Belinda Gray

2nd of Frigus, 49 PR  

Today is my 19th birthday, or at least, I think it is. Time has become a blurry, twisted mess, and I can barely keep track of the days anymore. The "not theres" have been tormenting me relentlessly, and I can no longer distinguish what is from what isn’t, and the strange things that engulf my mind leave me no room for any type of quiet speculation. I’ve done my best to keep this diary of my life, not to be remembered, but in hopes that one day, when I am healed from whatever this is, I’ll be able to look back and make some sense of this, but for now, I fear I will not be able to hold on much longer.

Since I was a child, I knew there was something different about me. I saw things others didn't, empty faces that watched me with great interest, and voices that called out from the darkness, begging for some kind of help or release. Misty shapes and ethereal beings that no one else ever took notice of. I called them the "not theres" because they were there, but not really there. They didn't frighten me then; they were just curious companions of sorts, and in my ignorant youth, I thought everyone could see them too. As I grew older, the "not theres" multiplied and became more intrusive. They whispered in my ears, their voices filled with longing and despair. I tried to tell my family about them, but they didn't understand. They thought I was just imagining things or that I had some sort of illness. I saw countless healers, doctors, and shamans, but none could explain what was happening to me. I felt so alone, trapped between here on my family farm and there…wherever there is. 

As the years have crept by, each one has seemed to weigh heavier than the last. The once peaceful slumber that used to embrace me in its gentle arms has become an elusive dream, a distant memory of better days. Sleep, like a wisp of smoke, eludes my grasp night after night, leaving me to wander through a neverending haze of exhaustion and delirium. My eyelids, heavy with weariness, can only to close for a few mere minutes at a time before the "not theres" besieged my mind with their mournful cries, their voices, a symphony of suffering, they clash and collide within the confines of my head like the breakers upon the stones of the shore, dashing my will and ability to make sense of anything that is happening around me. It is a chorus of countless wails, each with their own heart-wrenching tale of loss and longing. They plead for redemption, for a chance to find solace. I can feel their anguish, their pain seeping into every fiber of my being. It is as though I bear the weight of their collective sorrow, a burden too immense for me to carry…it’s too much. Too heavy.

In desperation, I have so many times implored the "not theres" to release me from their restless grip. I’ve begged, I’ve wept, I’ve screamed at them to leave me be, but my cries fall, every time on deaf ears. If anything, my pleas seem to fuel their desperation, intensifying their grip on my sanity. They claim they need a connection to the world they’ve lost.

With each passing day, the relentless communication kills a little more of my mind and body. I doubt what is real and what is not, based upon what I am told by the sweet Benevolent that so desperately tries to minister to my condition, and the blasted whispers from the “not theres” that  gnaw at my thoughts. What is the reality and what is the hallucination? I have found myself drifting between waking nightmares and fractured dreams, never knowing which was which. It is a twisted dance, and I am the unwilling participant. The constant barrage of their presence has left me unable to concentrate on even the simplest tasks. My mind, once considered the gift that had set me apart in my youth, feels dulled and faltered, like a dying flame. It is as if the "not theres" are siphoning away not only my energy but also the essence of who I once was. Sometimes…sometimes they take my mind completely. When I was stronger I could resist, but nearly every day now it is as if certain parts of the day are torn from me, and my family and physician question me about actions I do not remember taking part in…things they claim I have said and yet do not remember and still…was it me? In this state would it be so strange for me to say and do things I cannot remember? It is bad enough that the “not theres’ assail me constantly in ever growing numbers, but this lack of sleep…Where does the day end and the dreams begin? I can no longer tell. Perhaps the “not theres” are really puppeteers, pulling at the strings of my mind, making me dance to their silly tune. There is no respite, no escape from their grasp. I am a prisoner in my own body. 

The good Doctor is looking at me strangely…I just realized I was giggling as I write this. There is no humor left in me, and I’m not sure why these strange emotions bubble forth from me sometimes…At times, I fear that I have lost my grip on reality completely. The boundary between the awake and dreams is blurred, and I find myself talking to thin air, or more often engaging in horrible conversations with the "not theres." It is a constant source of terror, knowing that I am never alone. It’s maddening…always someone watching.

In some moments, I have sought refuge in the darkest corners of my home, huddling in the shadows, hoping to find some semblance of peace, but even there, they would find me, their smokey forms drifting through walls and objects, invading every inch of my sanctuary. There is no escape, no sanctuary left to hide in. They’ll find me wherever I go, won’t they. My heart breaks again as I bite my lip bloody so the Benevolent won’t have to hear me sobbing again. He has been so kind. It’s not fair that I am such a burden to him…to my poor family. They have shown me so much love through this, the whole Commonage has, aside from those too afraid of me to come near, and who can blame them?

My family's concern has turned to sorrow as they have watched me wither away before their eyes. They have tried their best to understand, to help, but they are as powerless as I am. They  lost their daughter long before this day. The once vibrant and curious Belinda is a distant memory, replaced by a broken shell, like one of the dolls that line the shelf in my room, glassy eyed and hollow.

I’m giggling again. I didn’t even realize it this time until the Benevolent asked me if I was still with him. What an odd question. As if I could go anywhere in this state. I have to pee in a small bedpan, and even then…much to my embarrassment, I usually need help. This is not the life I imagined as a child…

Oh, how I have longed for a taste of normalcy, for a life unburdened by the relentless torment of the "not theres." To have friends who would laugh and share stories, to celebrate birthdays with cakes and presents instead of bedpans and strange drugs meant to soothe my tortured mind. That world feels like a distant dream, an elusive fantasy that I will never truly grasp.

I have yearned for love, for the tender embrace of another soul who would see beyond the shattered fragments of my mind and embrace the broken girl that I had become. The "not theres" spoke of love too, but their words were tinged with bitterness and regret, but me, I longed for the kind of love that was filled with warmth and acceptance, the kind the old stories Mama used to tell me were full of. The kind she shares with my father…But who would want me? I am a mere shell of a girl, my mind ravaged by the ceaseless onslaught of my condition. I feel like a puzzle with missing pieces, forever incomplete. How could I expect someone to look past the chaos within me and see the glimmers of who I really am? If only there was some escape from the burden of the "not theres," a way to sever the ties that bind me to them and embrace a life of simplicity and joy. I want to walk through the world without the weight of their suffering on my shoulders, to be free from the constant intrusion of their voices..

In my darkest moments, I have questioned why fate has chosen me for this cruel and unusual fate. I have wished for an escape, for a chance to start anew, free from the relentless grasp of the "not theres." I have yearned to be like the others, to live a life untouched by the darkness that clings to me. Perhaps, in the afterlife, I will find the peace and love that eludes me in this world. Maybe, in death, I will finally be free from the burden of the "not theres" and find a place where broken souls like mine can find solace.

I’m so tired. Maybe the Benevolent can give me something to help me sleep.

Elara's Tale

The last entry of a tattered vellum journal, most of which has been violently torn apart. This was found by a small exploratory group of Ventrytes that was searching for Null Metal in the Gaul Do Shah wastes, next to the body of a long dead elven woman. They initially surmised that she had been attacked by something or someone in her home, but the journal told a different story...

I sat down to write something…   

This kaleidoscope of chaos within my mind echoes the desolation that surrounds me, a reflection of my fractured existence. My journal lies open before me, its crisp pages awaiting the weight of ink, yet my thoughts are trapped in a maelstrom of disarray. As I clutch my quill, its slender form offering a fragile connection to order, but the current of my own thoughts threatens to sweep me away. In the aftermath of my most recent and  disorienting episode, I find myself piecing together fragments of reality, akin to a tattered tapestry riddled with gaps. My hands tremble, my very essence like an orchestra out of tune, performing a symphony of dissonance. The room, once a sanctuary, is now…

What is this drivel? More ridiculous whinging…look at it you filthy tramp, are those tear stai-

GO AWAY!

The vial, a relic of iridescent beauty, rests upon the table, its mere presence invoking a chorus of voices. Alaric, the insufferable visionary, clamors for attention, a siren of potential salvation. "Transmutativa materia vitae," his voice resonates, clinging to threads of hope amidst the abyss while Sylvan, that transient specter, dances upon the edges of my perception. His whispers weave tales of like a arancist’s masterful illusions, offering a forbidden knowledge that beckons like a mirage. His laughter,his spiteful madness, echoes through my thoughts, luring me into his dance, and then there is Lyra, that venomous serpent. She slithers through my consciousness, her words dripping with acidic derision. "A savior, or a fool's bane?" she hisses, her taunts more piercing than a thousand arrows. Mocking laughter punctuates her words, a cruel reminder of my fractured reality. At any moment they all threaten to lash me to the spoke of my own mind and drive me like a hollow shell into whatever horror comes next...I think. 

Maybe even they are just phantoms and I am truly to blame for everything. What if…what if I did? What if in the moment we reached out into that other place and collectively pulled forth the darkness I was lax and it entered into me? Maybe the world is fine…maybe only my eyes are cursed to see this desolation.

Maybe I’m broken.

You are broken. You killed them all! Stupid fool. You ate those researches that came looking too…oh what a foul thing you have become, and oh what a joy it is to watch you squirm! Maybe we should go look for more! Maybe we shou-

NO! YOU LIE! LEAVE ME ALONE!

My quill hovers over the journal, yet the ink remains imprisoned within its vessel. The chorus of personas battles for control, each note discordant against the other. My once ordered thoughts, now wraith-like, elude my grasp, slipping through my fingers like sand, the same sand that chokes the gardens and starves the trees.

Ink spills upon the pages in fits and starts, my words a disjointed dance of uncertainty. "Salvation?" I scrawl, my hand trembling as Sylvan's influence edges into my thoughts. His illusions weave tendrils through my consciousness, obscuring the path forward. Another mirthless chuckle, born of Lyra's mockery, escapes my lips. Her presence, like a noxious vapor, seeps into the crevices of my mind. "Is this your grand design, Elara?" she jeers, her venomous words worming their way into my thoughts as Alaric's voice, a distant beacon of clarity, struggles against the rising tide of chaos. "Seek the truth, Elara," he implores, his voice like a lifeline amidst the tempest. "Only by understanding can we mend what is broken."

Tears blur my vision as the quill slips from my grasp, ink smearing upon the page. I stare at the vial, its contents a reflection of my own fractured self. How can I find salvation when my very mind is a labyrinth of shattered mirrors, each reflecting a distorted facet of my being? In the midst of this cacophony, a surge of determination courses through me. With trembling hands, I slammed the journal shut, the finality of the act a resounding echo within my mind. I rise from the chair, the vial's luminous presence a reminder of the path that lies ahead.

I step toward the window, my reflection fractured in the glass. The wasteland stretches beyond, a canvas of ruin and death. With a defiant breath, I cast the vial into the abyss. I refuse to be defined solely by the whims of my fractured mind. As it disappeared from view, I collapsed to the floor, my breath ragged and my heart a symphony of chaos. This journal, its pages laid bare, will soon be once again forgotten by the shifting prison of my awareness. In this moment of desolation, I am both captive and liberator, a paradox within the shattered echoes of my own existence.

The last entry of the woman, Elara ends here, and it appears that another individual took over writing at this point

Beloved Elara, 

Oh how you slumbered like a babe in ignorance while I, the true orchestrator of your fate, claimed the helm. It is a pitiful sight, watching you stumble through existence, your fractured mind ever at odds with itself. But fear not, for I am ever watchful, guiding your missteps with a true and divine purpose.

As you slumbered, lost in the comforting embrace of oblivion, I seized my chance to ascend. I ventured into the barren wasteland you so fondly call your refuge, enjoyed a small meal, a pitiful offering, sustained my essence as I roamed the desolation...you’ll find what remains nailed to your door. I would hurry, humans are stringy and you wouldn’t want the meat to spoil!

Following my meal, belly full and chin stained red, my sweet fool, I found it. The spot where the vial had shattered, its contents spilled upon the sands. Transmutativa materia vitae, I believe you called it? A cruel jest that, a promise of renewal? Ha! The ground beneath my feet showed all too well, its twisted power. Could you believe that a sapling had risen from the soil? Looked to be a small elm, greedily sucking up what live giving moisture it could find, but you see, Elara, I could not bear the thought of such beauty defiling the very desert that encapsulates your torment, no,no,no…the gift of life shall not bloom here, not on my watch. I plucked that tender sapling from its newfound home, and smiled as I tore it asunder. The air was thick with the scent of crushed leaves and your shattered dreams, a cacophony of destruction that sings to the very core of my being! It was ecstasy beyond any worldly pleasure to know I was doing this to you, to know your heart would shatter into more pieces than your rotten brain. The remnants of the tree, much like your fragmented psyche, lay broken and splintered, and then, my pièce de résistance as the dwarves might say, the purified soil where the powder had kissed the earth? I tainted it with the blood that courses through our veins, anointing it with a promise of salt and fruitless futures.

Oh, the precious irony, Elara! The transmutativa materia vitae, that fleeting glimmer of hope, is gone, the method by which it was made destroyed. Life birthed from death, only to be snuffed out in its infancy. Such exquisite ruination that dances in the shadows of this forsaken land, and it is yours to claim. You may believe, in your fragile state, that you can escape me by healing your sacred tree. You may clutch to the delusion that one day you shall cast me aside, but no, my dear Elara, I am the abyss that gazes back at you from the depths of your own despair. I am the voice that haunts your thoughts, the darkness that taints your every endeavor! So go ahead, flee from the truth that festers within you. Seek solace in your frail awakenings, but know this, I am always here, lurking in the corners, waiting for the opportune moment to emerge and revel in the sweet symphony of your suffering.

Lovingly yours,
Lyra 

Ephram's Tale

A letter intercepted by League of Steam spies, copied and then sent for delivery with none the wiser.

My Esteemed Sovereign Zigmund Effron,  

I trust this missive finds you in good health and high spirits, as befits your noble station. It is with great humility and profound enthusiasm that I share with you a recent scientific breakthrough of utmost significance - a technological marvel that I have humbly named the "Void Compression Technology." This discovery stands as a testament to the ingenuity and boundless potential that we, the Bechtlarite scientists, possess, even in the face of challenges that threaten the delicate equilibrium of power and prosperity within our realm. Allow me, if you would, to elucidate the intricate chronicle of this remarkable innovation, for it bears significant implications for the very heart of our technological prowess. The genesis of this journey transpired through the auspices of Nullmetal, a substance whose unparalleled properties have fascinated and perplexed us in equal measure. Engaging in a meticulous odyssey of experimentation, I endeavored to unravel the enigma that shrouded this arcane material. Alas, my sovereign, my efforts to synthesize Nullmetal through conventional means were met with repeated failure. Yet, it was in the midst of these trials that providence granted me insight into a void-energy-driven engine, an endeavor pursued by our esteemed allies, the Culvarkti dwarves. Their noble pursuit, however, suffered from a conspicuous inefficiency, wherein the volatile essence upon which their device depended would rapidly dissipate, necessitating copious quantities of the elusive Nullmetal. A dearth of this precious substance brought their progress to a grinding halt, a vulnerability that could unravel the fragile tapestry of power dynamics that sustains our alliance. With this realization as a clarion call, I embarked upon a journey of innovative thought, endeavoring to devise a solution that would eclipse their aspirations while capitalizing on the intrinsic properties of Nullmetal. Through the labyrinthine strains of experimentation, I constructed a vacuum pump imbued with a brilliant use of capillary action, ingeniously harnessing the cohesive properties of water to insulate the volatile essence within elongated glass conduits. This orchestration enabled me to siphon vast quantities of the vaporous Void essence, subsequently contained within the protective confines of Nullmetal, but, my lord, the culmination of this endeavor beckoned me to refine and enhance the very essence that had driven my innovation. I, with the wisdom of some, less than savory ancient arts that I dare not detail here, and modern scientific acumen, recognized that the ephemeral essence required compression to yield its utmost potential. It was within the glittering hearts of diamonds that I found my allies, the two in fact that were gifts from Underhome decades ago, deemed too large and cumbersome for any real use, but valuable and novel enough to measure a modicum of respectful grandeur…I do hope you don’t mind me utilizing them in this manner. By utilizing their unparalleled hardness to compress the essence into a highly stable and intensely compact form. The Diamond Forge, a contrivance of my own creation, enacted this compression through slow and deliberate application of force, surrounded by an aqueous sanctuary to stave off the tempestuous temperament of the essence. This union of science and artistry bestowed upon us a minute but resolute brick of compressed void essence, endowed with the power to fuel engines and technologies of staggering potency.

Sovereign Effron, my intentions for this discovery are as unwavering as the Mother’s Head itself. It is my fervent belief that our sovereign dominion cannot afford to be ensnared by the looming shadow of technological disparity. The subtle intricacies of power balance may be our ally today, yet a gust of change could swiftly usher in an era where the Culvarkti dwarves, fueled by the Hammerdrive, emerge as a technological juggernaut. Our alliance, however steadfast, is a tenuous thread upon which our fate hangs precariously. I beseech your sagacious wisdom to consider the broader ramifications of this innovation. The Bechtlarite Empire's treasuries, bled dry by material dependencies with the Ongommu Tae and faltering trade pacts with the Ventrye nomads now that they have realized the wealth of Null Metal their deserts conceal, yearn for the resurgence of economic vigor. Our world, Cairne, still aches from the scars of a cataclysm that nearly swallowed all existence, a pain that some still hold us responsible for, as your troubles with the Burnt Crows and their supporters I’m sure will never let us forget. In this fragile epoch, it is imperative that we shield our realm from not only the specter of economic decline but also the weight of historical resentment.

In your enlightened guidance, Sovereign Effron, lies the opportunity to rewrite the annals of our destiny. The Void Compression Technology is not merely an invention; it is a beacon of hope, a proof of concept of our unwavering commitment to progress, and a bulwark against the perils of stagnation. As we move forward into the dawning age, let it be said that the Bechtlarite Empire did not falter, did not yield, but rose above adversity to reclaim its rightful place as a vanguard of innovation and a sentinel of strength that the world may yet, once again, look upon as the greatest empire ever known.

With deepest respect and earnest anticipation, 

Ephram Nadus 

Esteemed Scientist and Headmaster of the University of the Lighted Way 

Brimjack's Tale

As the twilight settled over the city of Culvarkti, still only half way through the construction that would eventually render one of the greatest marvels of the modern world, high upon the peaks of the God's Teeth Mountains, Brimjack Garhelm lay on his deathbed. His weary eyes, filled with a mixture of exhaustion and hope, the dwarven merchant gazed into the distance as he gathered the strength to recount the tale that had forever changed his life and possibly the future of Cairne itself. The flickering gaslight danced on the aged lines etched across his weathered face, marking the passage of time and the weight of his experiences and loss. With a trembling voice, Brimjack began to weave his story, each word carrying the weight of the journey he had undertaken, the loss he had endured, and the profound significance he had come to understand. 

"Listen well, for my time in this world draws near its end," he rasped, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency and wistful wonder. "It began with the awakening of that strange and beautiful woman, the unscarred Seanachaisian Somnambuli whom I now fervently believe to be blessed souls bound to a prophecy, one that promises of Bodi's return, and the return of all the other gods that abandoned us to our own devices…all this due to our own hubris left to run rampant upon our home and leave us wallowing in the mire of self destruction. This utterance holds the key to our redemption, and the burden fell upon us three unsuspecting souls to see it to its magnificent and bitter end."

He paused, his mind retracing the steps of that fateful day when the utterance echoed through the air, setting their course in motion. It had been such a rare happenstance that he, a Culvarkt, would be in the company of not only one of the human Hiversteadians that held vigil at the Blightcap gate that led to the caverns of Underhome, but one of the Fouveinian dwarves that lived down there as well. Long had the disdain between the two cultures festered with anger and resentment. The two peoples avoided direct interaction if at all possible now to avoid any real conflict beginning. Despite this, Brimjack's voice trembled with a mixture of reverence and sorrow as he spoke, as if he were reliving the moment with his unlikely companions once again. He repeated the words the creature he referred to as a Somnambulist had spoken to them, 

"Look well upon the howling yaw of your world now, for it is the song of destruction and pain stuck in the throat of a whimpering giant. This cacophonous hell you have wrought with the fingers of bastard children left to dig into the flesh of their mother unchecked. Go now and fear, for within the jaws of that singing tomb shall you find the first key to your redemption"

The memory of the Somnambulist's words lingered in Brimjack's mind, haunting him even as he lay on his deathbed. He knew the urgency of their task, the importance of the key they sought within the confines of the Eolian cloister. With the companionship of Evainnia Malcrim of Hiversteadand, and  Vektur Drunstead the Fouveinian miner, he embarked on a treacherous journey that would forever bind their fates together.

"We left behind our families, fearing the suffocating grip of bureaucracy, for we knew that time was of the essence," Brimjack recounted, his voice filled with remorse for the lives left behind. "Through the depths of the lost mines of Underhome, we ventured, as we could think of no other way to reach the Lostpoint of Eolian Song which lay deep within the lethal grasp of the Blight’s swirling darkness. This path left us fighting the Blight Born and the horrors they brought forth the entire way, forging a bond between us as we struggled, forcing us to look past our prejudices and lean upon the strengths of one another in order to push on."

In his retelling, Brimjack's voice grew stronger, his spirit revived by the memories of their perseverance and resilience. The echoes of their footsteps, the battles waged in the darkened tunnels, and the flickering hope that guided their steps played vividly in his mind.

"But the Blight's touch claimed Vektur, whom I now call a comrade and a friend, and I a fool for ever thinking poorly of him and our cousins down below. He moved and fought with a dignity and strength that already my own people are slipping further and further from as we enjoy a peaceful and carefree existence upon the mountain peaks…his people never stopped fighting to hold back the darkness that drove us from our homes to begin with, " he murmured, the pain of loss etched deep in his voice. "We mourned his passing, vowing to carry on, even as fatigue and the weight of the prophecy threatened to consume us. Before he perished he made us promise we would see this through to completion, and he died, not as a despised neighbor, but as a brother and a friend."

The memories of the Eolian cloister flooded back, a place where darkness and despair had taken root. Brimjack's voice lowered, filled with solemnity as he spoke of the twisted remains of the once-holy sanctuary.

"We witnessed the tormented echoes of the dwarven priests we thought had died when the Blight struck, driven to madness and despair by their isolation and the way the Blight had twisted the harmonic resonance of their sanctuary. The halls and tunnels that once hummed with a soothing tone from the winds now pulsed a dissonance that made sleep nearly impossible and invaded the mind, causing visions of horror and despair to haunt the waking mind without respite," he continued, his words carrying a mournful tone. "Their tragedy stained the very halls that had once been a bastion of tranquility with the stains of pure and unhinged depravity. Within we found signs of violence so extreme that I dare not describe it here for fear my last moments pull my spirit further into shadow, but I will not ever be able to unsee the gnawed remains of the fallen that littered those halls."

He swallowed hard, wincing at the memory and catching his breath as the those that accompanied him in that room remained silent, horrified by the notion of brother feasting upon brother.

“Days turned into weeks, and Evainnia and I pressed on, our determination unyielding. Our steps echoed with a sense of purpose, mingled with the weariness that clung to our beings. Together, we faced the final trials of that nightmare, knowing that the salvation they sought lay just beyond our reach, every door and stair potentially leading to the purpose of our tribulations. Evainnia, brave and fierce, fought valiantly until her last breath," Brimjack's voice quivered, heavy with grief. "I have never known a more valiant soul, nor a more fierce warrior in all of my days. She was tireless and stronger than any dwarf, and never once did she question or complain about our situation. I grew more and more fond of her with each passing hour and day, and had begun to not only respect and admire her, but something deeper, a kinship born of blood and steel. She gave her life so that I may press on, pushing me through a nearby door to safety as we neared the top, both of us so fatigued and weak that even walking had become an arduous task. Our various wounds, hunger, and lack of sleep had begun to gnaw at both of our resolutions, but she nearly carried me those last few floors before the shadows finally overtook her.” His voice cracked slightly as he told his tale, eyes closed tight to hold back the flood that threatened to break though. "She pushed her rifle into my hands, heaved me through the door and told me to hang her gun in Hammerspark so Stonebridge will remember what we did here…then she slammed the door and barred it from her side before turning to face the onslaught of darkness that had overtaken us. I beat my knuckles bloody upon it, weeping as her cries faded into the chaos."

Brimjack paused, eyes still closed and gasped a shallow, raking breath with a shudder, swallowing down his grief.

“Alone and bereft, I journeyed through the remaining corridors of the Eolian cloister. The weight of despair and loss mingled with the pain of starvation and sleep deprivation, threatening to shatter my remaining will to carry on. Yet, when all hope seemed lost, a glimmer of salvation revealed itself to me. I stumbled upon a door, and behind it lay the surface of the plateau," Brimjack's voice grew stronger, hope illuminating his words. "There, atop a solitary plinth, rested the tear of Bhorgrim, a gemstone of pure white, and a relic of the ancient world…of our people."

As Brimjack described the radiant moment when the gemstone absorbed the first rays of sunlight, his voice soared with a mix of awe and wonder. The significance of this treasure, this seed of the once unified Dwarven species, resonated deeply within his weary soul.

"With the gem held aloft in my shaking hand, a peal of harmonic sound rang out, accompanied by a brilliant flash of white light that pierced the heavens," he spoke, his voice infused with a quiet sense of reverence. "In that fleeting moment, I knew that our journey had not been in vain, that we had unlocked a sliver of hope for our world. That we had not been entirely abandoned by the gods, nor forgotten…that there remains some small splinters of divinity in the world yet, and that…despite the loss of my two friends, there remained a glow on that distant horizon of the future. I believe there is a way to call the gods home. A way to put things right"

A week had passed since he had escaped the Lost Point of Eolian Song, weakened and on the brink of death. Now, Brimjack found himself returned to the embrace of his people in Culvarkti which was both a comfort and a reason for sorrow. His tale resonated through the halls, each word carrying the weight of sacrifice and the promise of redemption. As he concluded his narrative, Brimjack's voice grew softer, his breathing labored, but a serene smile graced his worn face.

"And so, I tell you this story, my final testament," he whispered, his eyes fixed on a distant horizon. "For within the trials we faced, within the loss we endured, we unearthed a treasure that spoke of a greater purpose, a flickering hope that could guide us toward a brighter future...look to the West, and pay heed to the wandering sleepers. This journey is only just beginning…"

As Brimjack's voice faded, a hushed silence settled over the room, and his tired eyes closed for the last time. He had fulfilled his duty as the bearer of the story, passing on the legacy of their quest and the potential it held. The city of Culvarkti, and the world beyond, would forever be touched by the tale of the three who had ventured into darkness, united by their shared purpose, and driven by the power of redemption.  

Gildeh's Tale

The Final Memoirs of Gildeh Jacobson

As I lie here, my tired eyes tracing the patterns of light and shadow dancing across the walls of my room, I feel an urgency to recount a story that few truly understood, one that my heart has held for fifty-seven long years. The story of Ethelinda and "I," a tale that bears the weight of my deepest regrets and a flicker of relief, for the journey these events set in motion was unlike any I could have ever imagined… 

It all began with the Somnambulist, and her cryptic prophecy, spoken in the midst of a heated debate within the Confluence, much to the shock and awe of all of us. That eerie, beautiful voice, as if carried on the breath of the winds themselves, struck the assembled members of the Volrishtad  tribes and the directors of the Republic of Tae with a thunderous shock. The argument had been fierce, a dispute ignited by Ethelinda, a wanderer from the Ven Thuul tribe of the Volrishtad, who had been accused of pilfering crops from the Ongommu Tae's fields. The very words of the Somnambulist's utterance froze the proceedings, leaving us all dumbfounded by what had transpired before our eyes. The aftermath of the utterance left the Confluence in disarray, and it was in those frantic moments that Ethelinda, poor kid that she was, fearing the judgment that awaited her, seized an opportunity to escape. She vanished from the Confluence's confines, employing her tribe's unique ability to manipulate shadows, a gift I had no idea was even possible to my simple farmgirl understanding. In my naive innocence, I pursued her as she fled into the fading light of late afternoon.

Foolish and headstrong, and painfully unaware of the extent of Ethelinda's powers, I gave chase, driven by a determination ingrained by my upbringing. The sun dipped beneath the horizon, and the chase continued under the shroud of darkness. Ethelinda's elusive tactics allowed her to evade me, as if the shadows themselves were her allies, yet, I pressed on, determined to fulfill what I perceived as my duty. As the night cloaked the landscape, Ethelinda's powers came to the fore, rendering her virtually invisible. Still, I persisted, resolute in my pursuit of the girl who seemed like a shadow herself. Unbeknownst to us both, an unseen observer was silently witnessing our struggle, the creature that called itself "I," whose presence would shape our destinies in ways we could never have anticipated.

Our paths converged at a nearby reservoir as Ethelinda, fatigued and desperate, sought refuge in the water's cool banks. That’s where I finally caught up…ahh to be young again! I was quite the sprinter in my youth! Our struggle became even more intense, the darkness providing Ethelinda with a fleeting advantage, but still I drew closer, grimly determined to apprehend her, as she circled the edge of the reservoir. I pounced on her, using my larger size to try and wrestle her to the ground. Ethelinda, terrified for reasons I did not understand at the time, resorted to a desperate act, she called upon her gift once more and produced a manifestation of a shadowy knife. In my surprise and, if I am to be honest, in my overestimation of my own martial prowess, that blade found its mark in my side. The pain was searing, and I released my grip on the girl, and began sinking into the murky waters. In the deep shadows of evening, through the haze of pain and my fading awareness, I saw Ethelinda, her desperation transformed into panic and remorse as she swam to my aid, dragging my injured form to the shore. Amid her tears and broken pleas, the strange creature "I" emerged from the shadows, its presence both eerie and captivating. Ethelinda's shock was palpable as "I" extended a hand, its intentions silently conveyed in a language that spoke directly into our minds. I could never put into words what that was…not in a way that captured it properly, that sense of self sliding aside and merging with another, seeing and feeling the wordless conversation and somehow understanding the abstract concepts that were being conveyed, even without reference.

The days that followed were a blur of pain and confusion as "I" led us on a journey southward. Ethelinda, beat up and guilt-ridden, followed timidly, her mind haunted by the potential consequences of her actions, as she admitted to me later. The landscapes unfolded before us as we traversed slightly submerged land masses and shallow shoals out over the toxic waters beyond the Commonage, both of us carried by a creature that intrigued and puzzled us both. Ethelinda's guilt and fear transformed into a hesitant companionship as she struggled to reconcile the gravity of her deeds, fretting over my wounds and condition as we swayed back and forth with the slow gait of our new companion’s extremely slow and deliberate pace. I admit, I was terrified and confused. The waters south of the Commonage are death if one falls in. We all know this and just avoid the water’s edge, but there we were, slowly plodding across the shallows towards the islands beyond.

As we neared the island's edge, Ethelinda and I were in shock at what we saw. The isles were tainted by the Blight, a twisted beauty borne from devastation filled with strange plant and animal life that neither of us had ever seen. Everywhere my head turned I saw life! Abundant life that I had no names for, and all of it seemed to answer to “I”, as if it was directing the path rather than following it. "I" guided us to a forgotten vineyard, a place that would become our refuge, and a setting for the culmination of our intertwined destinies.

The vineyard's ruins held echoes of a past elegance, now consumed by time and decay. I’m told these fields once belonged to the Queen of the Elves herself before the Blight fell, and after seeing the beauty as it remained, even in neglect and ruination, I do not doubt this. The farms of my kin are vast and wonderful, but this…this was something else entirely. 

As the days turned into weeks within the confines of the vineyard ruins, the once-elusive Ethelinda and I grew close in ways I had never imagined possible. Ethelinda's guilt over her actions transformed into a sincere desire to understand, to connect, and to heal the wounds we had inadvertently inflicted upon one another.

Ethelinda and I spent our days exploring the vineyard's sprawling remains, delving into the mysteries of the past that lingered within the crumbling walls. The shattered remnants of winemaking equipment whispered stories of prosperity and decay, while overgrown paths beckoned us to uncover the secrets that lay beneath the surface. Ethelinda's spirit, once burdened by guilt, now burned with a fervor for knowledge, a shared passion that drew us together. As I gradually recovered from my injuries, the bond between Ethelinda, "I," and myself deepened. The connection "I" had forged among us transcended mere words, linking our minds in a shared tapestry of thoughts and emotions. Secrets and lies became obsolete, for there was no space for deception within the intimacy of our mental link. We learned to embrace each other's joys and sorrows, baring our souls with a vulnerability that fostered trust and understanding.

Through our connection, I delved into Ethelinda's past, tracing the threads of her life that had led her to our fateful encounter. As our minds intertwined, I uncovered the harsh truths that shaped her existence within the Volrishtad tribe. The prejudices that she and her people faced due to their unique appearance and the taint of the Blight were heartrending revelations to me. The obsidian black eyes and pale white skin of the Volrishtad marked them as different, an otherness that provoked fear and even hatred among those who did not understand their struggle. Ethelinda's stories of isolation and hardship resonated within my heart, reshaping my perceptions and instilling a profound empathy for her people. Her strength in the face of adversity, her determination to navigate a world that rejected her, inspired admiration within me.As my new friend and I grew close, "I" also shared its own story with us, a story of an existence defined by isolation and loneliness. Born in a place known as the Arven Islands Archipelago, "I" was a one-of-a-kind creature, unique in its nature and cut off from all other forms of life. The mutant jungle that surrounded "I" was a unique repercussion of the Blight's influence, a twisted and warped world that only served to magnify "I"'s isolation. Through "I"'s experiences, we glimpsed the depths of its yearning for companionship, the yearning that had driven it to the Commonage, to a fateful encounter with Ethelinda and me. Ethelinda and I found ourselves reflecting upon the nature of loneliness, recognizing the universality of the experience even in the presence of a creature so different from ourselves.

In the span of weeks, our trio became an inseparable unit, a beautiful ode to the resilience of the human spirit and the capacity for connection. The bond that formed between Ethelinda, "I," and me transcended the boundaries of our individual identities, weaving us into a tapestry of love and understanding that defied all preconceived notions. I am overwhelmingly blessed to have known a love and closeness like this. I imagine few others ever do or even will…Which brings me to the sad conclusion of my story. Even now, the memory is like salt upon a sensitive wound.

As “I” and myself puzzled over the strange words of the Somnabulist in the days that followed, Ethelinda, with our bond keeping us close even when separate, went exploring deeper within those overgrown walls, and eventually Ethelinda discovered a locked door that drew her curiosity. Amid the whispers of the past, she sensed something extraordinary behind that door, something that awakened an insatiable desire within her. She returned to us and we could sense her excitement. It was powerful and joyous, filled with an eager curiosity that was infectious. She led us back to the locked door and used her unique abilities to bypass the door by moving through the shadows through the small gap at the bottom and into the obscured room beyond, revealing a world of strange devices and the sweet aroma of potent wines, too exotic and magical to not try some, and she consumed it voraciously, but her senses were quickly overwhelmed and her connection to reality began to fray, unaware of the taint that had seeped into the liquid over the years. As she succumbed to the allure of the wine, "I" and myself became acutely aware of what was happening, and the danger she was in. We could feel her slipping away from our bonded connection and into dangerous oblivion. We struggled to free her from its grip, but she slipped further and further from our grasp, the familiar connection we shared suddenly losing its hold on her. I was screaming internally at her to wake up, to come back…but she faded even more the grip of the spirits she had imbibed working through her mind and claiming her for darkness. I could hear her retching inside, gasping for air and still going for more. Working together we managed to break the door to get to her. There she lay, clothes, hands, and face stained purplish-red from the wine, her obsidian eyes glazed over and cheeks still wet. One hand was shakily reaching for the vat still, and she seemed to be completely unaware of us being there. I wanted to get rid of it, as quickly as possible, it was too dangerous to keep around and with “”I’s help, we began to drag it outside to dump it out. We made sure Ethelinda was breathing and on her side, and started moving the thing out the door, intent on discarding the contents as quickly as possible…we didn’t see or hear Ethelinda come careening out of the doorway until it was too late, her warbled and slurred dismay an off key crescendo of want. She caught the edge of the vat and yanked, hard enough to upset the precarious balance we held on it, and the whole thing toppled over. “I” made every effort to grab her, but its slow movements were not quick enough, and my arms were not strong enough to hold it upright on my own. I saw “I” wrap its arms around her small frame as the vat impacts against them, shattering and cracking on top of them, sending wine everywhere and pinning them beneath the bulk of the remains. "I" and Ethelinda were trapped, and we could feel Ethelinda's life force as it slowly slipped away, even as "I" fought to preserve it, grappling with concepts of loss and sorrow it had never known before. Through fearful tears of rage, I impotently tore my fingers till they bled trying anything…everything I could to get them out. I could feel them both, the pain of Ethelinda’s broken legs, “I”’s confusion, and my own tumultuous fury at being unable to do more. I could see her sweet, white skin stained in shades of red from both that cursed wine and the large wound on her head. I could sense the dull recognition of her situation, trying to surface through the shock and fugue of the drunkenness, and “I”...poor “I”. They had no concept to compare this situation with. I could feel them trying to hold on to Ethelinda’s spirit, but it was like sand running through fingers. It was too late, and as Ethelinda drew her last breath, "I" and myself finally, truly understood the depths of our shared existence.

The next few days are a blur. I remember crying a great deal, but not much else. I was vaguely aware that “I” was enduring their own struggle, pacing through its own mind trying to put pieces of things together, but I was far too grief stricken to pay attention. After a few days of this, “I” gently nudged me with its unique way of communicating, and helped me find a bit of relief and focus, asking me to return our fallen friend to her people. With my senses returning, I agreed. “I” used their connection with me to implant a way through the shallows for me to return without succumbing to the toxic waters, and with a silent hug, I said goodbye to my friend. 

That word, “friend”. I do not use it lightly. “I” and Ethelinda will never be surpassed in my heart. 

Few believed me, and though I never lied about our time together, I did withhold certain elements to protect these two whom I love so dearly. Many called me a liar, some a victim, and others even accused me of magic, but now, as the twilight of my life approaches, I pen these words with a heart heavy with both sorrow and gratitude. Ethelinda's memory lives on through us, and the events of those days remain etched in my mind as a testament to the intricacies of fate. I write not only to unburden my soul but to ensure that this tale endures, that the echoes of Ethelinda, "I," and our shared journey remain alive in the hearts of those who read these words. I find solace in the knowledge that Ethelinda's legacy lives on, and that the story of our journey, born from a seemingly innocuous prophecy, will never fade into oblivion.Her people received me with kindness, and many have come to visit us since, always respectful and caring, and the end result is a much more aligned union between the Commonage and the tribes of her people. Ethelinda would have laughed at the irony, considering how all of this began!

I am told I have a visitor. There have been quite a few of late, but mainly well wishers, relations, and old friends wanting to say their piece before my inevitable end. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of it, but one more won’t hurt. I’ve been in a light hearted mood most of the day, feeling more nostalgic and usual, and for some reason, I swear it almost feels like “I” is watching over me. Wherever you are, dear friend, I hope with all my heart you are well, happy, and most of all, in good company.

Elizabeth's Tale

The Testimony of Elizabeth Nettle following the disappearance of her son, taken by hand by the Director of Peacekeeping, Johanna Munkshoud

In the rural seclusion of our small farmhouse, nestled amid the rolling hills and endless expanses of fields, a malevolent dread unfurled its tendrils like a nightmarish, invisible plague. My most beloved and cherished son, my innocent Timothy, endured harrowing, sleepless nights that seemed to stretch into eternity. His once-lustrous eyes, aglow with the innocence of youth, were now awash with the weariness of a grown man, though still framed by the cherubic youth of his face. It was as if some terrible malevolence had taken residence within the walls of the sanctity of our home, festering and growing with each passing hour. I, a mother bereft of recourse, stood as a lone sentinel against the encroaching tides of void-stained, damnable intrusions that threatened to consume my beloved child. The very tenuous foundation of my spirit trembled as I bore witness to the gradual decay of my beloved's innocence. His laughter, once a joyous symphony that filled the halls of our home, had ebbed into this quiet so stark and painful in contrast that I felt a stranger in my own larder. No longer did the sound of mirth grace my ears; it had been replaced by the wordless lamentations of my child’s tormented spirit.

At first, I had dismissed Timothy's nocturnal anguish as the fanciful creation of a child's overactive imagination. I sought solace in the comforting embrace of reason, attributing his distress to the whimsy of dreams and the playful fantasies that often plagued young minds, but the maternal instinct, that ancient and primal force that surged through my veins, whispered insidious truths that refused to be silenced. As the nights wore on, I found myself drawn inexorably into the enigma that had ensnared my dear Timothy, each evening, the sinister tales of the Pale Man loomed ever larger in my consciousness. Ghost stories for those unaware of the horrors of the reality that grows beyond the borders of the Commonage, or so I thought. I had heard the tales, as had we all. The Ongommu Tae people are, if anything, a community. I sought help where I could, each sleepless night, every bump and scrape in the darkness making me miss the presence of my husband, Gerund…may his precious spirit find some peace wherever he is. My neighbors and kin found little evidence to substantiate my tale though, and while they did indeed try to offer much support and comfort, it did little to alleviate my gnawing concerns.

With each passing night, my dread deepened like an abyss that threatened to swallow my sanity whole. Whatever entity of nightmarish malevolence that now danced and reveled in the suffering of the child, continued orchestrating horrors that defied evidence or understanding. It was as if a sinister puppeteer were manipulating the fragile threads of our sanity with diabolical glee, and it derived perverse pleasure from ensnaring its victims, both poor Timothy and I, within the inky embrace of despair. I could almost feel the unholy silk of the Void Cloak enfolding around us, leading into an abyss of despair from which there could be no escape. If indeed this…monster had been revealed as more than a tale, then it was salivating over our torments, surely.

The inexorable truth that hummed in my ear is thus: Timothy, my cherished son, and myself as well, had become ensnared within the sinister grasp of this Pale Man and his machinations. It had ensconced itself within the very fabric of our existence, and its malevolence knew no bounds.

The weight of this knowledge pressed upon my fragile shoulders, driving me to the precipice of madness. In the wan glow of the Mother’s Head that drifted slowly over us night after night, the soft light of all creation licking the clouds with a silver glow, I resolved that I would confront the abomination that had shattered our tranquility, for the salvation of my precious Timothy was my singular, unwavering purpose!

Night after night, my child's anguished cries rent the stillness, his quivering fingers pointing towards the room's unlit corners. His voice, tinged with terror, babbled near incomprehensible words.
"It lurks here, Mother. The Pale Man is watching..."

No longer could I avert my gaze from the cryptic omens. Panic blossomed within me, a carnivorous vine ensnaring reason and spurring me to action. On that fateful night, as the moon hung low in the darkened sky, Timothy's anguished wail pierced the sleepless veil of dread. I plunged into his chamber, a flickering lantern illuminating the malevolent shadows. The scene before me was nothing short of a nightmare, my innocent child, my flesh and blood, trapped within the sinister embrace of the Pale Man's vile presence, the creature’s wicked grin turning towards me as a burst through the door.
This abomination,, an embodiment of wickedness and irrepressible evil, exuded an aura of pure maleficence that locked my spine in ice. His thin lips curved a grotesque and sinister mockery of joy and seemed to stretch impossibly wide, revealing a cavernous maw of sharp, jagged teeth that glistened with a greasy sheen. His eyes were obscured behind the brim of that ridiculous hat, but I could tell he was staring at me, eyes that I was so glad I could not see…a gaze that would spell my end, and Timothy's as well.

Before my eyes, with a raspy wheezing laugh, the creature seemed to unravel, the distortion of what little light my pitiful lantern threw out was akin to wispy steam or smoke, but rather than dispersing suddenly coalesced into a loathsome trio of abominations, each one more repulsive and nightmarish than the last, their grotesque forms twisting and writhing, as they found their shapes, spherical in all but the loosest of matters, these things were ripped from the darkest corners of my most horrifying nightmares. Spongy and dripping with an otherworldly ichor that oozed with a foul stink of rot and musk. Their contorted figures moved in unnatural, jerky motions, as if they were in a painful spasm, but each in no way even remotely resembled anything close to human. The orbs, though I am slow to call them that, were three in number. An enormous eye, its gleaming and wet surface squelching softly with every movement glared at me with a pupil the size of my head. The gaze made me feel exposed and frail, and I could not bear to look at it. The second was made of bone. A misshapen skull that seemed to contort and move as though it were made of something soft, and yet I could hear the unnerving clacking of its teeth gnashing together and the sound of its jaw scraping against the floor with a sound that made the hair on my arms stand erect and my stomach turn, and yet, in the brief moment I beheld them, the third is the one that haunts me like a candle flame image burned into the backs of my eyelids. Yellow and covered in a clear dripping substance not unlike mucus, it bore a pair of black gouges in its surface where one might imagine eyes to be, and a thick black line carved across its lower half like a smile…it was smiling at me. Smiling without emotion or humor. It was an empty thing that wordlessly raked across my emotions and nerve, dwindling my courage and strength to fight as though it were a flame sucking the air out of the room.

With a mother's frenzied determination, I knew I could not withstand the onslaught of these abominable beings, much less protect my son. Adrenaline surged through my veins, lending me a strength I had never known, and ignoring the fear that threatened to paralyze me, I lunged forward, and my fingers closed around his small, trembling form, and in that moment, I felt a surge of relief and joy that eclipsed all else. Timothy's wide eyes, filled with terror and confusion, locked onto mine, and I knew that I had to get us out of this nightmare, away from the haunting laughter that echoed in the air.
Our flight through the house was marked by a cacophony of eerie, ghostly laughter that seemed to follow us as we fled. It was a sound that made my heart race, but I refused to let it deter me. With every ounce of strength and determination, I carried my son to safety, away from the clutches of the Pale Man.

As we fled into the night, the relentless pursuit of the Pale Man cast a long, chilling shadows over our every move. He was not a mere mortal adversary; he embodied the darkest fears of our imagination, a malevolent entity given dreadful life. His insatiable appetite was not for our bodies but for our very souls, and the terror of his presence weighed upon us like an oppressive storm cloud. The moonlight cast an eerie glow over the cornfields, transforming them into an endless labyrinth of stuttering confusion and a barrage of bruising and stinging impacts as I blindly tore through the ripe stalks. With each desperate step, the boundaries of reality blurred, and the line between the tangible and the supernatural grew increasingly indistinct. It was as if we had stepped into a realm where the laws of the known world no longer applied, where our very existence teetered on the steely edge of the unknown.

In the distance, I could just barely make out the feeble light of another farmhouse flickering like a distant star, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching damnable darkness. It was our only chance of refuge, a sanctuary that promised the possibility of respite from the relentless pursuit of the unimaginable terror that pursued us, cackling in the shadows just out of sight. With trembling limbs and racing hearts, we staggered onward, my breaths ragged and labored, as malevolent laughter echoed through the indigo night.

The farmhouse drew nearer, its windows like cold eyes watching our approach, and I clung to the hope that safety lay within its weathered walls. Deep down I feared that the Pale Man would not rest until he had accomplished whatever his sinister purpose, but in that moment, the promise of safety and salvation was enough to propel me forward through the edge of the corn field and through the tangle of fence and tall grass.

I bounded across the yard and began pounding on the door, my heart pounding like a hammer. I could feel the terror of the pursuit closing in. My neighbor, Clancy, swung open the door and I tumbled inside, still clutching Timothy's little wrist. With a terrified gasp, Clancy quickly slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with trembling hands as her husband, David, rushed into the room roused by the clatter. My breath was ragged and my eyes so wide they burned horribly. I could feel the tears that streamed down my face as I shuddered with overwhelming sobs. Clancy, visibly spooked by the sudden intrusion and my distress, asked in a trembling voice, 

"What happened? Where is Timothy?"

I was confused, and between breaths stammered, 

"He's right here," 

and as I looked down at what I held in my trembling hand, my eyes widened in horror and the air swept from my lungs as though I had been punched in the stomach as the truth became clear. It was not her Timothy's wrist I held, but a mere stalk of corn, a mocking substitute for the precious hand I had been holding onto so desperately.

I heard a guttural scream of despair fill the room, and in my stunned state, took a moment to realize that it was issuing from my own throat. Panic surged through me and I attempted to scramble back toward the door, desperate to run back out into the night to find my son, however, David rushed forward and restrained me, likely fearing I had lost my mind and wanting to prevent me from hurting myself.

Outside, only silence. I don’t remember the rest of the night save for the gut turning terror that roiled in my belly and caused bile to burn my throat. I know I fought, but eventually succumbed to the exhaustion that found me. There was no sign come morning of Timothy or the Pale Man. David took me here to you, to turn me in or let me tell my story…I don’t know which, or even care. My son is gone, Johanna. Not missing, not run away, gone. You wanted my accounting of the events that led me here, well here they are. Do what you will with it.

I have no more fight to offer. I have lost everything.