Letters from The Empire - Part 3

*Letters in the shapes of triangles appear in seemingly random places. Little notes, jolted down for any to find and read. Glitter and the markings of a kiss print on them.*

To any who cross the star beaten path we’ve found ourselves in, this is for you,

It amuses me. Not long ago, not long for me anyway, I did nothing but contemplate the hatred I had for my own kind. Deep down and buried, yes, but there. So set I’ve always been to keep my image. Not touch without asking, not pry too hard. Never look too long at a pretty face or offend by asking what the meaning of mortal “marriages” actually is. To be polite among mortals. To meld with them as best I could.

But it was my kind that found the key to unlocking the end of the vile monster that has torn through our great lands like a plague. The damage is insurmountable. Fae’run is nothing like it was. I watch from the tower, through the scope, and all I see is ruin and ash not even in our borders but also inside it. I fear what lies in the grander of Toril when we’re able to strike out and seek again.

The Fae came when we least expected and most needed it. The mysteries of how to get to the wretched phylactery of Ra’altherus’. The Fae nobles and their councils, their people, found a way. They delivered the secret to us to find what we needed most; the literal heart of the beast.

More than that, they didn’t stop. I have seen so many Faywylds turn their backs on mortalities problems in my time. Sit back for generations of mortal wars to debate the logic of aiding or letting the world burn and their Mounds excel from the ash.

But not these Fae. Not these beings of the Faywylds of Fae’run. The Mother Tree keepers and Mound Tenders that strive for a new beginning for their - for my - kind. For all kinds in this act.

With their direction, and the guidance of myself and another Ancient, we traversed into the unknown. The place was a maze. The Queen of Vlorissfarne, an inventor by nature and once, by trade, devised a box to hold the phylactery safely. With the Fae’s aid and knowledge, their people, and that, we set off.

I have been on so many adventures since coming to these lands, but never have I felt so alone than in the strange caverns we entered. Each turn and twist revealed to us some barrier. It was only through the sound logic and reasoning of the Fae with us that we knew what to do. I doubt even the Ancients they brought with them would have done so well.

It seemed like every room was a test, a challenge to see if we should be so worthy of looking upon the phylactery of a bartering dead man. Liches can be so predictable. So dramatically predictable. 

The Fae led us, their forces steady and fast, prepared in ways I’d never seen before. In ways that gave me hope for my people again. They didn’t stutter or pause; Fae have no stake in this. Most people, most Liches, have no idea how to control an immortal soul. But they pressed on through visions, magics, and arcane I have never felt or seen in all the time I’ve lived. And I’ve lived longer than you’d imagine. 

The other Ancient with me knew the way and acted as a guide. And finally, we did it; we found the place he laid his very soul. 

It was a patch of earth floating through stars and space. A tree in the center reminded me of the Tree of Life. Reminded me of the ironic nature of a Liche’s existence. 

But there it was. Shining, calling, but a dark air around it. The scene was so peaceful, wondrous, yet the creeping darkness around the stars seemed to knock them out. The spinning of the cosmos around us was more nauseating than exhilarating, and the tree didn’t feel like a tree at all but the mirror of something once alive, coveting the beauty of breath again. 

It wasn’t as simple as picking it up and placing it in the container. Of course not. We had to put ourselves into the locks around it. I wonder, even now, if that will mean anything to the brave souls who did so. For mine, I worry less.

But we did it. And in that act, we secured the phylactery. I’ve brought it somewhere safe. Somewhere it can’t be found before I deliver it to the only person who will know what to do with it once the time comes. Perhaps the only person who has any right to do something to it, after all Ra’altherus has done to disturb the peace they made here.

I sit and stare at its spot, among old cog work and discarded blueprints of my own design. Mussed around foolish star charts that are wrong and clocks that never worked with the timing of the sun. Guarded by spells but surrounded by junk and in secret.

I wonder if I should place it on display, guard it differently. Showcase and flaunt it. But no. 

No, the bargained eternity of a dead man, stolen from the blood of innocents, the soul container of a person so deprived of understanding in the world they killed to be part of it forever and will still never understand it, doesn’t belong on display.

It’s not special or unique. It’s not a treasure. It’s a curse he placed on himself and all the people of this land. And in the morning, when dawn breaks, it will be in the hands of a person who can destroy the wretched thing and finally bring peace to the souls it was traded for.

The Fae, the Fair Folk, who found and brought us to his end, to the key to it, they were born into their immortality. Ra’altherus bartered for it.

And soon, we’ll make him repay that debt.

Signed,

The Shinemera

💋

*Little pictures are drawn on the bottom of the page of winged and fantastical fairies and immortal creatures, all surrounding a box that they’re forcing into another box and two on each side holding hammers in preparation to smash it*