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Found during the
Taste of Twilight event.
Kuyiza bint Zayi the Translator tells
you, "Aerfalle... I have seen this name before. An adventurer brought
me a note from Rytheran, the Revenant of the Mage Academy near Mount Esper.
It was addressed to an Aerfalle. But this... a moment..."
Kuyiza bint Zayi the Translator tells you, "Heavens and earth! This
speaks of the last Shadow War, and in grave detail. I am... profoundly
disturbed by the sights this Aerfalle has witnessed."
by Kuiza bint Zayi
Translator's note: There is a word early in this text which defies easy
conversion from Dericostian to Roulean. This I have rendered as "kemeroi,"
a direct phonetic equivalent of the original word. Established lore has shown me this word used to describe an unprecedented
number of circumstances, most of which are contradictory. By turns,
kemeroi is used to express the concepts of stillborn offspring, unwelcome
emissary, unseen or stealthy movement, corrupter or tempter, nightmare,
madness or terrifying hallucination, unbidden thought, parasite, scream
uttered at
awakening from a nightmare, thing that causes melting, liquid given form
by a vessel, the touch of something frozen, and night that moves as a
liquid.
The latter few of these many meanings are the most curious, as kemeroi is
not a word of the so-called "Great Tongue" of Dericost, but
rather the Base Tongue. The Great Tongue, with roots in the archaic
dialect of the Falatacot, was used by the artisans as well as the
aristocracy (and for that reason some of its words came into use by the
Yalaini intelligencia).
This, I feel, implies that descriptions
such as "liquid night" are not merely poetic license, but
literal description. At any rate, the context here seemed to indicate use
of the word as a proper name. Of the definitions cited above, perhaps
"unwelcome emissary" would work best.KS
- Kuyiza bint Zayi
Dearest Rytheran,
I regret I must send ill tidings, love. The dark spawn have now appeared
in my cellars as well, below the levels infested by Asheron's vermin. They
are older than the ones that trouble you, I believe; Uvriliim and
Paanuvriliim. Fortunately, the Kemeroi still sleep. Should they appear
again, I think the dark ones would cease to toy with the outlander hoard
that vexes Killiakta. They would quickly be absorbed.
Thank whatever gods you may for this small
mercy. The fact that you can still believe in the return of the Old Ones
amuses me. Yes, I know, my dear; "Those which can eternal lie / In
sleep, in dream / Should never die." The words of witches should not
be relied upon. Ever did they neglect to mention the most important
details. Trust least of all the oracles that later spawned the traitorous
priestess of Ithaenc, potent though that blood may be. We should rely upon
our own powers, as ever we have, not upon nebulous prognostications. I
always found it suspicious that the witches could rhyme
while in the
throes of an ecstasy induced by blood loss and fungal potions.
It is well that the outlanders continue to fight in our defense, if
unwittingly. As it was with the peasantry of our own land, the living
defend us in ignorance of our rulership. Such children. It is, I think,
time past we began to act as their elders. We are Firstborn here. We must
cease our bickering over the fall of the Ice Throne, over little baubles
and flicker-lights that remain of Dericost's power and majesty. The Throne
is overturned, and many days of the world have passed since. Wherever the
culpability may lie, there is no more to be done about it. We must take a
hand in present events once more, and move to preserve those whom we would
rule. There is a new kingdom to be built.
Love, I can see you wrinkling your brow now. Fret not, for I do not
sympathize with the policies of the Lords. I remain Wind in heart and
soul; blowing from places unseen, taking a winding path to my object,
changing much with the lightest touch. Shall I prove this to you?
Recall the last coming of the dark spawn. I
had established this little colony perhaps three centuries previous,
whispering to Loritane through a chain of agents, telling him of the great
treasures to be wrought beneath my mountains. He was quick to see my way,
remember? His ships arrived so soon. We laughed, you and I, watching them
scurry to build their port below Tenkarrdun, to excavate their reservoir,
raise their towers, and install their forges. The way you whispered then
was masterful - convincing Loritane to name the very island after me -
Aerlinthe - "Stone of the Sky" in the Great Tongue! It still
makes me smile to think you accomplished it.
The Second Sending came, and the world
reeled. So little time there was for me to expand my influence among the
little lives below my mountains. Aralea - the first, that is - quickly
agreed to my agent's offer. Loritane's governor indeed! He was mine from
the moment he lay eyes upon that grey-eyed willow-reed. A simple little
draught, a small piece of the witches' arts for her drink, and she was
his, and he mine. Such subterfuges still leave me heady. A pity Loritane
discovered them. Yet it worked out for the best in the end, did it not?
One child of Aralea became a smith, and the other an empress.
When the barbarians fell back to Killiakta,
did we not move unseen then? I counseled that we should all stand
together, Filinuvekta and Latzimestal, Wind and Lord, lest those we sought
to rule all be taken and twisted. I appealed to His Eternal Splendor and
the Steward of Chalicmere, even as my sailing vessels held the vanguard of
the enemy off the shores of Aerlinthe with mage-fire and lightning. I
spoke that we should move united against the forces gathering off
Killiakta, and buy time for the hedge-mages to complete their trap.
So did we join, if only once, in the
southern forests of Ifistra. The Winds rose from their hidden lairs, and
the Lords marched from their bastions. While the hedge-mages struggled to
rekindle the flame of old Facill's knowledge, the Battle of Ayn Tayan
raged for three days. At cost, we held off their army. The barbarians,
long since fled to the west of Killiakta, never knew. But we saved them.
The children of Old Dericost fought and won a final battle, holding the
line until their trap was prepared, and the Servant's curiosity piqued. If
not for us, all would have perished.
The irony is delicious, is it not? Those
that so reviled us owed their victory to our intervention. All that
remains to mark our moment of triumph are the bones and ash on the Hill of
Pines. The cairns yet mark where the Sand King Nerash fell before
Leikotha's tortured rage. Jaera fought beside Nerash at the end. Loyal to
the last, she strove to defend him, but was slapped aside by the Servant
himself. I was much pleased to hear that you had interred her remains at
the Academy.
Do you remember the ire that rested upon
His Eternal Splendor's brow when the enemy approached? That dark, perilous
mist the Servant wrested from the kemeroi rolled over the land from
horizon to horizon. The skirls of pitch vapor withered and fused whatever
plant, earth, or flesh they touched. The skerries of hilltops that cleared
the mist were hideous to behold.
If there is one image of that day that will
never escape my mind, it is the memory of the birds. A flock of
sweet-voiced neuzali startled from their tree in panic, but the outlying
tendrils of the ebon fog brushed one. It fell, shrieking, its flesh
boiling away like tallow before a flame. It tried to flap its wings, but
they dissolved into a fine spray. This spattered the flock, and they in
turn burned, one by one.
By the time the first bird had hit the
ground, the rest were tumbling, smoking, flying as if drunk, crying in
pain and terror, and straining their wings to escape. When all had fallen
- I believe the last few actually splashed - all I could hear was a
ghastly croaking from across the bottom of the hill. I saw a lone beak, a
single grey-feathered throat, sticking up out of the charnel pools of
flesh; altered and formless, yet clearly, horrifyingly, alive and
conscious.
I always loved the song of the neuzali.
When I was a child in Gelid, a pair would nest in the evergreen outside my
window. Every night in spring, they would call and whistle, so loud for
such a small creature. I listened to their courting songs for hours. They
were my lullaby.
Ah, but there at the front ranks of the enemy's hoard - there marched
rogue Firstborn, lead in bitterness by the captive chevaird Leikotha At
the head of those deluded souls she stood, sword in hand;
still furious at Nerash for turning her,
and under the
sway of Ferah's poison whispers. Ah, that vile legion, sworn to serve
darkness for no greater reason than that the Servant was raised near
Daralet. That thing, that usurper and pretender, is no kin of ours, no
matter what slander the Yalain may cleave to.
His Eternal Splendor loosed great gales of magic upon the heretics, and
the companies of Kelannik, Anadil, and Nerash crushed the survivors into
carrion and dust. Only Leikotha escaped, fleeing once her vengeance slaked
with the death of Nerash.
Whispers have reached me that in some
places, a new generation of Firstborn serves the enemy. Old Fauzuil's
retreat is said to serve as a gateway for them now. That is the complex
the Yalain later partially converted to a laboratory, if you recall. They
slew him and sealed his followers in behind a well-locked door. It would
seem those long-forgotten servants have embraced the coming of the enemy's
Servant. My sources say a Paanuvril nests there now, quite cozily.
Ah, again I digress into reminiscence.
Perhaps I have slipped further towards the solipsism that ever stalks our
kind. Be it not so! Perhaps I merely need something to do. I believe it
may be our long inactivity that causes us to write these long letters that
speak of little beyond old, unhappy, long-passed things. There is nothing
to engage our minds but our own memoirs. I am bored, Rytheran, I admit it.
I do not counsel war with the darkness because of my ennui, but my heart
is glad of it, despite what may happen to me.
I have found myself talking to myself,
having conversations. Who else have I to speak with? The little
stone-boned creatures in the port above? The smith Aralea, who hasn't even
the mind to know he is dead? Alas, all I have at my call now are dead of
Aerlinthe port, bound in ash and stone from when the mountains last
awakened to spill liquid rock into the steaming sea. The plumes were a
marvel to behold.
You know as well as I the renanimated make
poorer servants than the converted. On the other hand, their petrification
has made them unusually strong. It is well the Olthoi came so soon after
the eruption, I suppose. Otherwise the Yalain might have unearthed my keep
in their bumbling, hamfisted attempts to recover their countrymen. We
observed the Yalaini golem-workers excavating the reservoir long ago. It
was not so precise an art as the Falatacot's lost geomancy.
I have sent emissaries to the bastions of
the Lords; foremost to Chalicmere itself, the open, defiant fortress in
Diastra. It is sad to say, but the Latzimestal faction is much more
capable of fighting a war than our own. On the other hand, we have eyes
everywhere, and they care not for such things. We will discern the
intentions of the enemy, and note the places they are weakest. Depending
on what needs be done, we may whisper this news to the outlanders, or to
the Lords.
To Chalicmere I dispatched Faladha, from
the house of Iharsi. His aristocratic Old Gelid manners will please the
Steward, though I doubt not they will vex his servants. I do not trust
Faladha, in truth. He is arrogant, and I believe he schemes to replace me
as master of Aerlinthe. Yet, if Chalicmere can be convinced to war, that
alone may be enough.
Garaena, the girl you sent me before the
eruption, I sent to moot with the Sand Kings. Their armies have long since
blown away into dust, but it is their minds I desire. Before their
disgrace at the feet of Gelid, they were the greatest of Dericost's
generals; subtle and relentless. Having them with us would be a tremendous
boon.
For a child of Yalain, Gari (for so she
insists I call her... a sweet girl) has a mind almost Dericost in its
political shrewdness. When you singled her out from among your academy's
students, you chose well indeed. Her only failings seem to be a lack of
appreciation for the thoughtless violence the outlanders are prone to, and
an obnoxious tendency to pine for her home on Atermore. I believe her
charm will woo the Kings to our cause, unless she chats their ears off
about that cursed island of hers.
In the meantime, I recently set whispers to
run among the outlanders, revealing to them a few of the simpler battle
and support spells known to our arts. Perhaps these shall make them better
able hold the line until we are able to take decisive action. No doubt His
Eternal Splendor would have disapproved of my decision. I feel, however,
that waiting for the commitment of the Latzimestal is too great a risk.
While the dark spawn work their poisons in the earth and gather their
forces, I must do my best to arm what forces I may. As yet, that is merely
my household guard and the oblivious outlanders. The poor children
know not the
terror of darkness unleashed.
The dark spawn have gathered around the old stone-ring of my island. I
think they mean to make a binding on them, though to what end I know not.
The texts of the Falatacot are maddeningly vague about the constructs. I
doubt they knew much more than we, only that they stood before their
forefathers crawled in the mud, and are places of great power. The only
words the Old Ones ever spoke of them, if speech it may be called, amount
to, "Do not ask us of these artifacts, and do not disturb them."
If the spawn intend to disturb them, perhaps there is something to these
warnings.
Write soon, dear heart. I miss you, and I
have need of your advice and assistance.
- Aerfalle |
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