"Head down, straight through on the most direct route. Just like how I would do it. A curse I've apparently passed onto you." I turn away, leaving the pair alone to make their own path. Nyssa doesn't need my doting. She's a grown woman, well educated, smart, and more than capable of making her own decisions for her own reasons. I shouldn't have second guessed her.
No point dwelling, I'll just keep the pair in my prayers that they travel in safety. The Watcher will see them to their destination.
A sigh passes my lips as I turn back to the homestead to set about my task. The whole area, now painted in daylight, is far comfier. Between the hand-made aesthetic of everything here — from the buildings to the pathways lain by hand — and the close in nature of the forest, the place feels very safe. There's a passive presence of protection in the air that settles on me like a blanket — though the blanket feels as though it's in tatters. As if the protection is waning somehow. It would explain why there was a monster in this otherwise idyllic little farmstead.
The damage to the home mars the picture, though. And not far behind that marring is the cairns down a ways into the cavern.
It's altogether an unpleasant combination of the facts that follow a calamity wherever it walks. The peace of stillness with the knowledge that it only exists because everything has been robbed from the world in its wake.
But…it's not quite the case here.
I fill my mind with the thoughts of emptiness needed to conjure my essence. It comes readily, but I keep the mnemonic practice up regardless to ensure I never get rusty. Thinking of the place around me helps, though. It is so devoid of life that it calls my Auram readily.
The essence of void, aura projection, and emptiness comes to my Call readily, and I steadily shape it into an imbuement as I close my eyes. Once it's compressed properly, I direct it outwards down my arms and to my fingertips where I "carve" it into space in front of me.
The elaborate runeforms steadily shape, taking on the visual aspect of lettering made of nothing but an outline in the air. Looking through each as I make careful changes to evoke exactly what I need out of them, I see warped space. Everything on the other side of it gives off rippling auras that show their shape as represented by their magical composition and presence. It heavily distorts it all until I finish my shaping.
[Calamitous Detection: Sight]
[Self Imbuement | Auram]
I step forward into the spellform, opening my natural essence pathways — my leyveins — to absorb it and feel my perspective shift to match that of the rippling, warping, view from the runes themselves. It used to be disorienting, once upon a time, but now it feels about as normal as my day-to-day sight — so long have I spent with it overlaying my vision.
I cast around as the feeling of void fills my body, searching for essence concentrations or essence voids. And, for once, I have to admit to being surprised by what I see.
I was expecting to see the unique waveforms that come off of Mineralis essence in spades, and I do, but underpinning it all is an essence I'm unfamiliar with that seems to emit from nowhere and disappear into nothing with great regularity. Little motes of waves that pop into existence for a few moments before disappearing.
That…violates some principles of essence theory that are, to my knowledge, inviolable. Which immediately shatters that idea to pieces. All around is a thin dusting of null dust that's coating everything, but that's to be expected given what I've found here so far. The dust also is not going anywhere, but this new curiosity could bear something of interest.
I start to walk around, tracing concentrations as they form until I find two things of interest. A huge circle of runework hidden beneath underbrush that encompasses this entire farmstead. The runes are in a style and runic language I've never seen before — another surprise. And as near as I can glean, probably a third of them are disabled or have run their course, but they must be the source of the feeling of protection in the area.
Curious.
The other thing I notice is that a trail of this strange essence is heading off away from the farmstead. The trail is lined with similar runework, though these are far more irregular, only existing every ten to fifteen feet rather than being a single contiguous runeform like the ring around the homestead. Like someone lighting torches along a country road to ease the path of travelers.
After thinking for a little while, I decide to pursue it. The strange essence and how it may have interacted with the Calamity is worth pursuing provided it doesn't take me too far out of the way. I'll give myself three hours of pursuing this lead before I return to the null dust lead.
I set off, following the shimmering, warbling path through the air deeper into the Forest of Alloys.
My travel is shockingly uneventful.
Regions like this that are so inundated with free essence coalesce monsters left, right, and center. In the case of one like the forest here, they would be elementally evolved or ascended variants, too. I've spent much time in the Forest of Alloys for different reasons, and our and my times here have been nearly devoid of danger aside the Crystalid, and I think that that was a case of us blundering into it. It clearly hadn't been stalking us as they're normally wont to do.
But I remain unmolested. Only seeing woodland critters — even if shiny, metallic, variants of them.
But as I've made my way on, there's been a rising sense of something altogether pleasant on the air. The essence I'm chasing is getting more dense to the point that I have to dispel my enhanced sight to avoid disorientation moving forward.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Doing so shows me a different aspect of this forest that I've been missing by focusing on concentrations.
Everything is glimmering, even the air itself. And not in the normal ways I would expect the metal essence-wrought trees to gleam as they reflect light. The sparkles and shimmers are making their own light, casting little rainbow cascades as they do.
It's, without question, one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen and find myself just idly wandering onwards, gawping at the scene. My mind is being flooded with a sense of safety, curiosity, and other more ephemeral concepts that are harder to pin down. That is, until my attention is drawn forward once more by a potent presence. A sudden burst of essence on the other side of a bush.
In an abundance of caution, I don my helmet with a hiss of the seals and reach to my shoulder to take hold of Bane's hilt. Something deep inside my mind tells me it won't be necessary, but nobody will ever accuse me of being lackadaisical.
I push through the bush carefully, to reveal… a tiny hewn wooden plank sign held up by a single stick plunged into the ground. It's maybe ten inches tall and slightly off-kilter, leaning over just a bit, and beyond it I see a dense concentration of shimmers forming a semisolid wall.
I step closer to the sign, needing to kneel down to get anywhere near its level. Doing so, I feel the raw power bleeding off of the sign and see words glimmer into being on its surface in a downright ancient dialect of the common tongue. The phrasing is very familiar, reflecting a portion of the scripture of faith I grew up on.
Hark, ye who near the lands of the Fairfolk
Ye be one who Travels, Guided by the Eyes of the Watcher.
Thou art welcome.
The price of thine entry into the Court of Tale and Song is
The sign seems to run out of space, shuddering a little bit before growing a third plank a little farther down on the stick with a dull pop. It hinges around the center where it appears nailed in place poorly, causing the new board to wobble as it's apparently "written" upon.
A tale most grand to be retold long after thine departure.
Show thine true face, and step unto the Lands of Tale and Song.
The script glitters and shimmers as the letters finally stop appearing, leaving me to stand. and look onto the wall of twinkling essence.
"Show my true face?" I ask aloud, hearing only a distant and indistinct music in response.
I doff my helm, securing it to my waist and watch as the barrier turns transparent, growing a mother-of-pearl gateway from its edges. Beyond the gate, I see a path into multicolored woods full of glowing flora from which the music seems to be coming.
I stare for a little while, considering.
Scripture says that entering the lands of the Fae is something that should only be done in cases of life and death — teachings from the Traveller and Watcher both. I am pursuing a monster that has taken thousands of lives now, so I feel that I have a fair argument to be made for this being life or death, even if only tangentially…
And I've been invited in, for some reason. The scripture definitely mentions nothing like that.
I'll just hedge my bets. Common knowledge about the Fae says that they don't like metal, so I settle in to disarm and doff my armor. It takes the better part of ten minutes to remove my mail, but once it's off, I lay Bane atop some of the pieces to prevent it touching the ground and potentially sapping anything from it.
As a final bit of preparation, I pull out my field codex, make a quick report, status update, and enter a note about where I'm going in case my things should be found. I don't expect I'll run into problems, but I know preciously little about the Fae beyond them being sticklers for language and probably benevolent.
Once I finish, I quickly shape a spell and cast my things in a field of nothingness to hide them.
After, I stare at the barrier for a while, reconsidering, but decide that today is not about to be the first day I deem myself a coward, and step into the barrier.
Passing through feels like passing through a wall of warm jelly that clings and sticks to my bodyglove, seeming to push essence into the channels covering its surface and filling me with a sense of positivity that's hard to shake.
The moment I'm beyond the gate, I suffer a sense of horrible vertigo and find myself standing in a glade with trees so dense in every direction that I wouldn't be able to fit through if I wanted to force my way out. Not even an inch of space between each. It might as well be a single, contiguous, tree.
In the center of the glade, atop an overgrown, blossom-covered, stump, is a figure that is dancing in place with twirls and hops while playing some sort of handheld flute with a jaunty tune.
The figure is six-ish feet tall, covered from the shoulders down by a cloak that looks to be made of autumn leaves woven together. Their head is a braided tangle of vines, flowers, and branches. Overall, their appearance is chaotic, but regal and deliberate.
Most importantly, I sense a nearly overwhelming aura presence coming off of them as they dance and play. I'm locked into a grove with something that feels more powerful that just about anything I've ever felt barring two very specific examples.
Music rises as I watch, accompanying the flute like an orchestra of strings and soft voices to accentuate the figure as they begin to speak.
And so came a hero,
Mighty and tall,
Broad and strong,
Disarmed and defenceless,
Bearing his face to all
Into the lands of the Fae
So sought he knowledge
So sought he guidance
So sought he help
But to what ends?
But by what means?
But at what cost?
Ye who enter the lands of Tale and Song
I beg of thee Tell me a Tale or Sing me a Song
Their voice is playful, singsong, and is accompanied by rising and falling music as they make their way through their introduction and questions.
I hesitate, worried at breaking unspoken rules of this place, but decide to start with a question. "I fear my tales may be boring to kyn such as the fae. Scripture, whether true or false, speaks to the fairfolk not liking violence and most of my personal stories are steeped in it. Is there something you would prefer? Should it be my own story, or simply one I share?"
The figure twists to face me, sapphire eyes glinting beneath the head of falling vines and flowers with some amusement.
The Fairfolk know of the world beyond our lands
Know of the nature of kyn and kith
Know of the things you do, Oh, Slayer of Monsters.
We care not for the nature of the story, only for hearing it.
You speak true, we do not prefer acts of violence.
But many of the best tales include it, worry not.
But I challenge you to tell a story that is not your own
We cannot speak without telling our own tale through our own perspectives
Such is the magic of Tale and Song.
A story told twice, even by the same kyn will differ
All telling's are true in the eyes of the storyteller and the listener
Tell me that story which sits closest to your heart — be it yours or someone else's to become yours.
Close to my heart? Is that a hint at their preferences? Or simply artistry? It's probably a waste of time for me to try to gage their wants that way, I don't have enough context.
"Then I would tell you a tale about one of the people on this Blessed World who sits in my heart and mind more than any other. A story of tragedy, but also one of hope."
The figure ceases their playing, instead hopping down off the stump to sit. They cross one leg over the other and and show a face of pure delight that eggs me on.
"It began twenty years ago, when I met this person who would become so dear to me on the day of her greatest loss…"