Breathe – Sheryl, the Fae-Touched – 10.12.2019

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It’s a quiet night at the Flourished Hook in Port Ffirst as the winter winds howl outside, pelting rain against its grand face. Most of the patrons have retreated to their rooms. The few who are about in the parlour of the main floor are in small, private conversations, spoken in low voices. The talk has mostly been about the war and its repercussions. For many in the establishment they were not there and thus did not see the fallout of what transpired. Phrases like, “I am glad it’s over,” and, “Maybe now things can go back to how they were before,” pass between soft lips and eager ears. Others include, “My business has expanded thanks to those adventurers,” and, “Don’t you mean mercenaries?” and, “I heard it was a war fought on four fronts!” and, “You won’t catch me welcoming such riffraff into my estate anytime soon, they are all trouble.”

A bellhop passes through these snippets of conversations on their way from the kitchens to the stairs, heading up to the guest rooms in the upper floors, carrying a steaming bottle, a cup, and a small platter of crackers, honeys and cheeses. They eventually come to a door and knock. There’s a slight pause and then the door opens. A small face peers out and a tiny warm smile spreads across it.

“Ah, thank you for being so prompt with my order,” says the small woman, hands reaching out and taking the tray. She subtly passes two gold pieces into the hand of the bellhop. “For your troubles,” she says and closes the door.

She brings the tray over to the small desk where there are a few lit candles and some parchment and ink laid out. Pouring herself a steaming cup of herbal tea, she adds some spices from her pouch, stirring it all in. Blowing on the cup and then delicately taking a sip, the liquid is very hot. But the moment it hits her throat it soothes her and she exhales a sigh of satisfaction.

Settling back into the chair, Sheryl picks up her quill and starts to write, nibbling on some cheese as she does so.

My Lady,

I write this letter to you knowing I do not have a way to deliver it. It’s more of a personal indulgence as I need to write down my thoughts somewhere. So why not to someone whom I know cares about what adventures I have been on?

I have done so much since coming to the Material Plane! There’s always something happening every week – someone or another needing help with one thing or another. But... I may need a break from adventures for a bit – perhaps this week will be a week of rest. Winter Solstice is nearly upon us and war really takes it out of anyone. I am not accustomed to such large scale battles like the ones I have helped in. I do my best to emulate you wherever I go, but I can still only hold a candle to your brilliant flame.

The war I mention was between a Nation of Wind – K’ul Goran – and tribes of Giants… and Shunned… and earth Elves… and us “adventurers” who were lending our hands/weapons/magics/songs to help. As it turns out it was all a cunning distraction from the true and sinister goal, which I still have no clue as to its true meaning or purpose.

The giants who initiated the war with the K’ul Goranians (a nation of minotaurs and air genasi) were being controlled by a fiend – a Yugoloth I have heard said – and my guess is they wanted to speed up this process of bloodletting to allow some sort of summoning or portal to open up. See, the lands of K’ul Goran before the war ended were such that if blood was spilt upon the ground, the ground would drink it up, not leaving a drop behind. At the height of the final battle, this same ground broke out in lines of orange fire all across the country and a voice was heard everywhere saying, “The ground is sated.” Now the land does not absorb the blood, but it is instead scarred with hellish lines all across its face. It was… terrifying. I have never felt such magics before and I hope to never feel them again.

The longer I am here, the more I see what you meant by how strange and different the people of this realm are. There are many things I still do not understand, like how people seem to covet these things called coins as if they are a source of power, or how little people seem to understand the importance of a word once given is not to be broken… But in the same breath, they are all so infinitely unique, each with their own wants and desires. Passions that drive them and inspire such stories I have only heard of!

Some people’s stories are the stuff that nightmares are made of, however. A tiefling friend of mine whom I have gone on many adventures with, and in fact had fought beside in the final battle in K’ul Goran, has been hunted by a being called a revenant for months! This vengeful spirit finally caught up with him when we were attempting to enjoy a brief respite on the beach and it was only due to the smarts of the least likely person that myself and the others were able to save him! Well, he still died, for a short while. But he is alive again and now free of a cursed item that had been the start of all his troubles. I do hope he has learned something from this. He seems like the type to maybe not learn as quickly when it comes to magical instances.

My lady will be happy to hear though that, excluding the aforementioned friend, I have met so many wonderful people who are a little smarter, and whom I am growing to love with each passing day. Many of these new found friends I would love to bring back with me when I return to you. It’s hard to tell others about you though when I am unable to say your name or even to really talk about you at all. But maybe a few of them will want to come for a visit.

The quill hovers over the parchment, a blob of ink balancing on the tip. Her eyes snag on two words in that last sentence over and over again.

(a visit)

Sheryl flops back in the high-backed chair of the writing desk, carefully putting down her quill. She thinks back to her unexpected return to the Feywild two weeks prior. Maybe she should send a message to Kruxeral, find out what happened. He wouldn’t have gotten in trouble, surely…

She shakes her head. Kruxeral is fine. He’s a mischievous one and he doesn’t have the nickname Master of Lies for nothing.

But maybe she should still send him a message anyways. Just to be sure.

Pushing the chair back, Sheryl gets up and goes over to where her harp is resting against the headboard of the bed. Not wanting to overthink the words she wishes to say, she picks up her harp and lets her fingers trail over the unicorn hair strings to find the one that resonates the best. She closes her eyes, letting the harp speak to her...

There.

She plucks the string and a clear C echoes in her room, gaining resonance. As it builds she speaks in Sylvan the message she wishes to convey.

“Though my visit was brief, I am glad I saw you Krux. Tell me, how are things in the 'wilds? How fairs our Great Lady?”

The music is sucked out of the room and there is a vacuum of emptiness as her words are sent across the Material Plane and into the Fey lands. There’s a moment where Sheryl holds her breath, hoping the message sends properly, and then she smells it. The Glen. It’s all around her and she knows Krux has heard her voice in his head.

“Little Mer...” he replies in Sylvan and she blushes at the way he says her true name. “The Lady is as fair as ever. She... misses you, though not like me.” Sheryl smiles at that last part.

There’s a pause. It stretches out for a beat, then two. Sheryl concentrates harder on the spell a tiny worm of worry digging its way into a pit in her stomach. She can tell he is still there, but there’s something off.

“Make the most of your time with the mortals.”

And just like that he is gone along with the feeling and smells of the Glen. Sheryl is left standing in the middle of her room, the rain pelting against the shutters of the Flourished Hook as they strain against the winds trying to tear them open.

She puts her harp down on the bed and her brow furrows in worry. Maybe her unexpected return to the Feywild had more consequences than she realised. Perhaps sending this letter would be a good idea?

She walks over to the partially finished letter, glancing over what has been written so far. The words fall flat. They do not convey what she truly means, how she truly feels. The Lady would get bored of reading it after the first sentence. She cannot send this.

Picking up the letter, she brings it over to the small hearth at the far end of the room opposite the too large bed. With a wave of her hand the fire ignites anew, and she tosses the parchment onto the flames. She stands there hypnotised by the beauty of watching the letter darken at the edges and split open in it’s centre as the heat of the flames consume pulp and ink alike until only ashes remain.

Make the most of your time with the mortals.

Sheryl lets herself feel the storm that rages outside, wrapping her thoughts in a blanket of white noise. It is unclear what is waiting for her when she returns to the Feywild. She could try sending a message to the Lady herself, but she isn’t sure she has the courage to do so. She has pretended to be strong and brave for a while now in hopes that it would actually become true.

Instead, she’s still just a lost and scared child wandering through another form of dark woods.

Sheryl pulls the covers off of the bed, bringing it over to the hearth, wrapping herself in its fluffiness to make a little fae-burrito with only her face visible and lit by the fire. The crackle of flames and her small, slight breathing are the only sounds she can stand to listen to right now. She watches the flames sway back and forth in a dance of their own making, which eventually lull her to sleep. That night her dreams are fraught with half-remembered memories, running through woods dark and deep, searching for a way out, any way out, and shadows reaching forth to clutch at her, keeping her imprisoned in the dark.