Task Force Ettin – Sheryl, the Fae-Touched – 23.12.2020

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It was time for an upgrade.

The familiar wood panelled room Sheryl had been living in the Four Fair Winds for the past year or more had served her well. It was comfortable, the size just right for her, and the style of the furnishings did bring a smile to her face. She had been thinking for a while now, what with Fort Ettin’s recent creation that maybe she should look to move there. But there was something that made her feel that her place was here, in Daring.

The Gilded Mirror, frequented by many of the Fey, would be the natural assumption one may make when hearing the Daughter of Summer mention such a thing as upgrading her standard of living. Though Sheryl seemed to have a close relationship with Leocanto – as one artist would with another – she would not deign to live in the Mirror. The parties, though exquisite and totally her sort of revelry, were not what she wanted. No, our Daughter of Summer required a place not only to live but to work, to piece together the threads she has slowly been gathering since Queen Sarastra’s assassination.

Her request to Yoru Bronzebeater, the dwarven owner of The Winds, stemmed from wanting to purchase a loom. After spending the past several weeks at Fitzgrove Fashionables learning how to use one, as well as other sewing techniques, Sheryl found she did a lot of great thinking whilst her hands wove threads together. It was not much different than music, though she could not always be playing her harp at any time of the day. Besides, she needed to keep improving her skills – if not for one personal project she had yet to find the ingredients for, then for the one she was currently starting over from scratch. Again.

“You are not so fussy with your music, Merla. Why do you think it is not good enough?” Astra asks as she steps through the doors of the small terraced balcony that connects to the sitting room. It is chilly outside, but the fresh air helps the fae-bard feel a bit more relaxed. The winged unicorn shakes herself down, a little dappling of snow falling off her wings and onto the plush carpet as she tucks them in.

Yoru had looked at Sheryl almost incredulously when she had requested permission for Astra to be allowed entrance into her new rooms.

“Those rooms have been used by foreign dignitaries, merchants from Waterdeep, even nobles from Neverwinter! I cannot-”

“Have I not been a good tenant in the room I have been using for the past year, Yoru?” Sheryl pointed out, gently nudging the coin purse forward to the blonde dwarf. “Have I not performed here, generating more business for you and this wonderful establishment?”

“Yes, though you have not performed for us in months. And I do recall one instance with three noble women and an upended table a year or so ago,” she countered, a stern look in her eyes.

Sheryl waved her hand dismissively. “A misunderstanding. I paid any damages they wrought on your exquisite china before you even had to ask.” She does not mention it was the three women in question that kicked up the fuss in the first place, nor does she mention Kruxeral’s hand in things. The memories bring a mischievous light to her eyes.

“Yes, that you did,” Yoru admits, gruffly. Then she shakes her head. “But to have it occupied by an adventurer, even one as distinguished as yourself-” She huffs. “Can you not go to that new Fort they built?”

“I hail from the Summer Court, from The Perihelion itself,” Sheryl said. Something in her expression stopped the owner of the Four Fair Winds and she was mesmerised, unable to look away or speak. “I do not boast of my ties to just anyone but if you are worried what people will say then you can assure them that those rooms are occupied by a fey of noble standing from one of the most powerful Courts of the Feywild.”

Yoru had nodded.

“You need not worry about Astra. She is as clean as the stars are bright in the night sky,” Sheryl had concluded with a pleasant smile.

“Because, Astra,” Sheryl starts, getting up to prestidigitate the melting snow off the carpet and her companion. “It just isn’t. It’s important that it is right – not for me but for him.” A small breeze drifts into the room and Sheryl shivers a little.

“You have enough to think about do you not?” Astra asks, looking over to the writing desk. It is strewn with papers, some of them compositions, others notes and half started letters. She turns around to face her mistress, bringing her face down so she could lightly nip at the braided updo Sheryl’s hair is in. “I do not wish to see you stress over less important things.”

Sheryl lets out a long sigh. It was getting late, the light quickly fading as it wants to do in winter. The fae-bard closes the heavy double doors to the terrace then draws the sheer curtains across the glass panelled doors with another sigh.

“It’s important to me…” she says softly into the curtains. Astra watches her mistress as she carefully disassembles the medium sized loom to tuck it away in a corner by an elegant vase, then steps over to the large fireplace preparing to rest for the evening.

Once her new weaving tools have been put away, Sheryl pulls on a green rope by the door. Shortly afterwards there is a soft knock at her chambers. She greets the member of staff warmly, thanking them for bringing her supper promptly. The fae-bard lays out their food on a low table in front of the fireplace – fresh seasonal fruits and sugared delicacies for Astra and a beautifully cooked salmon drizzled with some sort of golden sauce, fresh vegetable salad and steaming rice. Just before she sits down, Sheryl pauses and looks over to the writing desk. Astra delicately starts eating from the large plate of peeled oranges as the fae-bard goes over to retrieve some of the papers filled with her writing.

“I want to go over a few things whilst we eat,” Sheryl says aloud, tucking her feet under her as she sits down on the floor. “I have been looking back on what we learned from the investigation we did with Heret and the others last week.”

“Of course. I am here to help in any way I can Merla.”

Sheryl’s smile is quick and bright as she lays out the pieces of paper around their food. As the final piece is put on the table, looking at her notes spread out she feels a twinge ripple through her heart.

I wish Arkadius was here. He’d enjoy trying to solve this with me…

Her brow creases for a brief moment before it clears.

“Cold Iron,” Sheryl states, suppressing an involuntary shiver as she points to a small piece of parchment beside her plate. “Aurellia and the council found it in the Queen’s cup. It is hard to get in part because it is mined very deep underground. But also,” she holds up a finger, “it needs to be prepared in a certain way, otherwise it’s not poisonous to Fey.”

“You have a bolt with an arrow head of Cold Iron do you not?” Astra asks.

“I do. I’ve had it for a while…” She glances at Astra, feeling the unasked question through their bond. Sheryl picks up the piece of paper. “I took it because I did not want anyone else to have it. What if it were to be used against someone I love?” She lets go of the paper like it burns and it flutters down to the table. “What if I need to use it to protect someone I love?”

Astra remains silent. Sheryl takes a bite of her food. The sauce on the fish is surprisingly sweet.

“The Ladies of Secrets told us that Queen Sarastra was much hated, that she repressed people,” Sheryl continues, shuffling some papers around as she takes another bite. “That is motive enough but without knowing specifically who, that leaves a very long list to go through. The only clue we have, beside someone knowledgeable in Cold Iron poisoning, is the Queen’s death allows whomever orchestrated it to ‘reclaim what was lost.’”

She pulls out a list of names to lay beside her glass of feywine.

“We also have a name – Livara – of the elven girl who was a last minute recommendation by Leocanto to work as catering staff for the Accords.” She shuffles some more papers and pulls out a letter, signed with extravagant embellishments. “A letter like this was given to Silas Postworth, the head chef at Fort Ettin. However, when I asked both of them about Livara they had gaps in their memories. Leocanto said he does not remember filling out this recommendation form, though Heret proved the writing on this example and the one Silas had matches Leo’s handwriting.” A crease appears between her brow.

“What about the chef? Do you believe his claim of remembering every face he has worked with over the past thirty years?” Astra asks.

“Yes,” Sheryl replies without hesitation. “I could read it from his thoughts that such a boast was true. Both he and Leo had gaps in their memories that can only be explained by memory altering magic.”

“Does that mean the spring eladrin that was asking around about Queen Sarastra is the one we are looking for?” Astra queried. She has gone back to eating her oranges. “Witnesses claimed to see her using mind reading magic much like you use.”

Sheryl shakes her head slowly, sitting back. “That’s what doesn’t make sense to me. This Livara was so meticulous in making sure no one remembered what they looked like. Yet the spring eladrin was going around, interrogating people at seemingly random to find out about Queen Sarastra – where she was, where she would be, and when – and Queen Nicnevin, the ruler of the Court of Witches.”

“Hmm,” Astra intones, eyeing Sheryl as she licks the last of the orange juices from her plate.

“Leo saw her come through the portal at the Gilded Mirror the night before with a bunch of other fey, though it was clear from his memories she was on her own…” Sheryl absently takes another bite of her food, thinking back to what she saw: A woman with blonde, green and copper hair wearing dark green robes with vine patterns embroidered on the hems. Why does that seem like something I should know?

A thought comes to her, falling into her mind like a stone into a crystal clear lake.

“Astra… What if they aren’t the same person?” Astra’s ears swivel towards her, at attention. “Think about it: It’s sloppy to have removed every other trace of what you look like except this. We assumed at the time that they are one in the same but now, thinking about it, that doesn’t make sense.” Sheryl’s eyes shine brighter as she looks to Astra. She pushes away her half eaten plate of food as she sits up straighter.

“Anyone who met Livara recognises the name but cannot remember what she looks like. They have gaps in their memories as if they’ve been erased-”

“But the spring eladrin is clearly a proficient mage. Would she not be able to modify a person’s memory?” Astra counters.

“I have no doubt that she could, but she didn’t. Not like Livara did.” Sheryl points out. “The spring eladrin was in disguise until Ivan and those he was with confronted her as she was interrogating Norbert, then she Plane Shifted away – all before the ceremony. She wasn’t near the food and drink from what we’ve been able to tell, unlike Livara. Why go through the effort of having a disguise and run away once you’ve been found out, and not erase the memory of those who saw what you really looked like as you have been doing up until then?”

Astra lifts her head, her spiraling horn glowing in the firelight. “Yes, I start to see your point.” There’s a feeling of pride in the winged unicorns’ words.

“That must mean that Livara either has a very distinct look to them or would be recognisable to the people here. There is even the possibility that Livara isn’t even their real name.”

“You and Faye are not the first, nor will you be the last fey to have separate names for your different lives,” Astra says. Sheryl half smiles, but something in her gut twists, a strange feeling coming over her. Astra turns an eye to her mistress. “What is it Merla?”

Sheryl is quiet for a moment, rubbing the tips of her calloused fingers.

“I don’t think of my life here in Daring as separate from my life back home,” she utters quietly. The fire crackles as the flames give the cutlery on her plate an orange glow on its edges.

“The people here call you Sheryl, though that is not your Name.”

“But it is, in a way. It’s a Name I chose for myself.” She turns to gaze at the dancing flames. “Though recently I have felt that even that name is not who I truly am.”

The shadow’s coil closer, their depth becoming oceans as the orange, magenta and yellow light emanating from the imperial topaz in her diadem glows brighter than the fire.

“Do you think it is possible for someone’s Name to change?”

The world seems to hold its breath. Astra watches her mistress closely, unsure what to say. After a beat, blue topaz eyes look at her.

“Maybe not,” Sheryl says with a half smile and a tilt of her head.

Whatever was happening, whatever attention was being drawn to their conversation in that moment retreats back. Astra looks around and not for the first time wonders at the capricious heart of the fey. She knows her mistress is different, but how that difference manifests itself keeps surprising her at every turn.

The winged unicorn shifts her attention to eating her sugary delicacies.

“Do you suppose there is a connection between what happened to Queen Sarastra and the Cabal of the Black Heart’s plot against Queen Titania?” she asks, chewing on a strawberry shaped marzipan.

Sheryl blinks, coming out of her thoughts. She absently bites her lip as she looks at the sheets with her research from the Academy on them. Again, she wishes her best friend were here.

“It is very possible,” she starts slowly. “The Unseelie Cabals are full of outcasts, vile criminals, and murderously ambitious fey – all things not tolerated in the Fey Courts. The rulers, the Archfey, are all different, but there is a thread of understanding, a connection that I believe makes them bound to certain conventions. Hence why they are Seelie Fey.

“But these Cabals are not like the Courts. They are smaller, more dissident and fractured. It’s possible another Cabal was the one that executed the plot to murder Queen Sarastra as what better way to overthrow the Seelie Fey than taking out the one who sits on the Twilight Throne?”

Sheryl taps her finger next to a name on the list by her glass.

“Archon Varra was told to kill Arvel by the powerful fey controlling the Cabal of the Black Heart. This Matriarch or Patriarch has reasons to hate my Queen Mother, but I do not know what those reasons are…”

“Queen Titania has grown in power considerably. Fey are not quick to forgive any slight and they have long memories of the wrongs done to them.”

Astra’s words hit her like a bucket of ice cold water.

“Do you think-” she stops, the words catching in her throat. The thought is just too horrible, too awful to even consider.

“Do I think Master Kruxeral may be part of this plot?”

Sheryl whips around to look at her.

Astra stares back unblinkingly.

“It would be foolish to not consider it.”

Sheryl feels a heat rise within, the air rippling around her. Astra levels her gaze at her mistress but does not back down.

“I know you feel deeply for him, but consider this: He estranged himself from you because of a choice that had nothing to do with him and was entirely yours to make. He ignored you, avoiding you for months. It was only when you reached out to him, after being freed from the Cloak, after being banished from your home that he would see you.” Her voice softens. “I will not tell you what to do Merla, but I will tell you my concerns.”

Sheryl stares at Astra, a flurry of emotions tearing through her.

There’s an unexpected knock at her door.

Quick as the wind, Sheryl gets up and steps away from Astra, light feet taking her to the door. There is a roiling mess of chaotic Feywild magic and rippling shadows surrounding her when she grabs the handle and wrenches it open, startling the attendant.

“Oh! L-Letter for you ma’am- Miss- Er, I mean-”

Sheryl looks down to see a familiar scrawl. She catches the faint whiff of brimstone and she becomes herself again.

“‘Lady’ will do,” Sheryl says with a slight smile. “May I have my letter?” She holds out her hand expectantly.

The attendant looks down and sees she is clutching it to her chest. “Yes! Apologies, my Lady.” She holds it out and Sheryl takes it, slipping a gold coin into her hand without her realising. She gives the young woman one last smile before softly closing the door.

“What is it Merla?” Astra asks, standing up.

“It’s a letter from Arkadius! Though why did he choose to…” She trails off as she begins to read.


She reads his letter twice, unable to believe it the first time. But there is no denying that it is Arkadius’ penmanship.

Her first ever, dearest and best of friends, has left her.

Is this the pain you felt when I left the Summer Court to return here Kruxeral?

She picks out phrases on the parchment as tears fall from her eyes.

No. It is not the same.

I promise that one day I will either be dead, or return to your side.

This is undeniably worse.