When faced with matters of intense complexity, I find it helps to begin afresh with a description of the circumstance. Herein, I make my attempt.

  Where is there to begin but the beginning? Six years ago, I followed a clue back to my home nation seeking the Door Between Realms. The clue was a quote from a child of an Etnfrandian defector. The important segment read thus, “There was no reason to ever return, for his [her mother’s] true home was locked at the last ‘gate’ long before we left Etnfrandia.” Gate and Door being the same word in Old Elvish, which was the word she used in the middle of the modern dialect. But I digress.

  Some two years passed before I located the Door, which I discovered using a spell of my own invention. The spell, Luth-sight, is based on my own sketching of an artifact which was found in Etnfrandia and subsequently misplaced. Again, a digression.

  It took the other four years to decipher and then alter the runes to allow my passage through. In the meantime, my social position required that I entertain such distractions as festivals and even a matronage in order to maintain the illusion that I would remain indefinitely in Etnfrandia. Only thus would I be allowed to operate without scrutiny, or rather harassment, from the House of Tradition. My project is in its entirety illegal to the peoples of the mountains.

  Once I accessed the other realm, I gathered two friends, scholar and soldier, and asked the former to hire a mercenary thief. For in my search of my nation, I had discovered several very potent magical artifacts stored in the Center of Culture. I assumed they would enlighten us on the nature of the fae gods and magic we pursued. To some degree, they have.

  We were caught in our theft, and so my matron-to-be, my protector, my fellow scholar, the hired hand, and myself all escaped into the Faeworld.

  The artifacts in question are as follows: The Bow of Anruwan, an artifact infused with sun magic that pulsates through the target when struck; The Eye of Cialmara, a crystal which allows the user to scry either the future of himself or the present of a specified person for a few moments; The Boots of Sabaed, sabatons which silence the steps of the wearer; The Staff of Dervalia, a staff grip which stores a spell of great power, currently one that steals life from the victim and lends it to one’s allies; and the Necklace of Boidhan (or Beauty), a powerful trinket that forces all who see the wearer to behave as though charmed by them. I will note that the names I gave are my invention to use only until the time their true names are discovered.

  These are all crafted by the same expert enchanter for an unknown purpose, but it is easy to suppose that they were gifts to—or in honor of—the gods they depict. Gifts from whom, I am not certain. I begin to suspect Skunyuv herself, for I know of no other legend who could create such artifacts. The singularness stems not only from the complexity of the artificery, but also how the magic is written in Luth, not ink nor engraving, and has not faded like the spells of modern artificers.

  Regarding the exploration of the Faeworld, there are a few things to note. First, we stumbled upon a Watcher, and she still serves Dara. This means the gods of old remain the rulers over this realm. Second, pixies are vile, vile creatures and prove that this realm’s fabric truly is the energy of Chaos. This fabric weaves the land into a collective sentience, evidenced by the lashing of trees at the harm of bushes, and the anger of the shoth as we endeavor to exit Ferngal’s lands. Creatures with more independent sentience seem to feel the connection less. Thirdly, my betrothed is, to my surprise, a Wood Elf raised in Etnfrandia, and she has hidden a practice of innate magic for most of her life. That, when combined with the Ceann of Tradition’s secret capabilities of Mind Magic, suggests that the closure of the Door did not inhibit the use of innate Fae magic even among those living in Etnfrandia. My own inability is unique.

  As a final addition, I will consider the strangeness of our companion, the mercenary. Syrdin, who I do not doubt will read this entry also, has chosen to join our company in the Fae of zheir own volition, yet refuses to disclose why. Zhe is a night elf, but has shown no love for Sabaed. Zheir use of the degendered pronouns is indicative of a stretch of life spent in slavery of the Kravtic dwarves, but it occurs to me that this is only an assumption. Zhe could be an escapee of the Dwarves, a defector from one of the three Night Elf clans, or simply a mercenary in search of some treasure here among us. Perhaps all three. In any case, it seems zhe wants—or rather requires—my survival. Regardless, Captain Kridarnn and I grow increasingly wary of zhem, and intend to excuse zhem from our party as soon as we reach the Yellow Wood.

  Altogether, I know not what to conclude. That we should seek out gods themselves rather than their temples would be one application. As pointed out by our scholar and Lorthen’s clergywoman, Mellark, the god Cialmara, also called Lorthen by humans, would be most desirable. But our trajectory has us heading deeper into the Woodland domain, and so if we are to meet a god prior to a temple, it would be Dara. But first—

  From Fennorin’s Notes from the Fae, Vol II

  “Still referring to that brat as your betrothed?” Syrdin sneered over Fenn's shoulder. “Oh, and what's this about not making any assumptions about me? That's good!”

  “Eep!” Fenn startled and dropped his notebook in the red dirt between roots. He reached for it, snapping it closed. “Seeing as neither of us have formally canceled the matronniage, yes. Though I expect it's only a matter of time before she tires of me.”

  Syrdin snorted. “You don't have to be passive.”

  “It will hurt her less to be the one who cancels it.”

  His statement earned an overdramatic eye roll. “Like she deserves to have her feelings spared.”

  He dared to glare at the mercenary. Deserving or not, Fenn would spare them. She’d been through enough, and all because he’d chosen to be secretive. Of course, he couldn’t have known she would approve of his more magical pursuits. He’d thought he’d needed to lie.

  “I'm just saying, she's been a pain in the ass these last few days.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but Syrdin wasn't wrong. Stomping along, singing her most obnoxious rhymes, being a general menace to both nature and the mission.

  A screech in the air broke the conversation.

  “Oi! Not again!” Syrdin leapt up and started kicking out tent pegs. “Look alive people!” The first tent collapsed on Mell and Gale at the same moment the first shoth swooped for it. “Time to move!”

  Fenn ran for Krid's tent, book and satchel in hand, but the drakemen roared out of the entry before he arrived. His bellow sent shoth in the neighboring trees fleeing in terror, disrupting the path of the much larger ones diving for their camp.

  It was the third time in a row that they'd tried to stop for rest and the giant, axe-headed shoth had harassed them. So far, they hadn’t tried to seriously harm anyone. Only, Ferngal’s temper was running short, and the five were running out of energy.

  Gale tumbled out of their pile of blue fabric first, bleary-eyed and tangled in hair. Fenn hated to admit how satisfying it was for her to be truly disheveled for once. She reached for a dislodged tent peg and threw it at an assailing shoth. “Let me sleep, for beauty’s sake!” she cried.

  The peg lobbed short, and the shoth in question swooped back around and clawed at that mess of hair, tossing it over Gale’s face with a maniacal cackle.

  Mell threw the canvas from her head and shot a semi-familiar gesture toward the shoth, her circlet lighting. “LEAVE,” she commanded.

  It obeyed. Its companion did not. It dove at Krid, who swiped the air beneath it.

  Fenn grabbed a clod of dirt and gave it direction with magic. It flew past the shoth, which dipped and spun toward him. He hit the ground before it could knock him over. “We're going! We're going!” He screamed in Faerish. “Tell your master we're trying to leave, will you!”.

  It squawked and veered away, disappearing swiftly into the tangle of dark branches and broad blue leaves.

  Krid offered him a hand up, which he took gratefully, dusting crusted dirt from his shirt. He may as well have not for all the stains marring the white.

  “If this keeps up, the weaker of us will be fainting of exhaustion before the beasts ever kill us,” Krid growled with a glance toward Mell.

  The woman rubbed her eyes. “Just do me a favor and let them eat me next time.”

  “Oh, Mell!” Gale hauled her up. “You shouldn't say such things!” She set about combing fingers through her tangled mane.

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  “Give me a few hours of sleep and I won't,” Mell grumbled.

  Fenn would've liked just an hour, but it was necessary to get moving again. He looked to the always bright sky and prayed in silence that today would be the day they crossed from forest to woods. That today, they could finally take a breather and focus on the real mission: to find the truth. Who were these gods really, and what happened to separate them from the elves?

  He and Gale sat watch, or rather he paced and she plucked half-heartedly at a gently glowing stringed instrument she’d made from the air.

  She sighed for maybe the twentieth time.

  “Is something on your mind, Fair Gale?”

  “I'm not a Fair-Seen anymore, Krid. Just Gale.”

  That was just as well. He’d never learned what the title meant, anyway. “And that bothers you?”

  She struck a sour note and stopped. “Syrdin bothers me. Fenn bothers me. Being here and not at home bothers me. And the threat of death, too. The title is nothing.”

  Krid grunted affirmation, then remembered to nod for her. Bothered was a small word for her deep pain. He thought he shouldn’t have asked, but when she still didn’t play, he realized she wanted to talk. “Have you ever left your home before?”

  “No.” Twenty-one sighs.

  “Never in your life?”

  “I've left my house, but not the mountain.”

  “And you're, what? Over 200 years old?”

  “Two hundred twenty-six”

  Krid scratched his throat, struggling to understand such a life. It was an awfully long time to live, especially to be so youthful. And all in one place. And then to leave for the first time with your lover–or something like that–only to find he's been keeping secrets. “Must be scary.”

  “What?” She looked up from her moping.

  “To leave after all that time having known nothing else. And surrounded by people you don't know, even one you've been taught is your enemy.”

  Water gathered in her eyes. The swiped at one before it could escape there. “Syrdin is my enemy. Night Elves are.”

  “Zhe may be, but not because—”

  “No, you don't understand. Zheir people killed my parents. Over nothing. Just to kill.”

  “Not even you lived three thousand years ago.”

  “I'm a Wood Elf, Krid. Adopted by Etnfrandians.”

  “Ah.” She meant her birth parents, then. “But still, the Deathdolers have not been at war in… a couple centuries.” His words slowed as his mind made the connection. Gale's own parents, murdered. In the time of ten Brikhvarnni generations, only one elven one had passed. He would not have forgiven the Dwarves if it had been his uncle, not his great-grandfather, who’d died at war. Not any more than he’d forgiven them for kidnapping his cousin’s son. “I see.”

  “If Syrdin is any older than I, zhe could've been there.”

  “I hadn't thought of it that way.”

  “Just how young are you?” She asked.

  The irony struck him. She behaved like a child and out-aged him by three lifespans. It was little wonder most folk called elves unchanging. “Thirty-six.”

  “But—! That's school-aged!”

  He grunted. “Fenn explained to me that if I were born at the same time as an elf, then I would die at the same time he started his first apprenticeship under a Master. Even before your conscription.” Krid’s great-grandchild might be an adult at the same time as Fenn's child. He hoped they might be friends.

  “How can that be?”

  “Fenn said we begin aging faster when you begin to age slower as you grow.”

  “Really?” Her head cocked, eyes dried and wide open. Suddenly, he could see it: the same hungry curiosity that drove Fenn to learn. Where Fenn's was rabid, hers was excited. His informed. Hers lively. Fenn needed to know. She wanted to. They were complimentary.

  He chuckled at the realization. “That's how he explained it to me. I'm sure he would use other words for you. He is a good teacher in that way.”

  “When did he teach you?” This, she needed to know.

  “He visited my people in Brikhvarnn. For the purpose of studying our Night Elf colonies. He was writing a history book, I think, or a revision? Anyway, he also asked them about magic. That part I never understood."

  She sobered, her voice falling low. “He mainly practiced magic, didn't he? Like the arcane engines and the–the artifacts and Door.”

  “Yes.”

  Her head hung. “I guess we had that secret in common.”

  Secret… “He didn’t tell you? Why?”

  “He… I guess he didn’t trust me.” Her voice wavered. Krid had discovered the wound that most ached; the same one that made anger churn in his belly toward Fenn.

  “And you are to be his woman?” He rumbled in distaste. “You two are a mess.”

  Gale’s face turned red. “You make it sound as though he would own me. You should know that’s not how it works in Etnfrandia.”

  It was a little offensive that she would suggest he believed otherwise, but it could have been his words. His woman, he’d said. “True in most cultures. But you would be joined, a part of one another. Belonging, but not owned.”

  “As a family. To start one.” Her hand strangled her instrument.

  “Yes.” He waited, watching the pick-headed shoth roost in a tree, but Gale neither played nor spoke. He backtracked, then, to confirm why Fenn would lie about his work. Fenn was no engineer, unless magicians were counted among the engineers in Hethbarn. “I keep hearing that we would be arrested in Etnfrandia for using magic. Your people hate it so much?”

  “The House of Tradition hates magic, and so the people fear it more than anything!” She answered.

  The House must have been some kind of ruling group. Fenn had lied to protect himself. And maybe to protect her, but that was Fenn’s tale to tell. “Mine fear it, too. But we don't possess any of our own. And we don't get arrested for it. The only consequence is the anger of your neighbor, and the shunning of your friends.”

  “That sounds plenty terrible!”

  “I imagine it would be. I don't know anyone who's tried it.”

  “But the foreigners with magic like Fenn, do you not hate them?” She truly was nosey for novelty.

  “Not as long as they leave us alone.”

  “Oh.” Gale tapped her fingers on that glowing instrument. “And you didn't mistrust Fenn?”

  A wistfulness quirked his mouth. It would’ve been hard to mistrust that sunburnt pile of limbs.“Fenn is peaceful. While in Brikhvarnn, he acted with more honor by our own standards than most of us do. And besides, we will buy enchantments like he makes. We only don’t have our own magicians.”

  “He… honor? What does that mean?”

  “It means he acted like he was one of us, even though he’s soft-skinned. We call folk like him Newts.”

  “Are your people very different from the ones where Fenn lived?”

  “As different as I hear Etnfrandia is from Hethbarn, so are we, but in different ways. Fenn must have worked hard to learn and respect our ways.”

  “Oh.” She sat in silence for the longest she had ever done in his presence, thinking. “Krid?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think Fenn will ever apologize to me?”

  “You live for hundreds of years, Miss Gale. He will. It’s a matter of how many you want to waste waiting on words.” Action was better. Action was always better. This duel of words she waged with Fenn, waiting to see who would apologize first–it was a waste of time. But finally, he understood just how much time she thought she could waste: not days, not months, but years–even decades.

  Gale frowned and began plucking a sad tune. She, too, was done with words for the moment.