This thread will be a 'fragment' thread where I imagine scenes potentially related to Cal'ele'miur and the Fae world on the other side of Audalis. Given that it's mostly brainstorming and getting a sense of feeling for what might work and what might not, it's best to consider all fragments here as on the drawing board - things in them may be included in the final draft, or they may not. Nothing here is 'canon' to Audalis. At least unless it's actually published in the Audalis section

Just felt like making a place here for me to delve into the Fae connected to Audalis.

Annnnnnnnd following!

I can't wait!

I'll be watching!

Sitting in her chair, idly watching the loaves of bread on the counter as they cooled, an older, Syl woman turned to the child beside her with a sigh, "What did I tell you about playing in the forest?"

"Be home before sunset, don't go too far, and don't step into a ring of mushrooms," The child replied, face downcast in a pouting sulk.

The woman nodded, "But you did, didn't you?"

The child fidgeted, but under the woman's stare eventually nodded.

"Thought as much," She looked to the front door, where shoes the child had worn still lay. She knew the soil of the forest, the grass, the trees. The soil that clung to the child's shoes were of somewhere very different.

"But it wasn't bad!" The child protested, "It was pretty! And-"

"You were lucky."

The child blinked, "lucky?"

The woman nodded, pulling the child into her arms, "It's an old tale, older than even me. To step into the ring is to throw wide the gates. Who knows where you might end up. Some records held a beautiful land, greener than even our forests. Others wrote of an icy nightmare, where a slip might send you plummeting to certain doom. And there are even others. But, who knows if you will make it back. Many don't, especially children. They go missing, never to be found again, if the parents are lucky."

The child gulped, "It didn't seem that bad. I walked in, took a look, I walked out."

"Write down what you saw," The woman replied, "I'll see it added to the archives some day."

"What if I don't know the words?"

"You will, in time. So long as you stay in this world to write about it. Those that chase the other side eventually never come back."

I chose wisely, enlisting your help. 

"Cal'ele'miur?!" The khord looked back at the human as if they had grown antlers, "Nope. I ain't taking you on some daft fool's errand no matter who you speak for."

The man sighed, "So little is known of that land, and in the chance that there are settlements there, what might we be able to trade from the people there? Or so my house-"

"If it's so important to your bloody house, you can build the ship and make up the crew yerselves," the khord replied gruffly, "Every sailor knows to steer clear those islands."

"Why is that, pray tell?"

"Buy me a round, and perhaps I'll tell you."

With another sigh, the man went to the bar, eventually returning with a stiff drink for the khord.

After a large gulp, the khord turned to look the man dead in the eyes, "There's the normal dangers, of course. Rocks 'neath the waves, it's uncharted waters, might even be a reef in some places. Don't matter though. Were it just normal dangers that would be fine. Hells, even the mist that clings to those islands wouldn't be that bad, hey? Constant weather is reliable weather, regardless what form it takes."

The khord leaned in, "No, the real dangers out there are the creatures. Can't see them coming in the mist, and yet I heard the mist parts for them. Like curtains being moved aside for some grand entrance. Or some of them anyway. Who can tell what rumours go to what stories, where Cal'ele'miur is involved."

The man blinked and withdrew a journal and quill, set to making notes. He'd need some manner of reason to provide his household as to why this venture was a bad idea. No sooner had he pulled them out when the khord slammed the mug on the table, "Another."

Rolling his eyes, the man did as he was bidden, bringing the khord a refill, "So tell me of these beast-"

"Whoa there, don't call them that," The khord interrupted him, "Bad luck on the water. Bad mouth them, and they know. The mist will find you on the water."

"Superstition, surely?" The man asked.

"Mayhaps, but I ain't gonna test it," The khord laughed, "Coupl' sailors may claim they are beings of pure beauty, and that the ships that don't come back are because they've gone to heaven on the waters. Fact is fact though. The ships don't come back. Maybe there's someone in a rowboat that manages to crash onto Sylvari land now and then, but the rest of the crew? Not a sign. That's only one of them mist-folk though - another sailor may claim that they're in the water itself, if not part of the water. Don't ask how that's possible. Ship rocking, moving in ways that it shouldn't, all manner of things that are bad on open water. Ain't hard to see what may sink a ship in those mists if it's those. There's more wild rumours out there, 'pending on who you listen to."

"So the mist never clears? The land's never visible?" The man asked.

The khord nodded, "More or less. 'Casionally you can see some of the higher ground sticking out of the mists, but that in itself is a source of rumours."

"Why is that?"

"Cause hardly ever the same thing seen twice," The khord replied, "Was rumour one time of a large tower that stuck out of the mists, gleaming white and nearly bright as a lighthouse in day or night. Another was a castle on the open water. On the water! A castle! But it's Cal'ele'miur, so anything goes. Windswept cliff faces of ice, tall gigantic tree, flowery field on a hill... No rhyme or reason to it, it's just what it is. And that, is why we stay away from those islands."

Subscribed! 

And I.

InKHORDible

Looking forward to your next fragment.

The book sits in the collection of volumes kept in Megilindar Nost, to better keep it from the overly curious. By all accounts it was originally a normal, leather bound journal with parchment paper. This book, however, is far from that. Pages of an unknown cloth held between an unusual wooden shell that can be opened freely, despite the wood retaining the common hardness of wood in all other respects. A note kept with the journal describes its state when found - wreathed in flowers of unknown origin, found beside a fairy's ring, as though cast aside from within it. The flowers wilted and disappeared within a week of the journal's recovery.

The author of the journal is penned in ink on the title page. Mirithiel Aeradhen... A name nearly forgotten, and believed to have been lost. A member of the ill-fated Cal'ele'miur exploration many centuries past. 

Though the pages are different from the original journal, many of the pages are inked as though the page were parchment. Some manner of transmutation perhaps.

Page 1

The writing is in elegant Sylvari script, unrushed. 

In the silence of night, and sometimes the day, I can hear my name being called. Faint, on the edges of the wind, but I know it's there. They've been calling me for 6 years now. 

It is believed that fairy circles are those circles of mushrooms we see on occasion. Occasionally there's tale of dancing lights seen over such a circle. I would have refuted such claims - mushrooms, edible or otherwise, are as mundane as the soil or plants they grow on. There's nothing they can do to create light in the air above them. Then I saw it for myself, one winter morning...

I was young then. Entranced by the lights, I approached the ring. Thank Adaron I didn't step beyond. The lights left the circle, and circled around me in a frenzy. Curious, perhaps, of the Syl who had wandered near. I could hear a language, but I couldn't understand it. Yet, somehow I knew they asked my name.

Maybe if I never answered, maybe I wouldn't be called now. 

At the time they seemed harmless enough, like fireflies. I couldn't make out what they were through the light they shed. All I knew was their curiosity seemed sated, and they returned to the circle. I returned home with only a tall tale, a fairy tale.

I never realized one had followed me home.

I pop in to read every one of thesre right away.  And I have yet to be let down!

I've always been fascinated with sprites, fairies, and fairy tales. Not the bedtime stories, but the older stories, those tales of old beings as whimsical as they can be dangerous, benevolent or malevolent as their mood dictates. This fascination is one of the reasons why I tend to always pick a sprite as my picture

I'm drawing on those old proverbs such as "don't step into the rings" and "don't partake of their food" while making it tangibly make sense in Audalis. Writing from the perspective of Audalian helps make sure I develop the atmosphere and feelings I want to achieve, even as I figure out details of the other world which will eventually need a name.

Names are tricky. And if I go so far as to elaborate on their language... That'll be even more tricky  

Page 2

The start of this page is cluttered with crossed out words.

Where do I even begin to explain? After that day, I felt hunger more keenly and more often. Strange things would happen around me, often in my room. Things being moved wihout my knowing. Sometimes I'd return to find it tidied in my absence. Sometimes I'd find it cluttered, clothing pulled from my wardrobe, my books and papers thrown all over the floor in disarray, or opened to some page upside down by the mirror on my desk. At night, I'd find myself recounting events of the day aloud in that light daze just before sleep. If I could even remember the moments before I slept, that is.

At one point, at the edge of their patience, my parents brought in a cleric, believing the cause to be some restless spirit. In the end, I suppose you could call it such, but not in the manner of spirit that clergy deal with; the cleric could offer no explanation. All he said at the time was that there was no restless dead. But he did remark a feeling of being watched.

That was common for everyone who entered my room. Most avoided it, myself included, until I noticed that the longer I was away, the more often the room would be a mess when I did return. I started bringing books back with me from the library, spending more time in my room reading. My education certainly did not suffer for these bizarre circumstances in which I had found myself. I began to study the arcane, an effort that saw me through decades of learning. Yet, for all my efforts, I was frustrated.

No matter how well I studied, I could not manifest a single spell.

Page 3

The writing on this page begins in the same elegant script, but the words become more jagged where the quill had scratched into the parchment further down the page. At the end of the page, the ink looks somewhat waterlogged.

Frustrated in my studies and finding no answers, and baffling more than one teacher, I gave up and returned to the forest. I left for a time to train with a bow and learn of the wild, how to hunt, how to survive. It was relieving to find something I was good at. I was particularly adept at finding mushrooms.

Six years ago, when I finally returned home, I expected my room to be a mess, as I had come to expect. I did not expect to find my room locked; I had never needed to lock it before. When I went to my parents, they were surprised to see me. They were quite certain I was occupied, and even more confused by that I had just returned. They said that I had told them I was continuing my arcane studies instead of departing. In the midst of the confusion, the spare key was located. I returned to my room, and opened the door.

I saw myself with a man I did not know.

I bade him leave, and he did so hastily, before I closed the door and approached my double.

She held up her hands and gave a shrug, saying that if I had wanted to I could simply have joined them. I could scarce believe my eyes or ears. The voice was mine, her movements were mine, but I knew she was not me. I demanded her name, and she replied with my own.

I told her that was not her name. She gave another shrug and a carefree smile, before replying that it suited the form far better than Windbell did, and that she wasn't Windbell any more regardless. Then she advanced, until we were face to face. In that moment I realized her face mirrored mine exactly.

I went for the desk, even as she grabbed me to keep me from it. I saw neither of us were reflected in the mirror. Eventually, I managed to throw her off, and grab the mirror. All at once her demeanour went from worried but playful to terrified and furious. She demanded I put it back, and for a moment, I felt as though I would.

I threw the mirror against the floor, and smashed it with my bow.

She screamed. A terrible scream that I will never forget. She nearly collapsed, once again grabbing on to me, this time to support herself.

She begged me to take her back.

I don't know how long I was in shock; I felt as if life was leaving my body even if I knew it was her, not me. By the time I came to my senses, she had just faded, vanished, with no trace.

I still can't believe I killed her.

Page 4

This page also has several crossed out words and sentences at the beginning.

The past six years have generally been one misfortune after another. Untangling the mess of what She had done with my face took the better effort of those six years. At one point I had considered taking on a new name, a new identity, but the thought felt anathema to me. Wrong. To give it up at that point would be truly to relinquish that name to Her. Or so I felt. She may have died, but I wasn't willing to let Her win.

I was not going to let Her replace me.

That was the one thing that kept me going. But ever since that fateful day, I could hear it... I am being called. A whisper beyond the edge of hearing, calling my name. Most audible on windy nights, trailing behind the echoes of the wind outside. Calling me.

Sometimes I find myself wandering in some direction it may be from without thinking.

Am I going mad?

No one else can hear the whispers. Only me. Perhaps that's why they're sending me off, allocating me to a journey to misty islands to the northeast. Get my senses readjusted, tuned once again to the land, the forest, and in this case the sea. My sense of direction isn't dulled at least - I know my training, and I can read wind, skies, and stars.

We depart tomorrow.

Page 5 and 6

Most of these pages are too damaged by water spray to make out what is written here. There is one drawing of what is presumably a man, a form shrouded in kelp and water.

Page 7

The writing is with a shaking hand, tarnishing the otherwise elegant Sylvari script with sudden jerks.

Somehow we survived. And we're here, wherever 'here' is. The sky is bright. We're on a grassy plain that spreads as far as the eye can see. Weather is clear sun. If there were a sun. I keep looking for it in the sky, following the shadows backwards to where it should be. It isn't there. I can't guess what direction is what.

Martin is in worse shape than me. In shock, I presume. He's sitting next to the wood crate that ended up with us, rocking in place like a scared child. I've half a mind to join him. We didn't even expect to land with the ship in the state it was in, much less end up here.

Not even sure where the shipwreck is or where we came from. Crate has food in it, so we won't starve at least. Best I can gather, if we follow where the shadows point to, or where they come from, we'll be bound to find something. Martin doesn't have any ideas.

We still can't wrap our heads around it. One moment we're on the water, clinging to a wreck of a hull being thrown in the air like some garbage being discarded without a thought. Then we're on the ground. Here.

I've half a mind to wonder if we've passed beyond death, but this isn't Adaron's forest. There's no trees. Just a grassy plain, no sun, and a cool refreshing breeze.

The breeze makes a melody in the grass, as though the grass blades were chimes playing in sequence. I don't know how that is possible, but it's faint. Martin can hear it too. A three beat rhythm, of some sort. Too faint to make out properly. It's the right sort of rhythm that desires dance to accompany it. Yet for what we both hear, there's something I don't.

I don't hear my name any more.