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Once upon a time, in a realm of Fey far beyond and yet parallel to the mortal plane, there lived a changeling. He could become anyone he wished, changing his face with the ease of breathing. No matter what form he was in, though, one thing would stay the same: his silver tongue. When he spoke, people listened, enthralled, and he spoke a great deal.
He could tell enchanting stories that had listeners hanging onto every word, but he did not wish to speak fictions and fables. Rather, the changeling desired to speak the truth. The truth of what happened around him, of what affected others, of what others said and did.
And in these truths, he learned how to weave fabrications throughout to make them just as enchanting as any tale of fiction a storyteller could create. These fabrications were not lies, but rather masks, just as those he wore upon his own face. They were a part of him, and that was what made them alluring.
His words were sweeter than honey from the loveliest flowers, and smoother than the softest silks. They soothed fears, inspired creation, called for jubilation, and drew crowds from near and far. As he spoke, he would shift forms, playing every character that would appear in his productions.
For these tales he would tell, he needed truths to fill them with. So, he would go about the Court, gathering information, listening, and asking questions. He would take these stories and responses and weave them into his reports like the stars that rested in the night sky: illuminating dark uncertainties and instilling wonder in the hearts and minds of those who gazed upon them.
Soon, though, he found that he had heard all the tales and truths his realm had to offer. He desired more. So, he went before the leader of his court, Lady Elmenore of the Burning Vale.
She listened to what he had to say, to his reports and his pleas. He had come before her throne and knelt, bearing his heart to one who might be able to grant his desires. He wore his true face, making no attempt to conceal who he was or what he wanted.
And when she looked at him, she could see the fire that burned inside of him. True, a fire burned inside each member of her court, but his burned brighter, stronger. Lady Elmenore loved every one of her children, but she reveled in seeing flames such as these, and she knew to keep it bright, it must be fed. To let a fire such as this die would be an anathema to what she stood for.
So, she bid him stand, and coming down from her own throne, she met him at equal footing, offering him a gift: a talisman to tether him to her and the court, so that she may protect him even as she sent him off.
It was not uncommon for the fey to venture into the mortal realm, though it pained her to see them leave. Nevertheless, she opened the door and set him off to find more truths to weave into tales.
With the blessing of his Lady and fire in his heart, the changeling stepped through the portal without so much as sparing a look behind. What mattered now what the future that lay ahead, and stories he could make to pave his way there.
Mortals were enchanted by the fey, both the kind in general and this one changeling in particular. They had a certain charm to them that people from this realm found alluring. Their customs were unique, and their words intoxicating.
However, the changeling was just as equally enchanted—perhaps even more so—by the mortals. The magic they possessed was unlike the kind used in the Feywild. The customs they followed were so foreign to him. And the truths they had were buried deeper than that of the fey.
It was the challenge that tempted the changeling.
Unsurprisingly, he quickly made a name for himself in the mortal realm—both a literal one and one of standing. True names had power in the Feywild, so he called himself what he was: a loquacious seelie; Loquatius Seelie. He was known for revealing truths and telling tales with a flair that left mortals even more enraptured than his fey kin.
In this realm, reports were recorded in writing, kept and spread for all to learn from. So the changeling, in his fashion, took to this form. He became known as a reporter, and he became well-known.
The world of Exandria was full of magic, and perhaps most enchanting to him was that of the flying cities. Lifted far above the clouds, traveling far and wide. Lady Elmenore had sent him to one such city known as Avalir. On it, he had the chance to explore all of the world, and once every seven years it would return to the ground, reconnecting with its sister city and opening the possibility of traversing the earthen world some more.
It was as the city was returned to the mountain range it was pulled from, that the changeling found the true reason he had come to the mortal realm. A reason he had not even known until that moment.
As he was out seeking truths, writing them down and turning them into something worth talking about, he met an elven woman. Gold shone upon her dark skin and magic wove itself into her very being, and the changeling finally understood the feeling many mortals had upon entering the Feywild. That feeling of enchantment and awe of the beauty and wonder that stood before them.
She was the most lovely woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. She spoke with an authority that commanded respect and carried herself with an air of grace that the changeling had only ever known his Lady to possess.
Many came to her with questions that she would answer or would promise to find an answer for. She spoke of ley lines and of things that were beyond his grasp. And in that moment, the changeling knew she was more important than whatever story he had originally come for.
When others had scattered, going to do as she told them, he walked up to her, calling forth all his grace and charm. Gold eyes met his own white ones, and they did not leave once as he spoke to her.
Time seemed to fall away, and not even the dark of night could dampen the brightness that was her mind. If Lady Elmenore had been able to see the fire inside of him, then he was able to see the fire that was inside of her.
Her name was Laerryn Coramar, and the changeling was in love.
Previously, when he had presented his reports, writing now kept in a crystal and able to be spread across the city, he had done so for the sake of sharing his truths and tales and for performing. Since meeting Laerryn, however, he began presenting for her. She had said she would listen to his next report since he was speaking on her findings, and he wanted her to hear in his words the respect and admiration that he felt for her.
These emotions carried well across the report, as the two met again. And again. And again.
Each time they met, the changeling fell more in love. And in turn, the elven mage fell in love with him. She admired his eloquence, the way in which he wove words together and repeated truths in a way that could control crowds. She was gold and he was silver, and yet she was the moon to his sun. He shone in front of the people where she worked in the dark. For all that they were opposites, they suited one another, they needed one another.
These feelings all culminated at a party. Neither had known the other was coming, and when they locked eyes across the room, they become caught in one another’s orbit, slowly rounding one another until the met in the middle.
The music that played here was unlike any that played in the Feywild. The lights that illuminated the room were different. The clothing people wore here was different. All of it paled in comparison to the woman that stood in front of the changeling, however.
They did not make it through even one dance before they ran off with one another. In a coat closet, close to the entrance where people were still passing through, the two of them finally made true on their feelings for each other.
It is said that the mortals who come to the realm of fae should not eat the food there, lest they wish to remain for all eternity, never to want for the goods of their own mortal realm again, until they pass, trapped in a land that is not their own.
It would seem the same bear true for fae that take from the mortal realm. For as soon as he kissed Laerryn Coramar, the changeling knew he could never return to the Feywild as he could never want anything from that realm again. He could never want for anything other than this one woman in his arms.
Her fire made his own grow brighter as well. Soon, it was not enough to simply report stories for others to control. So, the changeling went and started his own broadcasting network. He purchased a building in Excelsior Plaza and took several of the reporters and scribes from the old journal he worked at with him.
It was named after him, after the name the people of Avalir had bestowed upon him: the Herald. And it took no time at all for the Herald’s Tome to overtake any other journal or broadcast that might try to compete. For who would want to listen to anyone other than the enchanting, charming fey who commanded words so easily and made the truth sing a song none could turn their ear from?
In this time, in this realm, it was an Age of Arcanum. More than that, however, it was an age of glory. None here in Avalir were spared from the blessings magic bestowed upon them, and none squandered these gifts. People here pushed boundaries, unafraid to break the rules and conceal truths to further their goals.
And the changeling did not begrudge them that, as it allowed him to do what he did best: find the truth and weave fabrications into it to make stories more enchanting and alluring than any fiction.
However, as the changeling gained power, those with more power than him began to ask him to participate in their mortal games of deception.
None knew how to wear a mask better than him. None knew how to speak honied words and sweet nothings better than him.
He alone held the power to sway the people and tell them what to think. While the changeling may not be the smartest or strongest, he was the one who controlled the city. He had come from the court of a great conqueror; he knew how to take charge.
And as his power grew, as did his romance with the elven mage. She too possessed much power in the city, though her work went mostly unannounced. Her work also kept her quite busy, though she made time for the changeling.
The two were engaged for many years before they married. It was as the city was returned to the earth, the same as it had been when they first met, that they wed. For all that the changeling loved attention, he loved Laerryn more, and so they had a private ceremony, as per her request.
In this ceremony, they exchanged colours (he took up her gold, and she took his purple), they exchanged rings (this gift meant more to him than the talisman his Lady had given him many years prior), and she took his name. Now, and forever, she was Laerryn Coramar-Seelie. Though it was not his true name, it was the one that mattered most to him, and for her to take it upon herself meant more than even he could express.
It was a good marriage… for a time.
In the past, their differences had balanced them. However, it soon became apparent that a rift was forming. Tragedy had struck Laerryn—a loss so great to her that it drove her from the changeling—and she was never the same.
He could bear the long absences they used to have as she worked, but soon the times she spent with him were few and far between. The changeling craved attention, yes, but more than that he craved her.
One fight turned to two turned to six turned to too many. They never saw one another anymore, and when they did their once passionate words turned to scathing remarks.
And when she told him to go, with a forceful tone and no hint of regret, he did so.
The woman he loved—for he still loved her; he always would—was private beyond measure, but their divorce certainly was not. When the changeling went to seek out truths, all he found for months were whispered rumours about him and the elven mage.
Despite it all, he did not falter. The flame in his heart did not burn out, and neither did hers. They had promised to remain close—more for his sake than hers, he had thought—and their mutual friends had remained.
Even with their separation, he made sure no harm came to her. When some has looked too close, trying to uncover the truth of the tragedy that had changed her so, he pushed them away, taking whatever means necessary to preserve her. Even as he stretched the truth at times, rewording it in ways that suited his or others needs, he had never concealed it, hidden it, beaten it dead, as he did with the ones that concerned his beloved Laerryn.
But where they once found each other inexplicably drawn close in crowded rooms in parties, they stood far apart. The changeling, not without allure to mortals still, had many a woman at his side in public. None could fill the hole that Laerryn had left, however.
The initial iciness between the two following the divorce melted away after a year, but they never had what they once did. When they met now, it was with quick retorts and forced pleasantries. Everyone save for the two of them, knew they each still loved one another.
Once, in their separation, the changeling had considered returning to the Feywild. But he loved this world too much to leave it; he loved his job as the Herald; he loved the customs and magic of this realm; he loved Laerryn still too much.
Just as fae enchantments on mortals sometimes wear off, leaving them trapped in the Feywild, his love for Laerryn tethered him here. He would never return as long as she remained.
So, just as his now-ex-wife threw herself into her work, he threw himself into his. It could be said that the three years following the separation were the Herald’s Tome’s best three years.
He announced the news, shared interviews, delivered ads, and gave his fabricated truths to the public, and they loved him for it. He was famed, and fabled, and beloved. He was everything he’d always wanted to be. From a young changeling in the Feywild, seeking out truths to spin into stories to the great Herald of Avalir, he had come so far.
And yet the one thing—the one person—he desired most of all remained out of his grasp.
It was not until the Eve of the Replenishment, days, hours before the seven year anniversary of their wedding, that he truly reconnected with the woman he loved.
He extended an olive branch, going to talk to her, to reminisce about times past when they had loved each other.
And she gave one in turn, attending a party again—one of the rare few she had come to since her tragedy.
From there, all Hell broke loose.
That statement was not one of his fabrications.
Demons and devils rose from below, coming to tear their city down, and so did the truths he thought he had sequestered away. And he fought them both.
He fought to defend his city, and to defend the love of his life. When his friend tried to look too deep into things, he deflected with practiced ease. When her eldritch batteries were being attacked, he gave it his all to protect them.
He loved her, but he also feared her. Feared what she could do.
One of the great magics of Exandria resided in Avalir. A powerful ward that protected all of Exandria, the Tree of Names, forgotten and cast aside. It stood in the way of Laerryn’s plans, and the changeling knew she would do something to it, and he was afraid.
He stood beside his friend, as she looked into the tree, and he received a message from his Lady—the first he’s truly heard from her in many years. She was warning him.
It was too late however. He barely had time to react before the tree attacked him, and his love attacked the tree.
Around them, magic sputtered and died. Blood, fire, and panic consumed the room.
The changeling there died. And far away, the woman he loved, having fled, screamed at his death.
However, he was brought back, and a gift given to him not an hour before by Laerryn had brought another back to life as well. She had saved him. She had saved him so many times throughout the years he had known her.
So, he did his best to save her in the way he knew she would appreciate best. For so long, she had worked in relative anonymity. She was known, yes, but not as the changeling was. And he knew that she craved remembrance in a way she might not be granted if he did not give it to her.
The Lady Elmenore once more reached out to him. The world was truly ending, and she was granting him a way out. However, the changeling could not accept this. He loved his Lady truly, but he loved Laerryn more. And Lady Elmenore, for all it hurt, loved her child greatly. She could still see that flame inside of him. So, once more, she closed a door between the mortal realm and the fey with her on one side and the changeling on the other.
Setting to work and doing what he did best, the great Herald gave his final report and made sure to speak only the truth when he spoke of her. The Architect Arcane, Laerryn, the most beautiful woman.
People would know of her, if it was the last thing he did.
And perhaps it was. For not even one hour later, at the start of the end of the world, he held Laerryn in his arms, once more his wife, as fire consumed them.