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Chapter Text

The main atrium of the Necropolis Library was built in the traditional style of the higher levels of the city. Its large, airy vaults and glittering green skylights created a welcoming atmosphere for the dead and the living alike. Long carved granite tables provided a place for scholars of the necromantic arts to study and for skeletal scribes to copy out passages from ancient tomes. 

Around the perimeter of the room, arched passageways flanked by mortuary carvings lead to the various collections that fell under the auspices of the Library. 

To the north lay the periodical archives, with seemingly endless rows of cabinets disappearing through a labyrinth of narrow wood-paneled rooms. The cabinets contained a copy of almost any newspaper, journal, or leaflet that had ever been sent across Nevarra’s borders. 

In the Southwest, books of history and biography were organized by era in a tiled tunnel that appeared as though it had been transported there from an Orlesian subterranean aqueduct. The tile was occasionally interrupted by mosaic murals depicting important historical moments and figures.

Of course there was a children’s wing, up the stairs and to the West, which was papered with a pleasing pattern of skeletal animals romping through flowers. This room was most favored by the Necropolis orphans, and contained many books of childish whimsy and moral instruction.

Audric Felhausen, the librarian, kept each of these rooms, and dozens more, in perfect order and organization. He did not just excel at his work, he enjoyed it.

Since he became dead, Audric had adapted to an existence that was quite different from the life he lost. He no longer needed to pause his work to eat nor sleep, and, frankly, he no longer wanted to. This made it easy for him to bring the Necropolis Library into order after its long period of neglect, and to even gain access to parts of it that many had thought were lost to time.

His work as a guardsman had been tedious and unrewarding. Being a librarian, even a librarian in the Necropolis, was much more his style. His work now involved books and papers filled with countless things to read and learn about. And it seemed that he had been given an eternity of undeath to enjoy it in. And he used all the passion for knowledge that the spirit animating his corpse and bearing his memories possessed to keep the library in perfect order.

Except for the Special Collections room.

He hated the Special Collection. The room only had an accessible doorway during the full moon, and if anyone, living or dead, lingered in it beyond the sunrise they would never be heard from again. This made organizing and cataloging the Special Collection especially challenging, as Audric was operating under unusual time constraints.

The Special Collection was difficult to organize, as well. It did not only contain books and papers and the occasional drawing, as the rest of the library did, but all manner of art pieces and homegoods and knicknacks and clothing and an entire toolshed full of weaponry.

Also, the Special Collection was loud. Each item contained within it a particular affinity for a spirit that could be called upon by a trained Mortalitasi to echo a particular memory associated with the object.

The vast majority of these spirits were wisps, and quite easy to ignore. The spirits were another thing entirely. Most clamored for Audric’s attention, and some were quite insistent. Others were standoffish, being spirits that were incompatible with Curiosity. A few were as elusive as the emotion they represented.

Still, Audric was determined to catalog the Special Collection with the same care that he took with the rest of the Library. 

When the stone archway that led to the Collection’s vault faded into the ether once more, Audric wheeled in the cart that bore the Special Collection’s card catalog down the dimly lit hallway and into a riot of shelves, crates, cabinets and heaps of similar items.

On this full moon, he was determined to get through a pile of correspondence that some earlier researcher had left in a haphazard pile. Boxes filled with newer accessions surrounded the pile, which had originally reached to Audric’s waist. Over time he had managed to get it down to knee-height. Leaving the letters in that state was a horribly careless thing to do to such important memories.

He began sorting through the pile, documenting each item and spirit on a card and filing it carefully away on the cart. The night grew long, but he did not tire. Audric knew exactly how much work he could get done before the sun rose, and intended to complete exactly that much before returning to the Library proper.

Thirteen minutes before his allotted time was up, his hand fell on an object that was very much not a letter. At first he thought it was a letter opener, until he felt how sharp the blade was.

It was a dagger made of pure serpentstone, wickedly sharp and gleaming with malice. He could feel the spirit within, stirring from its dormant state.

Audric had only a few moments to scramble away before the demon within the dagger fully awoke. If it had enough power to make itself solid, it would make an incredible mess, as well as endangering the other artifacts.

After a few moments of silence passed, Audric almost thought he had disengaged from the possessed dagger quickly enough, until a howl of Outrage filled the vault. 

“How dare you raise a hand to your King!” cried the demon, rattling the shelves surrounding it.

Audric swore under what would have been his breath if he was still breathing, and dashed away from the demon.

If he was still a human man, he surely would have raced to the doorway. After all, he knew he had only a few minutes left before the Special Collection closed, and if he was still in this room then, he would disappear forever.

However, Audric was now dead, and possessed by a spirit of Curiosity, and his sense of self-preservation was supplanted by a sense of knowledge-preservation. Audric would no sooner abandon the records in this room than he would have abandoned a child in danger when he was a guardsman. These things needed to be protected.

Instead, he darted over to the odd little shed that stood in the middle of the room. It looked like nothing so much as a shack that a farmer might keep his tools in, but within were all kinds of weapons, more than should be able to fit in that space, often inhabited by spirits such as Valor or Steadfastness.

As Audric reached the door of the shack, he heard Outrage knock over his cart with a clatter. He winced to think of his catalog cards scattered around on the floor. They would take forever to put back together. More distantly, he felt that he ought to be worried for his own wellbeing as well.

Wrenching open the door of the shed, Audric knew exactly where the item he needed was.

An ancient Mourn Watcher staff, enchanted with demon wards and binding glyphs was placed just where it belonged, Organized both by item type and age, Audric found it immediately.  His hand closed around it just as the demon reached him, and brought it around to clash against the serpentstone dagger with a clang.

Immediately, the demon discorporated, and the dagger clattered harmlessly to the ground.

He thanked his luck and the Maker that he had thought to organize the weapon collection first. With great care, he wrote out a card for the newest addition to the weaponry shed, before exiting the Special Collection with two minutes to spare.

Chapter Text

A letter is folded in the middle of an old, leather-bound journal. The paper is thick, but yellowed with time. Each page includes a pressing, sketch, a watercolor painting, or a rubbing of a plant. Next to each depiction of the flora is the scientific name of the plant, the date of the harvesting, and the location where the sample was taken.

The dates span from 8:22-8:68 Blessed.

The letter is written in the same careful, precise handwriting as each of the scientific notations, but there are a few ink splotches that make the parchment difficult to read in places.

Chapter Text

Here lies a Pentaghast
Who tried to be king
Next to him a Van Markham
Who tried the same thing
Vaunted nobility
Playing their games
End up here vaulted
Where all are the same
And maybe one day
They'll figure it out
Tis the bone keepers
Who have the real clout
So keep your small crown
Our dear fleshy friends
You will be ours
When you meet your end

The enclosed poem was confiscated during a lecture on controlled possession and managing spiritual resonance with the senior apprentices. I reminded the students about the importance of professional decorum. I have also passed on the names of the primary perpetrators to the Senior Watchers. I would recommend each be interviewed to ensure they are not harboring any serious seditious intent. While I certainly sympathize with the perceptions some of our students have of the nobility, it is of the utmost importance that they fully appreciate the nature of our patronage from the upper classes. Or at least, the importance of picking one’s battles.
- Prof. E. Volkarin

I HAVE SPOKEN TO THE STUDENTS. THEY DID NOT WRITE THE POEM. IT MATERIALIZED ON THE STONE OVERLOOKING THE SCREAMING CANYONS. THEY FOUND IT AMUSING. THEY ARE NO LONGER AMUSED. FURTHER RESEARCH IS WARRANTED. ENSURE THIS IS ADDED TO THE ARCHIVES.
VORGOTH

We have questioned the spirits who frequent the screaming canyons. A political dissonant who died under questionable circumstances, one Otto Willibald, recently came into our care. Vigilance reported seeing the man’s skeleton in the area having a discussion with spirits of Destruction and Knowledge. Professor Volkarin was asked to speak to the suspected author and let him know he can be provided writing materials but the stone walls are off limits. This should also allow us to keep his work amongst seasoned Watchers who can be trusted.
- Myrna, Keeper of the Seals

Chapter Text

Dearest Grandmother,

In this time of grief, we have all found it difficult to express how much your presence will be missed now that you have passed on. There is an empty space in our hearts and homes that only you could fill, and we miss you deeply. You were always in the kitchens experimenting on new concoctions during the holidays, and it will be strange to get together for the next All Soul’s Day feast without hearing you shuffling around in the kitchen preparing a new dish none of us have ever heard of. We did not always appreciate your more adventurous creations while you were alive, but we will surely miss them now that you are gone.

Perhaps that is not completely true. We will always remember the peach and yam roast shaped like a nug with cherries for eyes, but we will not remember it fondly. Yet you took our shock and horror in good humor, laughing all the while as we stared at the slowly dripping nug sculpture, mashed yam and peaches slipping down to congeal on the plate in a mess of fruit and vegetable. If only laughter could feed a stomach! We would have eaten well for days.

What we will miss, truly miss, is the way you made all of life an adventure. Experimenting in the kitchen was simply your way of sharing the oddities of life with us, sharing in the sweet and the bitter and everything in between. You loved the contrasts and the way the rough edges of life jammed up together. It will be difficult to remember the beauty of differences without you, but we will do our best to memorialize your presence in some of our favorite dishes that exemplified your love of contrasts, such as with these herb shortbread cookies. In this way your memory can live on, with us and any others who happen to read this recipe.

For those who wish for the peach and yam sculpted nug recipe, please know that you really, truly, do not know what you are asking.

From Your Loving Grandson,

Phillip Beck

Postscript: I am quite serious about the yam nug. DO NOT ASK.

Grandmother Patricia’s Herb Shortbread

1 cup unsalted butter (softened)
1/2 cup of white sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon of sea salt
2 tablespoons of fresh rosemary, thyme, and sage, roughly chopped (2 tablespoons for a sensible person, but Grandmother Patricia was never sensible so just follow your heart)

(Variations can include the zest of one lemon or a sprinkle of sea salt on the top to increase the saltiness of this sweet and savory dessert.)

Step One: Cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl until it is as light and fluffy as a cloud. Combine the flour, herbs, and salt in a smaller bowl, then gradually add the flour mixture into the creamed butter and sugar. Mix well.

Step Two: Shape the dough into two cylindrical rolls approximately 8 inches in length. Wrap each roll securely and leave in the icebox (fridge) overnight. Cut the rolls into 1/4-inch slices, then place 2 inches apart on baking sheets.

Step Three: Bake in a moderate oven (350 Farenheit or 176 Celsius ) for 11 to 13 minutes, until the edges of the cookies begin to turn a golden brown. Remove from oven and let cool for at least a minute before transferring the cookies to wire racks. Let cool completely, then store in an airtight container.

Vorgoth,

The original letter and recipe are dated from 9:22 Dragon. They have been faithfully copied for Mourn Watch records. Repeated requests for the second recipe mentioned in the letter were soundly refused.

Watcher Myrna, Keeper of the Seals

MYRNA,

I FIND THAT THESE CONFECTIONS HAVE PIQUED MY INTEREST. I WILL BRING THESE TO OUR NEXT TEA.

VORGOTH

Chapter Text

Oh my child
Where have you gone?
Off hunting dragons
You’ve stayed out too long

The horns of the hunters
They sound through the night
But you cannot hear them
Off testing your might

Oh precious child
Run wild and free
But remember my heart
To come back to me

Oh my dear child
The night comes to stay
Your tomb it is quiet
Your bones far away

And how will I hold you
Or sing you my song
When you died unburied
When you stayed out so long

Oh my child
Ran wild and free
I know in my heart
You'll come back to me

Lady Isadora has started singing again. This phenomena was first recorded in 7:27 when Lady Isadora’s grandson Sir Tanith Wisminer vanished during a dragon hunt. It has been subsequently repeated on two other occasions shortly after her descendants died without being properly interred. (Ref. R.953 C.1464 and R.2590) I will send a request to the Keepers of Names to track down which of her family line are missing or recently deceased.
- Myrna, Keeper of the Seals

NO NEED. WE KNOW SIR FRODERIC ROEMHELD’S SHIP WAS SUNK TWO WEEKS AGO IN THE WAKING SEA. HE WAS HER KIN VIA HER DAUGHTER’S LINE. RECOVERING THE BONES WILL BE DIFFICULT.
VORGOTH

Noted. I will send a Watcher to the approximate location to ensure the proper ceremonies are observed. Hopefully that will placate Lady Isadora.
- M.

Chapter Text

A sequence of haiku carved into stones in a family sepulcher under the direction of Maximillian Cormorant, after the death of his father, Reginald. Reginald joined his wife, Alyssia, who passed away shortly after the birth of Maximillian.

Sips of steaming tea
Warming my frozen body
Welcome in winter

Petals are falling
Into your long, braided hair
A rosy tempest

Two dogs playing fetch
One steals the ball from his friend
Running towards the lake

Fog settles on streets
Covering the stars and moon
A misty blanket

Children are dancing
Stepping in time to the tune
Only they can hear

Bonfires burning
Nevarra fills with bright lights
Greeting lost loved ones

Ravens have returned
Murders with a watchful eye
Perched atop street signs

You looked beautiful
Flushed, warm, and smiling, tired
Holding our new son

Darkness has settled
Over the eaves of our home
I pray it ends soon

Wonder where you are
I am going to miss you
You own my whole heart

Chapter Text

Zephyr,

The plague has come to the capital. I thought we might avoid it in the outskirts, but Filip hasn’t stopped coughing blood since yesterday eve. I fear he’ll be dead soon. Carina won’t stop crying, and when I kissed her forehead this morning, she burned like a furnace. There is a mirror on the wall where I write this, and when I look at my reflection, I see the whites of my eyes are yellow.

Do not come to the city. Go to the wilds. Stay away. I will not ask you to pray for us, I know you do not believe in the Maker, but I will pray for you.

Your sister,

Brigid.

A note is scribbled on the corner of the page, in different handwriting:

Volkarin! Could be related to your lost sprog. I’ll be searching the records – I’m expecting you.

 - JH

Chapter Text

A letter that was found between the pages of a worn diary. The parchment is weathered, marked with charcoal and small drips of paint, but other than that it is completely legible. The year 9:43 Dragon is marked at the corner of the parchment.

Dearest Enid Ingellvar,

You do not know me, and I do not know you. An Age has gone by since you passed on, and yet here I stand today carrying your name through the world like a chill snaking through the Necropolis. I have long thought upon how to write this letter; what does one even think to say to a person with whom they share not blood, but a deeper, more unexplainable, spiritual bond.

You are the only connection I have to my past. The only variable in my origins that isn’t entirely unknown. The only name tangled in a web of a thousand mysteries. Yet still I know nothing else about you.

I inquired with Lady Myrna to see if she could assist me in uncovering some information about your life, however the search for information has not proved to be fruitful. We have only been able to discover records of your name, your time as a Watcher along with your rank, and a necklace. The most beautiful golden necklace adorned with a single large amethyst and multiple small emeralds. It was Vorgoth (my spirit…? guardian) that discovered it, but I believe that he actually sought it out, something like this is no mere accidental discovery. He told me that it had once belonged to you and gifted it to me just yesterday for my 16th Nameday (what we assume is my 16th nameday more like, there’s no way to know for sure).

I suppose that this is why I have finally decided to write this letter. This necklace is the first piece of grave gold that I have ever received, it means more to me than you could ever imagine, and that it once belonged to you makes me cherish it all the more. It has given me the courage to put my questions in ink, no matter how unanswered I know that they will go. I have so many.

My mind wanders on occasion to what you may have been like. Were you kind? Patient? Loving? I may never know, but I like to believe that you were, I can feel echoes of those feelings whenever I think about you (maybe it's a sign?). I also wonder about the more mundane aspects of life. What did you enjoy eating? What was your favorite drink? Mine is hot cocoa topped with those fluffy orlesian things. Did you like chocolate? What did you fill your spare time with when you finished your Watcher duties for the day? Did you sew, maybe knit, or maybe you liked to write? I like to paint, and draw, I’m actually writing this on the back of one of my old sketches.

Did you ever feel as lost as I do?

I suppose I am speaking as though any of these things matter in the long run; that is not the case. You are not my mother, you are not my aunt, and you are not not my grandmother, we have no familial relation tying us together, no reason for me to bear any of the same traits that you once did. And yet I imagine it anyway. Did you have a family, I wonder? You are buried in the Memorial Garden, alone, and there are no other Ingellvar’s interred within the Necropolis. No one ever comes to visit your resting place either. Well, except for me.

I’ve visited your grave ever since I was a little girl and Vorgoth told me about the story behind my name for the first time. I may not know who or where I came from, and for all I know you may not have known that about yourself either, so I think that we can be each other's family. You’d like it I think, being a part of my family, it’s mostly just a bunch of little wisps and Vorgoth, it’s chaos at times, but it’s home. 

Writing this has been good for me I think. I don’t like speaking about my origins very much, because I find that the people I talk to just never seem to understand. I don’t need to worry about that with a letter like this though, it is impossible for parchment and ink to misunderstand your words after all.

Whoever you are, Enid Ingellvar, I dearly hope that you are at peace, for you and your name has brought me peace since the day I was discovered.

All my love,

Arlisell Ingellvar.

There are notes scribbled below the letter, it’s clear the writer never intended for anyone to read this.

(The echoes of emotion I feel sometimes when thinking of this woman, could it be related to why I was found atop her grave? Something to do with the wisps that were surrounding me that day? They’ve been following me ever since that day too. Could this be a sign of her spirit? Must look into this further, I’ll try talking to Vorgoth to see what he makes of this.)

More notes can be seen even further down the page, in different ink and more mature handwriting, added much later than anything else on the parchment.

(Spirits? Ancient Elves were Spirits? I know that Emmrich doesn’t believe such a thing to be possible in this age, at least not to the same degree, but I cannot help but wonder… I need to speak with Myrna and Vorgoth about this. Solas too. This is connected to me somehow, I can feel it.)

On the flip side of the parchment, there is a drawing that depicts two sleeping wolves, entwined with one another, between them lies a wolf pup curled up with its tail covering its nose. Strangely, all three wolves have bright lilac eyes, done with paint, the rest is simply black and white.

Chapter Text

A note left at a Fen’Harel altar, recovered by apprentices Casper Schneider & Amalia Kotsur. The parchment, dated to the Divine Age, is in remarkable condition; while crumpled, the parchment seems to have no water damage. Apprentice Schneider notes, “It appears to have been written as recently as yesterday, given the state of the ink.”

Da’isenatha,

I told you once that I could handle everything.

I might have lied.

I do that a lot, lie. What sort of person am I to mentor the people? What sort of hahren actively lies to the people who desperately want to know the truth? Are we so far removed from one another these days? It’s hard to say.

I want to say no. I want to say that we are the same.

We were the same, you and I. You aged where I did not. You pushed and you asked questions and you thought the shemlen could be worked with. I believed you.

I believe you.

With every passing year, it becomes harder to hold onto that belief. Athim doesn’t say anything but she’s growing weaker. We can’t travel as long anymore, and I don’t think it’s just because we have left the Dales.

There are other Fade-touched forests, I can hear you saying. Rolling your eyes, your tongue held between your teeth to keep from calling me an old man—but which of the two of us is greying, hm? In any case, I’m not so sure it’s being away from the Fade that is doing this.

Being away from the Fade? Or my devotion waning? My promise that, no matter what, I would take care of the people. I would tend to the people in his wake. In his stead. Wherever he is.

I still haven’t found him, the bastard. Either he faked being terrible at hide-and-seek when I was a boy, or…

Or he’s dead.

I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe a selfish hope beyond all hope that you’ve somehow found a way to live forever too.

If you haven’t, and you’re gone as well…

Well.

Ar lath ma. Bellanaris.