The Last Empyrean Works

I was warned that these ‘Álfar’, <i>Empyrean elves</>, were a strange people, but, when the elders sent me to observe their rites, I did not expect this. Crossing this leg of the Network, I was met by awaiting elves who had me accompany an architect by the name of Forseti—one of the many responsible for this great construct. The construct appeared like a sort of vast well, dug deep into the soil and rock, farther down than one could see, lest one risk leaning over its precipice. I thought to, so that I might better explain their works, but Forseti held a sturdy arm ahead to stop me. There is a Portal, he told me, at the deepest depth. Meant not for us to travel, but to pull something else—not only through, but <i>down</>—from the very heavens. Andlang itself. They called it the ‘Demiurge’. Spoke of it like a God. And then the Portal came to life. What came through was not this ‘Demiurge’—though a God it may have been.

The…<i>Being</> pulled through the Portal, it thrashes against the stone beneath us. Tremors shake the ground. Loose rubble begins to rise, lifted by some unseen hand. I accompanied Forseti to a forum this morning. Though I understood little of what was discussed, he has explained some in the time since. The elves know not where the Being has come from, but they believe it exists as it does now—formless—not by nature, but by some horrific failure of their Portal. It speaks a dialect of their language, and, though they have attempted to speak with it, it cries only for escape. Forseti wishes to return it to whatever home it was rent from, but such calibrations would take a great deal of time, if they are possible at all. The other elves were not receptive to his aims. They believe this Being will destroy their Realm long before any such altruism could be enacted. Instead, they have chosen to craft a more permanent prison.

I stood behind Forseti as the Being was bound. The elves and I descended into its hollow, deep below that awful Portal, and saw no creature, but a great, shifting source of light. The elves led forth a great scarab, unremarkable in all ways, and the Being, for one possessed of no physical qualities, seemed to show surprise. It ceased its thrashing, and, in that moment, the gathered elves forced all their combined magicks upon it. It let out, then, a sound that was more than a scream. A twisting agony, and I felt it like the sorrow of losing my own kin. When they were done, it was held, one half within the body of the insect, the other ephemeral. It glimmered in the air, still raging, but all power had been stolen from it. The scarab shuddered, and then fell still. As the Being begged in their tongue, crying out for release, we turned and left. Forseti was calm until his fellows had left, and then I saw from him something I had never seen from an elf. He wept.

Each day now, I have followed Forseti to his study at the observatory’s peak. Though he tried for many nights to understand where the Portal had pulled the Being from, no answer could be found. It wracked him with guilt until a new solution arose. His research is written in glyphs I cannot read, but he sometimes deigns to speak them aloud. Musings on the Realm and, more prudently, its whims. The conflict he feels between it and the Being. Two powers, greater even than the elves, raging against one another. He claims the Realm wishes to defend itself, and so works with them to hold the Being in its cage. He theorises, then, of a oneness borne from the similarities between the Realm’s own consciousness and that of this higher Being. He believes in a compatibility of spirit, and now, he says, begins the work of convincing the Realm to allow such a union. With its old life truly lost, it seems this Being may yet be given something <i>new</>.

With so much of his work nearly complete, Forseti has been called away. Only the final offerings remain, ungiven. ‘A new life is paid with a life lost’, Forseti had said, his voice a horrified whisper. ‘The Realm yearns for old life.’ But Kormozis, their Elven Jarl, has bid all of his Empyreans to follow with haste. Forseti, long my companion, will not tell me where. The Court is leaving and, with them, the Being’s hope of freedom. I offered to stay, to finish Forseti’s work, but he denied me with an earnest plea. The Network will be closed as the elves depart, and my return made impossible. To tell the truth, I was grateful for the refusal. I cannot give my life for this Being. My kin await me in Aarhus, my elders ready to hear what I have seen. When I embarked on this journey, I had hoped to bear witness to great works of magick, that I could bring such knowledge home to my people. Instead, I have witnessed an unthinkable cruelty and come bearing only foulest news: that we will learn from the elves no longer.