The Lost Pylugwyr
Dark circles under otherwise kind eyes, stark white hair sticks out in all directions – in between shaving.
A Hawk Like nose overhangs a sometimes feigned smile.
Dressed in light grays, he looks hearty for his height, like he spends a lot of time outdoors – for a scholar.
As an astronomer, I had spent most of my life charting constellations and planets in relation to the seasons – these charts were of most value to our cities diviners. We found the more accurate the charts, the better the diviners interpretations. We’ve known for a while that occasionally traveling celestial bodies can impact this, but we’ve also hypothesized the appearance of new stars and disappearance of old ones could play a part as well. I researched dead and dying stars, and that’s when I came across the document “The Stars Rent Asunder”.
I can’t tell anyone what is in it, even if I wanted to. The horrors contained within that unassuming scroll have been seared into my mind, but locked behind a barrier of incomprehension. The nightmares still come, but the morning cleanses them from my thoughts. I vow that no one else need be plagued by these etchings again, and yet some unknowable terror prevents me from burning them. I would hide this cursed tome, but evils like these always seem to be discovered; so for now I keep them on me, acting as their jailkeeper and prisoner at the same time.
I pity the poor soul who inscribed this, for someone must have. I feel a connection to the author – and I fear through my discovery of their tortured revelations I have been bound to some inexplicable force, perhaps the inspiration and muse of these scribblings. I know it has altered me fundamentally, for I have access to magics I have never studied and abilities I don’t fully comprehend. I can make others hear my thoughts, yet not through any incantation. I can also see magic as plain as an elf can see a stag in the night. And I am driven, but I know not to what end, to seek out artifacts I can only assume to be linked to my abominable benefactor.
Shortly before I left, a colleague of mine met with tragedy. I have been left with a single letter from her, still sealed. I am loathe to read it, for I fear I already know the subject of its contents.
The first item I’ve uncovered of any significance is a simple looking rod named “whisper under the mountain”. It has had a mild affect on me already, enhancing my newly acquired powers noticeably. Part of me wants to destroy the thing, fearing it to be a tool of my loathsome patron, but I cannot be sure that impulse truly is my own: what if the destruction of these artifacts breaks some seal and allows the horrors to manifest?