I am a monk of few words. Only three things have ever really opened my mouth. One, my father’s murder. Two, Sherill, my lady love. Three, that time I traveled back in time in my martial arts master’s body and unwittingly unleashed Chaos upon the world and then returned to the present day and trekked to the Abyssal Plane so I could kill Chaos. (Long story. See what I mean?)
So when Adair told me to go to Aetherea, look for signs of the Unweaver, and write her an “evocative and satisfactorily descriptive” report, I was hesitant. That Wood Elf likes pretty words. I do not do pretty words.
But after my journey to that land of temples, I stand corrected.
Dear readers, I must apologize deeply for my delay in writing this message. Due to strange, unforeseen circumstances, I could not interview the last party member, Frighe. As such, I sent her a letter instructing her to meet me at the Faire. By the time I finished, already the fog had lifted from the Fairelands and the festivities had begun. Imagine my dismay! Thankfully, Vedika—bless her initiative—soldiered on ahead and sent me her first report on the Faire, which I shall publish as soon as I catch my breath. She even sent me some souvenirs, which I proudly don in the illustration above.
Dear readers, I am most relieved to inform you that I am alive and well. After that incident at her residence, Vedika was courteous enough to fly me home and explain my unfortunate condition to my mother, who persuaded Vedika to dispose of the disastrous anti-emetic paste. (Note to self: Vedika is a strong flier; definitely call upon her for aerial shots.) One short rest later, I felt as good as new, and I departed the woods to meet the next member of my party, the cleric Kratz, self-proclaimed Whisperer of Spiders.
Dear readers, I am most excited to write to you today to introduce you to one of the most remarkable members in my party, the Half-Aarakocran monk Vedika, Destroyer of Chaos. She was gracious enough to invite me into her abode, a humble cottage by the sea, where I presently write this missive.
Around this time of year, the mists weave themselves into strange knots and patterns. A strange fragrance—pungent as sweat, sweet as baby’s breath, and heady as gardenia in full bloom—punctuates the air, drawing merchants, performers, builders, adventurers, and wanderers from all across The Grid into these knots of mist and driving them into a frenzy that manifests as the Fairelands. The lands take all sorts of physical forms, from sprawling lotus lakes to rapidly decaying cities as twisted and depraved as the Unweaver itself. In some lands, merchants hawk textiles and trinkets under the scorching desert sun; in others, Fairelanders sit fireside and share stories comedic and tragic until sunrise.