Lot #73

The Fae, one of the untouchable mysteries of the world and its greatest heresy, will be solved by I, ████████ █████! Their secrets will be laid bare and their weaknesses opened to the masses of mortals that they’ve terrorized since first we rose from beasts. And when I return, I will stir up a holy crusade to purge them from creation once and for all.

In their hallowed halls, nestled deep enough within the Wood that they believe no enterprising men such as myself could ever reach them unaided, I have seen ungodly excesses of both wonder and horror. Four of their archaic courts, fully half of their seats of power, have hosted me in one disguise or another. I’ve traveled from the gilded cities of Summer to the charred trunks of Ash, guided by my Lord’s Light.

It is, sadly, no surprise that so many men and women are tempted by these sights. Wonders second only to those of God’s greatest works stretch out over unfathomably vast differences deep within the domains they’ve corrupted and made their own. I have seen arches made of liquid sunlight used to bridge chasms that stretched down to touch the glowing heart of this mockery of a world. In the vales of Spring stretch forests beyond mortal reckoning, great trunks and beasts taken from all parts of creation running through showers of rain that taste like the sweetest honey. Autumn’s land holds great winds that form loops and whorls of fallen leaves in colors not seen on Earth since Adam and Eve first sinned, each current framing palaces that stretch on into near infinity. And in the charred lands of Ash colossal husks of trees that once graced the Heavens themselves still scrape against the sky, bedecked by remnants of a beautiful land scarred forever by some forgotten and unforgivable sin.

Even tainted by these parasites God’s work holds beauty enough to make my heart weep for what happens within them.

The most sickening of their practices, beyond the heresy of their very existence in spite of the Lord’s will, is their treatment of His chosen children. What they do to other beasts that have been endowed with a simulacra of thought is tragic as well, yet it pales in compare to the perversion of the natural order performed against mankind. The poor souls and sinners entrapped by the dealings of this vile plague of ‘people’ are treated as little more than pets.

In the halls of Summer they were led around on burnished chains in costumes that sought to steal the glory of His Light. Some were forced to walk on their hands and knees as if they were hounds, naked as the day they were brought into creation. Others bore naught but collars as signs of their bondage, still clad in clothes from the moment they were taken as they went about their degrading and servile tasks. The Light could not reach them, no matter how hard I prayed, and even those taken from good, God-fearing times rebuffed my proffered aid. They and the heathens both chose to slave for the greatest heresy rather than to be freed and submit themselves to the Lord’s judgement.

In my disguise, there was little I could do for these lost children. I have recorded the few names I could gather, but I fear it is not enough to plead their cases when my own end comes.

I did not linger long in the groves of Spring. The excess on display there was less servile, yet far more vile. It was only through Providence itself that I avoided being coerced into the seething masses of lust and sin that seemed to occupy all of these Faerie’s time. My notes from there are held in another volume, and I still pray for forgiveness for what I have seen and failed to stop. What happened at the end of the sole ‘hunt’ I observed will haunt me to the end of my days, even though the heathen woman smiled the whole time.

Autumn sat beneath a perpetual Witch’s Moon. Under its pale light their endless taciturn tests were carried out, mute servants with bound tongues and tattooed flesh catering to the Fae themselves and their chosen playthings. Were it not for their very nature, the setting, and the profane arts they studied, their halls would have been an acceptable monastery. I found it hard to muster pity for the ones held in thrall to this variety, a failing in my own soul that I hope will be forgiven when my time runs out. Each and every one bore a witch’s gift, even the servile caste weaving heresies with their hands to serve the studiers and their masters.

The deplorable nature of the beings being punished did not make the punishments I observed under my guise of a student any less horrific. First the tongues would be bound, if the offender was one of the gifted castes. And for each task, trial, test, or tribulation failed, another piece of them would be marked with twine. When there was nothing left to tie, the twine became ink. And if the ink had spread, pieces would be taken.

The lucky ones would be traded to other courts. The incompetent and unlucky, whose fates were worse even than the others taken by the Fae, would be reduced to bare skulls, somehow persisting in a mockery of life, that sat as eternal fixtures in libraries that had never seen the Good Word.

Ash, the most recent of my visitations, is something I find hard to put into words. They mix the excesses of the other courts, yet never to the same extreme. I’ve seen men and women led by chains inside the charred trunks that house their seat of power, while others were stricken of clothes and treated as the pitiable captives of Spring. Some bore scars like those of Autumn and were oft-seen performing tests and trials for the enjoyment of their captors. Yet none of these excesses were taken to the heights of the others. They even seemed to vary as time passed, with the Fae themselves having occasional distinguishing features even outside of their accursed nobility.

Even in the midst of celebrations of their heresies, the Fae and mortals bound to Ash’s region seemed to be subdued, burdened by a somber mood as if they lived their existence in the shadow of some great catastrophe. One that they lack the Lord’s Light to guide them through.

As I begin my journey to the frigid plains of Winter I cannot help but feel that of all I have seen, Ash is the most pitiable.

- Preview of Lot #73 of the Silent King’s Auction: Echo of a Nameless Priest