I sit now in a chamber of the Lothithil Estate, penning these thoughts as the weight of history presses in. This is where the Dancer of Death began—a tale absent from every tome I’ve scoured, their pages fixated on her divine reign rather than the mortal steps that led her there. To hear it from Lorelei, who walked beside her sister before she became a goddess, stirs something deep within me. It’s not just knowledge—it’s a bridge to a past I can almost touch, a story that makes me wonder what other truths lie buried beneath the surface of our world. It may have been a servant of Drustanus who saved our souls from oblivion, but without actions of Aenira and her companions, there would have been no Drustanus.
3rd Qindirsday of Winter’s Chill, Second Age 1853: The First Snow holiday brought a ship from Ioban, laden with supplies and settlers no one anticipated. They spoke of a letter from the halfling Horatio, their arrival cloaked in an unsettling shadow during the festival. I sifted through their manifests, seeking clues, but our departure loomed the next morning. What if we return to find Hithfaer subtly shifted—or seized? Lady Aria’s fury at Horatio’s carelessness landed him in a cell, stripped bare, a stark lesson in her intolerance for surprises.
4th Qindirsday of Winter’s Chill, Second Age 1853: We left on the 3rd Seojungsday for Forna Vasar, arriving today at this bustling coastal metropolis. The journey was quiet, leaving me to my thoughts as the city pulsed with its own life. My agents, sent to chase whispers of the chisel, returned disinterested—no surprise there. Dinner with Lady Aria’s mother was a study in tension, thick enough to choke on, until Aelorna’s song of fire and air realms, and Aria’s alliance between them, broke the silence. It was a fleeting harmony, but it lingered in my mind. To my surprise Lady Cavatina showed no interest in my activities. If she has decided to discard me, so be it, I have a stronger leader to follow now.
5th Seojungsday of Winter’s Chill, Second Age 1853: We departed at dawn, reaching the Lothithil estate’s coast by morning. Lady Gweyr greeted us, granting us freedom to explore where others faltered. We found a secret tunnel plunging into the earth, revealing a crypt from the dragon-ruled era and a shrine to Araneth. Luthais had already raided a hidden room behind the altar, taking what he sought, but the sword Lothithil—bound by blood to the family, as its plaque declared, was present in a secure case. When Gweyr claimed it, the blade reshaped into a rapier and spoke to us in our minds, a voice from ages past, returned to a vault long emptied.
At dinner, I listened as Lorelei unraveled the story of Aenira's ascent—how she and her companions cleansed winter of corruption. It’s a tale that pulls at me, urging me to ponder the threads of divinity and mortality, and what echoes of that power might still resonate here and question our connection to the Throne of Death. I have attempted to draw Lorelei's psionic attention to my mind, despite Isenara's being in charge at that moment, perhaps she can access some of our memories, like she saw those of Luthais', but this was not a subject for a dinner table.