Wayfarer
Legacy Name: Wayfarer

Long, long ago, when the world was still new and flourishing, there existed a realm of fantastic powers and mystical creatures. Hidden well beyond the scope of human comprehension, it was said that this realm was pressed into the far corner of the earth, so that only those who knew where it was could ever find it. It was a place of enchantment and danger; a place where the Light pursued the Darkness, where strangers were your only friends, and where dreams were not the only escape from reality.

It was known as the Realm of the Lost.

And like any realm, they had a Lord.

The Lord of the Lost was said to be a powerful sage, calling upon the very life-forces of nature to carry out his bidding: the trees bent before him in reverence, the mountain rock quaked at his footsteps, and even the wind rushed to obey his summons. He sealed the secrets of each element in his heart, and the elements feared him in turn. He fought to preserve the hidden places of the world, weaving veils of spider's silk and stardust to conceal the people of the Fae from eyes that looked on with only greed and self-destruction. He was strong and just, but also kind and forgiving; he was loved and feared, and feared nothing himself.

Save one thing.

The Lord of the Lost, with the Sacred World of the Fae as his subjects and all the Earth as his garrison, feared himself.
Or rather, his name.

It was said that his name was the one secret he desperately guarded above all others, for in those days, names had certain powers--some over people, some over creatures, and even some over unseen forces. The Lord's name was said to have been formed from the depths of a fiery volcano chasm and breathed into being by the relentless waves of the distant sea...

And it controlled the very balance of life itself.

His name held a power beyond any comprehension, be it mortal or not. He had only ever spoken his name once, when he was even younger than the world itself. The word had torn the lands asunder and swallowed the sun whole, staining the sky pitch black with total oblivion.

The Lord of the Lost ruled well, and the entire realm was at peace for centuries. Their world prospered through his reign and his devices of magic, unaffected by the savage touch of time which their sister world, the mortal world, suffered.
But within a single day, all of that changed.

Next

The Lord's daughter was a lovely young nymph of uncommon beauty. One breezy summer dusk, she was attending her father's orchard, drawing water from the Well of Infinity in the courtyard.
It was not until too late that she realized the golden viper entwined across the scaffolding.

The girl instantly fell ill from the serpent's poison. The court Sorcerers and Conjurers gathered night and day around the princess's bedside, but despite their fervent efforts, the poison continued to drain her, refusing to respond to the healing powers of the earth and spirit alike.
The truth of the matter was simple, devastating, and common knowledge:

There was no known cure for venom of the Golden Viper.

The Lord and all who followed him soon fell into despair--for it was not only their king who would suffer at the hands of the girl's fate, but the entire Realm. For the Lord of the Lost loved his daughter more than life itself, and thought her safe as long as she did not stray from the kingdom--which is why he had used her heart, pure of blemish, and spirit, stronger than the proudest of oaks, as an anchor for his most powerful spell. The Lord of the Lost had bound his daughter's life force to the Summerlight; a massive orb of life and light that burned as brightly as any sun throughout summer days and winter nights alike. The Summerlight yielded both a rich harvest year after year, and an unbreakable shield around the realm which banished and held strong against the enemies of the Fae--The Sleepless Ones.

Chaos was inspired throughout the whole kingdom as the Summerlight and the Lord's daughter both pinned away with each passing day. As The Realm slowly turned upside down in fear before his eyes, the Lord realized he was left with two options: risk the untamable power of his name to save his daughter's life, or set out on his own to find a cure for the poison that now crept through her veins.

And yet, even with his daughter's life and the safety of the realm on the line, he could not force himself to call upon a power he did not understand--his own power.

Previous Next

In a final, desperate act, The Lord of the Lost went out alone and ascended the slopes of Mount Dire, the savage crown of the earth that drew up haughtily into the belly of the heavens. There he summoned all four winds to his aid, sending them into the far corners of the earth to see if even the faintest whispers of a cure for his daughter could be found. For three terrible nights, The Lord endured the silence of an empty sky, with no breeze or creature for company. Then, on the fourth morning, the East Wind flew back to its master, breathless and all but spent--but with report of a mythical flower. The Harvest Nightshade, the East Wind told, was said to bloom only in one place--one field in the entire world, during the pique of the autumn equinox, and had the ability to repel all poisons and curses.

The Lord's joy at the news soon returned to despair, for the location of the field was a sealed mystery that even the wind could find no answer for. And with only days, if not hours, of life left in his daughter and kingdom, the Lord devised a reckless plan that would either preserve the hope that remained, or doom the Realm into an empty eternity.

The Lord of the Lost returned to his realm after his conference with the East wind. He entered his daughters room and dismissed the few persevering magicians that still attended her. He knelt by her bed and spoke gently of his plan, explaining the danger involved should he fail. But the princess, broken and all but spent, held a brave confidence in her father's skill; with the last of her feverish breath she blessed him and his art, bidding him godspeed on his journey.

The Lord of the Lost climbed to the Spire of the Summerlight, where the magic within glimmered dimly, hopelessly, as the life which held it faded into evanescence before his eyes. The Lord steeled himself and turned to face his moonlit kingdom far below, raising his hands to the clear northern sky and surrendering the fate of his Realm to the heavens that did not care.

The incantation drained all his strength as he bid the Sands of Time be still....

He called upon the Ice of the Sea preserve that which he could not...

And he challenged the Moon to a test of Endurance--to stand a relentless sentinel to a dying kingdom.At once a smothering green fog crept from the crevices of the earth and consumed the entire Realm. Heaviness filled even the quickest minds and nimblest of limbs, and as a collective sigh rose to the stars above, the kingdom fell into a listless, dreamless, timeless sleep.

Previous Next

With his kingdom momentarily spared, the Lord of the Lost prepared for his journey. He removed the Summerlight, now no bigger than the feeble flicker of a candle, from the Spire chapel, and fashioned it into a lantern of vines so that he might carry it with him and guard it even during his travels. He then went down and through the city, toward the borders of the Realm; not a single sound was to be heard throughout the sleeping land, locked within the stillness of an undying night, and the Lord of the Lost felt his heart ache with remorse for his deed...Though at least they still lived, and as long as the moon stood as steward over his kingdom, his people would be preserved.

Without turning back, the Lord crossed the borders of the Realm, leaving the misty depths of an eternal night and entering the blinding gold of a new morning--the likes of which would never reach the Realm of the Lost.

Even now the Lord searches through the World for the elusive Harvest nightshade. A thousand autumns have come and gone in their own time, and in turn winter, spring and summer have followed. Still, the Lord of the Lost roams the green and gold fields of the earth, choosing a secluded place as his residence for one year, until the autumn Equinox rises. And each time, when the Equinox piques, and still the Harvest Nightshade is nowhere to be found, he reassembles his wits, stores his hopes away, and moves on.

Though cut off from his kind, he is never completely alone; the Earth is still his friend, and the Winds and the Birds continue to comb the earth as his spies. And even through the tempest of his trials he keeps his mind fixed on his home; perhaps, one day, the Summerlight will be restored.

Perhaps he will live to hear his daughter laugh again.

Perhaps he will yet return to his realm and relieve the Moon of her charge.

But for now, the Lord of the Lost wanders the earth as a stranger, taking refuge in the quiet glades and the sunlit glens. He is the silent wayfarer of the world, no more than a shadow of the imagination that slips away into the evening before you can catch it.


Previous First Credits

Profile, art, and story all belong to me, User not found: rank.
Image of book found as free stock on google.