ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔡𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔶, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔒𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔡— 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔶 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔫. ℌ𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨. ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔩𝔬𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰, 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔞𝔱 𝔡𝔞𝔴𝔫, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯. 𝔏𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔷𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔩 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰. 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔡 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔯𝔰, 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔬𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔦𝔱. 𝔄𝔱 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔦𝔱. 𝔖𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰. 𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔗𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔲𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔢. 𝔉𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔤𝔲𝔢 𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔡, 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔤𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔦𝔱, 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪. 𝔄𝔤𝔢𝔰 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡. 𝔗𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤. ℌ𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔰, 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔥 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔞𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔡. ℌ𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔴, 𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰, 𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔫, 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔢𝔫𝔡, 𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔞 𝔴𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫. 𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔱-𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫, 𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱, 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔣𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔷𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯. 𝔖𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔴 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱. ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔳𝔬𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔫𝔢𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔯𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔯, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔞 𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪, 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔴 𝔟𝔞𝔠𝔨. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔪𝔞𝔡𝔢 𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔡. 𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔢. ℌ𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔞 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔞𝔶. ℌ𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢𝔡 ℌ𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯. 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔡. 𝔘𝔫𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴. 𝔖𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫. 𝔒𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡, 𝔞 𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔬𝔰 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢. 𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪 𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔞𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔞𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 𝔦𝔫 𝔞𝔡𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞 𝔤𝔬𝔡 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔞 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔤𝔬𝔡𝔰. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔫𝔬 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩. 𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔞 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢, 𝔦𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫. 𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢. 𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔢. 𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔳𝔞𝔤𝔲𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯. 𝔗𝔥𝔲𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔄𝔯𝔨𝔥𝔞𝔷𝔦𝔯. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔳𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔰 ℌ𝔢 ℌ𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣— 𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡, 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡, 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫, 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔣𝔢𝔩𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰.
Few ever ask the question that seems to lie upon the surface: Why has the fey pantheon, for all its changeability, its capriciousness and its love of deceit, never produced a true trickster? Not a jester, not a courtly prankster, but one who systematically undermines the very foundations of order, both his own and others.
The answer, it would seem, is that such a being once existed. And was erased.
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We speak of the entity that later sources (exceedingly few and almost always veiled) sometimes name the Walker in the Twilight, or simply Gloomwalker.
He belonged wholly neither to the Seelie nor to the Unseelie Court. Rather to that uncertain circle of powers now called the Gloaming Fey: dreams, twilight, stars, the border hours. All that exists only in the moment of transition.
He moved among both Courts when it served his ends, yet he possessed no true allies.
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It is this being, the scattered evidence suggests, who for centuries and even millennia exerted influence upon the Empire of Imaskar.
Not openly. Not as patron or as foe. But as a slow corruption, as a breath that seeps through every crack.
There is reason to believe that it stood behind the Silent Death of -4370, the plague that laid waste to big part Imaskar and drove the lord-artificers to their desperate experiments with portals.
After that its influence only deepened.
The empire became ever more steeped in fey essence, through the dreams of its rulers, through sudden insights, through subtle distortions at the very roots of their magic.
Yet to create lasting offspring proved far more difficult than might have been expected.
For a being of such antiquity and such nature, simple interbreeding with mortals was nearly impossible.
Human flesh was too coarse, human souls too narrow. Centuries of experiment, failed attempts and side-projects were required.
Only when the empire already stood upon the threshold of ruin did he at last find a suitable vessel.
A woman among those close to one of the final Lord-Artificers, gifted with a rare permeability of boundaries.
What passed between them cannot be called ordinary conception. According to the boldest readings, he did not merely sire a child upon her: he dissolved into her. He poured a substantial portion of his own essence into the blood of the line that would follow.
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One may venture the bold conjecture that precisely this accounts for several strange peculiarities of the Arkhazir bloodline.
✧First, the remarkable endurance of the blood itself.
Across millennia it has scarcely diluted. The House’s eugenic practices played their part, of course, yet by themselves they could never have preserved so concentrated a link. That blood was "alive" from the beginning, not merely a carrier of inheritance, but a fragment of the entity itself.
Every attempt to strengthen it through union with other powerful mages only added complexity. It never thinned the core. On the contrary, it rendered the core ever stranger, ever more unstable. Hence what the House chronicles sometimes call "the plague of madness": not an external curse, but the natural consequence of trying to contain too much chaos within a vessel that remained at least partly human.
✧Second, the nature of their magic.
It is customary to class Arkhazir sorcerers among Wild Magic Sorcerers. The label is convenient, yet imprecise. Their gift is not classical Wild Magic born of rifts in the Weave or random surges of chaos.
It is rather FeyWild Magic in its purest and most perilous form: the magic of the threshold, the magic of fluid borders, the magic of that which refuses to submit to the laws of the Material Plane.
It is chaotic not because it is random, but because its very essence resists fixation. That is why it is so potent and so destructive to its bearer.
✧Third, the line itself constitutes, in essence, the last relatively pure remnant of "True Imaskar."
The descendants who fled into the Underdark and became the Deep Imaskari have, over the ages, been reshaped by other powers and another environment.
High Imaskar was already a reconstruction. The Arkhazirs, by the very nature of their blood, have retained something more ancient. That peculiar mixture of Imaskari arrogance and primordial fey wildness that existed even before the empire’s fall.
✧Finally, one must speak of lifespan.
Modern bearers of Arkhazir blood, if they avoid madness and external threat, live on average some two hundred years. Already far beyond the human span. Yet the House’s own legends and certain surviving records allow us to assert that in the first centuries and even millennias after the line’s emergence the term was considerably longer. Blood only beginning to settle within mortal vessels prolonged existence. Only gradually, as damage accumulated and the inheritance grew more intricate, did the span of life begin to shorten. Not so much from any weakening of the blood itself as from the mounting weight of what it carried.
Thus what at first glance appears merely one among many half-fey bloodlines reveals itself, upon closer examination, as something far rarer and more disquieting.
This is not simply blood that has come under the influence of the Feywild.
It is the living remnant of a being that once chose not merely to remain upon the Material Plane, but to dissolve. And thereby to dwell forever upon the threshold.
