15 of Bathier 2271 from Descent of Prophets
My name is Beniamino Corsakino, I am a traveler and explorer, and I think I've gone mad. Or rather, I'm quite certain I have. I've become so accustomed to the spectrum that haunts me that I now perceive it as a member of the expedition. Ilimae is one of the vanished snow elves who, for some unknown reason, left an emanation of himself on the Disc. This emanation possesses his personality and knowledge, but has no physical body. He speaks to me and plots my route when the stars are obscured by a snowstorm (which happens most of the time). Shavri, the expedition dog, doesn't react to it at all and, it must be said, sometimes passes through it. Ilimae doesn't notice this, unlike me. I would have dismissed him as a hallucination, but he points the way accurately, which would hardly have been possible had he been a product of my frostbitten and drunken mind. The remaining members of the expedition disappeared into the snow, some three weeks ago, some yesterday.
The half-elf winces at the draft coming through the tent entrance and wraps himself deeper in his purple wool scarf, continuing to fill out a new notebook. He is alone in the tent, surrounded by three sleeping bags and a mountain of leather-bound notebooks and journals.
Bart and Velena left last night, leaving only me from the entire expedition. We have more than enough provisions, but we'll have to leave the sleeping bags and some food behind; Shavri can't carry it all. Now it's just me, him, and Ilimae. Perhaps I just can't accept that I'm alone.
He stops his pen, raising his head as if hearing something, and looks ahead with tired, flushed eyes.
“Yes, I hear it. It's really getting stronger. How much longer until the nearest village?”
Silence is his answer. It seems you can hear the faint ringing of bells if you listen closely.
“I don't know if we'll make it before the snowstorm... But since there are only three of us, we'll move quickly. Let me finish.”
Fairn, who left first, said the day before that she could hear the chants of the Assembly. Since she was a cleric, we decided this was a good sign and could serve as a guide to Cathedral. However, I fear it was simply her sacred attraction to magic, which most likely proved her undoing. She was followed by Alik, Teneta, Warris, Balia, Shay, and now Bart and Velena.
Ilimae says this has never happened to elves before, and that perhaps the proximity to the Mother and her tears and the encounter with ancient, primordial magic is unbearable for humans, especially in the taiga and wilderness.
We are now roughly between the Western Ridge and Iasa, on the frozen surface of Lake Akhmurikhaitah. Our next destination is a village near Iasa. Ilimae says the west of the island is the only place where we can reach land without going on a bridge. If we're lucky, we'll find shelter there and can wait out about a week until the storm passes.
“You know, I keep wondering why the lake has less power over me. Of course, I have elven blood in me, but it's not that much, only one-eighth...”
A distant grumble and noise suddenly rises through the howling wind, and Shavri bursts into barking. Beniamino quickly drops his quill and leaps out of the tent, covering his head with his scarf. The ice beneath them trembles, but there's no need to worry about it cracking—this ice never melts. The Mother's tears for the murdered Twins are eternal in its icy grief.
“Reindeer, you say? Does this happen often here?”
Plumes of snow and shards of ice fly from beneath their north-hardened hooves. The herd miraculously misses the modest camp, and Beniamino stands mesmerized, watching them go.
The reindeer have blue eyes just like humans. Deep and soft. As if they've seen the entire history of the world before them and understood all the secrets of blood, death, and magic. For a split second, I felt like one step toward them—and I'd become part of the herd, rushing with them after the murmur of hermeneutics.
“Well, it's time to pack up and move on. How many more days to Cathedral?”
Ilimae says it would be about a week's journey to Cathedral by direct route, but the wind is picking up, and we should wait out the storm, which will take at least a few days in the village. If there's no other storm after this one, we'll be near Cathedral in two weeks. May the Father protect us on this journey, and may the Mother be merciful to us in her domain.
Having packed up the tent and loaded it onto the dog sled, Beniamino ties the skates on his boots and steps onto the ice. He has gloves on his hands, his head is covered with a thick hood and a scarf on top, his fur coat is tightly buttoned, but frost still settles on his eyelashes. Only one of the chests remains at the former campsite, with a small note for any accidental traveler who, by some evil twist of fate, might find this place. Shavri takes off as soon as Beniamino whistles, taking the reins. Ahead is eternal twilight, a snowstorm and ice palaces, here are the sparks of skates and a sip of cognac, behind is a path of abandoned tents and the equipment of vanished travelers who heard the whisper of distant stars and went barefoot into the snow.
17 Bathier of the same year
We miraculously reached the village yesterday, through a snowstorm that had already begun. I don't know who led us out, Shavri or Ilimae, but it certainly wasn't me. I also don't know how many days we'll have to spend here. All my clothes—gloves, scarves, sweaters—are completely soaked, whether from snow or sweat. When I get a chance, I'll try to remove the smell with snow and dry everything out, otherwise the journey will be extremely unpleasant for me. Luckily, the house where we found shelter has a cellar full of food—salted meats and cheeses. I must say, Elven cheeses really don't spoil, but only get better with time. Their local homebrew is also quite good. There are books, too, but only in Elven, but Ilimae said he could explain the most common wordroots and their representation on paper, so at least I have something to do. It's a shame Shay didn't make it here; he would have been so happy to translate Elvish for us...
(undated)
trees crawl, where do they crawl?
6 Ithos 2271 from Descent of Prophets
Unfortunately, I've been drinking heavily for the last week out of boredom in the warmth of this home, while the blizzard howled outside. It wouldn't have ended well if not for a literal divine savior! This expedition is getting stranger and stranger. If you've heard anything about the Prophets' Envoys other than that they can fly, you possess rare knowledge. And I was lucky enough not only to see one in person, but even to talk to them! Their name is Xenon, and they were sent here for the same reason as me—to investigate the disappearance of the white elves. They're a curious creature. They do indeed have wings, three pairs—two on their backs, one on their heads, where ears would normally be, I suppose, for balance, and bird-like talons in place of feet. Their knight's helmet merges with their beak, and their entire bodies are covered in bird-like plumage. They're not very talkative, but they're quite peaceful and even agreed to deliver my letters to Faborum! First of all, I wrote a report for the Imperial Academy of Sciences, obviously. They won't like what I wrote, of course, but what can you do? I also asked that all the diaries of my missing colleagues be brought to the Academy.
"Just a moment, please. I forgot you were in a hurry," Beniamino looks up from his diary and back at the Prophets’ Envoy. It's surprising that as soon as you stop looking at them directly, their presence completely disappears from your senses. Apparently, that's how they remain unnoticed during their divine missions.
"In two weeks, I hope to reach Faborum... I mean, Cathedral, ah, my head's all jumbled up. If I stay alive and sane, I'll wait for you there."
The creature nodded silently, snatching the heavy bundle in its claws, flew from the threshold of the hut, and soon disappeared into the clouds.
I must say, even the company of this mystical creature has greatly brightened my life. Being here, I find it hard to believe that the Empire, Faborum, or the Academy of Sciences even exist. It seems like a lie, a child's fantasy. What Izonian plains, what forests, streams, fields... There's only snow, snow, snow and pine trees, a sparkling turquoise lake, and a bone-chilling cold.
The storm is dying down, and tomorrow we hope to set out. I sharpened the skates and sleds and they should last about a month before they end up in a miserable state again.
Having thoroughly admired the golden feather, which emanated holy power, Beniamino finally blew out the candle, preparing for bed.
10 Ithos
Today I was more frightened than I've ever been in my life. Ilimae, it turns out, isn't the only white-elven spectre, but he is the best-preserved one. Today, passing by the forest south of Sorleh, I saw something unimaginable. It was a tall, enormous figure of an elf, hunched over, walking among the pines. The figure was thin, naked, and its hair was dirty, hiding its face. And on its fingers were claws, curled over its length and as sharp as a knife, stained with blood. When this monster turned its gaze on us and I saw its terrible, crooked teeth, I felt my heart drop, just to keep still, to keep it from realizing I was a living being. Ilimae says that not all spectra were as fortunate as he, and some elves were distorted beyond recognition by The Disaster. I hope we don't encounter such a thing again. We made our way to Sorleh and we will stay here until tomorrow, when we set out to cross the lake. Should take us two to three days, so next night will be in the middle of the lake again. I have to say, I've grown used to the warmth of the abandoned houses that we find and I don't anticipate sleeping in the tent again…
13 Ithos
Ilimae says that each time he came here for the Assembly, there were no storms or blizzards, and each time, as he approached the Cathedral, he admired its towers glittering in the sun and listened to its chants. Unfortunately, I do not have that honor.
I hear Cathedral's singing, but it sounds more like a howl, scraping at my heart. I think I'm beginning to feel the burden my missing colleagues endured. It's truly almost unbearable—my head begs to be buried in the snow and burrowed into the lake like an ice mole, my heart makes me weep in despair and anguish. This is especially distressing during treks—my tears freeze on my cheeks and freeze my skin. Why I haven't yet lost my mind from this crown of sorrow remains a mystery to me. Is it because I'm a tiny fraction of elf blood, or is it Ilimae's presence, or is it Shavri, who bites my shins through the fur whenever I stop to wipe away my tears?
Perhaps the blizzard is now the natural state of these lands, the Mother's all-consuming mourning for her white-faced elf children, who sprouted from her tears…
Preface to Print (draft)
The Intercontinental Trade Union's investigation into the disappearance of the white (snow) elves began in 2252 from Descent of Prophets, but they only set foot on the snow elf lands eight years later due to funding and bureaucratic issues for the expedition members. The Imperial expeditionary group, my group, set out in '68, three years ago. For three years, we traveled through forests and ice, unhurriedly, documenting every ruin and burial mound. But when out of a whim of fate I was left alone in '71, I set off for the capital of the lands, Catedral, without further ado.
The final push toward Cathedral proved the most difficult. There was no hope anymore that the blizzard would ever stop. Shavri had been exhausted the day before, and Beniamino pulled the sled by himself, giving the dog a break. The path lay on the ground, not on ice, but that offered little advantage.
"Snow has clogged my boots," Beniamino wheezed, sniffling.
Each step was heavier than the last, and he barely opened his eyes, relying on Shavri to pull him in the right direction. And how his head throbbed with the sound of mourning bells and howling! He couldn't breathe from the sobs, nausea clung to his throat, and Ilimae, behind him, echoed the songs, but in a different way, more serene and tender, as if it weren't a cry, but a lullaby. He felt wet and dry at the same time, hot and cold, but he had to keep going. If he stopped, he would collapse in the snow and the expedition would be lost. After all, as long as he lived, the expedition would continue, and it hadn't all been in vain; a button had come off his cloak and now snow is clogging the gap, and the sled is pulling him back, it's so heavy, it's so cold.
Just a little more…
…
…
…
He woke up to Shavri licking his face with its stinking tongue and jumping on his chest. Beniamino groaned loudly, doubled over, turning to his side, and only then opened his eyes.
A large hall of white translucent stone, benches, and purple northern lilies. A blizzard blew through the thick bluish windows, constantly slamming snow against the glass, trying to break through. And to the left, a door stood ajar, a draft from which chilled his skin unpleasantly. There's a sign in Elvish; he can even read it now: Greetings, distinguished guests. Welcome to Cathedral.
“Shavri... Shavri, my dear, we've arrived! Shavri!” Beniamino bursts into laughter and hugs the dog, with all its stinking muzzle and dirty fur, laughing so hard he cries and starts hiccuping.
He looks around, finally sitting up on the floor, and, barely reaching, slams the entry door.
“Oh, what a smart, resourceful dog you are! You carried me and the sled, what a fine fellow!” Shavri jumps around him, barking joyfully, trying to knock him back onto the floor.
“Let's make camp, my dear, and have our very deserved dinner!”
I do not know which day it is, but I assume I haven't been out for long. I reached Cathedral yesterday. Shavri most likely saved my life and pulled me from the snow to safety with all our belongings. I also genuinely do not know where I am, in which part of the city and in which building I am in, I still have to investigate that. The weirdest thing is that I never knew how to read Elvish, but now it seems like I can read the basics of it. Also I read through my past notes — there's a recurring name there of a person I never knew or met, but I write about them continuously. Ilimae… Did I really lose my mind and came up with a specter just not to go insane in solitude? But then again, I did learn Elvish somehow and I truly did see the distorted specter in the forest. The song of the towers is not hearable here for whatever reason, but I am eternally glad for that — if it continued, I would have smashed my head already.
Beniamino put down his quill and stretched, shaking his sleep-stiff shoulders. Well, time to get to work.
Most probably, he's the first person in this building since The Disaster. The halls are empty and clean, and he even feels awkward walking around in his scuffed and slightly dirty boots. Fortunately, Catedral, due to its history as the center of the recurring Elven Assembly, was optimized for guests, meaning that after about twenty minutes of wandering the corridors, he found both a map of the building and a map of the city. Currently he is located in the fortress wall on the western side, which is quite expected, given their route. However, the goal of his search, and the snow elves' main secret, which half the continent is chasing, is the control center for the Assembly portals. It's unlikely that its location will be written on the guest map, but one can assume he should look somewhere in the administrative buildings.
Three days after waking up in Cathedral. The disappearance of the snow elves from the capital is absolute. There's no trace of them anywhere, no dust or burn from their bodies, no warning paper or a suicide note. Some things are left as if someone is supposed to return in minutes — half-washed dishes in the kitchen of a communal canteen, a pipe and an open book laying on the windowsill. As if I have people around me, living, going around their business, but I cannot see them for some reason. Shavri brings me things from time to time — a sack, a handkerchief with an embroidered name, a purse with coins. What's the point of gold here? There's no one to haggle with, it's just me.
He hides his notebook again and gets up from a bench in one of the vast hallways. Maybe he should come up with a friendly spectre again, so he at least has someone to talk to.
Five days after waking up in Cathedral, I finally found the control center.
He paused and raised his head again, looking around by the light of his lantern. The last time a human, not an elf, had entered this room was a hundred years ago, in 2145. Delena the First, Queen of Atrelon (it was a kingdom back then, not an Empire), detailed her diplomatic visit to the snow elves in her later published journals. She mentioned that the elves had entrusted her with the task of witnessing this room, but omitted any further details.
Placing his notebook in his shoulder bag, he walked around the control panel. Buttons, motors, lenses—all silent, faceless, and dead. He carefully moved one of the mirrors mounted on a vertical panel with his finger, and it creaked, rotating slightly. To think that this thing was the most hidden secret for centuries! And he is just casually rummaging around.
He sat down on the floor by the wall. Shavri would know where to find him, if necessary. However, that hardly changed the fact that Beniamino was completely alone. Alone from the expedition, alone in this silent city, and will remain alone until some lost soul comes here too or the Prophets’ Envoy flies back. He covered his face with his hands.
It shouldn't have been like this. Warris and Balia were specialists in mechanics and magic, Shay knew Elvish at the highest level; if they were here, this city would have revealed its secrets. But instead, only he was here, a historian who does not specialize in elves and who can only dig and describe what he finds according to state standards. He sniffed, dropping his head to his knees. And these walls, these silent walls that witnessed everything that occurred here! If only they would tell him what happened! But no, there was only him and the silence, the damned silence, and nothing more. Where have you gone, damned elves, where are your families, where is your magic, where are my friends, where do people disappear to?
Mistress of Fates Keleste, why did I have to get here by myself? I can't do anything alone! I can't do anything!
He cried for a long time in the silent room, calling and cursing to no avail, until exhaustion claimed his body.
Perhaps somewhere in the north, in the elven lands, life stopped mid-sentence, mid-breath, and mid-movement, when the entire population of the country vanished in a split second, but throughout the rest of the Disc, especially in the Empire, the bustle of vanities continued.
No one had heard from Beniamino Corsakino for ten years. His fate remains unknown after his final letters from '71, which mysteriously ended up in the Imperial capital. His many friends could only pray to Gods that he was still alive. And of course not a single soul on the Disc knows whether he succumbed to the despair that overwhelmed him or whether he continued his exploration, the only one to reach his goal out of hundreds of expeditions to the Lands of Eternal Mourning.
