It has now been months since Lenten Howl and my subterfuge is complete: I’ve begun true work as a wizard, working to understand how the estuaries that surround the capital seem to keep sickness at bay within the city walls, while the similar ecologies of the Gorscht inflame the dark humors to wonton destruction of the body. These last few weeks, though I have spoken with many who have worked these wetlands, there’s but one I remember in particular—a sailor with strange lights in their eyes. The way they looked at me, I felt…exposed. I departed as soon as I could.
Following the folk tales of the people, and the shards of extent vellum found within what are now my tomes. I’ve come across a clue: There is a spell called Second Winter, and I’m now sure it is the clue I need to crack this puzzle.
I’ve now travelled for weeks, following clue by clue along the ancient riverbeds whose only trace is in the empty air where the water used to flow and the rhythm of the breeze on twisting ghost creeks. For my trouble, it seems I’ve found, within the rocks that surround this dry water bed a single chair.
On the third day, I sat in the chair. But in sitting in the chair, I was transported to another place! A place not of earth—but not of above or below either. At best, I can only describe it as beside reality. It’s colours and forms were beautifully alien. The sorcerer who created this—it may have been the home of my ‘mentor’, but I doubt it—knew what beauty was, and how to bring its ideal away from the trappings of mundane reality and into perfect.
Woefully, and immediately, I knew I was out of my depth. To bask in this place was to be lost, and to be lost would mean the end of your own self, obliterated by the very perform forms of idealism made manifest. My skill was not nearly ready for me to confidently find what I came for, but I still remembered. I sought the Second Winter, and it would be mine.
I willed my way through the labyrinths of beauty to find Second Winter. In my elation, drawing upon my conduit as given to me by Iqq, I cast it then and there, within beauty’s form, outside of the structures of reality. A truly grave error.
When you attempt to rewrite reality outside of reality the only thing changed will be yourself. My right hand is now pearlescent—a memento of this dream land. I will have to hide it, lest my access to the firmament be found out.