'It does not look like much, does it? They call it Taliesin's Breith these days. Of course back then they called it by another name. To some it was the House of Song, to others the Poet's Dream and to yet others the Bard's Hall. We used to call it home. In Dunwaith where if you did not aspire to conquest then you prepared against invasion, a humble collection of dwellings like Cairn-Aisling didn't cross the minds of beggars, let alone Kings. Nevertheless the Dun was the closest town of note, with the exception of the Faed, but the less that place goes mentioned the better, no?
So there it rests, and within you will find people gathered during festivals, Name Days, and other causes of celebration. Here there would be song, poetry and verse. Tales of the courageous, tales of the corrupt, tales of the heroic, tales of the wicked. Beneath thatched roofs in round rooms the alert and the drunken would behold, in rapt attent, the epics, the sagas, the tales of the Before Times, and far more. It was a place of inspiration, of reclamation. It was a place, I recall, where one could rediscover the soul, if one thought it had left them. Or find the heart, if the heart was lost. It was the only place in Cairn-Aisling where people dared to dream, to hope, to imagine. And so for that I am grateful. Were it not for this humble origin, this obscure blot on a landscape of nothing, I'd never have first heard of the Sidhe, or Fairy Mounds with their resplendent halls full of richer bounty than any the Breith would ever see. Nor would ever I have had the kindling of my wanderlust lit underneath me, so that I must leap up and into the unknown world to explore all of its strangeness. And I certainly would never have performed in magical courts before austere Faerie Queens and aloof Fey Kings, magnificent and intimidatingly proud of bearing, across the Veil, on the Other Side of Midnight.
It doesn't look like much, does it? But for every place in life where one feels dreams must surely go to die, there are other places, and they may indeed not look like much. But in some of those places dreams are born...'
~ Upon Reflection, Chapter 1 of The Mirror of the Self, by Taliesin.
This is where TechSupport Paul, who has taken to writing the occasional Veil based tale, will share his work, and I'll pitch in with vignettes and certain pieces, when the fancy takes. I know we are not many here, but quality counts for something, surely?
The Veiled Pact in Dun Shael
The mist clung to Dun Shael like a shroud, its tendrils curling through the narrow, cobbled streets, where lamplight flickered weakly against the encroaching dark. The hill-city’s wards, etched deep into its granite walls, pulsed faintly with Sidhe runes, a fading bulwark against the undead that prowled beyond. Inside, the air was thick with suspicion, the citizens’ eyes darting like cornered beasts. The rise of the death-cults had turned neighbor against neighbor, and trust was a currency few could afford.
Faolan Shadowblades moved through the shadowed alleys of the Low Quarter, his boots silent on the slick stones. His lean frame was cloaked in tattered black, the hilts of twin swords peeking from beneath his mantle. His face, scarred and weathered, bore the hard lines of a man who’d seen too much and regretted too little. At his side loped Faust, the Barguest, a hulking beast with eyes like smoldering coals. Its fur was a matted void, swallowing light, and its presence drew uneasy glances from the few souls brave or desperate enough to linger in the streets. Faust was no pet, no mere hound. A creature of the Otherworld, tasked with guiding lost souls to their rest, it had gone astray, tethered to Faolan by some unspoken pact. Where Faolan went, death followed, and Faust was never far behind, sniffing out the souls his blades set free.
The Low Quarter was a festering wound in Dun Shael’s heart, its taverns and dens reeking of sour ale and despair. Faolan’s work as a Headhunter—mercenary, assassin, whatever paid—had dried up in the city’s paranoia. No one trusted a blade who wasn’t kin, and even kin were suspect these days. He’d been holed up in a crumbling tenement, sharpening his swords and his temper, when the message came: a scrap of parchment, slipped under his door, bearing a single line in elegant script: The Gilded Maw, midnight. Come alone. Bring the beast.
The Gilded Maw was no ordinary tavern. Tucked in a forgotten corner of the Low Quarter, it was a place of whispered deals and forbidden rites, its entrance hidden beneath a butcher’s shop. The sign above the trapdoor was a grinning skull, its jaws painted gold, and the air below stank of blood and incense. Faolan descended the creaking stairs, Faust’s claws clicking behind him, and pushed through a beaded curtain into a chamber that felt more like a crypt than a tavern.
The room was dimly lit by braziers, their flames casting writhing shadows on walls carved with spiraling Sidhe runes. Tables were scattered haphazardly, occupied by hooded figures nursing tankards of black grog, their faces obscured. A low chant hummed in the air, barely audible, like the drone of a distant hive. At the far end, a raised platform held a throne-like chair, its wood blackened and etched with bones. There sat the Veiled Patron, a figure cloaked in crimson, their face hidden behind a mask of polished obsidian, its surface reflecting the firelight in fractured glints.
Faolan stopped a few paces from the platform, his hand resting lightly on a sword hilt. Faust growled low, a sound that vibrated in the bones, but Faolan silenced the beast with a glance. The Barguest settled onto its haunches, eyes fixed on the Patron, its tail twitching like a serpent.
“You’re late,” the Patron said, their voice a silken rasp, neither male nor female, as if spoken through a veil of smoke. “I dislike waiting.”
“Streets are thick with eyes tonight,” Faolan replied, his tone flat. “Didn’t fancy a tail. You the one with the job?”
The Patron leaned forward, the obsidian mask tilting. “I am. You’re Faolan Shadowblades, Headhunter. They say you’re nastier than most. That you leave bodies where others leave promises.”
“They say a lot of things. Most of it’s true.” Faolan’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “What’s the job?”
The Patron’s gloved hand gestured to a table beside the throne, where a single goblet sat, filled with a viscous, dark liquid that seemed to writhe in the light. “Sit. Drink. Then we’ll talk.”
Faolan didn’t move. “I don’t drink with strangers. Especially not ones hiding their face.”
A soft chuckle escaped the mask. “Wise. But you’ll need your strength for what’s to come. The Black Distillery is no place for the faint-hearted.”
Faolan’s eyes narrowed. The Black Distillery was a name whispered in dread, a fortified ruin on the city’s edge, where the Chymist, Cumhact na Nanam, conducted his unholy experiments. Rumors spoke of vats bubbling with necrotic ichor, of bodies that walked without souls. “Cumhact’s place. What’s he done to you?”
“He owes dues,” the Patron said, their voice hardening. “And he thinks himself above paying. My usual… associates lack the stomach for what’s required. You, I’m told, do not.”
Faolan glanced at Faust, whose eyes gleamed with a hunger that wasn’t mortal. “You want him dead?”
“I want him persuaded,” the Patron corrected. “His rites disrupted, his warriors scattered. If blood must flow, so be it. But Cumhact lives. For now.”
Faolan’s fingers tightened on his hilt. “Sounds like a lot of trouble for a debt. What’s the catch?”
The Patron’s mask tilted again, as if studying him. “The catch, Shadowblades, is the Red Mist. It gathers around the Distillery, a sign his rituals near completion. If he succeeds, the consequences will be… unpleasant. For Dun Shael. For you. For your beast.”
Faust growled again, hackles rising. Faolan felt a chill, not from the words but from the way the air seemed to thicken, as if the runes on the walls were listening. “And the pay?”
A gloved hand reached beneath the crimson cloak, producing a small pouch that clinked softly. The Patron tossed it to the table, where it landed beside the goblet. “Gold enough to keep you in blades and grog for a year. And something more… intangible. A favor, owed by one who does not offer such lightly.”
Faolan eyed the pouch but didn’t touch it. “Favors from your kind come with strings.”
“Everything comes with strings,” the Patron said, rising from the throne. Their cloak shimmered, as if woven from liquid shadow. “The question is whether you’re man enough to cut them.”
The room grew quieter, the chant fading, the hooded figures at the tables still as statues. Faolan felt the weight of their attention, a pressure that made his skin crawl. He’d faced death-cults, spirits, and worse, but something about the Gilded Maw—about the Patron—set his instincts screaming. Yet the gold was real, and work was scarce. And Faust, for all his otherworldly menace, needed souls to guide, or whatever had broken him would only worsen.
“Tell me about the Distillery,” Faolan said at last, his voice low. “And Cumhact’s lads.”
The Patron settled back into the throne, satisfied. “The Black Distillery is a fortress, its doors iron-bound and warded. Cumhact’s warriors are cultists, fanatics who drink his foul brews and wield blades blessed with necrotic fervor. They guard the gates, the vats, the Chymist himself. You’ll need to breach the doors—your Barguest can help with that—and carve your way through. Cumhact’s rites involve the Red Mist, a power that twists flesh and soul. Interrupt him before it’s complete.”
Faolan’s mind raced. Cultists were trouble, but he’d faced their kind before. The Red Mist, though—that was new. And the Patron’s refusal to name their own stake in this reeked of secrets. “Why me?” he asked. “Plenty of blades in Dun Shael.”
The Patron’s mask gleamed as they leaned forward. “Because you’re not just a blade, Faolan. You’re a storm. And storms don’t ask questions—they destroy. Besides…” Their voice dropped to a whisper. “Faust chose you. And I trust his judgment.”
Faolan glanced at the Barguest, whose eyes burned brighter, as if the mention of his name had stirred something deep within. Faust didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The beast’s presence was a promise of violence, a reminder of the souls that piled up wherever Faolan went. Something had gone wrong with Faust, yes, but it wasn’t just the Barguest. Faolan’s own demons—guilt, rage, the ghosts of his past—kept them bound together, a pair of broken things cutting through a broken world.
He stepped forward, ignoring the goblet but picking up the pouch. The gold inside was heavy, real. “I’ll do it,” he said. “But if this goes sour, I’m coming for you.”
The Patron laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “I’d expect nothing less. Go, Shadowblades. The Black Distillery awaits. And the Red Mist does not linger for idle men.”
Faolan turned, Faust rising to follow, his claws scraping the stone floor. The beaded curtain parted as he passed, the chant resuming behind him, louder now, a dirge that followed him up the stairs and into the night. The mist of Dun Shael swallowed him, but his mind was already on the Distillery, on Cumhact na Nanam, on the cultists and their unholy grog. His blades would sing soon enough, and Faust would feast on the souls they freed.
As he vanished into the Low Quarter’s labyrinth, the Gilded Maw’s braziers dimmed, and the Veiled Patron’s mask gleamed one last time. The runes on the walls pulsed, and the air whispered with secrets too dark for even Faolan to fathom. The storm was coming, and Dun Shael would tremble in its wake.