Lore Scroll: Grimoire of Fellingsong

Throughout all of existence, the pain is...unbearable. But the Song still calls.

Vynsett could always feel the call of the Song echoing in her mind, a haunting yet beautiful melody that seemed to resonate with the core of her being. Since she was a child, the sweet and terrifying stanza of the Song enveloped her, providing a peculiar sense of comfort but also unease. The notes danced through her thoughts, soothing her when she felt overwhelmed, yet they could also suddenly rise to a crescendo that left her trembling with fear.

In the darkest hours of the night, when the world around her was shrouded in silence and shadows, the Song would keep her awake, its enchanting allure pulling her deeper into...something. Those sleepless nights became a canvas for her imagination, where the melodies intertwined with her dreams, crafting violent tales of heroics, angels, and demons. The Song was not merely a sound; it was an experience, a force that ignited her passion and inspired her to explore the depths of her own mind.

During her hours of solitary labor, when the weight of her own thoughts felt particularly heavy, the Song remained a constant companion. It accompanied her as slaved in the field, its rhythm guiding her motions in an aerobic sort of dance. In moments of frustration, when the weariness of the day felt unbearable, the melody would swell, urging her to persevere, to dig deeper, and providing a vague but alluring promise of a better future.

Despite its sometimes comforting presence, Vynsett often grappled with the mystery of the Song's origin. She knew not where it came from or why it had chosen her as its vessel. It was a riddle wrapped in a melody, an enigma that danced just beyond her grasp. She for some answer about the nature of this ethereal connection that seemed to transcend time and space. Yet, whenever she sought the wisdom of healers and mystics, those who were reputed to possess knowledge of the unseen realms, she found herself met with confusion and frustration.

The healers would shake their heads, their brows furrowing in concentration as they attempted to decipher the phenomenon. Some claimed it was a gift, a blessing that marked her as special, while others warned it could be a curse, a sign of an impending darkness. Vynsett listened, hoping for clarity, but often left feeling more lost than before. It was a frustrating cycle, as her encounters with those who might help her became fewer and farther between, while they yielded little in the way of understanding.

As the years passed, Vynsett learned to navigate her life with the Song as a constant presence, embracing its dual nature of comfort and dread. She began to appreciate the way it shaped her identity, how it intertwined with her thoughts and emotions, becoming an inseparable part of her existence. In moments of joy, the melody would soar, filling her heart with elation, while in times of sorrow, it would descend into a mournful tune, allowing her to process grief.

Born with limited sight and a frail build to a family that valued nothing less than perfection, Vynsett was ostracized, targeted, and betrayed her entire life. She felt the humiliation of rejection cleanly, understanding their hatred all too well. With hatred and indifference to her pain in their eyes, Vynsett was sacrificed to a God whom she no longer cared for or believed in while the last of her sight was taken, then gladly given in a ritual the resulted in the deaths of her captors. Now, she had only the Song left. The melody that carried hope, torture, pleasure, and death continued ringing in her ears.

She continued on, passing small towns and villages in the night, traveling in the shadows during the day. Killing any she came across, Vynsett needed no sustenance, the Song holding her rapt attention. Swiftly she moved, urged by the unseen crescendo in her mind, into the mountainous peaks, down to the valleys, and into a small cave. There, deep within its scarred recesses, gently placed between two carved stalagmites, laid the source of her Song. A gray book, its pages stained so red with blood that it shone a deep hue of purple in the low light. As Vynsett grasped the pages of the Fellingsong, the chorus in her mind stopped. She was no longer simply hearing the music of the Demonastary and the Fell, she was now the maestro, and harbinger of the destruction it would cause. Soon, they would all hear the Song, right before their terrible demise.