Sliberberg stories returns with the tragic backstory of Panthor Silverhoof, a character that has recurred a few times in my work. If you are new to the blog, Sliberberg Stories is a series of posts that explores the backstory and the lore of various characters in New Mountainheart as told through the first-hand experience of Sliberberg’s resident phantasm, the Silver Lady of Sliberberg. This time around, I experimented with giving the present version of Silver Lady of Sliberberg a bit more character outside the story itself. I also suggest that if you are new to the blog to read the first story of the series because there will be several references to events of that story in the Aoibheann’s tale

Tale of Panthor Silverhoof.

You are strolling through the vibrant streets of Nachtglanzviertel. The theaters, music halls, and pubs that line the street emit a comforting warmth, filling the night with a cozy glow. The street is alive with merrymakers’ laughter and theatergoers’ chatter. Suddenly, a chill runs down your spine. You turn around to see a familiar ghostly face. Auburn locks cascade down her shoulders, framing a delicate, pretty face. She is adorned in an antique wedding dress and a floral crown. The Silver Lady of Sliberberg smiles at you and asks, “Fancy another story?” She leads you to a nearby bench, offering a perfect view of the glowing facade of lime spotlights and colorful signage, which is Elmwood Hall. The theater’s facade is covered with massive posters for the current big production at the theater, the Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv.

The Silver Lady sighs contentplentively, “I remember Elmwood Hall’s opening night; It was like something out of a dream with bright costumes, dancing, and music. It was all so lovely, and I had the best seat in the house. I sat unseen on the stage itself. What can I say? I was enraptured. I was so enchanted by the show that after the show was over and all the lights in the hall were snuffed, I decided to try my own hand at one of the dances.

That was when I met Panthor Silverhoof, making his way with a heavy heart across the stage, his stage built to his exact grand specifications but served as a constant reminder of what he lost. To say the old style has keen senses is an understatement; he knew at once that I was there, and upon seeing my pretty face, we spent the rest of the night talking, and he told me this story, his story.

The Tale of Panthor Silverhoof

It was a sunny summer day, which was nothing all that special in of itself; every day was a sunny summer day in the domain of Titania, the Summer Queen. The colorful wagons rumbled down the track lined with fields of golden wheat and meadows dotted with wildflowers. The wind was filled with the sweet scents of summer. Upon the sides of these wagons were emblazoned the Silver Lark Players in colorful letters. The troupe was in high spirits; after all, it was not every day that one got to perform for royalty, and it was a rare honor to perform for one of the Sister Queens of all the fey. The troupe’s leader, the satyr Panthor Slverhoof, was in an especially good mood. To him, performing for Titania was more than just an honor; it was a means to cement his legacy as the greatest actor in the feywild.

Panthor was lying on top of a tarp-covered pile of crates, a big grin on his face, daydreaming of the glory and applause that awaited at the end of this road in Caer Solara. A sudden sharp jolt from below roused him from his revelry. He crawled over to the driver’s seat. “By the eight silver stars, lad, be more careful; you don’t want to hit every rock and pothole from here to Cork,” shouted Panthor to the pimple-faced teenage boy driving the lead wagon. The boy gave a stumbling reply that seemed close enough to sorry for Panthor’s liking, and he sat back up to continue pondering.

“Maybe if you took a turn with the driving instead of daydreaming, boss, the road would not seem as rough,” a voice from one of the wagons trailing behind said.

Incensed at the suggestion that he was slacking off, Pathor jumped to his hooves, and the top of the prop wagon became an improvised stage. “Daydreaming, daydreaming,” Panthor shouted, “I was doing nothing of the sort; I was devising a plan of attack once we reach the Caer Solara.” Blank stares and looks of confusion greeted his bold proclamation. Panthor sighed, “Look, lads, I know we’ve done plenty of shows before for prince and pauper alike, but this is different.” He went into a dramatic pose and started into a speech, “We are about to perform for a queen, not just any queen, the greatest of all the queens in the feywild and her entire court. I know we are all proficient players in our own right, but that will not be enough; we must put on a show that will go down in history as nothing less will be an insult to our host.”

He twirled and pointed down the road, “So when we get to Caer Solara, I intend for us to,” he cut off mid-sentence despite the rapt attention of his men. The next few moments went by in silence. There were a few awkward coughs before one asked, “What’s up, boss?” That was enough to raise Panthor from his momentary stupor. He gave out a whoop and stamped his hooves, “Listen up, boys, we here.” All the other players stood up to see what the boss was talking about. They could just make out a spire rising over the top of the hill, but their jaws dropped in unison when the wagons crested the hill.

Before them, spread the grandeur of Caer Solara. From a lake of purest mirror, blue rose white walls and towers bedecked with green ivy and creepers. Atop those walls glinted domes of gold and green. Panthor could just make out the sandy yellow of streets beyond the walls from his lofty perch. If he squinted, he could just make people dressed in the most fashionable of clothes, but beyond the city was the true wonder; Titania palace was a towering castle of crystal spires from which dozens of gardens sprouted. Panthor and the players spent forever just staring at the scene, mouths agate and voices hushed. Then Panthor smiled; this is it, this will be the show that will make him a legend, he thought as the wagons trundled towards the city.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. When the little convoy of wagons arrived at the castle, Panthor was immediately escorted to the throne room, where Titania waited. Panthor immediately prostrated himself on the floor lest he offend his host. A moment passed, and then there was a giggle. When it subsided, a voice with all the sweetness of a summer day said, “You may rise, master player.” When Panthor rose, he was unprepared for the sheer magnitude of Titania’s beauty; her skin was the color of honey and perfectly smooth, her face was the perfection of elven beauty, her hair shimmered with all the colors of the autumn leaves, her emerald eyes sparkled like gems, and she was dressed in the most beautiful gown Panthor had ever seen.

“I am sorry, my lady,” he said reverently, “I simply wanted to show you the respect you are owed, for am I not a humble player?”

“You are, yet. I invited you to play in my court,” Titania said with a pleased grin, “You are my guest; ergo, there is no need for such extreme formalities.”

“Very well,” said Panthor with a sigh of relief, “what do you bid me perform for you.”

Titania thought momentarily, “We yearn for laughter and the cunning play of words, master player; show me a spectacle I have never seen before to fill my halls with mirth and joy.

Panthor smiled, “In that case, my lady, I have just the thing, a comedic satire recently written of which we performed many times before to rave reviews.”

Titania smiled, “Very well, master player; I await your performance with anticipation.”

The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur of set assembly, prop gathering, costuming, and makeup. The hall where the play was to be performed was such a hive of activity that Panthor had little time to think of anything else. He certainly did not notice the crystal carriage pulled by two glass pegasi arrive or the finely dressed, silver-haired lady with an immediately recognizable crow foot tattoo step out of said carriage.

When the play’s start time arrived, the hall was packed with no open seats in the house. Titania sat on a crystal throne up front while eager eladrin and pixie courtiers chatted in anticipation. There was a short note from the band, and the crowd fell silent; Panthor stepped out onto the stage, a white spotlight accompanying him dressed in a black silk doublet with armor plates, his skin painted with black makeup, and wearing a circlet upon his head that gave him two additional sets of horns and wielding a serpentine longsword. “My esteemed lords and ladies,” announced Panthor with grandiosity befitting his role as master of ceremonies for the evening, “It is with great honor that the Silver Lark Players present to you a story of the sordid passion, power, and dark delights that only the demon prince of pleasure himself could provide. Pleasures so great that even the feared witch queen of Oreth could not resist. We present to you the Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv.” Panthor bowed himself off the stage, and a comely young woman in flowing robes, a spiked crown, and sporting makeup that looked like she had a crow’s foot tattooed under her left eye. In the audience, the latecomer, the archfey who once was feared as Iggwilv, the witch queen, had cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Now, it is considered in bad taste to perform a satire based on a person’s love life while the person is in the audience and not to ask their permission first. To do a satire based on the love life of a fearsome witch queen before which the mightiest archmages and bravest of champions would tremble while said witch queen was in the audience is simply inviting trouble. As the night went on, the hall was filled with more and more laughter as Panthor in the guise of Graz’zt seduced the player Iggwilv. However, one person was not laughing. Zybilna’s face went from embarrassed pink to seething red as her recent past as Iggwilv the Witch Queen, a past she tried to escape becoming Zybilna, the fairy godmother, was turned into a mockery for the entertainment of the audience. What angered her the most was the presumption that it was Graz’zt that seduced her and that in his presence, she was meek and servile when the truth was she seduced him and had him on a short leash. She would make that dancing and singing fool pay for mocking her.

The play ended with Iggwilv’s downfall in Oreth and her returning to Graz’zt’s embrace to be his servile consort. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. At that moment, as he bowed and the applause washed over him like a soothing, warm tide, he knew he had done it; his name would live on in legend. He was swept away by the adoring nobles and taken to the great hall, where a feast awaited him. Panthor was the center of everyone’s attention, including the still-fuming Zybilna. The fawning courtiers asked him to do impressions and repeat lines from the play in character. Eventually, with a giggle, Titania requests that Panthor perform the abyssal morris from the play for her. Zybilna could not contain her anger anymore. Why bother with goodness and saintliness if she couldn’t even teach a lesson to this prancing fool? She got up and excused herself as if to go refresh herself. She bumped into Panthor as she made his way to the center of the hall and, with the smallest of voices, made a brief incantation. Panthor started to prance around, unaware that Zybilna smiled wickedly from just beyond the hall’s door.

All eyes were on Panthor as they went into the final leap of the routine; Zybilna smiled wickedly from her concealed position and uttered the final word of her curse. When he landed, Panthor stumbled forward and landed face-first in a large bowl of pudding. Everyone leaned over as Panthor clawed his way back up to a vaguely standing position supported by the table. “By the raven queen’s wings and the nine hells, that was unexpected, a rather artful tumble if you ask me; the pudding was a nice touch,” said Panthor, adopting a rather dramatic pose with his hand on his chest. He was met with awkward murmurs and blank stares. He shrugged; not every joke would land the guess. He started to walk back, but his legs betrayed him on the first step, and he fell face-first to the stone floor. He smiled sheepishly and tried to get into a sitting position. His knees would not bend. No matter how much he tried, they remained stuck at an angle, as ridged as pieces of iron. As he struggled, he grew more and more terrified; he had no idea what was going on. He eventually returned to his feet and, using the tables and chairs as support, returned to his chair. As the feast went on, he would be asked to perform a few more times, but every time, to his increasing horror, he would butcher the scene with extreme overacting and be greeted with awkward stares and silence. Eventually, they stopped making their requests, and Panthor sank further and further into his chair. As the courses came and went, his spirits sank further and further, and once injured, Zybilna was content that nobody would be performing the  Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv any time soon.

The next few days did not bring any comfort to Panthor. The Silver Lark players performed several more times in the various playhouses and theaters of the city. Panthor played roles that fit his cursed condition: the old man, the cripple, the lurching creature. He hated every one of these bit parts but clung to the hope that he could prove Titania’s court was a fluke. Yet each performance was marred by his over-the-top acting, drawing awkward stares instead of applause. Between shows, he hobbled through the streets with the help of a silver-headed cane one of the other players pulled from the prop collection, looking for anyone with the power to fix him. However, his search was in vain; wizards and healers could tell him he was under a powerful curse. He would then skulk away, hoping to drown the clawing fear that his acting career was over, yet no amount of drink was enough to banish his fears.

Things came to a head one morning after Panthor spent the night drinking. He hobbled back to the Inn where the Silver Lark players were staying to find that wagons had disappeared from the Inn’s courtyard. Confused, he headed inside, where the innkeeper told him he had a piece of mail waiting for him. The innkeeper handed him a short letter on the back of a torn playbill from one of the previous nights. The terse message on that scrap of paper made Panthor’s heart feel like it had become an anchor that threatened to drag him deeper into the mire. The message was from the Silver Lark Players; they decided to move on without him, calling him a deadweight if he could not act anymore. Panthor collapsed to the floor to see what he feared these last few days spelled out for him by people he considered colleagues and friends was devastating. With some considerable reluctance, he picked himself off the floor and hobbled out of the Inn to find a tavern to numb himself.

He wandered the streets for an hour or so, looking for an appropriate venue to drown his sorrows that was open at this early hour. He eventually ended up at The Golden Willow, a cozy little pub in the shadow of the palace with ivy-decked stone walls, cushioned stools, and a polished smooth bar beyond which every type of wine, ale, and spirit known to the fey stood in neat lines on wooden shelves. Panthor took up a stool, put every last cent he had on the bar, and ordered the barkeeper to keep the drinks coming until he ran out of money or passed out. The barman willingly obliged; when his tankard ran empty, a new one was slipped under his nose.

He was three tankards in when a door opened, and a shadow fell across Panthor like the specter of death. He was too busy getting drunk to give the newcomer a passing glance. He was tall, 7 feet from his boots to the top of his pointed ears. He was broad of shoulder with arms the size of small logs. His body was wrapped in silver armor, and patches of black fur could be seen through the joints. His bestial face was a majestic sight, even though it was a mask of frustration and anger. Upon his brow, a golden band shone like a comet in the night sky.

He stamped up to the bar, each step like a mini earthquake, and accompanied by the heavy clank of the armor. The newcomer slammed his clawed hands on the counter. ” Barman, get me anything strong enough to burn the memory of the last few days from my mind,” the newcomer growled.

“Bloody hell, pace yourself, lad, “said Panthor slurred as the barman put a bottle of the strongest stuff he had in front of the best man, “you best make the experience last, son, less you want the next thing you experience, to be the barman scraping you off the floor and your head pounding like a drum.”

 “Alcohol barely works on me, you swine, you impudent fool,” the beast knight growled and took a swig from the bottle,” Just leave me alone; I want to drown my woes in peace.”

“Woes, woes,” Slurred Panthor, “If you think you have woes, you ain’t got anything on me, lad.”

The knight glared at Panthor with an expression just a few ticks away from murderous. “I was just made a fool of by Titania. I came to this city hoping to inquire with the queen of the summer court on a personal matter. She accepted me into the court as a fellow monarch and archfey and, upon hearing my request, made me swear to complete three impossible tasks, the standard archfey request. I spent the last few days battling an army of formorians, climbing treacherous mountains; I even broke into the Prince of Frost’s palace and stole his diadem. What was my reward for completing her tasks? She mocked me with answers to my questions that did not answer my questions at all. Look to the map of your kingdom to find your wife. How is that supposed to help me find her?”

Panthor took a big swig of his tankard, staring out the bottom for a moment at the better place outside, and said, “How did you lose your wife, lad, run off with another man?”

The knight scowled, “She would never do that to me, you laggard; she disappeared just after our wedding when my stupid father’s bloody kingdom was destroyed.”

Panthor paused mid-sip, “Bloody hell, lad, how did that happen?”

Little did Panthor realize that the knight beside him carried a sorrow as deep as his own. And as you, dear reader, have likely guessed, the knight was my longtime suffering husband, Fredrick Von Bergherz. He told him the whole tale, about the blood oath between our respective parents, how Fredrick broke the oath, about how my mother summoned a whirlwhim to destroy old Mountainheart and woke up in the Feengrenze to find me gone.

“I know she is still alive; the diviners keep telling me so, and I can feel her presence in my bones, but they always give me the same line: she is the kingdom somewhere, yet I have searched every inch of the Valleys of New Mountainheart and connecting valleys she is nowhere to be found,” said Fredrick the anger having softened to despair.

“Bloody hell, lad,” Panthor slurred unsteadily as he hoisted his ninth ale with unsteady hand,” Now that is what I call a tragedy, but it has nothing on my downfall; you still have a kingdom to go back to, and I’m sure your recent adventures have left you with a pile of sparkling loot and a horde of fawning maidens ready to make you forget about your missing wife, whatshername.”

“Oh,” said Fredrick with a slight eyebrow raise, “what makes you so sure that my 150 years of despair, heartbroken pining, and loneliness measure up to what you experienced?”

Panthor, head spinning, sat up straighter and threw his hands to his chest. “Because, my lad, I was at the very height of my career a few days ago; my acting had Queen Titania and her court rolling in the aisles laughing like maniacs. I had them in the palm of my hand,” he proclaimed, throwing his arm wide his stool rocking unsteadily, “Yet at the banquet after the play, when Queen Titania herself asked me to perform one of the dances again, I took a tumble face first into a bowl of pudding.”

He took another sip and continued with mock horror, ” If that was not embarrassing enough when I tried to get up, I found that my knees would not bend no matter how hard I tried. When the courtiers asked me to recite lines that I had performed flawlessly a thousand times, they all came out wrong. When I act, I chew the scenery so hard that the audience just stares at me. In awkward silence.” He took another sip of ale and grabbed his coin purse, “If that is not bad enough, my fellow members of the Silver Lark players think of me such a liability that they left town without me with nary a word but a single note explaining how useless I am. I am friendless, without prospects for employment, and rapidly on the way to being penniless.”  Panthor took another swig of ale, the room starting to spin slowly as he did, and said, “You know what’s funny, I doubt they will make it without me; I was the one that did the bookkeeping; I was the one who talked to the patrons, I was the one who supervised rehearsals and the one who chose the plays.”

“Well, I have to admit, the Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv was pretty good. Before that play, I could not remember the last time I laughed,” Said Fredrick after he chugged another bottle of wine. He was five bottles in and starting to feel a little buzzed now.

“Well, lad, I did not peg you for a patron of the performing arts,” Slurred Panthor; his head was spinning now, and he struggled to stay up.

“I am not, “said Fredrick matter-of-factly, “Titania kind of forced me to attend the play. It is not like we have many options for theater and diversion in Sliberberg beyond the occasional group of traveling players performing in the market or the pubs. I have to admit my capital is a rather drab place.”

“Why not do something about it?” slurred Panthor. The room was starting to spin faster, but still, he unsteadily leaned over as the conversation started to move in a direction that promised something. Panthor was not sure what that something was, but it had to be better than poverty.

“Where would I begin?” said Fredrick with a sigh. I know nothing of the arts beyond poetry, and I know no one among my citizens who knows anything about the performing arts.

Even with his brain filled with pink fog, the room spinning as fast as a chariot wheel, and neon elephants dancing at the edges of his vision, Panthor knew an opportunity when he saw one. With a flourish of his hand, he proclaimed, “Why not bring me back to your capital, and I will build you a theater the likes the world has never seen? Why, lad, with my connections and know-how and your patronage, we can transform your drab town into a center of the performing arts. I can now see a theater neighborhood lit up like the night sky…”

Panthor never got a chance to finish his pitch. At that moment, the alcohol, having taken a bit to wind up, struck his head with the force of a hammer. In one clean motion, Panthor and the stool fell to the floor.

Fredrick looked upon the unconscious former master player. In truth, he rather enjoyed the play, and the offer was tempting. Then his mind returned to what awaited him back in Sliberberg, the endless, hopeless pining alone in his brand new castle. It might have been all the drink Fredrick had drunk that made him think this, but if the former master player could build him a theater that provided even a moment of distraction, it would be worth it, and Fredrick figured that if he kept Panthor on a short leash, it would not cost all that much. He grabbed Panthor and heaved the little satyr over his shoulder. He reached into his belt pouch and slammed a ruby the size of a walnut on the bar.” Keep the change, ” Fredrick said to the astounded barkeeper as he staggered out into the growing shadows of the evening.

The next thing Panthor knew, he was lying on a floor that was jostling ever so slightly. He felt sick; a storm was raging in his stomach. He groaned as he rubbed his aching head. It felt like dozens of woodpeckers trying to drill their way out of his skull. Not knowing where he was, he dared to crack an eye open and immediately shut it in terror. The sight of the ocean dozens of feet below cut through his hangover like a hot knife through butter.

He opened his eyes again, hoping what he saw was not really there, just a figment of his alcohol-soaked mind. The sea was still there, over a hundred feet below him. Sea birds were soaring over the sparkling waves. Panthor might have thought that the scene was pretty if it weren’t for the fact his head was peaking over the edge of the floor into the vast nothingness beyond.

With amazing agility for a man recovering from a night of rampant alcoholism, he flung himself backward several inches until he hit a wooden wall with a recurring thud. With the vertigo subsiding, Panthor got a good look at the rather small craft he was a passenger on; it was a U-shaped platform of oak wood with a solid oak railing that was open in the back. The platform was just big enough for three normal-sized people and a chest to stand on uncomfortably. And it was indeed occupied by three things: himself, a large chest, and—now clear-headed enough to realize it—Fredrick, who stood calmly beside him, holding a pair of ropes in his hands.

“Where the in blood hell are we, lad?” asked Panthor. It was not a particularly useful question, but it was the only thing Panthor could come up with through the pounding in his skull.

“100 feet above the Feyglimmer sea in the Feengrenze,” said Fredrick causally as if that explained all.

While he guessed the answer was technically correct about where they were, it did not answer some of the more important things, like what they were doing flying above the sea and how they were flying in the first place. Filled with annoyance, Panthor got to his feet, eager to give a retort, but paused when his head poked over the rail. It was now clear why Fredrick’s craft was so small; it was a chariot pulled by a pair of majestic pegasi. The wind whipped through Panthor’s hair as he stared into the distance. A landmass was starting to rise over the horizon like a stony whale.

After several minutes of silence, Fredrick decided to break the tension. “I decided to take you up on your offer of running a theater in my capital,” he shouted over the roar of the wind.

Panthor squinted back in confusion. “I don’t remember offering to run a theater for you,” he shouted.

“It was right before the drink finally got you,” Fredrick shouted back with a wry grin, “You passed out mid-speech, mid-sentence, in fact.

Panthor searched his memories of the previous evening; they were about as murky as a bowl of soup. Yet he could make out two things clearly: a spark of an idea and a sense of excitement at Fredrick’s seeming interest in patronizing the performing arts. Now that Fredrick mentioned it, there was really no other choice for him; he either built the greatest theater this world had ever seen or resigned himself to poverty. Then a thought struck him, “It is really okay for you to bring a random stranger back to your kingdom; what will your people think?” he asked.

“It something of a tradition at this point that I bring back a stray from my adventures, the first time I met my prime minister,” shouted Fredrick, “the last time I brought back a dryad to serve as the castle gardener, have you ever wonder if dryads have children?” Panthor wondered at this for a moment and shook his head. “Well, you do now; you should have seen the face on little Lyria as we flew back to Sliberberg. You should be able to see the city in just a moment.”

Indeed, no sooner than Fredrick said the word, the Sliberberg slid into view, its slopes adorned with our fair city. 350 years ago. However, Sliberberg was a much more modest settlement, little more than a large town at the mountain base with a scattering of mansions and palaces surrounding the fairytale grandeur of Castle Sliberberg at the mountain’s crown. As Panthor surveyed the terrain below, he could faintly make out the outlines of what would eventually become the six wards of Sliberberg and hints here and there of each ward’s future character. But even so, he couldn’t help noticing the drabness of it all.

As the chariot made a few slow laps around the mountain on its descent, Panthor shrugged, “This ain’t much of a city, lad,” he said in a voice tinged with disappointment, “it’s small, and I reckon I haven’t seen a drabber place in all my travels.”

Frederick seemed unbothered by the criticism. “True, but it’s among the largest settlements in the Feengrenze,” he replied with a grin. “And with your help, I think that will change. Sliberberg sits on enough feysilver and mithril to fund anything you dream of.”

The casual revelation of Fredrick’s vast fortune filled Panthor’s mind with exciting and exotic possibilities. He scanned the mountainside, imagining a sprawling theater aglow with flickering lights, polished marble facades, and vibrant posters. Everywhere he looked, he saw visions of a grand theater superimposing itself onto the landscape, each enticing but somehow misplaced, as if his dream struggled to find a perfect home.

As the chariot made its final descent toward the bailey of Castle Sliberberg, Panthor’s eyes landed on a broad, gentle section of the eastern slope—a little undeveloped patch between the town at the base and the mansions at the crown. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the theater his imagination conjured there: a masterpiece of sylvan grandeur—a broad hall formed from gracefully sculpted trees, framed by a marble facade of pillars and arches covered in colorful posters, all illuminated by spotlights.

He blinked twice, then leaned over the chariot’s edge for a better look, a grin spreading across his face as the vision remained solid and real in his mind.

“Here,” he murmured to himself. “This is where it belongs.”

Panthor wasted no time turning his vision into reality. The very next day, he hired a crew of workmen to dig out the foundation of the theater at the spot he had chosen. As you might remember from my first tale, my body is the very land of the kingdom itself, so notice everything that goes on within its bounds. Still, unless I focus my being on any one spot within my bounds, those things feel faint, like the tickle of a feather on a sleeping foot. At the time, my awareness was focused on getting a nasty red dragon sent by my mother to go away before it started to terrorize the nascent duchy of Craggy HIlls in my northwestern reaches, so I did not witness the start of the construction firsthand. Still, I could feel something changing in the vicinity of my crown.

Once I was confident that the dragon was gone for good, I let my awareness dissolve into an invisible mist that flowed from the small valley that was my right foot over the hills and rivers that formed my legs and abdomen until it covered my whole body. It took me a moment to decide where to go next. I decidedto check in on my beloved. I concentrated, and the mist reformed into a single, invisible, vaguely human, human-shaped form on the slopes of Mount Sliberberg. That’s when I noticed the new construction. Intrigued by this development, I floated over, unseen and barely felt, to the site of the new buildings. A new street was being paved along the gentle slope, and several new three-story buildings with stores at the base apartments above were being built. At the center of it all was the construction site for Elmwood Hall. They had finished the maze of chambers and corridors in the basement and were starting to plant the magical flora that would form the structure of the theater hall. Panthor was hobbling about with his cane to each group of arcanobotanists as they planted wallvine and the feypillar oak and talked to them. He seemed quite agitated, so I moved my awareness closer so I could hear. “Bloody hell, man, it takes a year for these trees to finish growing the desired shape,” shouted Panthor as he angrily stamped his hooves.

“I am afraid so, sir,” said the archaeobotanist, matter-of-factly “The fey magic is unpredictable here, sir; we can count on it to speed the growth like back in the feywild.”

“No, no, no!” said Panthor as he stamped back and forth in barely contained anger, “I had the construction on such a tight schedule. The masons for the facade were supposed to be here in a month, and once they were done, the interior men would come and do their thing. I was so certain we could get this theater done by July that I went and started to arrange for the players, the play, and the marketing for a grand opening to coincide with the Lammas festival. I know Fredrick has given me an almost unlimited budget and a lot of goodwill, but I dare not rest on his good graces without some results.” The only response the arcanobotanists gave were shrugs.

Intrigued by the conversation, I moved my presence to get a good look at the sapling in question. I had heard about these types of plants that can be magically shaped into buildings. Mother would tell me about entire cities of eladrin in the feywild made of such trees and, more importantly, that they could grow faster than you can blink under the care of a talented arcanobotanists. The specimens that sat in the dirt on that cold early spring day did not look all that impressive, barely more than saplings. I knew what the arcanobotanists were saying held true, but I was curious about what this strange hobbling satyr had in mind. He seemed to be a friend to my beloved, which ought to be protected given my husband’s nature. So I concentrated a little bit of my power, just enough to make a flower grow from seed to bloom in a minute. I extended my incorporeal hand to the sapling, allowing a gentle warmth to flow from me into its eager branches. Instantly, it stretched upward, sprouting several new inches as if awakened from slumber. At that moment, the party, including Panthor, turned back to the sapling and gave an immediate yelp as they saw that the tree was now 6 inches taller than it was a moment ago. Hearing them babbling in surprise was quite humorous; I even started to giggle.

However, Panthor’s ears flicked at that moment, and he turned his head in my direction as if he heard me. Startled, I lost focus, and my unseen figure dissolved into the mist. As my presence waned, I caught a glimpse of Panthor scanning the air, his eyes searching for the source of the unseen giggle.

For the next few weeks, I let my presence linger in the general vicinity of my head and rarely strayed far from Sliberberg. I watched unseen and fascinated as Panthor made his new dream a reality. I found the little satyr fascinating and how he injected hammy acting into everyday conversations funny. But after every bout of scenery chewing, he seemed to fall into well-hidden despair. That both intrigued and worried me a bit, so I invisibly tailed him for a couple of days. It was difficult; he nearly noticed me several times, and each time, I would lose my focus, and my condensed presence would once more turn into an invisible mist. Eventually, I started to realize the shape of what happened to Panthor and the secret sorrow he hid away from the world. I could feel the sticky black tendrils of the curse surrounding him and all the sadness in his heart.

So, I decided to help with the construction of the theater. I would channel my archfey power into the feypillar oak and the wall vine to make them grow faster; I made the stones and boards the masons and carpenters used to construct the facade and interior as light as air and occasionally heal an injured construction worker. Soon, word spread far and wide of a benevolent spirit helping the construction of the city’s new theater quarter. Ever the enterprising individual, Panthor suggested to anyone who would listen and to every contact he had that I was a muse and that I wanted the theater to be constructed. Soon, dozens of composers, bands, artists, and playwrights descended upon the city, hoping to receive the divine gift of inspiration directly from me. Of course, I was happy to oblige. I would give them the occasional nudge here and whisper there, hoping their creations would give Fredrick joy. Panthor was also happy by this turn of events. Nachtglanzviertel had grown from a single large theater and a few houses to a theater district practically overnight, and all the new residents considered Panthor a genius for choosing the spot.

Elmwood Hall was done with my little help by the last week of July. I watched in joy as Panthor gave Fredrick the tour of the complex, which had grown in construction to include two additional black box theaters and an acting school. I could tell Fredrick was enjoying himself; I saw him smile for the first time in decades. The tour ended on the stage of the main hall. “I must admit this is an impressive theater,” said Fredrick, grinning, “You outdid yourself with the design.”

“Thank you, your lordship,” said Panthor, beaming with pride.

“I hear that you are planning something big for the open night,” inquired Fredrick.

“Indeed I am, Your Lordship,” said Panthor Coyly, “It will be a Lammastide eve to remember, and I do hope you kept your end of the deal.”

“I most certainly have,” said Fredrick playfully. I have invited the entire peerage to the opening show.”

“I will endeavor not to disappoint them,” said Panthor warmly. That exchange mystified and excited me; Lammastide could not come quickly enough.

When the eve of Lammastide rolled around, the city was bedecked in colors of the midsummer harvest and buzzing with anticipation. Tickets to the first show at Elmwood Hall became the hottest commodity in the city, with bleacher seats costing upwards of 5 gold pieces. That night, the marble facade of the theater was lit up with spotlights as the peerage and gentry filed into the theater. I followed them in and went to the royal box where Fredrick sat. He sat on a large gilded throne that took up most of the box. However, my heart sank when I saw a second silver throne obviously meant for me. Then I saw Fredrick look over his shoulder and muttered, “She will come; I know she would not miss this after I made such a big deal.” This broke my heart; I obliged my love’s desire and lowered my invisible incorporeal form to the throne. Sitting on a chair when you have nobody was a strange feeling. I wanted to stroke Fredrick’s fur and tell him it would be alright, but I decided against it; the memory of Fredrick’s attempted suicide was too fresh in my brain.

As I strangled my desire to caress my love, the house lights went out, and an orchestra started to play. Panthor hobbled onto the stage in a fine-tailored suit and silver cane. He cleared his throat, “Lady and gentlemen, I am Panthor Silverhoof, your much-honored host. With the greatest pride, Elmwood Hall presents a musical story of the sordid passion, power, and dark delights that only the demon prince of pleasure himself could provide. Pleasures so great that even the feared witch queen of Oreth could not resist. We present the Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv to you,” he said with a grin. He immediately vanished from the stage as the curtain came up. What followed after the curtain came up, I still struggle to describe to this day. Panthor pulled out all the stops with this version of the Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv; there were dozens of actors and dancers on stage, the music was provided by a full orchestra, he hired wizards to craft intricate illusions, there were fireworks and lighting effects and at the height of the love story Graz’zt and Iggwilv flew over the audience in a waltz. To say that I was enraptured would be an understatement. I found that last dance between Graz’zt and Iggwilv especially enticing as I imagined Fredrick and me doing the same slow waltz in the air.

Yet, all too soon, the show was over, and the magic faded. The cast and Panthor Silverhoof came on stage and bowed, the house lights came on, and the audience left with smiles; even Fredrick was in a good mood. However, I just sat there motionless and invisible as the cleaning crew did their work. Eventually, they left, too, and left me all alone, lost in the rapture of the play that had happened.

Eventually, the house lights went out, leaving just the stage alight. At that moment, temptation overcame me. I rose from my seat into the air and floated down to the stage like a mist. I reformed myself just as I touched the stage. I then took up the position of Iggwilv at the start of the air waltz and started to dance with my invisible partner, humming to myself to provide the music. I immediately felt the same rapture I felt during the performance, but it was greater this time because it was me on the big stage. I was so caught up in the moment that I did not realize that the near-invisible quasi-humanoid mist form I usually stay in had condensed into a perfect reflection of my body when I was still an Eladrin girl. I also did not notice that, at that moment, Panthor came hobbling into the hall or that he stopped dead in his tracks to watch me twirl and leap. My first clue that he was there was when I heard clapping from stage left. I was so surprised by the fact I had an audience that I stumbled and floated in the air for a moment. If my body had any color, my cheeks would be blushing from the embarrassment I felt.

“Sorry, lass,” said Panthor as he hobbled over where I was suspended in the air, “I didn’t mean to startle you, but a performance like that from an amateur is worth a few claps at least.” I righted myself and floated down to the floor, the tattered and waterlogged remains of the wedding dress I was wearing during the drowning of Old Mountainheart fluttering slightly as my feet touched the ground. I felt sheepish and could feel my cheeks blushing even though my body was as white as mist. Panthor smiled, “I reckon that you are the muse that has been helping out around the neighborhood.”

I clasped my hands behind my back and sheepishly told him, “Yes and no, I have been helping around the neighborhood, but I am no muse.”

Panthor raised an eyebrow,” If ye ain’t a muse, then what are ye, and why bother help.”

I gave him a sour look, “That’s not fair asking for a tale when I have half a mind to wondering why you’re palling around with Fredrick; if you want my story, then give me yours.”

“fair enough, lass,” said Panthor as he sat on the edge of the stage. He beckoned me to join him, and I lowered myself to him.

I do know how long we were in the theater; it must have been at least an hour. Panthor went first, and then I told him the same story I told you the last time we met. Panthor gave out a hardy sigh, “That’s one hell of a story, lass. I knew at least some of the tales from Fredrick, but to think the wife he is missing so hard is quite literally the ground we tread on is certainly something. Yet you could end his sufferin at any time lass.”

“I know, but I fear what would happen if he were to find out,” I said, slightly embarrassed. ” You’ve known him for a few months; you’ve seen how hard it is to control his emotions.”

“All fey have trouble controlling their emotions,” Panthor said with a wry smile.

“I know, but it is worse for him; he spends decades pining after me and neglecting his duties. Then he goes off on a quest when he gets the faintest whiff of a lead to where I have gone,” I said pensively, “Think of what he would do if he knew I was a disembodied spirit bound to his kingdom.”

“Ye got a point,” Panthor admitted.

I took him by the hand, “So please don’t tell him about this meeting.”

“Let Titania, the queen of air and darkness, Orbron, Baba Yaga, Zybline, the prince of frost, Cerunnos, and Hyrsam be my witness; I swear that I “Let Titania, the queen of air and darkness, Orbron, Baba Yaga, Zybline, the prince of frost, Cerunnos and Hyrsam be my witness, I swear that I will never reveal what I now know about my liege lord’s lovely wife,” swore Panthor. Magic crystalized around us both as the fey parts of the Feengrenze acknowledged the binding nature of the oath.

I sighed in relief; any fey of sound judgment would never break an 8-fold oath. I then turned to Panthor and asked, “There is a question I’ve been waiting to ask: why perform Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv, given that you were cursed after the last time you performed it.”

Panthor’s face fell like a stoned robin. “That play was my baby. It was my brainchild. Sure, I might not have written the dialog, or the music or the stage direction, but I was the impetus behind the play and I consulted with the playwright every step of the way,” he said his face on the verge of tears, “It was a play designed for me and my men from start to end. A play meant to be my legacy and the Silver Lark Players’ ticket to immortality in the performing arts. When I was cursed, the original version of the play was dead as a doornail, and with it, my career as an actor and aspiring playwright. I was convinced that I would spend the rest of my days in destitution, remembering how I was struck down at the height of my craft. When Fredrick gave me a chance to open a theater, it was like I was given a chance at a new life. I figured I’d run the Abyssal Affair one last time as a swan song for old life.”

Panthor’s face lit up like the dawn at my words. “You are too kind, your grace,” he said. He turned Wistful for a moment and said, “I wish I could dance one last time on my own stage; that would be the perfect end to the whole strange story.”

“Well, I would be willing to be your partner if you wouldn’t mind,” I told him as I reached out my hand. Panthor hesitated for a moment and took my hand. To the surprise of both of us, my hand was as solid as Panthor’s. I helped him up, and we started to dance to my humming. Immediately, I felt the same rapturous feeling I had experienced when dancing on the big stage before. I was so entranced by the dance that I did not notice Panthor was yelling at me while still keeping up with the dance.

When I hummed the last note and bowed to my partner, I noticed that Panthor’s face was white, and he was completely out of breath. He stumbled backward. I went to help him up, and he said, “Ye must have been under some kind of spell, lass, because I was screaming at you the whole time that my knees were working again.”

At that moment, my voice failed me; I stumbled out some syllables before my mouth and formed the response, “I healed you?”

Panthor tried his knees again and shook his head regretfully. ” They’ve locked up again,” he said. I picked up his cane and then helped Panthor to his feet. I was so focused on Panthor that I still did not notice I was turning solid enough to interact with objects, something I had been unable to do before that moment.

“I am sorry, Panthor,” I said Regretfully.

“Don’t be, “he said with a smile, “It was enough to be able to dance one last time, and now I believe we both best be off.” I nodded; it was the only response I could think of. “Well, my fair Silver Lady, I bid thee goodnight,” Said Panthor with newfound cheer as they hobbled towards the back entrance to the theater. The last of the lights in the hall went out, and I let myself dissipate into a mist covering the kingdom. MY dreams that night were filled with dancing and music.

“After that night, Panthor became good friends,” the Silver lady said with a wistful sigh, “Every time there was a new production at the theater, he would reserve me the box seat closest to the stage, and I regularly visit him to tell him stories about the people of the kingdom.” The Silver lady chuckles, “He kept his word about our little meeting too, although he did take the opportunity to invent a story about meeting the spirit everybody was calling the muse. He called me the Silver Lady of Sliberberg, the spirit of the city, and the name stuck.” The Silver Lady’s expression starts to fall as she recounts the last part of the story, “The novelty of the theater did eventually wear off for my husband. Panthor tried his hardest to put on regular spectacles for Fredrick, but eventually, his despair was too great for him to overcome, and he went back to moping in castle Sliberberg.” The Silver Lady Rises from the bench and gives a mock, exaggerated yawn. ” I have taken up too much of your time,” She says, “I hope you enjoyed the story, and I bid thee a good night.” She fades away first into a mist and then into nothingness. You stand to go on your merry way but feel something fall off your lap. You pick it up to find that it is a front-row ticket for the latest production of the Abyssal Affair of Graz’zt and Iggwilv at Elmwood Hall. You hear a faint giggle and a voice in the wind saying, “A little gift for you.”