In the feyrealm Faolan, the Mad, the first, last, and only High King of the Fey, for better or for worse is a big deal. In the early days of history, he shaped the Feyrealm into what it is today. He was the very first Fey Sovereign as the term is understood today. He created the four great courts of the fey. In a myriad of big and small ways he shaped the fey as they are today.

He also still looms large over the Feyrealm. Stories are still told around the campfires of his erratic reign. Many of the greatest magic items and citadels of the fey were crafted to his design. The scars of his madness still show in places like Bedlam, the Shivering Downs, and Coillemirth where the landscape oozes like jelly and the inhabitants are all a little mad and on the minds of those few fey who are old enough to remember his reign. He also looms over the players in the Märchenweltgrenze Chronicles, although his influence is barely hinted at in the story.

The rise and fall of Faloan the Mad, High king of the fey

Chapter 1 Birth of the high king

In the days of yore, when the giants and dragons wove tales in the fabric of their ancient chronicles, there existed a time scarcely recalled. A time antecedent to the ascendance of the four great courts of the fey—a time before Spring’s bloom, Summer’s warmth, Autumn’s golden embrace, and Winter’s enchanting frost held sway. The world, then, was a fledgling realm, convalescing from the titanic clash between the Worldshaper and Ruinbringer, echoes of their celestial battle reverberating through the very essence of creation.

In those days, the feyrealm lay scattered and fragmented, a patchwork of a thousand realms ruled by kings and chiefs whose dominions were but minuscule echoes of the grandeur that would later define the fey. It was an age of ceaseless strife, where petty kingdoms engaged in perpetual squabbles and faltering alliances. The fey, in their diminutive realms, were embroiled in a dance of conflict and negotiation, their ambitions and aspirations crashing like waves against the shores of destiny.

Amidst this tumultuous tapestry, Tír Grianán existed as but another inconspicuous kingdom, its name whispered softly in the annals of the fey’s humble histories. Yet, as the sun climbed its arc one fateful day, casting its light upon the verdant lands of Tír Grianán, the threads of fate began to weave a different narrative. The ordinary ceased to be, and the kingdom, once an unassuming player in the fey realms, emerged from the shadows of obscurity into the luminous stage of destiny.

Within the hallowed halls of Eamon, king of Tír Grianán, the air quivered with anticipation, embracing the fading light of an autumn day. The royal couple, with hearts entwined with hope and trepidation, awaited the imminent arrival of their fourth child. The golden hues of the sunset painted the courtyard of their humble palace as Queen Líadan, adorned in the regality of motherhood, surrendered to the throes of labor.

King Eamon, a tower of strength and worry, stood amidst the elders and seers gathered in the courtyard. The autumn breeze carried the scent of impending change, and the rustling leaves whispered secrets known only to the ancient trees that cradled the realm. Above, in the vast expanse of the fey domains, two moons gracefully aligned, their ethereal glow casting a radiant tapestry across the heavens.

The elders, with eyes weathered by the passage of time, and the seers, gazing into the threads of fate, discerned significance in this celestial alignment. A cosmic coronation, they whispered among themselves—a sign inscribed in the celestial realm, proclaiming Faolan’s destined rise to power. The very air hummed with the anticipation of a future yet to unfold, as if the heavens themselves foretold of the child’s regal destiny.

As the first cries of the newborn echoed through the courtyard, a sudden and intense storm unfurled on the horizon. Unnatural lightning painted the heavens with jagged strokes, giving birth to ominous shapes resembling chaotic beasts. Even the sages and seers, keepers of ancient wisdom, found their gaze transfixed by the unnerving spectacle. Whispers of a prophecy cascaded through the gathered court, for the storm foretold of great destruction in the boy’s future—a shadow cast upon the brilliance of his celestial coronation.

King Eamon and Queen Líadan, undeterred by the foreboding signs, bestowed upon their newborn the name Faolan—a name destined to echo through the annals of the fey realms, entwined with both the celestial promise of the rise and the ominous storm heralding an uncertain fate.

From the very moment Faolan could weave words, his voice resonated with an otherworldly sweetness, an ethereal melody that seemed to transcend the mundane cadence of everyday speech. His expressions uttered in the language of the fey, carried a captivating charm, and those who listened found themselves ensnared by the enchantment of his every word.

A prodigious talent unfolded within young Faolan as he blossomed into childhood. At a mere four years, an age when most were still mastering the basics of language, he composed his inaugural poem—a testament to an innate connection with the muse that dwelled within his fey heart. By the tender age of five, his nimble fingers danced upon the strings of the harp with a grace that defied his years, evoking melodies that seemed to echo from the very essence of the fey realms.

Yet, it was a fateful day, beneath the dappled sunlight filtering through the ancient forest canopy, that Faolan’s gifts found a canvas to paint upon. Engaged in playful endeavors with his older siblings, the curious four-year-old Faolan discovered himself astray in the heart of an arboreal labyrinth, where towering trees whispered secrets to the wind, and unfamiliar paths beckoned the unwary.

In this sylvan realm of mysteries, where the language of leaves spoke in hushed rustles, Faolan felt an inexplicable urge to serenade the ancient groves. His soft, melodic tune, a lullaby woven from the echoes of forgotten tales, resonated through the woodland sanctuary. In response, the very fabric of nature seemed to stir as creatures both mundane and mystical emerged from their hidden retreats.

Birds descended from the branches, deer with inquisitive eyes approached, and elusive woodland spirits, guardians of the ancient grove, manifested in the ethereal glow of dappled sunlight. Faolan’s voice, now the centerpiece of an impromptu symphony, guided him through the labyrinth of towering trees, the creatures of the forest following in harmonious procession.

Through this enchanting melody, Faolan became the forest’s minstrel, his song leading him safely through the verdant tapestry until the towering trees parted, revealing the familiar world beyond the woodland veil. The creatures, having served as his companions, returned to their hidden sanctuaries, leaving Faolan standing at the forest’s edge, his connection with the natural world affirmed in this wondrous encounter.

As the petals of Faolan’s artistic prowess unfolded with each passing year, a shadowy undercurrent gradually wove itself into the vibrant tapestry of his character. Amid the blossoming of his creative talents, an unsettling tendency emerged—a discerning eye that increasingly recoiled from the touch of the plain and the unremarkable. The world, once a canvas for his enchanting creations, now bore witness to the burgeoning disdain that fermented within the young fey.

By the tender age of eight, Faolan’s discernment transformed into an uncompromising demand for beauty. Ugly or plain things, in his view, were not to be suffered. His discontent manifested in public outbursts, tantrums that echoed through the corridors of his domain, demanding the removal of anything that dared offend his aesthetic sensibilities.

It was in the midst of this tumultuous phase that Faolan’s path intertwined with that of Niamh, a princess whose radiance rivaled the sun itself. Betrothed in the intricate dance of fey traditions, the two kindred spirits forged a bond that transcended their tender years. Niamh, a vision of loveliness with hair reminiscent of golden sunbeams, and Faolan, the artiste with the heart that yearned for beauty, found solace in each other’s presence during the halcyon days of their first shared summer.

With a heart captivated by Niamh’s allure, Faolan wove sonnets and composed songs that paid homage to her beauty, his creative energies flowing into expressions of adoration. Their days were spent in blissful harmony, the laughter of childhood and the melodies of Faolan’s harp filling the air as they roamed the fey realms hand in hand.

Yet, fate, like a capricious weaver, introduced a magical pool to the duo and the other children of their courts—a pool infused with the very essence of prophecy. Nestled within the heart of an ancient woodland, this mystical pool possessed the ability to reflect the future selves of those who dared gaze into its depths.

Niamh, with a child’s innocence, saw herself as the radiant queen she was destined to become—a future adorned with grace and regality. However, Faolan’s reflection in the pool danced like shadows upon the surface. It portrayed him as a regal king, and then, with a subtle movement, transformed into a visage of sinister mien. The discord between the two images unsettled Faolan deeply, casting a foreboding shadow upon his once-unshaken self-assurance.

The disconcerting revelation weighed upon Faolan’s heart, casting a pallor upon his countenance that even Niamh’s radiance could not dispel. Later that day, when the pool was discussed anew, Faolan’s harp echoed with a sour note, an unsettling harmony that summoned a violent storm as if the very skies shared in the disquiet of his soul. The tempest raged for days, mirroring Faolan’s internal tumult as he sulked in the company of thunder and lightning.

As Faolan approached the tender age of ten, the echoes of his bardic prowess resonated far beyond the confines of Tír Grianán. To commemorate this milestone, the royal family, recognizing his extraordinary talent, bestowed upon him a grand theater where his melodious gift could unfold like a blossoming flower. The air in the theater itself seemed to hum with anticipation as the audience gathered in eager anticipation of the prince’s performance.

With every pluck of the harp and every mellifluous note that escaped his lips, Faolan wove a spell that enraptured all who listened. His melodies became ethereal threads, binding the hearts of his audience, and rendering them captive to the enchantment of his golden voice. The theater, under the reign of Faolan’s artistry, earned its moniker—the sanctum of the Prince of the Golden Melody.

Faolan’s musical prowess extended beyond the realm of mere entertainment; it held a curious influence over the very fabric of nature. Witnesses marveled as, with the conclusion of his performances, skies once shrouded in overcast gloom metamorphosed into a canvas of brilliant sunlight. In the nocturnal hours, a celestial halo, formed of four radiant stars, would cast its glow behind Faolan, a cosmic tribute to his harmonious talents.

However, within the tapestry of his burgeoning abilities, a darker hue began to weave itself. Faolan’s obsession with beauty transcended mere aesthetics; it metamorphosed into a demanding mistress that gripped his sensibilities ever more tightly as he matured. The prince found solace within the palace walls and the meticulously cultivated gardens, rarely venturing beyond lest his discerning eyes chance upon that which lacked the allure he sought.

This relentless pursuit of perfection manifested in his dealings with the palace staff. Servants once deemed not befitting his standards of beauty, were summarily dismissed, their mundane visages unable to withstand Faolan’s uncompromising gaze. The inner circle of confidants he had once nurtured dwindled, as few could endure the tempest of his unrelenting fixation on beauty, leaving the prince in a solitary dance with his own ideals.

In the hinterlands of Tír Grianán, a young red dragon named Tineadóireacht dwelled, its scales gleaming with the fiery hues of embers. As the years unfolded, and Faolan reached the age of fourteen, this once-young dragon had grown into a formidable presence, its size and strength now posing a menacing threat to the settlements scattered across the kingdom. Recognizing the urgency of the situation, King Eamon, resolute and determined, chose to confront this fiery peril head-on.

Gathering two dozen of his most skilled soldiers, among them his eldest son Connor and second eldest son Eoghan, King Eamon embarked on a perilous expedition to quell the burgeoning danger that lurked in the hinterlands. Faolan, at this juncture, remained distanced from the world of hunting and strife, his interests lying firmly in the realms of beauty and melody. Consequently, he did not accompany the hunting party as it ventured forth to face the looming threat.

However, the outcome of this noble quest was one steeped in tragedy. A mere four soldiers staggered back to the palace, their bodies battered and bruised, carrying with them a singular dragon horn—the grim testament to the perilous encounter. The news echoed through the corridors of the palace like a haunting dirge—King Eamon and his two eldest sons, valiant defenders of Tír Grianán, had succumbed to the fiery clash with Tineadóireacht.

Queen Líadan, upon receiving the heart-wrenching tidings, found herself plunged into inconsolable grief. Her once-vibrant spirit, now a shadow of its former self, withdrew into the solitude of her chambers, where sorrow became an unwelcome companion in the passing months.

In the wake of this devastating loss, Faolan, thrust into a role for which he had scarcely prepared, found himself heir to the vacant throne. The mantle of leadership, heavy with the weight of grief and responsibility, now rested upon his young shoulders

The day of Faolan’s coronation unfurled like the petals of a long-awaited blossom, and true to his innate inclination toward beauty, he orchestrated the palace into a resplendent vision. Blossoms adorned every nook, and ethereal lights bathed the halls in a soft, enchanting glow. The air itself seemed to hum with anticipation, carrying the delicate notes of harp strings and the subtle fragrance of flowers woven into the fabric of this momentous occasion.

Amidst the regal splendor, a mysterious sage emerged, bearing a mirror that held the whispered promise of unveiling the true destiny of Tír Grianán’s new sovereign. The tale of this mirror, a mystical artifact that whispered secrets only to the eyes of rulers, had become a subtle murmur within the court’s collective consciousness. The sage, a figure draped in ancient wisdom, was welcomed to Faolan’s coronation, his presence adding an air of mystique to the already magical atmosphere.

As the moment arrived for the young king to gaze upon the mirror, an expectant hush draped over the assembly. The sage presented the reflective portal to Faolan with deliberate solemnity. The mirror, an enigmatic surface shimmering with untold prophecies, seemed to pulse with an inner radiance, a celestial secret awaiting revelation.

Yet, as Faolan’s eyes met the luminous surface, a blinding burst of light erupted, bathing the entire court in an ephemeral brilliance. The mirror, charged with an intensity beyond mortal comprehension, fractured into a million glistening fragments, each shard reflecting fractured glimpses of an unknown destiny. The once-whole mirror now lay in ruins, its shattered pieces mirroring the complexity of the path that awaited the newly crowned king.

Chapter 2: The rise of the High King.

In the verdant realms of Tír Grianán, the magical tapestry of the feyrealm was woven with threads of wonder and unpredictability. Every so often, great pools of pure magic would emerge, their luminous presence a beacon that beckoned to magic users, promising the ability to perform extraordinary feats of magecraft. However, in this age of Faolan’s youth, these pools were not merely sources of enchantment; they were catalysts for conflict.

Barely a month into Faolan’s reign, a colossal pool of pure magic manifested within the borders of Tír Grianán, dwarfing any seen before. Like a radiant jewel nestled in the embrace of the feyland, its allure extended beyond the kingdom’s boundaries. The mere whisper of its existence sent ripples through the neighboring realms, stoking the embers of covetous desire in the hearts of kings and chiefs.

Fueled by greed and ambition, armies began to muster, and alliances were forged in the shadows as neighboring rulers eyed Tír Grianán with predatory intent. Even Niamh’s father, once a trusted ally, succumbed to the enchantment of the magical pool, his covetous eyes fixated on the unprecedented source of power.

Faolan, thrust into the delicate dance of political intrigue, sought guidance from his seasoned advisors. Sensing the impending storm, they counseled him to prepare for the inevitable conflict that loomed on the horizon. However, Faolan, having never known the brutal dance of warfare as the third son, found himself a stranger to the intricacies of battle. In his humility, he admitted his lack of knowledge and implored his advisors to educate him on the ways of war.

As the advisors expounded on the grim realities of war – the tactical maneuvers, the violence, and the looming specter of death – Faolan’s countenance shifted from curiosity to a visceral horror. The revelations of war’s brutality struck him like a malevolent force, each word painting a vivid portrait of ugliness and suffering. By the end of the discourse, the young king struggled to contain the revulsion that threatened to overwhelm him, the very notion of war proving to be the ugliest encounter of his young life.

In that moment, Faolan, his heart heavy with the weight of responsibility, resolved that he would navigate the treacherous waters of politics and power to protect his kingdom. War, with its insidious tendrils of destruction, would not be the path he trod.

For a week that felt both eternal and fleeting, Faolan labored with the fervor of a man possessed. His days and nights blurred together as he immersed himself in the ancient tomes, scrolls, and whispered tales of warfare, battle, and the haunting aftermaths that lingered in the shadows of history. Consumed by his quest for understanding, he seldom ate and barely allowed himself the respite of sleep, his relentless pursuit of knowledge a testament to the urgency that gripped him.

Throughout this relentless endeavor, Faolan’s advisors bore the weight of the kingdom’s affairs, navigating the intricate dance of governance in his stead. The halls of Tír Grianán, usually echoing with the harmonious cadence of the fey, now resonated with a quiet tension as the young king delved into the depths of war’s cruel wisdom.

As the fateful morning of the impending battle dawned, Faolan emerged from his self-imposed seclusion, cradling in his mind the culmination of his week-long obsession. Clutched within the grasp of determination, he seized his golden harp, a symbol of beauty in the face of impending ugliness. Alone, he rode out towards the gathering storm that awaited on the battlefield where the struggle for the pool of magic would soon unfold.

The armies, an assemblage of covetous rivals, lined up in an ominous spectacle beneath overcast skies. Eight factions, their banners fluttering in the uneasy wind, prepared for an eight-way duel that would decide the fate of the magical pool. In the midst of this foreboding tableau, Faolan, undeterred and unafraid, guided his mount to the heart of the battlefield.

With a deep breath that seemed to inhale the collective tension hanging in the air, Faolan, surrounded by the weight of impending conflict, unfurled the haunting melody of his golden harp. 

As the haunting melody of Faolan’s golden harp echoed through the battlefield, a profound transformation unfolded. With each note, his voice rose like a lament, singing of the horrors and ugliness that accompanied the grim dance of war. The words painted a vivid tapestry of the battlefield’s carnage—the shattered bodies, the shattered lives, the widows and orphans left in its wake, towns consumed by flames, and innocence lost to the relentless brutality.

Every soldier in the eight assembled armies stood as if entranced, their weapons momentarily forgotten, their hearts gripped by the poignant beauty of Faolan’s song. Tears flowed freely, the fey, humans, and magical beings alike, moved by the visceral emotions that surged through the air with each verse.

As the final notes resonated in the air, the clouds above began to fracture, and a radiant shaft of golden light pierced through, illuminating Faolan in a celestial glow. In this sublime moment, bathed in the ethereal radiance, he posed a question to the multitude gathered on the battlefield.

“Why do we subject ourselves to such despair and ugliness? Surely, there is enough here for us to share. We can live in harmony if we stop fighting over everything.”

The power of Faolan’s words, imbued with the sincerity of his song, reverberated through the hearts of those who stood witness. The weight of his plea, the raw beauty of his melody, and the shared realization among the soldiers that echoed his sentiments converged into a singular moment of collective awakening.

It was as if an unseen force guided the hands of every man on the battlefield. In near unison, weapons were dropped, the clattering sound of swords and shields hitting the ground resonating like a collective sigh of relief. The fey, the humans, the magical beings—all laid down their arms, united by a shared understanding inspired by the Song of War’s Folly.

Amidst the lingering echoes of Faolan’s transformative song, the eight kings, once embroiled in the prospect of battle, found themselves standing on the battlefield with a shared understanding. Faolan, the harp-wielding minstrel king, extended an invitation for all of them to convene at his palace and find a peaceful resolution to the division of the magical pool.

However, as the kings gathered within the opulent halls of Tír Grianán, old grievances and petty rivalries resurfaced, threatening to shatter the fragile accord they had forged. For four days, the discussions teetered on the brink of deadlock, each monarch adamantly defending their claims to the magical pool. Faolan, in the face of the disheartening bickering, consistently implored them to seek a better way, an equitable solution that transcended the age-old cycle of conflict.

On the fifth day, the atmosphere within the conference room grew heavy with tension. Disgusted by the ugliness of the kings’ squabbles, Faolan, unable to contain his frustration, burst forth with a radical proposal. In a moment of impassioned clarity, he suggested elevating one among them to a position of first among equals—an arbiter who would impartially adjudicate their grievances and guide them toward a civil resolution.

In an audacious outburst, Faolan called out each king, confronting them with the stark reality of their pettiness and the futility of their disagreements. Despite his youth compared to the seasoned rulers before him, the fey king’s words carried the weight of undeniable wisdom. The kings, awed by Faolan’s display of common sense and frankness, found themselves in reluctant agreement.

It was then, in the crucible of that pivotal moment, that Faolan’s peers made an unprecedented decision. In an act of collective acknowledgment, they bestowed upon him the title of the first among equals—the first High King. The mantle of leadership, anointed by common sense and a longing for a more harmonious existence, now rested on Faolan’s shoulders. The feyrealm had, through the orchestration of an unexpected minstrel king, charted a new course—one that sought unity over discord and common sense over ancient animosities.

As the word of the High Kingdom spread like wildfire through the tapestry of the fey, an undercurrent of fear rippled among the many realms. The notion of nine unified kingdoms, larger and more powerful than any singular fey domain, struck apprehension into the hearts of other rulers. In response, kings across the feyrealm began consolidating their power through alliances and conquest, fortifying their territories against the perceived threat of the High Kingdom.

However, Faolan, the first High King, harbored no aspirations for conquest. His heart beat to the rhythm of architecture, poetry, art, and music. Amidst the swirling currents of uncertainty, he redirected the energy of his realm towards prosperity and enlightenment. Commissioning grand building projects and patronizing artists, Faolan transformed his capital into one of the first cities to grace creation. Paving the way for progress, he orchestrated the creation of the first road network using meticulously laid paving stones.

The High Kingdom flourished under Faolan’s visionary rule, becoming a beacon of prosperity in a realm shadowed by envy and hate. Yet, this very prosperity became a double-edged sword, inviting the envy of neighboring kingdoms.

Over the next two years, the High Kingdom faced a relentless onslaught of invasions—six times in total. Each time, Faolan, rather than wielding a sword, chose the strings of his harp to play the Song of War’s Folly. The haunting melody, a poignant reminder of the senselessness of conflict, had a miraculous effect. Invading armies, captivated by the beauty and wisdom of the song, would often cast aside their weapons and march home, disillusioned by the futility of their aggression. In some instances, the soldiers turned against their masters, delivering the aggressor’s lands to Faolan.

Yet, with every invasion thwarted, Faolan’s dissatisfaction deepened. The dance of invasions, the perpetual cycle of aggression and reprieve, weighed heavily on the High King’s shoulders. Despite his best efforts to impart the folly of war, the feyrealm remained ensnared in a pattern that echoed the very disharmony he sought to dispel.

The culmination of Faolan’s quest for a solution to the perpetual dance of invasions arrived on the grand stage of his marriage to Niamh. In the radiant glow of their union, as the feyrealm celebrated the joyous occasion, a realization dawned upon the High King. With newfound purpose, Faolan and Niamh embarked on the composition of a new song, one that would echo the glory of unity, cooperation, and peace under Faolan’s benevolent reign.

Over the course of five months, they labored over the harmonies and verses of this symphony of unity, creating a composition that transcended the mundane and reached into the hearts of those who heard it. It was said that the completed song possessed a mystical quality, compelling any who listened to bend the knee immediately to Faolan, enraptured by the vision he wove through the melodic notes.

With this song in hand, Faolan embarked on a five-year journey across the feyrealm, playing his melody from court to court, kingdom to kingdom. The enchanting strains of the Song of Unity resonated through the air, and one by one, realms joined him, captivated by his compelling vision of harmony.

However, beneath the surface of this unity, a subtle double standard began to emerge. Faolan, with an aesthetic bias, purposefully avoided the realms he considered aesthetically displeasing. The Formorian kingdoms of the high coast and the hags’ nation of Tailte Portaigh never heard the song. Instead, these so-called “ugly” realms were subjected to conquest by Faolan’s underlings in his name, a stark contradiction to the harmony he preached.

At the age of 21, Faolan, having successfully unified most of the Feyrealm under his rule, found himself faced with a new set of challenges. The original system of rule by council, presided over by himself, had burgeoned into a behemoth with thousands of courts now vying for influence. The once-harmonious Great Council chamber in his palace now echoed with the cacophony of screaming matches, and deadlocks became more frequent, defying even Faolan’s silver tongue to broker consensus.

As the tensions escalated, factions began to crystallize around distinct philosophies, each bearing the name of a season. The once-united Feyrealm was now threatened by the fractures of ideological discord.

One fateful council meeting, which unraveled into a fierce debate, served as the breaking point for Faolan. With a voice that cut through the chaos, he decreed that the existing system had outlived its efficacy. In a bold move, Faolan used his formidable magical powers to reshape the Feyrealm itself, allocating distinct regions to the four factions, each to govern under their respective seasonal banner.

Moreover, Faolan implemented a hierarchical structure among the kings, based on a ranking system they themselves had devised. A king could issue orders to the king directly subservient to them and must, in turn, obey the king directly above them in the hierarchy. Faolan took it upon himself to determine the ranking of each king. Thus, with a stroke of both magic and decree, the Four Great Courts of the Fey were formed, and the fey version of feudalism was invented.

In the era of peace that Faolan had ushered in, the feyrealm flourished like never before. Inspired by the tranquility that blanketed the land, Faolan embarked on grandiose building projects that surpassed even his earlier endeavors. Massive gardens, intricate highway networks, meandering canals, and thriving cities emerged, each a testament to the fey’s ingenuity and the High King’s vision. The pinnacle of these achievements lay in the Five Great Cities of the Feyrealm: Geimhreadh Síoraí, the winter court’s capital; Glóiran tSamhraidh, the summer court’s capital; Beannacht an earraigh, the spring court’s capital; Deolchaire an Fhómhair, the autumn court’s capital; and Dun Ard Rí, the capital of the High King himself.

This age became a tapestry woven with the threads of glorious invention, magecraft, art, and boundless happiness. High Queen Niamh, the beacon of Faolan’s joy, bore a daughter named Fionnuala, the embodiment of their shared love.

However, as the feyrealm reveled in this golden age, an unsettling darkness loomed on the horizon, and Faolan would unwittingly become its source. The feyrealm, drawn closer to the mortal worlds and other planes, became a magnet for travelers. Stories from far-off realms reached even Faolan’s ears, and the tales brought with them a disconcerting revelation. Knowledge of the Dawn War between the Worldshaper and Ruinbringer was not new to Faolan, but the revelation of the lingering damage on the mortal world, left untended by the Worldshaper, stirred a deep revulsion within him.

Driven by a newfound determination to mend the fractures wrought by the Dawn War, Faolan charted a new course. Unbeknownst to him at the time, this path would lead not to salvation but to his own doom and the unraveling of all he had created. The echoes of a looming tragedy began to reverberate through the feyrealm, heralding a chapter of sorrow that awaited its unwitting architect.

Chapter 3: The fall and Imprisonment of Faolan the Mad

In an era where travel between the mortal realm and the feyrealm was more accessible, Faolan embarked on a journey to bring his Song of Unity to the far reaches of the world. Transitioning between the realms with a mere thought, he spent a year traversing the mortal realms, singing his enchanting melody wherever he went.

However, unlike the feyrealm where the magic in the air heightened the impact of his song, the mortal realms proved less receptive. People would gather to listen, entranced by the beauty of Faolan’s voice, but the enchantment did not penetrate their hearts. The mortal realms, lacking the charged magic of the feyrealm, dampened the natural enchantment of Faolan’s voice.

Moreover, civilization in the mortal realms was in its infancy. The first cities had just begun to form, and the dwarfs had only recently discovered how to work copper, though their craftsmanship remained crude. The inhabitants of the mortal realms were preoccupied with the immediate concerns of survival, unable to entertain the grand designs Faolan envisioned.

After a year of traversing the mortal realms, Faolan returned to Dun Ard Rí with a heavy heart. The failure in the mortal realm marked his first defeat, a humbling experience that left him shaken but undeterred.

Over the next century and a half, Faolan’s determination to sway the hearts of mankind led him to try numerous strategies. Each time he composed a new song, he sought to endorse a different facet of the beauty that once was and the current wonders of the feyrealm. Despite his efforts, the results remained unchanged. Humanity, in its primitive state, could not grasp the vision of shining cities and grand engineering projects that Faolan longed to instill.

As time passed, and Faolan’s frustration deepened, he grew increasingly desperate. He explored various approaches, training the first bards to spread his message, traveling with a full band to amplify his magical power, and crafting magical artifacts to enhance his voice and presence. Despite these efforts, mankind remained impervious to his enchanting melodies.

In his desperation, Faolan’s behavior became erratic. Hyperfocused on the mortal realms and their perceived ugliness, he started to neglect his duties as a king, spouse, and father, consumed by his grand undertaking. Those who bore witness to those days in the feyrealm noted Faolan’s moody demeanor, and he would often snap at those who interrupted him.

Eventually, the burden became too much for Faolan to bear. Convinced that he had to force the mortal realm to see his vision, he set forth on a path that would alter the fate of both the feyrealm and the mortal realms forever. 

Faolan, driven to extremities by his unfulfilled vision, mustered the largest army the multiverse had witnessed since the dawn war. Every realm within his empire contributed to this grand host, comprising elves, gnomes, centaurs, satyrs, fairies, goblinoids, and Formorians. The diversity of martial and magical arts was a testament to the formidable force he had assembled. With a surge of power, Faolan led his army into the mortal realms, seeking to impose his vision upon the primitive cities of mankind.

The grand host, like a sweeping tide, overtook the land, swallowing the fledgling cities of men. However, the path of martial strife yielded only marginal success. The vastness of the mortal realms proved insurmountable, and Faolan found himself unable to hold the territories gained. More disconcerting was the effect the mortal realm had on his once-magical armies.

After a few months of campaigning, the fey soldiers began to lose their innate magical powers. This transformation frustrated them, especially the goblins and hobgoblins who took great pride in their magical abilities. As the soldiers grappled with their diminishing powers, frustration boiled over, leading them to lash out at the mortal inhabitants. This only served to escalate the conflict, as mortals, facing the wrath of the fey, fought back even harder.

Amidst the chaos, the dwarfs made a crucial discovery—they learned how to work iron. It didn’t take long for them to realize that iron when forged cold, was toxic to the fey. The consequences were dire, and casualties among Faolan’s forces began to mount.

Faolan’s grand projects to beautify the mortal realms mirrored the challenges faced during the latter stages of his military campaign. The mortal realm, resilient and untamed, refused to yield to Faolan’s will as the feyrealm had. Forced to rely on mortal labor to realize his vision, Faolan’s impatience grew over the years, leading to the brutalization of his workforce in a relentless pursuit of speed in constructing grand cities, roads, aqueducts, and reforestation projects.

Yet, the mortal realm resisted Faolan’s ambitions. Attempting to reforest volcanoes, fill in faults and canyons, and reshape coastlines proved to be a futile endeavor as the natural order resisted his attempts at manipulation. The downward spiral continued, and Faolan’s impatience transformed into paranoia. Convinced that someone was intentionally sabotaging his efforts, those close to him witnessed delusional ramblings and chaotic late-night sessions with pins, string, and notes written on pieces of paper.

One day, consumed by his paranoia, Faolan reached a breaking point. He became convinced that the Ruinbringer himself was to blame for the perceived sabotage. Driven by this delusion, Faolan decided that he alone should confront the malevolent force that he believed was thwarting his vision

The Pits of Ruin, the desolate domain of the Ruinbringer, were wisely kept separate from the mortal realms. This plane of nihilism and sin existed in its own otherworldly space, a blasted wasteland dominated by great gashes from which demons emerged to torment mankind and all creatures across the multiverse. Faolan, in his spiraling descent into madness, marched a significant portion of his army into this treacherous realm.

What transpired within the Pits of Ruin cannot accurately be described as a battle, for a battle implies a struggle where both sides have at least a chance. Instead, a cataclysmic event unfolded as the demons of the pits surged forth like a tidal wave, led by the Duke of Ruin, Belialon of Greed. In mere minutes, Faolan’s once-mighty army was decimated, torn apart by the relentless onslaught of the hordes of ruin.

Amidst the chaos, Faolan found himself surrounded, his forces shattered, and facing an overwhelming adversary. Faced with the grim reality and seeing no other viable option, he made a fateful decision—to surrender to the malevolent forces within the Pits of Ruin

Belialon, the Duke of Ruin and master of greed was a cunning demon who knew how to exploit the weaknesses of the mortal and fey realms alike. His malevolent influence reached across the multiverse, as he sent out his agents to entrap the greedy, claiming their souls as his property. Within his opulent palace, constructed from the souls he had claimed, his mastery over greed was displayed in the form of furniture and servile entities.

Understanding the sacred nature of promises, oaths, and contracts within the feyrealm, Belialon recognized an opportunity when Faolan, the defeated High King of the Fey, found himself within the Pits of Ruin. Grinning wickedly, the demon presented his terms to Faolan. Every seven years, seven of the finest men and seven of the most beautiful women among the fey would be sent as tribute to him. In a moment of unprecedented vulnerability, Faolan, cornered and defeated, reluctantly agreed to these terms.

With a snap of Belialon’s fingers, a scroll materialized from thin air—a literal contract for Faolan to sign. Trembling, Faolan added his signature to the agreement, sealing a pact that would bind the fey to a dark tribute for years to come. 

Gloating in his triumph, Belialon, the Duke of Ruin, reveled in the defeat of Faolan. The defeated High King of the Fey was escorted back to the jaws of ruin in a grotesque golden chariot, a vehicle that loomed like a house, emphasizing the cruel mockery that the demons indulged in. With every step, Faolan was subjected to jeers, taunts, and the false pretense of camaraderie, as the demons treated him as a valued ally rather than a vanquished adversary.

The journey through the multiverse, back to Dun Ard Rí, was a descent into despair for Faolan. Broken both spiritually and mentally, he bore the weight of his defeat, and the once-proud High King now faced a fate that would come to be known as the Age of Troubles. As Faolan returned to his throne, the darkness that had consumed him manifested in a reign of terror against his own subjects and the multiverse at large.

Faolan’s madness knew no bounds during this tumultuous period. Former allies were executed or imprisoned on whimsical charges that existed solely within his distorted perception of reality. The feyrealm became a realm in constant flux, reshaped by Faolan’s capricious notions of beauty that changed with alarming frequency. His subjects lived in perpetual fear, not knowing when the whims of their mad High King would turn against them, plunging the once-prosperous feyrealm into chaos and uncertainty. The golden age of unity and prosperity was now a distant memory, replaced by the oppressive rule of a once-great leader turned tyrant.

The descent into madness reached its darkest point when Faolan, driven by his distorted ideals of beauty, passed a draconian law condemning all deemed “ugly” to death. The edict sent shockwaves through the feyrealm as subjects were commanded to report to the High King’s palace for judgment. However, the very standards of beauty set by Faolan were so impossibly high that none who stood before him escaped the merciless verdict. Even Niamh, his once-beloved wife, found herself unable to meet his criteria and chose to avoid Faolan at every opportunity.

Witnessing the horrifying transformation of her husband, Niamh understood that decisive action was needed. Despite Faolan’s near-godlike powers, she embarked on a perilous journey in search of a solution. Her quest led her to discover a fragment from the dawn war—a single shard of condensed fate from the archangel of fate’s own weapon—and a fragment of pure chaos. Carrying these potent artifacts, she sought out the greatest artificer in the feyrealm.

Presenting the shards to the skilled artisan, Niamh implored him to forge them into a powerful tool that could alter fate itself. The artificer, recognizing the gravity of the situation, combined the fragments into a mystical deck of cards imbued with the ability to manipulate destiny. Thus, in the crucible of desperation, the first Deck of Many Things was created—an enigmatic and potent artifact that held the potential to challenge the twisted fate wrought by Faolan’s madness.

Returning to the palace, Niamh seized the opportune moment when Faolan had grown weary of the trials and executions. She proposed a challenge, a game that would determine their fates. The rules were simple—they would draw cards from the enchanted deck, and whatever consequence the card carried, they would both bear. Intrigued, Faolan agreed to the game, unknowingly sealing his destiny.

The deck they played with was far larger than those found in later times, and the game stretched on for a year. Each draw held unpredictable outcomes. Faolan narrowly escaped disaster when he drew the Skull card, and Niamh witnessed a cascade of pearls rain down when the Trove card graced her hand. The Ruin card, however, wrought havoc, obliterating the entire capital when Faolan drew it. Exhausted from facing the challenges unleashed by the cards, Niamh even battled a dragon summoned by the Monster card.

Then came the pivotal moment. Faolan, drawing the Donjon card, found himself ensnared in heavy chains that bound him tightly before making him vanish. The once-mighty High King was imprisoned somewhere in the vast multiverse, and his captivity endures to this day.

Recognizing the immense power of the Deck of Many Things and fearing its potential use to release Faolan, Niamh took decisive action. She scattered the cards across the realms, ensuring that they became the elusive and unpredictable Decks of Many Things that haunt the multiverse, each possessing the ability to shape destinies and alter the course of existence

In the aftermath of the High King’s imprisonment, the fey, scarred by Faolan’s tyrannical rule, collectively decided to abolish the concept of a High King. The fey realms transformed, and to this day, they are divided into the four great kingdoms, each with its unique character, rulership, and courtly traditions. Countless smaller kingdoms also emerged, giving rise to a diverse tapestry of feydom.

Niamh, the once-beautiful queen and widow of Faolan, faced a fate she could not escape. As the first tribute approached, she knew the cruel fate that awaited her at the hands of Belialon. However, she was determined to shield her beloved daughter, Fionnuala, from the same torment. With a magical knife, Niamh carefully etched deep scars across the tender face of her toddler daughter. These scars were not mere physical marks; they carried a magical essence that ensured they would never fade or heal.

Taking every precaution to secure Fionnuala’s safety, Niamh arranged for her daughter to be raised by her aunt, the queen of the Summer Court. The scars on Fionnuala’s face served as a protective ward, a visible shield that kept her beyond the grasp of Belialon’s sinister tributes. Yet, the journey of Fionnuala and her own rise and downfall is a story for another time.