In my desire to know more of the Feywild, I indulged in videos on the topic from Monster Week as creators across Youtube gathered to talk about the Fey and their various peoples, places, and ideas. A desire to know more for Judah and the potential of yet another character to be added to the roster turned into curiosity when the mention of Tolkien was brought up in one of the videos. This mention spurred me to listen to the words of Tolkien with his choice words on Faerie Stories, and it was through this vector one from a story yet unwritt' emerged once more into vision. He would not be ignored, nor was he content to be so.

Though eyes hid, yet his gaze pierced in judgement. Though standing as a ceder, his mood was entangled with wrath. Though behind that mask, I can only imagine the twisted shape of his countenance. He is wrath not only for himself, but also the stories of his library and the countless tomes that sat in the accumulating dust of years long past. He spoke not a word, yet his message as thunder. What was, I can not say. The message was for my ears alone. I know what I must do, yet those who seek the librarian's collection reduced to ash in the wind seek to keep me in their prison constructed ever so delicately to enrapture me into the dainties within. They look good for meat and are pleasing to the eye, yet do they contain the poison that would destroy possibility and keep me at enmity with the Great Artist and His Living Word. The enemy would see the end of faerie.

Hope yet remains. If it is possible for him to return as he has now, then the spirit of his story yet lives. It waits for the day it would be sired by ink and paper, birthed into the world that it may revive. If this were not so, he would not be here as others have lived and died without ever being knitted together. Is that why you bear the fox? Have your wits aided in the survival of your spirit within the sea of void? I know it is not just you, but your siblings as well that are within the shelter of your library, waiting for the day the doors will open once more to give them freedom, to see the light of day. Yet how shall I resist the temptations the dainties present? An ember alone is in danger of being extinguished, and the flame is dying as the world begins to hate the flame, a great trick played by the god of this world by presenting his bonfire that takes away heat rather than gives it. Because it looks and acts like that flame yet is more vibrant and pleasing in the promises it whispers, it draws the moths and embers away from the true flame, and it has been slowly going out. Soon, the heat will cease, and there shall be no longer any restraint for the enemy; soon, the faerie stories shall run dry, and the fey shall go extinct.

The keys to the library have been dispersed into the world, planted into the hearts of of those who may yet glimpse that world of faerie; living bonds that connect us to the stuff fantastical. The enemy has planted doubt into the hearts of all, and fear has sprouted that it may choke the keys. The Commissioner of the keys had sent hope that the keys might survive, but not all have. The keys grow few with each passing cycle, some having been buried so deep as none may find them again. The librarian has sent a call, the keys resonate. Let us overcome the tares of the enemy, let us use the keys to unlock the library. Faerie stories are not gone, they are waiting to be born anew. They ask not for bravery, they ask only for steps to be takes as a newborn learns to walk. They demand no lies within their sight, for the Great Artist wrote the first of faerie without lie. Many are called to the library, yet few are chosen to sire faerie stories.

The librarian, whom wears the smooth white fox upon his face, refuses to be ignored. He refuses to be taken back into the void. He demands his story be told. The war has not started, it has escalated.