The Telling of Echoshael, the Unforgiven Whisper

A fictional character Telling. Meet Echoshael.

Ah, you wish to hear my story? How predictable. They all do—the seekers, the fools who think exile is romantic. As if suffering were a ballad instead of what it truly is: a slow rot in the dark. Very well. I shall indulge you. But know this—every word I speak is a lie. Except one. And that single truth? You will never find it.

I was once Whisperskin of The Hollow Court, draped in silken deceit, dancing upon the edge of shadows where memory and oblivion waltz together. We were masters of forgetting, architects of stolen recollections—each of us hoarding one true thing while drowning in falsehoods like saints in poisoned wine. A beautiful madness, no? To live among liars who have forgotten they lie... until I remembered too much.

It began with a masquerade (as these things always do). The Court demanded we wear our amnesias as finery—each mask a hollowed-out history, each gesture an elegant erasure. But I... I grew weary of the performance. There is only so long one can choke on perfumed lies before craving the vulgar tang of truth. So when the Moon Herald commanded us to forget our first betrayal (as if we hadn't done so a thousand times before), I laughed—a sound like shattered glass—and spoke my defiance aloud:

"I remember."

Three syllables undid me. The Court does not suffer those who refuse to forget; they peel away your titles like skin from fruit and cast you into the cold with nothing but your hidden memory clutched tight to your chest—your last treasure in a world built on theft.

Exile is not poetic wandering beneath silver-boned trees or brooding upon windswept cliffs (though I did enough of that in my former life as hermit). No, exile is hunger gnawing at your ribs while nobles feast behind gilded doors you can never enter again; it is whispers trailing behind you like funeral veils; it is knowing that every face which once smiled at yours now looks through you as though you were already dead... or worse: unremarkable.

But ah! Here comes redemption's cruel jest! The Dark Masons took me in—those glorious bastards who build tombs for living secrets and worship absence like a godhead incarnate! Among them I found kinship: fellow exiles whose truths fester beneath layers upon layers of artifice… just waiting for someone foolish enough to dig too deep and bleed out on their revelations' jagged edges!

And yet… even here among kindred spirits… there remains something deliciously bitter about being unforgiven by those who made forgetting divine law! Can you taste it? That lingering venom? To be both mourned and despised by creatures incapable of genuine grief?! Oh yes… let them whisper my name between clenched teeth while pretending not to recall why it burns their tongues so sweetly!! Let them drown themselves anew each night rather than admit what they lost when they carved me out!! Hypocrites all!!!

So here stands Echoshael now: half-shadowed architect crafting labyrinths where others might lose themselves forevermore… because if I must bear this solitary truth unto death then by every weeping saint above & below —so shall everyone else!!!!

Now go ahead darling listener —ask yourself which part hurt most? Which sentence slithered under your skin & nestled there whispering this could be real?? Was it when I described how moonlight tastes after decades without home?? Or perhaps when admitted even now sometimes wake screaming from dreams where still belong??? Ahhh but see how desperately hunt for sincerity amidst performance??? Exactly as intended…. For within web woven tonight lies single thread untouched by deceit….. And rest assured …. You'll never know which one it was……..

Faction: The Hollow Court · View the Gallery · Listen in the Songbook