Up In The Empyreal Heights

 Whisper-Nixes are small and unassuming. Their cheeky-grins and flittering, glittering wings (which only some of them have the wings, in fairness) are disarming if you have as much social awareness as they do, which is to say not very much. They giggle at you, never with you, and just kind of... hover about you, just out of reach; hiding behind corners and roots, following at a distance. They are small, only a few inches tall, and bedecked in fine, golden filigree clothing; its really quite beautiful. The rest of them, is somewhat disconcerting though. They show too many teeth, and their fingers... well. Their fingers are as long the rest of their bodies, and have long hooked black nails on the end, like bony, knobbled fishing lines. These they insert into the back of your head, just under the bottom of your skull. It will bleed horribly, but in all likelihood it won't cause any permanent harm or great pain to you. It will feel extraordinarily strange however, as the Whisper-

In the deepest caverns of the Underdark stands a cold and forgotten city. Home to the Drow, the Fallen, the Traitors. After the years spent with out sunlight their skin has gone pallid, thin and taut across their milky white bones. This is what remains of them. The Crimson Courts 1. The Traitor King 2. Lady Mantis 3. He-Who-Weeps 4. The Red Courtiers 5. The Changeling Children 6. Starving Hounds The Black Factories 1. Furnace Golems 2. Smog Leeches 3. Tarthau, the Fume Bloated 4. Soot Snakes 5. The Blackened 6. The Foreman The House of Hours 1. History Surgeons 2. Fate Weavers 3. Beggars and Sinners 4. Time Keeper Orion 5. Soul Snatchers 6.The Queen, for whom this is all for The Esplanade of Traitors 1. The Gut-Oracle 2. The Screaming Dead 3. The Doom of Fools 4.Chain Geist 5. Tongue-Taker 6. Fool's Butchers The Brimstone Club 1. Desire, what you want 2. Necessity, what you need 3. Regretter, what you miss 4.Dread, what you fear 5.Chanc

She was beautiful once. She walks like someone just learning to use their legs again, clumsy and awkward, her skin might have been putty pulled into twisted coils, and her head is split open, her thoughts pouring forth like water. Her grove is filled with sewage, knee deep and swarming with flies. Filth cakes the branches, black and oily tide-marks on the trunks, withered leaves still clinging to the twigs. She wades through it like a drunk bird, face contorted in sorrow even as further feculence floods forth. Her thoughts are filthy with grief, a vicious cycle without end. Anything that disturbs her mourning causes her great distress, and she charges forward wildly, mucky mind swaying around wildly coating everything in poison and long stabbing limbs jabbing around in wild abandon.  You might be able to save her. Perhaps not.