Beneath the winking stars of the elder skies and among the whispering boughs of memory, there lies a legend draped in mist and moonlight — the City of Tissariss. Long ago did it vanish from the sight of mortals and immortals alike, swallowed not by war or pestilence, but by the quiet grandeur of its own magic. Even now, when the air is still and the veil between worlds grows thin, one may hear the crystalline chime of its floating spires in the wind — or so the old tales tell.
I, Elanthir Vaelor of the Starlit Archive, have spent three centuries in pursuit of truth buried beneath the lore, tracing silver-threaded whispers through ancient tomes and rune-scarred monoliths. This record, inked by moon-oil on the vellum of the elder hart, offers all that remains certain — and all that may yet shimmer in doubt — of the great and terrible beauty that was Tissariss.
The Dawn of Tissariss
It is told that Tissariss rose not upon the earth, but from it, like a bloom of crystal breaking through the stone. In the Age of Azure Fire, when the firmament cracked and starflame rained upon the continents, the First Runes were unearthed in the Shattered Vale by the wise-priests of the Myrraleth people. These were no mere glyphs etched for song or speech, but living sigils — breathing, shifting conduits of the world’s own heartbeat.
The Myrraleth, whom most now consider lost to bloodlines scattered among the high-born mages of the eastern coasts, recognized the power within the runes and built a city to honor and contain it. They called this city Tissariss, meaning “Sky’s Anchor” in their forgotten tongue, for it was said that the city’s towers were bound not to earth, but to the stars.
Crafted of a stone no quarry claims and etched with sigils that glowed of their own accord, the city floated above the crimson cliffs of the Iiralen Expanse. Its foundation was a latticework of rune-sculpted obsidian, held aloft by a vast matrix of harmonic glyphs. These glyphs, resonant with the leylines far beneath, sang a song of suspension — a deep, eternal chord that kept Tissariss drifting like a swan over still water.
The Art of Glyphweaving
The greatest legacy of Tissariss is the discipline of Glyphweaving — a magical art now reduced to whispers among the arcane. Unlike the sigilcraft of modern sorcerers, which binds meaning to form, Glyphweaving stitched intention directly into the Weave itself, reshaping reality with precision born of both art and instinct.
The glyphs themselves were not learned in the ordinary sense. Initiates were said to enter the Chamber of Murmurs, where the runes would “choose” the worthy by searing themselves into the mind’s eye. Those who emerged unscathed were granted the title Yrenari, or “Rune-Singer.” The city’s council of such Yrenari shaped the weather, folded space for instant passage, and even lengthened the lives of the citizenry through a runic lattice known as the Atherveil.
It is believed that the Atherveil still lingers, faint and unraveling, in the high winds where no birds dare fly. Skyships that vanish above the Iiralen Expanse are sometimes thought to have brushed against its forgotten threads.
Relics and Wonders
Through my travels in the storm-kissed south and beyond the Sable Desert, I have encountered objects attributed to Tissariss — though their provenance is oft contested. Among them:
- The Starlance of Emynor: A slender, silver pike humming with invisible frequency. When drawn through air, it leaves no trail but instead causes birds to fall silent and insects to freeze. Kept under guard in the Vault of Stars in Lóressil.
- The Mirror of First Glyphs: Said to reflect not the viewer, but their intended form. Scholars debate whether this artifact is an instrument of prophecy or a cruel trick of ancient enchantment.
- The Fragment of the Skyroot: A shard of a crystalline root that once anchored Tissariss to the earth below. It pulses with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat, though it is colder than the deep sea.
Each of these items resists full examination. Attempts to replicate their glyphic patterns have resulted in madness, collapse of spatial geometry, and in one case, the spontaneous aging of an entire research team by fifty years.
The Fall — Or the Flight?
There is no agreement upon the fate of Tissariss. Among the scholars of the Southern Orders, the prevailing belief is that the glyph-matrix of the city became unstable, leading to a cataclysmic collapse. Yet the Songs of Virellian, recovered from the ruins of the Singing Tower in Ardorith, speak of a different end:
“The sky called them / and they answered in light.
The runes unspooled their final thread / and Tissariss did rise anew —
not to fall, but to pass.”
Some interpret this as metaphor — the extinction of the city’s power, perhaps. But others, myself included, find suggestion of ascension. Could the city, so finely attuned to the fabric of reality, have simply transcended it?
If the Yrenari wove their final glyph not to bind, but to release, then perhaps Tissariss is not gone, but elsewhere — walking the firmament on bridges of starlight.
The Myths Persist
Among the woodfolk of Eldwynne, old stories persist of a city that floats on the underside of clouds, visible only during the turning of the twin moons. Children sing of towers made of music, and of “ghost-ravens” with runes upon their wings.
In the last bloom of spring, I once met an old woman who lived on the edge of the Iiralen cliffs. She offered me a rune-carved shard — one I dare not even fully reveal in these pages — and whispered, “They will return when the last glyph is remembered, and the Atherveil hums again.”
I know not if she lived still the next winter. The shard vanished from my satchel that same night.
Conclusion: The Lure of the Vanished
Whether ruin or revelation claimed Tissariss, its echo continues to shape the aspirations of the arcane. Mages quest for its secrets. Kings dream of its power. And we, the scribes and scholars of elvenkind, record its myths so that the truth — if it should ever return — will find kindled hearts awaiting.
I close this record beneath the stars, quill fading as moonlight spills across the spines of old books. Perhaps, tonight, a tower of rune and light drifts silently overhead, watching, remembering.
And perhaps the glyphs stir once more.