Ethereal Chronicles

My days as a scholar had scarcely embarked before I encountered a sorcerer along my travels. The destination I sought lay deep within the thick of the mountains, far from my hometown. I had dabbled in the skill of magic myself from time to time, as befits an academic of our world, but only in protective charms and minor incantations; nothing compared to the might of one who commanded all the faces of nature… and every shadow of its malice.

Dusk had begun to settle when I spotted him, waiting at the side of the mountain path. He was cloaked entirely in black, gripping in his right hand a hefty staff with a gem that glowed in searing, crimson light. As I moved to pass him, he called out to me.

“What might a young lady be doing, venturing through these parts alone?” he asked, his voice betraying no hint of malice.

At his tone, I felt myself slightly loosen. “I seek the academy. I have been travelling a long time.”

“And how, may I ask, have you managed to sustain yourself?” the sorcerer continued, shifting his weight so that he could examine me more closely.

I shrugged. “Do you believe me to be so helpless? I get by. And I am familiar with enchantments.”

“I see.” He pondered for a moment. “Perhaps you would care to stay with me for the night, so that you can embark tomorrow feeling well rested. How do you like that suggestion?”

“I’m afraid I must decline,” I said with a small smile. “I do not meld well with strangers, especially those with talents as formidable as your own.”

The sorcerer paused, opening his mouth as though to speak before closing it again. I sensed that I had judged wisely in declining his offer, for I saw no dwelling in sight, only a growing irritation in his handsome features.

“I see,” he said, smiling to mask the furrow of his brow. “In that case, I will not detain you, though you would have done well to take my suggestion seriously.”

Unsure how to reply, I simply nodded and shook his outstretched hand. He stepped aside, and I continued along the path, though I could feel the glare of his eyes burning into my back. After another hour, the darkness thickened beyond safe travel, and I prepared to make camp. With a few careful enchantments, I conjured a sturdy, spacious tent to shield myself from the night.

I spent the evening recording the events of the day, including the peculiar encounter, but it was not long before my eyes began to tire. Even so something had begun to gnaw at me; a strange chill that had been there since my hands met his, and I felt strangely detached from myself. Even my writing appeared in broken familiarity, not quite my own as though guided by a hand that was foreign to me. When I lay down to rest a shadow seemed to linger at the edge of my vision, vanishing whenever I turned and yet leaving a cold sense of dread in its wake.

The following morning dawned bright and frosty. Sunlight glittered serenely across a fresh, untouched coating of snow. I walked for some time before I encountered a bear, walking upright along the path towards me. When he noticed my presence, he spoke.

“From which land do you come?”

“Ashmere,” I replied, and the bear nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“And where do you intend to go?” he asked.

“To the academy at the top of this mountain,” I replied.

He nodded once more, though there was something vaguely familiar in his gaze and demeanor, and it set my unease prickling anew. I continued my ascent, but the day felt much longer than those before, the path seeming oppressive even for one as seasoned as I.

By midday, a weariness settled deep in my bones, unlike any fatigue I had previously known. Between trees flitted shadows that I knew were not truly there, and faint whispers echoed within my mind, as though my inner voice had taken a path of its own.

By nightfall, I was but a few hours from the academy, which loomed silently atop the mountain. I set to work on my protective enchantments, though they had grown feeble, and crawled into the warmth of my bed.

But the warmth offered me no comfort, for my body throbbed with the pain of what felt like unseen needles pressed beneath my skin. Dreams of terror awaited me in my unconscious, and I fled from them, waking in a sweat only to be dragged back by the hand of sleep. When the morning finally did come, I was horrified to see that my arms and shoulders were marred with raw, angry scratches, as if some hidden hand had clawed me in the night. Panic pushed me to hasten my journey; I did not wish to spend another night alone, and I managed to reach the building before darkness had fallen, though my limbs trembled from the ordeal.

I settled into the academy quickly, and had hoped that in the company of others the strangeness of my condition might cease. It did not. Neither the dreams nor the wounds relented; if anything they worsened with each passing night. I awoke on some evenings suspended meters above my bed, only to crash back down once my eyes opened. Reflections in rooms bore sinister glares, each mirror and polished surface showing an alien side of myself.

One night, the assaults escalated to a terrifying new intensity. I had stayed up late, researching the healing properties of some mountain herbs, when a deep compulsion within me pushed me to bring a hand to my neck. As my fingernails dug and tore into my skin I cried out with pain, struggling desperately to pull them away, but a foreign control held me in place. When I finally managed to wrench my fingers free with the other arm, I discovered deep, curved gouges along either side of my neck; far too severe to have been caused by my own nails.

It was on that night that I decided to seek the guidance of the academy’s master of the arcane, certain that my affliction existed beyond mere illness.

With little surprise at my words, Master Cael informed me that I had been cursed with the presence of a Fetch. When I recounted the strange sorcerer that I had been acquainted with on the road, he nodded slowly. “It must be his doing,” he said. “A spirit such as this would have grown bored by now, were it not tied to you by a higher power.”

Immediately, he set to work releasing the spirit.

The ordeal lasted days. I was starved, beaten, and bled; the only way to drive a creature so embedded in its host was to make the host utterly inhospitable, which is exactly what Cael did.

After five gruelling days of torture, the spirit finally made its escape. A rush of dark energy surged from my body, almost dragging me from my chair as it tore free from the sticky bond that had bound us together. It stood before us for a moment, wide eyed and twitching, an exact mirror of myself and yet darker, crueller, far too wild to be human. Then it twisted its body to slither out of the open window, leaping out into the blizzard, and I never saw or felt it again.

Appearance and Attributes

A Fetch is the supernatural double of a living person. Traditionally malicious in nature, it serves as a harbinger of death or misfortune, said to “fetch” the souls of those nearing their end. While classical lore emphasizes its role as an omen, later interpretations depict the Fetch as a malevolent spirit that can bind itself to a person, sent to torment, manipulate, or harm its host.

Though it mirrors its human counterpart almost perfectly, the Fetch carries a subtle but unmistakable sinister presence, sometimes appearing only in reflections, shadows, or glimpses at the edge of perception, a constant, unsettling reminder of the danger it portends.