Herald
Overview
There are two main theories on how heralds are made, either they are people who accomplish great feats in their lives and thus are chosen by gods to carry out their whims. The second way is where a small part of the god is given form to go to The Amber Realms to carry out the Gods whims. You usually have to willingly accept to become a herald.
It's very unlikely anyone who fought in The Sundering became a herald because of the following:
- These people know the power of Heralds and Gods and how dangerous they are
- They wouldn't be chosen by any Gods as they helped build The Towers which weakened all god's abilities
Other Information
An excerpt by Archivist Thalen, Lorehold College, Strixhaven
(Recovered from a series of loose pages stitched together with silver wire. Ink blotting increases throughout.)
Heralds. Yes. The term is woefully insufficient. It implies a message. A polite knock before the collapse. No. Heralds are not messengers. They are manifestations. They are bids, made by gods who do not play games.
They walk the Amber Realms on divine errand, clothed in flesh or shadow or words. They spread their god's will not like scripture, no-not like priests or fanatics. No. They embody the will. They are the sermon. And the judgment.
Two primary theories attempt to explain their origin how quaint, how tidy. The first, and most charming, is that a mortal-hero, scholar, butcher, it hardly matters achieves such greatness, such singular resonance with a god's domain, that the divine notices. Smiles.
Chooses. The mortal accepts-must accept-and is remade, mind stitched to purpose. The second theory is simpler: a shard of the god is carved off like a sliver of bone, given flesh, and sent walking through our world as proxy. That one is closer, I think. I've felt them near.
They don't blink like we do. But both require the same hinge: consent. The choice. That's the key. Always the choice. You have to let them in.
(I didn 't. I didn't-did I?)
I met a herald once. She spoke in perfect symmetry. Every word she said had a reflection. I tried to record it. The ink changed after I wrote it. My notes don't match what I remember. Or maybe my memories don't match the truth. Or maybe-maybe-I was never there.
They do not age. They do not rest. They do not dream. Or perhaps they do, and we are the dream. That is not metaphor. I've seen a map where a city only appears when the herald sleeps.
They aren't bound by flesh, but they wear it well. Sometimes too well. You won't know them unless they want you to. But you'll feel it. A sudden stillness in a crowded room. A rhythm gone wrong. A word you don't understand-but weep to hear.
I've drawn them. I've burned the drawings. I still see them.
The gods do not speak. The heralds do.
The heralds do not lie. They simply speak in troths too sharp for the unprepared.
They offer bargains no one remembers making. And yet, they are always accepted.
I cannot remember when I stopped writing this. I do not remember beginning. They do the will of the gods. They carry the shape of belief into the bones of the world. They walk so the gods may remain still.