The Tale-sender is a being from the primary pieces of reality, though it is obviously and pleasantly far, far smokier than it is made of glass.
Tale-senders do not have a single form or shape. That is, they do, for these words; but perhaps for other words, it might be different. Most things are of similar realities, regardless of source of typeface. Tale-senders are not that.
Whence come their stories? Oh, no, no, that’s so very much the wrong question! Story continues to menace us, although it is a pleasant and beloved menace. We’re not generally conscious on an ethereal level, but our ethereal bodies navigate all of the magical spaces which we (as nonmagical beings, in the general) never know exist*, but which are as impassible as pipes of boiling steam would be, on this plane. And they can scarcely move, because the Ethereal Plane is almost entirely occupied by Dream, that very, very useful, very, very fast-growing, that Triffid of the Heavens, that building material which builds itself, vast, vast, iceberg blocks. It’s very hard to move anywhere.
Tale-senders have scythes, big scythes, and are (with great long-learned skill and art) able to cut slices in the Dream substance.
This both permits our bodies to move—and drops the Dream, sometimes, into parts of our heads. Very, very, very, very, very frequently, this is not entirely fatal.
Tale-senders are not making Dream**; they are helping make it such the Dream does not, kudzu-like, take over all reality.
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“It’s a little-known fact, but Unicorns are something like 20% paint, and their horns are stolen exclusively from endangered species.”
― There and Never, Ever Back Again
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* There are no such things as Faeries, and I’m sorry for the thing that happened at that place, and I wish I could visit that one Faerie ring again.
** By the way, I might be lying. I’m not being cute. I’m really not sure. I’m not lying to YOU. I’m lying to MYSELF.
