Written Account of a Levithan Sighting 

By Itharion Velys’Thaz, Naturalist of the Chair of Arcanal Fauna, University of Pytã.

Today, once again, I lifted my eyes to the sky and saw what few across all of Tyrrell have ever been graced to witness. A Leviathan. Just one, alone, gliding through the air with silent majesty, floating far above the southern mountains of Pytã’Zia, in the upper layers where even light seems to hesitate. No matter how many times I’ve seen them—and it is not many—the sight of one of these beings fills me with a reverence that no words can fully contain.

We call these creatures Leviathans, though that is merely one name among many. They are winged beings without wings. They float, they glide, as if the sky itself wishes to cradle them in eternal stillness. They follow the Leylines, rarely seen in regions far from those flowing currents of the Field. And they are never alone—always in groups of three to five, which leads us to believe they are families. Yet one detail never ceases to trouble me: no infant has ever been seen. The smallest Leviathan ever recorded measured 120 meters; the largest, 240. If they are born small, they grow in secret. If they are born massive, then they are still mysteries in this vast world we cannot wholly comprehend.

They are gentle. They do not attack, do not react with violence. At the slightest sign of threat, they simply drift away—first slowly, then swiftly, until even the most trained eyes can no longer follow. Most curious, however, is that they seem to perceive intent before action. Old accounts from dragon riders out of Western Ciradon claim that when they approached with the aim to hunt, the Leviathans rose to altitudes unreachable even by dragons, emitting a deep sound, like the call of some ancient horn. This sound reverberated through wind and Field alike—as a warning. For whom, we do not know. Perhaps for the others. Perhaps for us.

We cannot say for certain how they reproduce, but ancient records from the first Elderkin to attempt colonizing Leide contain fascinating reports. Every four years, without fail, Tyrrell’s skies fill with these creatures in a spectacular migration, all converging toward the island of Leide. At night, some of them glow—yes, glow!—in shades of violet, blue, and green, as if the Field itself danced beneath their skin. The sky over Leide becomes a cosmic ocean, lit by these silent giants. The next morning, the colonists would see them flying inland, toward the mountain ranges that no soul dared climb. The most accepted theory among us is that reproduction occurs there—the birth of the young, the renewal of their invisible cycle. But this remains speculation.

As for their feeding, we know even less. Only a handful of credible sightings describe Leviathans opening their massive mouths and drawing in entire flocks of birds—thousands, perhaps, in a single breath. A scene that must be both sublime and terrifying. Are these birds their energy source? Or is there something more—something they absorb in the act of consuming not just flesh, but spirit? Perhaps they feed on the energy of the Field itself...

To see a Leviathan requires trained eyes—sharp eyes, they say. Even with arcanal sight, there are days they fly so high, so perfectly cloaked within the clouds, that not even our lenses or magics reveal them. They seem to love clouds. Or perhaps need them. Perhaps they hide something there. We do not know. We still do not know. The truth is, Leviathans do not offer themselves to knowledge like other creatures. They are shy. They are ethereal. They are, perhaps, more spirit than flesh.

And still, I cannot help but write, study, admire. They remind me that the world still holds secrets greater than any book can contain. And perhaps—just perhaps—that is the most beautiful truth of all.