Causeways, Carrots, and Captive Dragons
Amrynn
The portal from the Hall of Illusions deposited us not onto solid ground, but onto a precarious, broken causeway, remnants of some forgotten thoroughfare, suspended a dizzying height above a sprawling, fetid swamp. The air itself felt different here – thick with unfamiliar scents and an almost palpable sense of ancient, untamed magic. Behind us, the way back was swallowed by an impenetrable fog. Prismeer, at last.
Our arrival was punctuated by the sight of a balloon, clearly in distress, spiraling out of control before crashing into the swamp to the east.
Since the causeway was impassable, we descended it’s crumbling pillars, finding surprisingly sturdy handholds. The marshy ground was treacherous, a combination of sucking mud and tangled roots. It wasn’t long before we heard voices, which resolved into a rather boisterous marching song. From the mists emerged six Harengons – rabbit-folk, for lack of a more scholarly term – pulling a colossal snail and brandishing crude clubs. They announced their intention to rob us, not of material wealth, but of “a feeling of delight from our most priceless moment.” A bizarre demand, even for the Feywild. They also, curiously, addressed Fable as “royalty,” a detail that warrants further consideration.
Negotiations, predictably, failed. Combat ensued. Melina, it must be said, fought with a terrifying ferocity, dispatching several of the assailants. Her subsequent distress at being covered in their blood was… understandable, if a stark contrast to her battlefield prowess.
The giant snail, understandably frightened by the melee, was clearly domesticated. I managed to calm the creature – a surprisingly docile beast, despite its size – and discovered a saddlebag laden with carrots. We’ve named him Gary. A rather mundane name for such an extraordinary steed, perhaps, but it seemed to fit. P.B. relieved the lead Harengon of a gourd containing a faintly magical liquid, which he passed to me for later examination.
We took a brief respite. Melina, set about skinning the unfortunate rabbits. I took the opportunity to re-establish a connection with the weave, summoning a raven familiar – an extra pair of eyes will be invaluable in this disorienting land.
Our path then led us towards the downed balloon.
We soon encountered a stream, perhaps ten feet across, its waters remarkably clear in stark contrast to the murky swamp. Melina, testing its nature with a spare blade, saw not her own reflection, but a vision: a black-robed figure ascending a tower, its shadow detaching to slip through a window. The rest of us experienced similarly cryptic reflections. P.B. witnessed a grotesque woman in water, attended by toad-like versions of herself. Barnabus saw a satyr in a cage, whistling over a lake. Fable observed two fish creatures swimming past each other. My own vision was of a Bullywug, adorned as a monarch with a lily-blossom crown, engrossed in a tome upon a throne. These fleeting glimpses, I suspect, are not random, but portents or echoes of this realm’s denizens and their plights.
The stream itself seemed effectively benign, washing the swamp’s grime from our boots without ill effect. Fable, understandably wishing to keep her fur pristine, rode Gary across.
Pressing onward, we finally reached the destination of the crashed balloon: a crumbling stone tower, leaning at an impossible angle, its base choked by a formidable wall of brambles. The balloon was snagged at its precarious peak, a wicker basket dangling below. From within, a small, desperate voice called for help.
The occupant of the basket, trapped within a metal birdcage, introduced himself as Sir Talavar, a fairy dragon and a knight of the Summer Queen. He explained his Bullywug pilot had perished, and urged us to be quiet, as two enormous constrictor snakes lay in wait below, anticipating the basket’s fall. His imprisonment, he claimed, was the work of one “High Pavlorna,” who wished to prevent him from communicating with the Summer Court.
So, our first true objective in Prismeer presents itself: a rescue mission, fraught with the dangers of giant serpents and a structurally unsound tower. The Feywild wastes no time in testing one’s mettle.