Schemes, Sanctuaries, and Skillets
Amrynn
The logic of the Feywild continues to be elusive, governed less by the laws of physics and more by the whims of a fever dream. We have transitioned from the eerie stillness of Metalyff’s clearing to a cacophony of juvenile laughter, a sound that is both disarming and, given our current circumstances, mildly unsettling.
We discovered a treehouse perched atop a sentient oak, populated by a motley crew of children calling themselves the “Getaway Gang.” Their leader, a boy named Will, possesses a charisma that belies his years, though his judgment is questionable; he keeps a “cat” that is unmistakably a displacer beast cub. While Pork-Bottle inquired about the missing child, Star, Will’s focus was singular: the dismantling of Skabatha’s operation at Loomlurch. It appears the hag is enslaving children for toy production, a grotesque perversion of industry.
Will’s tactical acumen is seemingly sound, if somewhat optimistic. He sketched a plan in the sand involving a multi-pronged infiltration of the goblin candy stalls. The strategy relies on distraction of the other kids triggering screaming scarecrows, to allow us access to the workshop while Will infiltrates the textile mill. It is a plan that hinges on chaos, which, I suppose, is the only reliable constant here. However, before we could commit to this heist, the children insisted on a detour to the Wayward Pool to solicit aid from a unicorn. Their method involved a “costume” consisting of a blanket and a stick. I refrained from pointing out the absurdity; in this plane, belief often holds more power than reality.
After a short trek to the pool, Barnabus donned the crude disguise. While my companions waded into the water, I elected to remain on the shore sensing some magical shenanigans afoot. I prefer to keep my boots dry and my vantage point clear. PB ignited a fire in a stone bowl on the central isle, and to my genuine surprise, the ritual succeeded. A unicorn, Lamorna, materialized from the treeline near my position.
Our telepathic communion was illuminating and tragic. We learned that the Hourglass Coven murdered her mate, Elidon, using his horn in a ritual to freeze Zybilna in time and usurp her power. It confirms our suspicions regarding the horn we recovered in Hither; it is a magical catalyst. Lamorna instructed us to keep it safe, as it may be the key to reversing this curse.
The solemnity of the moment was shattered when an orcish rogue burst from the foliage, daggers drawn, attempting to assassinate the celestial creature. Melina reacted with terrifying speed, her strikes nearly incapacitating the assailant before he could complete his grim task. The orc mumbled something about “The League” before attempting to flee. I ended his retreat with a precise application of frost magic to his spine.
An inspection of the body revealed gold, gems, and tattoos which PB, utilizing his knowledge of the criminal underworld, identified as the mark of a hired blade. “The League” suggests an organized opposition we had not previously accounted for. Lamorna, before departing, advised us that the curse was likely cast in the Zybilna’s fortress, the Palace of Heart’s Desire, and that a dandelion named Amador in Yon might guide us there. A talking flower acting as a guide… I should stop being surprised.
On our return to the children, the absurdity of the day culminated in a culinary encounter. Melina, drawn by high-pitched singing, led us to a campfire where a goblin named Crowa was preparing a butter bath for a talking mushroom. The goblin seemed less malicious than desperate, complaining that Skabatha’s tyranny had ruined the local economy of Terracetown, forcing him to scrounge for food. He mentioned a “Chucklehead” who might treat us fairly, a name I shall file away for later.
Melina, predictably, befriended the ingredient. The mushroom, now named Fungus Fizzlebop, or “Fungi”, has joined our party. We are now traveling to enact a plan to raid a hag’s lair using screaming scarecrows as a diversion. I fear my academic training did not prepare me for this specific variety of madness, yet we must press on. The pieces of the puzzle are coming together, even if the picture they form is increasingly bizarre.