Fractions & Factions: The Return (6/6) - Zola
Jun 11, 2023 14:30:41 GMT
Riah, Andy D, and 1 more like this
Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Jun 11, 2023 14:30:41 GMT
The Mountain Palace, the Witching Court
Morning, 5th Kythorn 1500
Zola can’t seem to stop herself from fidgeting about as she waits for Jaezred to finish divining. He had hoped that the fragrance of burning incense that is part of his ritual preparations would calm her nerves, but it is to no avail. She picks at the hem of her belt, shifts her weight from one foot to another, and generally creates a million tiny little noises that are slowly driving him up the wall.
“Please stop. You’re distracting my focus,” he says flatly, not taking his eyes off the deck of black-and-white tarot cards he is shuffling in his hands.
As requested, she forces herself to keep still…for all of 10 seconds, and then her gauntleted fingers begin to scrape at a small dent in her breastplate. He sighs.
“Sorry,” she says. “Are— Are you done yet?”
Jaezred draws the first card and lays it face-up on the northwest corner of the table before him, next to a lit candle and a clutch of dried wildflowers: Seven of Pentacles. It bears the cheerful image of a halfling farmer gazing lovingly at the fruits of his labour.
The second, he puts parallel to the first in the northeast: a man carrying armfuls of swords as he tiptoes away from a camp — Seven of Swords. Representing trickery.
“Jasper is in New Hillborrow,” Jaezred says. “I think you should go there and see what he’s up to.”
Zola nods. “Okay. Okay. Yes, I can do that. Um, what else are the spirits saying?”
Divination is a difficult art. Knowing the inevitable would not stop it from happening. But the girl standing in front of him, staring at him with a single, pleading eye, is too optimistic to ever believe that.
He lays the third card in the southwest corner, under the skull of a songbird. The Moon. He can practically hear Zola’s breath seizing in her throat.
“Confusion and darkness lie ahead of you…”
The next card, placed in the southeast, is Death.
“A great change will come, an end to the status quo…”
Now he draws the final card and places it in the centre of the table. An angel blowing a horn that calls the jubilant dead back to life — Judgement.
“And the reckoning begins.”
Daring Heights
Evening, 5th Kythorn 1500
How long have we been running for?
An hour ago, when she landed in New Hillborrow atop Cor’Vandor’s back, there were already 3 other adventurers there: Kavel, Lolli, and a rapier-wielding gold dragonborn named Cechec. The village was being set upon by black, ghostly wolfhounds and pale, fog-like sylphs. Howls and screams sounded from all around them.
A handsome, red-haired elf whom Zola assumed was Jasper had gathered the adventurers up and told them Drusilia is attempting some kind of ritual with the Horn, the Great Mount, and the Weapon somewhere. And then they flew off to save the villagers from the Wild Hunt.
A blue firbolg mage showed up to devastate the assailants with lightning, forcing the Hunt to scatter off to the east and to the west, led by a quick-hopping, fast-talking harengon at the heads of each pack. The adventurers chased after the pack heading west, towards Daring Heights.
It was more of the same in Daring Heights. More desperately running around to save folks. At least, Zola reckons it was. She can’t really tell at this point. She thinks she detected a whiff of fey from Cechec, but was that right? She killed the harengon and his body broke into pieces of ice and snow after she pulled Pollux out of him — did that actually happen?
Nothing seems real. Her head feels light, like she’s out of breath even though she’s not, like this is all just a bizarre dream she’ll soon wake up from.
A blood-red full moon has been hanging over their heads this entire day.
Jasper is looking at each of them worriedly. “We still don’t know where the ritual is taking place. We need more—” He pauses, and his yellow eyes stare off into the distance like someone is sending him a telepathic message. Then a grin spreads across his face, his sharp canines baring themselves hungrily. “Looks like we’re in luck. She’s good, the Quarlani’omah,” he adds, glancing at Kavel. “She found Drusilia, in the forest to the south.”
The Feythorn Forest
Dusk, 5th Kythorn 1500
The blood moon looms larger over them here in the woods.
Lolli had casted the invisibility spell on Zola and Cechec before Jasper teleported them there. But, almost immediately, they find themselves standing face-to-face with four figures in the dark of the forest.
A satyr with curling horns, outfitted in rusted, moss-caked bronze armour. A wingless fairy crouched on the ground, bow on their back, broken mask on their face, the three-pronged symbol painted on it. Two grey-furred harengons with blue scarves, identical to each other as well as to the ones they saw in New Hillborrow and Daring Heights.
No weapons are drawn. No one moves. Both sides stare at each other in silence amidst the whispers of leaves and the singing of cicadas.
The satyr is the first to speak. “Well, it’s almost time.”
“Are you…calling your lord back?” Zola asks. “The Lord of the Hunt?”
“Zola, be quiet!” Lolli whispers. Oh right. She forgot she and Cor’Vandor are invisible right now.
The Wildling archer turns to where Zola’s voice is coming from. “She’s calling him here,” they reply.
“Calling him home!” the harengons say in uncanny unison.
“Where has he been this whole time?” continues Zola.
“He had been betrayed…hindered, for a time…” the satyr says. “He has been far away from here.” He looks at Jasper. “You know all about betrayal, don’t you, trickster?”
Jasper snarls and bares his fangs at the satyr. “Speak nothing of what you do not know!” His facial features shift for a moment, morphing into something a touch more vulpine.
“So you’re part of the Wild Hunt?” Kavel asks the Wildlings. “Is the Wild Hunt…dangerous?”
Do the fey make deals? Zola thinks to herself.
“Only if you’re being hunted,” the satyr replies.
“Who are you hunting? Can you share that?” Lolli says.
“No one currently,” one of the harengon answers.
The other one adds, “But maybe soon…”
“We might do soon, though,” says the archer. “It’s been a long time coming. And someone has to pay…”
The satyr holds up a hand, and obediently, the archer stops speaking.
“Pay for what? For that time you were defeated in war?” Zola says.
“That’s not our decision to make. Who can say what the Lord is thinking?” The satyr cocks his head to one side. “I think it’s almost time.”
“Tell me, how many times have you tried to hinder us these past few months?” one harengon says.
“Oh, don’t forget how many times they’ve helped us too, brother!” the other one exclaims.
“Oh, that’s right! They’ve helped us too!”
“And that is why we’re here,” says the satyr. “Not just to talk, but also to extend an invitation. Even to you, trickster. Is it front-row seats to his return, or will you join the dance?”
Kavel looks at the red-haired fey. “What does he mean, Jasper?”
“He wants to know if you’re gonna sit by and watch the ritual or try to stop it,” he replies through gritted teeth, never once taking his gaze off the four Wildlings.
“Oh. Well. I have much to make up for with the Horn.”
“That’s one for the dance…” the satyr says.
“Um, I don’t like that you killed people… So I’m not gonna let you do whatever you want,” Lolli says meekly as she tightens her little fists around her wand.
“Did we kill anyone in Fluffleton, brother?” a harengon pipes up again.
“No… Did we kill anyone in New Hillborrow, brother?” his twin says.
“No, we just frightened them!”
The two rabbits cackle.
“Alright, another one for the dance…”
Zola already knew her answer even before they asked. Her right hand had not left Castor’s ivory grip. “Let’s dance.”
“Three…” the satyr counts, and then looks around in search of the last, invisible adventurer. “And what about you?”
“Four for the dance, then,” a voice says. But it isn’t Cechec’s voice. It’s deep and masculine but without a dragonborn’s rough throatiness to it. And it sounds familiar to Zola… She’s heard that voice once before, in Leona Autumn’s cocktail bar a few weeks ago, coming from the dwarf whom Oziah thought was fey. Wait, she smelled fey on Cechec today too—
“Ohhh!” she cries out. “You’re the same person!”
“Zola! Ssshhh!” Lolli hisses.
The satyr takes this opportunity to sling on a drum and beats it, turning himself and his fellow Wildlings invisible. They hear the sounds of footsteps running on the grass. The chase has begun.
Zola kicks Cor’Vandor’s sides and they take off into a half-bounding, half-flying start. She takes a big sniff of the air as she casts detect evil and good, sensing the unseen fey just ahead of them. The invisibility spell on her and Cor’Vandor shimmers away.
Cor’Vandor catches up to the one nearest to them, a rush of wind along Zola’s right-hand side. She unsheathes Castor and bends her body at a sharp angle, riding sideways on the winged stag, to swipe at the invisible Wildling’s legs. However, it’s supremely difficult to get at a target one cannot see; the first swing doesn’t catch anything, and the second swing brings her tumbling down off her steed — rolling on the forest floor over rocks and overgrown roots, getting a mouthful of grass. Cor’Vandor skids to a halt.
“Heh. Not so elegant of you, sword dancer,” the satyr’s mocking voice says, receding in volume as he carries on dashing ahead.
She groans as she picks herself up, feeling a new bruise throbbing on her forehead. “Kavel! He’s over there!” She points at where she senses the fey presence at the edge of detect evil and good. The goliath gives a hum of affirmation as he swings his burly body forward from branch to branch, alongside a leaping Lolli and Jasper darting between trees.
Cor’Vandor has turned around for his rider. Zola leaps onto his back once more and they zip forward immediately, re-entering the high-speed chase through the dark forest. Zola’s misty step lets the both of them teleport around as silvery mist, avoiding low-hanging branches and tree trunks in their way. Together, they’re faster than anyone else in there, and soon she’s smelling fey all around her again.
The foliage is beginning to thin. The path ahead is tinged with a faint red glow. The finish line is in sight.
“Guys!” Lolli exclaims, glancing at her friends. “I have an idea on how to stop the ritual! We gotta— Whoa!” She swerves just in time to avoid hopping face-first into a tree branch.
Zola catches up to another invisible fey. She swings both Twins fiercely about, this time aiming for where a head should be. “You know I can keep up,” the drow warrior growls. “I’m gonna get you.”
Suddenly, the sound of sprinting near her stops. “Very well then,” she hears the fairy archer’s quiet voice coming from ahead, in between her and her goal. “Come on.”
Cor’Vandor is gliding and galloping forward at full speed, and he’s not slowing down one bit. His thundering hooves hit something solid and unseen — though not quite hard enough to knock it down and trample it — as he barrels past the fey.
The fairy harrumphs. “All talk…”
Jasper, Kavel, Lolli, and Zola with Cor’Vandor burst into a wide clearing, opening up into a valley of tall, silvery-blue trees lush with maroon leaves and plump, golden apples hanging from their twisting branches. The blood moon appears gigantic behind the dense, red canopy.
The trees are swaying to the pulsating waves of magic coming from the edge of the valley — two portals, glowing crimson and crackling with brass and yellow bolts, are tearing open on the threshold of the Feyverge Valley crossing, one on the Material Plane side and a corresponding one on the Feywild side.
“—gotta get the ring, the horn, or the mount away…from…them…” Lolli’s voice trails off breathlessly.
Drusilia and Oriniax, in her humanoid form, stand before the Material Plane portal. The striking red hag has her arms raised, her vitiligo skin pulsing in time to the Infernal and Sylvan words she is chanting, whilst Oriniax holds a glimmering, golden spear — larger than her own body — aloft in the air, as if about to pierce the base of the portal with it. The Horn of the Wild Hunt is visibly hanging from Drusilia’s hip.
The invisibility spell on the Wildlings has dropped.
Jasper and Lolli dash towards Oriniax. Kavel rushes the now-visible satyr in armour, tackling him and getting a few blows in.
Zola feels the insurmountable pressure, so intense it could crack her. Cor’Vandor takes off into the air, heading also for Oriniax. But the satyr, whilst weathering punches from Kavel, shouts something and casts dispel magic.
Cor’Vandor disappears from existence in a flash of silver light. Zola feels nothing underneath her as she plummets through the air. But for whatever reason, one of the harengons casts feather fall on her and her fall is slowed down, allowing her to land on her feet.
She can’t possibly reach Oriniax and Drusilia in time now. Yet her battle-mind still rages wildly; Castor’s moonlight and Pollux’s starlight are shining brighter than ever, seeking a new target. She sprints towards the nearest one she can see — the satyr — and runs both swords through his stomach. The gored satyr falls to the ground with Zola on top of him, his body going limp immediately.
And just then, Oriniax stabs the spear into the earth.
A final, great wave of magical energy booms out from the portal, shattering the rocks around it and flattening the smaller trees. Zola has to raise an arm to shield her face.
A large, booted foot steps through the portal. Followed by muscled arms, and finally the whole body.
A 25 foot-tall man with long, wild, black hair and beard and broad, muscular shoulders, dressed in leathers and furs, has emerged from the portal. His grim face appears worn by years of hardship and battle. His red-and-blue eyes scan the scene before him. He says nothing as Oriniax cries out lovingly and places the golden spear in his hand, and he launches it full-force at Jasper.
Jasper gasps as the spear pierces through his chest. Blood streaks from his lips as he taps a foot and the ground beneath him opens up into a tunnel. He falls into it and out of sight. Zola shouts his name and desperately tugs on The Twins’ grips — they’re stuck in the satyr’s armoured corpse.
At last, she realises that they’re too late.
Oriniax has transformed back into her hind form, striding behind the Lord of the Hunt as he steps towards Drusilia. The hag kneels down in reverence and presents the long-lost Horn to him with both bands.
Zola rips Castor and Pollux free and starts running at them. Fighting and railing against time and fate and all the odds stacked against them. But it is in vain.
The Lord of the Hunt raises the Horn to his lips and blows.
Port Ffirst
Dusk, 5th Kythorn 1500
The streets of Port Ffirst fall quiet again when the last ghost-hound’s neck snaps in He’lylbreia’s jaws. The shadow panther tosses the limp body away, letting it join its pack brothers similarly lying dead on the cobblestones, and runs back to their master.
Jaezred lowers his rod of the pact keeper. The street lamps are dead and the moon is blood-red — the only light in this terrible gloom is from the crown of stars hovering above his head. Behind him, a family of gnomes are pressed up against a brick wall, holding each other and shaking in fear, but untouched by canine fangs.
Gazing upon the dozens of dead hounds and sylphs before him, a brief thought passes through his mind of what a good decision it was to close Gossamer Threads for the day.
Two voices speak to his head along the threads of a telepathic bond:
Lord Jaezred, the K’ul Goran party has returned. All alive.
So has the Enlace party, sir. Looks like all six of them are here.
However, the relief he feels at the news of Keros and Rae coming back safe is cut short by a third voice coming in, sounding much, much less assured than her comrades.
My lord… The spy hesitates. The ritual in the Feythorn was completed. I… The Lord of the Hunt has returned.
A cacophony of voices — a series of What?! and What do you mean? and How could they let that happen? — mobs the telepathic bond all at once. But Jaezred remains calm, asking only a single question.
Where are they now.
H-Hold on, we’re tracing their signature… Uh… They’ve gone to the Feywild. They’re in…
When she utters the name of the court, the underlings on the telepathic bond, too, fall silent. Jaezred purses his lips.
All operatives, regroup at the Mountain Palace immediately, he orders.
He turns to the gnomes huddled up behind him. “Go,” he simply says.
“Th-Thank you, mister!” the mother of the family calls out before they all scurry off into the darkness.
Jaezred sighs. He’lylbreia sits down and gives him a look of sympathy. He tilts his head up at the blood moon in the starless sky.
“I’m not getting that holiday, am I.”
Unknown
Unknown
How long have we been running for?
She remembers them being in the Feythorn last before everything blurred. Streaks and explosions of shapes and colours of fleeting and indistinct and untouchable familiarity rushing past her as the call of the Horn rings endlessly in her ears, as if a vibrating wire has been strung through her brain. The burning in her muscles and her lungs gasping for air tell her that she’d been running. Running like mad.
It’s a wild, ceaseless, ecstatic thrill that drains everything from her.
How long…?
When the horn’s enchantment begins to wear off and the blur starts giving way to clarity, Zola’s world is filled with white and pale blue. Cold air snaps at her grime-caked skin. She blinks, twice, thrice. Slowly but surely, her surroundings gain focus and form.
Zola, Kavel, Lolli, and Dulgrun are in a vast hall with walls of ice. Everything is cut into sharp, perfectly ordered geometric shapes. The Lord of the Hunt is there with them, riding atop Oriniax, and they are all facing a winter eladrin rising from a throne of sparkling ice. She is only a little shorter than the towering Lord, her snow-white hair wound into neat, tight braids — not a single strand appears out of place — and her long, regal blue robes cascades down onto the frozen ground.
…Queen Morinn?
If that is her, then there are currently more emotions on her face than one would expect of the infamously cold-hearted Queen of Winter: surprise, confusion, disbelief…and happiness. And she is looking at none but the Lord of the Hunt.
“Is it you?” she gasps, wading closer towards him. “But how—? I thought…”
The Lord of the Hunt dismounts from Oriniax. He strides up to her and takes her delicate hands in his large, coarse ones. “At last, I have returned. I have kept you waiting.” He bends down and kisses her hands. “My love.”
Zola opens her mouth. But the Sylvan words she wants to scream wither in her throat — she is still under the thrall of the Horn. Nevertheless, the adventurers seem to get Queen Morinn’s attention as her gaze suddenly snaps towards them. The smile dissipates from her statuesque face like snow under a heatwave.
“They’re from the Dawnlands. Why are they here?”
“They helped me return. I let them ride with us as a reward,” the Lord answers.
Morinn pulls away from him and turns around to sit back down on her throne, assuming once again the role of the perfectly flawless, coldly logical monarch. “Send them away,” she commands.
“Very well.”
Drusilia steps in front of the four of them. She utters an incantation and makes a sign in the air, and the next thing Zola knows, they’re back in the soft, verdant fields of New Hillborrow with the warmth of sunset on their skins.
The Horn’s enchantment finally shatters, and she collapses to her knees as the accumulated exhaustion from the past 24 hours hits her like a carriage at full speed.
The world is spinning and dragging every breath out of her parched throat. She feels hunger and vomit rising in the back of her mouth at the same time. She feels empty, but the fury remains.
The fury has never gone away.
The Mountain Palace, the Witching Court
Evening, 6th Kythorn 1500
“To summarise everything, Your Majesty: the grand conspiracy was orchestrated by this arcanoloth Mogtron, all for his personal grudge against the Dawnlands. It appeared that Mogtron helped Drusilia locate the artefacts of the Wild Hunt, and in exchange, the Wildlings terrorised the Dawnlands for him. That is the extent of the Wild Hunt’s campaign against the adventurers. And now that Mogtron is dead and the Lord of the Hunt is returned, they’ll likely lose interest in the Dawnlands, and…”
Jaezred’s voice trails off for a moment. “Well. I do not know what will happen next, Majesty.”
The Lady of Copper and Crystal stands tall on the dais in the vaulted ritual chamber she seems almost to be a fixture of, unmoving, her mossy-green gaze fixed intently on her warlock as he makes his report. She reveals nothing of her thoughts and remains silent for a few moments after he finishes speaking, creating the distinctly odd sense that time has all but stopped in the vast, near-empty chamber.
Finally, her eyes blink, and it feels as though time begins moving again. “Excellent work, Lord Jaezred. However… As much as I would presume you are correct about the Dawnlands no longer being of interest, I would suggest you remain sceptical. A new hunting grounds is more enticing than you may appreciate.”
“You are right, Majesty. I shall continue to keep my eyes and ears open.”
“The more pressing concern on my mind is their presence back in the Feywild. As Ascendant, it is my duty to oversee the Feywild, and the return of the Hunt may upset and unbalance what we have.”
Jaezred nods pensively. “Majesty, if I may.” He takes a deep breath. “The banishment of the Wild Hunt was no accident. They would be seeking revenge with — could we presume — the backing of the Winter Court, would they not?”
Nicnevin’s eyes narrow slightly. “Precisely. I see you understand the gravity of this, Jaezred. We don’t know who banished the Hunt, or why… But we can presume they will not be pleased about it. And now they are back, they will surely be wanting to hunt again.”
Even Queen Nicnevin, the oldest of the fey monarchs, doesn’t know? Concern and confusion are plainly visible on his face now.
“And how shall we view the Wild Hunt, Majesty? As an entity under the Ascendant’s stewardship like the other courts, or as an enemy?”
A long pause hangs in the air as she considers his question. “See them as a rogue entity, to be treated with caution, but not necessarily an enemy. We currently don’t know their agenda and we may yet find an unexpected use in their return. Historically, they were more a rebellious entity rather than considered a political power. They would have seen the Feywild descend back into its wild origins, where everyone does as they please… But the Lord of the Hunt has been gone a long time and things have changed in their absence. We will have to see how they have changed too, and how they feel about the landscape before deciding what, if anything, we do.”
“That…sounds similar to the Unseelie’s agenda,” Jaezred observes.
“You should call them adjacent, if anything. It is remarkably similar in premise to the Unseelie, but the Wild Hunt is comprised of both Seelie and Unseelie… It’s something more nuanced than just the Unseelie agenda.”
Because if there’s one thing Feywild politics need, it’s more complexity. It’s curious, though, that the strict Queen Morinn is in love with such a wild man.
“I understand, my Queen. Perhaps…if the Lord of the Hunt publicly swears fealty to the Ascendant, that would put many minds at ease.”
The tone of his voice betrays how unconvinced he is of that notion, having little faith in both the likeliness of that happening and the effectiveness of the probable gesture. He bows deeply before the Queen and takes his leave from the chamber.
Mogtron may be dead, but the havoc he set into motion in Kantas, Joran, and the Feywild will live on. Nothing can be undone. They are damned to live with the consequences. In a way, that is the best revenge one could hope for.
Haspar Knoll, the Witching Court
Evening, 6th Kythorn 1500
She’s safe now, under the roof of the quaint stone cottage she calls home. Sunken into the sofa, a blanket draped on her shoulders, flanked by Lillian and Beulah on either side of her. Lillian pushes a cup of tea into her hands and she stares at the reflection in the rippling, dark liquid. A haggard-faced, bleary-eyed drow stares back, looking almost as bad as the time she returned from Phlegethos.
“I can’t remember,” Zola murmurs softly.
Lillian lays an affectionate and comforting hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay, deary. Many struggle to resist the call.”
“What do you remember?” Beulah asks, her voice gentle but barely hiding its powerful tones.
“Just…colours and shapes. The next thing I know, we were in the Glacier Palace. He had a…reunion with Morinn, and then they sent us back to the Material Plane.” Zola looks up at Lillian. “What do you know about the call of the Hunt, Mother Lillian?”
“Oh, not much, only that many who hear it fall under his spell, deary. I can’t say I’ve heard it myself. I’ve seen some who have, though, a long time ago now, mind. When was—”
“A long time ago, Lillian,” Beulah says, stopping her wandering thoughts.
“Ah well, yes, a long time ago… No, deary, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. I’m afraid you’ve experienced more than I on this particular case now. But everyone I did meet was always a little confused and needed something to settle them. Drink up, dear, it’ll calm your mind a touch.”
Zola takes a long, grateful sip from the cup. It’s a cold brew, carrying floral notes with a touch of something spicy-sweet like cinnamon, but not quite. It’s delicious. It’s just what she needs.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asks.
“Well, it’s been a while since he’s seen Morinn, so I imagine he’ll—”
“What she means is, the Lord of the Hunt is probably occupied right now, dear,” Beulah cuts in. “But he has been gone a long time… I’m afraid only he and Morinn might know what he intends to do next.”
Beneath the layers of exhaustion, guilt, and helplessness, a wrath still simmers within Zola. She’d handed two out of three of the artefacts to the Wildlings on a silver platter. Two out of fucking three. And now, she has failed to stop the Wild Hunt from reviving itself, failed to stop them from killing Jasper, and gone on a ride with them.
What the Hells is wrong with me? How can I fix this?
“The Wildlings said someone has to pay for what happened to them. W-What if they begin a new hunt?”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. If something were to happen to Pearl or Beulah, I’d be livid.”
“Is there an indication of who is to blame, Daughter?”
“Lord Jaezred thinks Queen Titania was involved back then, all those years ago, and maybe the Queen of Air and Darkness too. I think he’s right about that.”
“And what is his basis for thinking this? It is a bold claim to involve archfey, even with evidence.”
“She’s right, deary, even if you think he’s right.”
Zola tells them of what she had herself seen in the fiore popolare and what he had told her up on the mountain. The hags exchange a look with each other before facing Zola again.
“Well… That all certainly does sound as though he may be right,” Lillian admits.
“But it is not definitive either,” Beulah adds.
“Let’s not forget they might’ve just been running their own schemes anyway, without the Hunt.”
The three of them turn around to see Pearl entering from the backdoor, wrapped in a tattered shawl she is peeling off to hang on a hook. “P’rhaps they wanted Oriniax for themselves. Or maybe that prison’s for each other… Who knows what they’re up to,” the bheur hag says in her usual grumpy manner. She looks at Zola, taking in the state she’s in, and pauses.
“You ain’t the first to lose themselves to the call, Daughter. And you won’t be the last.”
The Fiore Popolare, Daring Heights
Dusk, 6th Kythorn 1500
Despite the late hour, Daring’s trendiest cocktail bar is buzzing with patrons and talk. The bubbling from the waterfall is a gentle backtrack to conversations happening everywhere. Leona Autumn, master mixologist and proprietress of the fiore popolare, is enjoying her place in it all, smiling and chatting to any and all who come up to her.
When Jaezred’s tall, dark form slips in through the doors, her cheeks flush as she waves a hello to him. “Lord Vandree, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she says, finishing the last touches for a tropical-looking drink, complete with a tiny red umbrella. She sets it next to a vine that wraps around it, lifting the glass up and away to a patron on one of the upper-level platforms. “How have you been?”
“Miss Leona, sorry to come in so late. I’ve been…better.” A sigh puffs out of Jaezred as he settles down on a stool at the bar. “And what about your sweet self?”
“Late the hour may be, but for a client like you, my doors are always open.”
She places a glass on the bar in front of him, already beginning to mix up a drink. “I am well. Yes, things are going exceptionally well.” Leona turns away to grab a small bottle with a handwritten label that reads Dark Remembrance. “A small hiccup after the grand reopening but it should be fine now. Have you spoken to Lady Daybreaker?” Her eyes flick up to Jaezred’s, a hesitation present in her gaze.
“Uh, yes, I have. She…regrets how things went down the last time she was here. Her ladyship was quite high-strung at the time, as I’m sure you could imagine.”
Leona nods. “There were a lot of high emotions at that time… I’m glad there are no lingering resentments.” The relief is written plain as day on her face.
“That makes two of us. And please be assured, Miss Leona…” He playfully holds up his left palm and puts his right hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to keep Oziah from misbehaving the next time she’s here. As much as I can, anyway. She can stuff me into a little box if she wants to.”
That makes her chuckle, her brown eyes sparkling in the low light of the fiore popolare. She adds the last ingredient, a small cube of tiorem deigh, and plucks a sprig of rosemary from a vine holding it out to her. With a flourish, Leona presents the Three Bloody Spectres to Jaezred, a half smile underneath her searching gaze.
“And you, my lord, have a particular air about yourself. What, pray tell, is on your mind at this late hour?”
Jaezred can’t help but see this drink he’s created in a different light now. The irony of it all twists a small knot in his stomach. When he spoke to Drusilia in the Festerwoods those many months ago, he did not have the faintest inkling that what he learned that day would be so, so important in the coming year.
Nevertheless, he scoops up the glass with a grateful smile and takes a long sip of the bittersweet apéritif.
The emotion liqueur kicks in quickly: he feels as though he is walking alone through a dark and ancient wood, remembering the many lives lost within it to a bloody, long-forgotten conflict.
A little fear sprouts in the deepest corner of his mind. It whispers to him that the fate that befell the Festerwoods could, one day, befall the Witching Woods too.
“You may have already heard the news,” he says, his shoulders sinking even lower with the weight of the thought. “Change is coming to the Feywild, Miss Leona. It seems as though an age is ending and another one is beginning. And we must bear with all the uncertainties that come with it.”
“I have heard, yes,” she says, quietly. “Is that what worries you? Or…”
“We have many things to worry about here in Kantas. But this one seems to dwarf all other concerns, for me.”
Leona studies him for a moment. “I understand. I had my whole world taken away from me once already. It’s… It is not an easy thing, change.” She pauses, gaze going distant. “Sometimes it comes whether we want it or not.”
“And we can do nothing but let it pass over us.”
He tears his wistful gaze away from the smoking, scarlet cocktail and looks up at her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up. It’s been a while since I’ve had a normal conversation.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “Do not apologise to me for that. What you should be apologising for is how long it has been since your last visit,” she teases. As quick as it came, it is replaced by an earnest look. “There will always be a drink here for you and a chance for some ‘normal conversation’, Lord Jaezred. Even a lord such as you deserves that much.”
A warm smile spreads across his weary face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible above the din, though the heartfelt genuineness in his tone is unmissable.
Change is inevitable, and knowing the inevitable would not stop it from happening. Yet some things stay the same, like steadfast friends and the satisfaction of a good drink after a hard day’s work. And tonight, that’s good enough for Lord Jaezred Vandree of the Witching Court.
Best to enjoy that drink before the storm of the wild riders comes for them all.
(Jaezred and Leona’s conversation continues in Fiori del Cuore.)
Co-written with:
Anthony as Queen Nicnevin and the Hags of Haspar Knoll 🔮
Riah as Leona Autumn 🍹
Morning, 5th Kythorn 1500
Zola can’t seem to stop herself from fidgeting about as she waits for Jaezred to finish divining. He had hoped that the fragrance of burning incense that is part of his ritual preparations would calm her nerves, but it is to no avail. She picks at the hem of her belt, shifts her weight from one foot to another, and generally creates a million tiny little noises that are slowly driving him up the wall.
“Please stop. You’re distracting my focus,” he says flatly, not taking his eyes off the deck of black-and-white tarot cards he is shuffling in his hands.
As requested, she forces herself to keep still…for all of 10 seconds, and then her gauntleted fingers begin to scrape at a small dent in her breastplate. He sighs.
“Sorry,” she says. “Are— Are you done yet?”
Jaezred draws the first card and lays it face-up on the northwest corner of the table before him, next to a lit candle and a clutch of dried wildflowers: Seven of Pentacles. It bears the cheerful image of a halfling farmer gazing lovingly at the fruits of his labour.
The second, he puts parallel to the first in the northeast: a man carrying armfuls of swords as he tiptoes away from a camp — Seven of Swords. Representing trickery.
“Jasper is in New Hillborrow,” Jaezred says. “I think you should go there and see what he’s up to.”
Zola nods. “Okay. Okay. Yes, I can do that. Um, what else are the spirits saying?”
Divination is a difficult art. Knowing the inevitable would not stop it from happening. But the girl standing in front of him, staring at him with a single, pleading eye, is too optimistic to ever believe that.
He lays the third card in the southwest corner, under the skull of a songbird. The Moon. He can practically hear Zola’s breath seizing in her throat.
“Confusion and darkness lie ahead of you…”
The next card, placed in the southeast, is Death.
“A great change will come, an end to the status quo…”
Now he draws the final card and places it in the centre of the table. An angel blowing a horn that calls the jubilant dead back to life — Judgement.
“And the reckoning begins.”
⚔️🌙⚔️
Daring Heights
Evening, 5th Kythorn 1500
How long have we been running for?
An hour ago, when she landed in New Hillborrow atop Cor’Vandor’s back, there were already 3 other adventurers there: Kavel, Lolli, and a rapier-wielding gold dragonborn named Cechec. The village was being set upon by black, ghostly wolfhounds and pale, fog-like sylphs. Howls and screams sounded from all around them.
A handsome, red-haired elf whom Zola assumed was Jasper had gathered the adventurers up and told them Drusilia is attempting some kind of ritual with the Horn, the Great Mount, and the Weapon somewhere. And then they flew off to save the villagers from the Wild Hunt.
A blue firbolg mage showed up to devastate the assailants with lightning, forcing the Hunt to scatter off to the east and to the west, led by a quick-hopping, fast-talking harengon at the heads of each pack. The adventurers chased after the pack heading west, towards Daring Heights.
It was more of the same in Daring Heights. More desperately running around to save folks. At least, Zola reckons it was. She can’t really tell at this point. She thinks she detected a whiff of fey from Cechec, but was that right? She killed the harengon and his body broke into pieces of ice and snow after she pulled Pollux out of him — did that actually happen?
Nothing seems real. Her head feels light, like she’s out of breath even though she’s not, like this is all just a bizarre dream she’ll soon wake up from.
A blood-red full moon has been hanging over their heads this entire day.
Jasper is looking at each of them worriedly. “We still don’t know where the ritual is taking place. We need more—” He pauses, and his yellow eyes stare off into the distance like someone is sending him a telepathic message. Then a grin spreads across his face, his sharp canines baring themselves hungrily. “Looks like we’re in luck. She’s good, the Quarlani’omah,” he adds, glancing at Kavel. “She found Drusilia, in the forest to the south.”
The Feythorn Forest
Dusk, 5th Kythorn 1500
The blood moon looms larger over them here in the woods.
Lolli had casted the invisibility spell on Zola and Cechec before Jasper teleported them there. But, almost immediately, they find themselves standing face-to-face with four figures in the dark of the forest.
A satyr with curling horns, outfitted in rusted, moss-caked bronze armour. A wingless fairy crouched on the ground, bow on their back, broken mask on their face, the three-pronged symbol painted on it. Two grey-furred harengons with blue scarves, identical to each other as well as to the ones they saw in New Hillborrow and Daring Heights.
No weapons are drawn. No one moves. Both sides stare at each other in silence amidst the whispers of leaves and the singing of cicadas.
The satyr is the first to speak. “Well, it’s almost time.”
“Are you…calling your lord back?” Zola asks. “The Lord of the Hunt?”
“Zola, be quiet!” Lolli whispers. Oh right. She forgot she and Cor’Vandor are invisible right now.
The Wildling archer turns to where Zola’s voice is coming from. “She’s calling him here,” they reply.
“Calling him home!” the harengons say in uncanny unison.
“Where has he been this whole time?” continues Zola.
“He had been betrayed…hindered, for a time…” the satyr says. “He has been far away from here.” He looks at Jasper. “You know all about betrayal, don’t you, trickster?”
Jasper snarls and bares his fangs at the satyr. “Speak nothing of what you do not know!” His facial features shift for a moment, morphing into something a touch more vulpine.
“So you’re part of the Wild Hunt?” Kavel asks the Wildlings. “Is the Wild Hunt…dangerous?”
Do the fey make deals? Zola thinks to herself.
“Only if you’re being hunted,” the satyr replies.
“Who are you hunting? Can you share that?” Lolli says.
“No one currently,” one of the harengon answers.
The other one adds, “But maybe soon…”
“We might do soon, though,” says the archer. “It’s been a long time coming. And someone has to pay…”
The satyr holds up a hand, and obediently, the archer stops speaking.
“Pay for what? For that time you were defeated in war?” Zola says.
“That’s not our decision to make. Who can say what the Lord is thinking?” The satyr cocks his head to one side. “I think it’s almost time.”
“Tell me, how many times have you tried to hinder us these past few months?” one harengon says.
“Oh, don’t forget how many times they’ve helped us too, brother!” the other one exclaims.
“Oh, that’s right! They’ve helped us too!”
“And that is why we’re here,” says the satyr. “Not just to talk, but also to extend an invitation. Even to you, trickster. Is it front-row seats to his return, or will you join the dance?”
Kavel looks at the red-haired fey. “What does he mean, Jasper?”
“He wants to know if you’re gonna sit by and watch the ritual or try to stop it,” he replies through gritted teeth, never once taking his gaze off the four Wildlings.
“Oh. Well. I have much to make up for with the Horn.”
“That’s one for the dance…” the satyr says.
“Um, I don’t like that you killed people… So I’m not gonna let you do whatever you want,” Lolli says meekly as she tightens her little fists around her wand.
“Did we kill anyone in Fluffleton, brother?” a harengon pipes up again.
“No… Did we kill anyone in New Hillborrow, brother?” his twin says.
“No, we just frightened them!”
The two rabbits cackle.
“Alright, another one for the dance…”
Zola already knew her answer even before they asked. Her right hand had not left Castor’s ivory grip. “Let’s dance.”
“Three…” the satyr counts, and then looks around in search of the last, invisible adventurer. “And what about you?”
“Four for the dance, then,” a voice says. But it isn’t Cechec’s voice. It’s deep and masculine but without a dragonborn’s rough throatiness to it. And it sounds familiar to Zola… She’s heard that voice once before, in Leona Autumn’s cocktail bar a few weeks ago, coming from the dwarf whom Oziah thought was fey. Wait, she smelled fey on Cechec today too—
“Ohhh!” she cries out. “You’re the same person!”
“Zola! Ssshhh!” Lolli hisses.
The satyr takes this opportunity to sling on a drum and beats it, turning himself and his fellow Wildlings invisible. They hear the sounds of footsteps running on the grass. The chase has begun.
Zola kicks Cor’Vandor’s sides and they take off into a half-bounding, half-flying start. She takes a big sniff of the air as she casts detect evil and good, sensing the unseen fey just ahead of them. The invisibility spell on her and Cor’Vandor shimmers away.
Cor’Vandor catches up to the one nearest to them, a rush of wind along Zola’s right-hand side. She unsheathes Castor and bends her body at a sharp angle, riding sideways on the winged stag, to swipe at the invisible Wildling’s legs. However, it’s supremely difficult to get at a target one cannot see; the first swing doesn’t catch anything, and the second swing brings her tumbling down off her steed — rolling on the forest floor over rocks and overgrown roots, getting a mouthful of grass. Cor’Vandor skids to a halt.
“Heh. Not so elegant of you, sword dancer,” the satyr’s mocking voice says, receding in volume as he carries on dashing ahead.
She groans as she picks herself up, feeling a new bruise throbbing on her forehead. “Kavel! He’s over there!” She points at where she senses the fey presence at the edge of detect evil and good. The goliath gives a hum of affirmation as he swings his burly body forward from branch to branch, alongside a leaping Lolli and Jasper darting between trees.
Cor’Vandor has turned around for his rider. Zola leaps onto his back once more and they zip forward immediately, re-entering the high-speed chase through the dark forest. Zola’s misty step lets the both of them teleport around as silvery mist, avoiding low-hanging branches and tree trunks in their way. Together, they’re faster than anyone else in there, and soon she’s smelling fey all around her again.
The foliage is beginning to thin. The path ahead is tinged with a faint red glow. The finish line is in sight.
“Guys!” Lolli exclaims, glancing at her friends. “I have an idea on how to stop the ritual! We gotta— Whoa!” She swerves just in time to avoid hopping face-first into a tree branch.
Zola catches up to another invisible fey. She swings both Twins fiercely about, this time aiming for where a head should be. “You know I can keep up,” the drow warrior growls. “I’m gonna get you.”
Suddenly, the sound of sprinting near her stops. “Very well then,” she hears the fairy archer’s quiet voice coming from ahead, in between her and her goal. “Come on.”
Cor’Vandor is gliding and galloping forward at full speed, and he’s not slowing down one bit. His thundering hooves hit something solid and unseen — though not quite hard enough to knock it down and trample it — as he barrels past the fey.
The fairy harrumphs. “All talk…”
Jasper, Kavel, Lolli, and Zola with Cor’Vandor burst into a wide clearing, opening up into a valley of tall, silvery-blue trees lush with maroon leaves and plump, golden apples hanging from their twisting branches. The blood moon appears gigantic behind the dense, red canopy.
The trees are swaying to the pulsating waves of magic coming from the edge of the valley — two portals, glowing crimson and crackling with brass and yellow bolts, are tearing open on the threshold of the Feyverge Valley crossing, one on the Material Plane side and a corresponding one on the Feywild side.
“—gotta get the ring, the horn, or the mount away…from…them…” Lolli’s voice trails off breathlessly.
Drusilia and Oriniax, in her humanoid form, stand before the Material Plane portal. The striking red hag has her arms raised, her vitiligo skin pulsing in time to the Infernal and Sylvan words she is chanting, whilst Oriniax holds a glimmering, golden spear — larger than her own body — aloft in the air, as if about to pierce the base of the portal with it. The Horn of the Wild Hunt is visibly hanging from Drusilia’s hip.
The invisibility spell on the Wildlings has dropped.
Jasper and Lolli dash towards Oriniax. Kavel rushes the now-visible satyr in armour, tackling him and getting a few blows in.
Zola feels the insurmountable pressure, so intense it could crack her. Cor’Vandor takes off into the air, heading also for Oriniax. But the satyr, whilst weathering punches from Kavel, shouts something and casts dispel magic.
Cor’Vandor disappears from existence in a flash of silver light. Zola feels nothing underneath her as she plummets through the air. But for whatever reason, one of the harengons casts feather fall on her and her fall is slowed down, allowing her to land on her feet.
She can’t possibly reach Oriniax and Drusilia in time now. Yet her battle-mind still rages wildly; Castor’s moonlight and Pollux’s starlight are shining brighter than ever, seeking a new target. She sprints towards the nearest one she can see — the satyr — and runs both swords through his stomach. The gored satyr falls to the ground with Zola on top of him, his body going limp immediately.
And just then, Oriniax stabs the spear into the earth.
A final, great wave of magical energy booms out from the portal, shattering the rocks around it and flattening the smaller trees. Zola has to raise an arm to shield her face.
A large, booted foot steps through the portal. Followed by muscled arms, and finally the whole body.
A 25 foot-tall man with long, wild, black hair and beard and broad, muscular shoulders, dressed in leathers and furs, has emerged from the portal. His grim face appears worn by years of hardship and battle. His red-and-blue eyes scan the scene before him. He says nothing as Oriniax cries out lovingly and places the golden spear in his hand, and he launches it full-force at Jasper.
Jasper gasps as the spear pierces through his chest. Blood streaks from his lips as he taps a foot and the ground beneath him opens up into a tunnel. He falls into it and out of sight. Zola shouts his name and desperately tugs on The Twins’ grips — they’re stuck in the satyr’s armoured corpse.
At last, she realises that they’re too late.
Oriniax has transformed back into her hind form, striding behind the Lord of the Hunt as he steps towards Drusilia. The hag kneels down in reverence and presents the long-lost Horn to him with both bands.
Zola rips Castor and Pollux free and starts running at them. Fighting and railing against time and fate and all the odds stacked against them. But it is in vain.
The Lord of the Hunt raises the Horn to his lips and blows.
🕸️🕷️🕸️
Port Ffirst
Dusk, 5th Kythorn 1500
The streets of Port Ffirst fall quiet again when the last ghost-hound’s neck snaps in He’lylbreia’s jaws. The shadow panther tosses the limp body away, letting it join its pack brothers similarly lying dead on the cobblestones, and runs back to their master.
Jaezred lowers his rod of the pact keeper. The street lamps are dead and the moon is blood-red — the only light in this terrible gloom is from the crown of stars hovering above his head. Behind him, a family of gnomes are pressed up against a brick wall, holding each other and shaking in fear, but untouched by canine fangs.
Gazing upon the dozens of dead hounds and sylphs before him, a brief thought passes through his mind of what a good decision it was to close Gossamer Threads for the day.
Two voices speak to his head along the threads of a telepathic bond:
Lord Jaezred, the K’ul Goran party has returned. All alive.
So has the Enlace party, sir. Looks like all six of them are here.
However, the relief he feels at the news of Keros and Rae coming back safe is cut short by a third voice coming in, sounding much, much less assured than her comrades.
My lord… The spy hesitates. The ritual in the Feythorn was completed. I… The Lord of the Hunt has returned.
A cacophony of voices — a series of What?! and What do you mean? and How could they let that happen? — mobs the telepathic bond all at once. But Jaezred remains calm, asking only a single question.
Where are they now.
H-Hold on, we’re tracing their signature… Uh… They’ve gone to the Feywild. They’re in…
When she utters the name of the court, the underlings on the telepathic bond, too, fall silent. Jaezred purses his lips.
All operatives, regroup at the Mountain Palace immediately, he orders.
He turns to the gnomes huddled up behind him. “Go,” he simply says.
“Th-Thank you, mister!” the mother of the family calls out before they all scurry off into the darkness.
Jaezred sighs. He’lylbreia sits down and gives him a look of sympathy. He tilts his head up at the blood moon in the starless sky.
“I’m not getting that holiday, am I.”
⚔️🌙⚔️
Unknown
Unknown
How long have we been running for?
She remembers them being in the Feythorn last before everything blurred. Streaks and explosions of shapes and colours of fleeting and indistinct and untouchable familiarity rushing past her as the call of the Horn rings endlessly in her ears, as if a vibrating wire has been strung through her brain. The burning in her muscles and her lungs gasping for air tell her that she’d been running. Running like mad.
It’s a wild, ceaseless, ecstatic thrill that drains everything from her.
How long…?
When the horn’s enchantment begins to wear off and the blur starts giving way to clarity, Zola’s world is filled with white and pale blue. Cold air snaps at her grime-caked skin. She blinks, twice, thrice. Slowly but surely, her surroundings gain focus and form.
Zola, Kavel, Lolli, and Dulgrun are in a vast hall with walls of ice. Everything is cut into sharp, perfectly ordered geometric shapes. The Lord of the Hunt is there with them, riding atop Oriniax, and they are all facing a winter eladrin rising from a throne of sparkling ice. She is only a little shorter than the towering Lord, her snow-white hair wound into neat, tight braids — not a single strand appears out of place — and her long, regal blue robes cascades down onto the frozen ground.
…Queen Morinn?
If that is her, then there are currently more emotions on her face than one would expect of the infamously cold-hearted Queen of Winter: surprise, confusion, disbelief…and happiness. And she is looking at none but the Lord of the Hunt.
“Is it you?” she gasps, wading closer towards him. “But how—? I thought…”
The Lord of the Hunt dismounts from Oriniax. He strides up to her and takes her delicate hands in his large, coarse ones. “At last, I have returned. I have kept you waiting.” He bends down and kisses her hands. “My love.”
Zola opens her mouth. But the Sylvan words she wants to scream wither in her throat — she is still under the thrall of the Horn. Nevertheless, the adventurers seem to get Queen Morinn’s attention as her gaze suddenly snaps towards them. The smile dissipates from her statuesque face like snow under a heatwave.
“They’re from the Dawnlands. Why are they here?”
“They helped me return. I let them ride with us as a reward,” the Lord answers.
Morinn pulls away from him and turns around to sit back down on her throne, assuming once again the role of the perfectly flawless, coldly logical monarch. “Send them away,” she commands.
“Very well.”
Drusilia steps in front of the four of them. She utters an incantation and makes a sign in the air, and the next thing Zola knows, they’re back in the soft, verdant fields of New Hillborrow with the warmth of sunset on their skins.
The Horn’s enchantment finally shatters, and she collapses to her knees as the accumulated exhaustion from the past 24 hours hits her like a carriage at full speed.
The world is spinning and dragging every breath out of her parched throat. She feels hunger and vomit rising in the back of her mouth at the same time. She feels empty, but the fury remains.
The fury has never gone away.
🕸️🕷️🕸️
The Mountain Palace, the Witching Court
Evening, 6th Kythorn 1500
“To summarise everything, Your Majesty: the grand conspiracy was orchestrated by this arcanoloth Mogtron, all for his personal grudge against the Dawnlands. It appeared that Mogtron helped Drusilia locate the artefacts of the Wild Hunt, and in exchange, the Wildlings terrorised the Dawnlands for him. That is the extent of the Wild Hunt’s campaign against the adventurers. And now that Mogtron is dead and the Lord of the Hunt is returned, they’ll likely lose interest in the Dawnlands, and…”
Jaezred’s voice trails off for a moment. “Well. I do not know what will happen next, Majesty.”
The Lady of Copper and Crystal stands tall on the dais in the vaulted ritual chamber she seems almost to be a fixture of, unmoving, her mossy-green gaze fixed intently on her warlock as he makes his report. She reveals nothing of her thoughts and remains silent for a few moments after he finishes speaking, creating the distinctly odd sense that time has all but stopped in the vast, near-empty chamber.
Finally, her eyes blink, and it feels as though time begins moving again. “Excellent work, Lord Jaezred. However… As much as I would presume you are correct about the Dawnlands no longer being of interest, I would suggest you remain sceptical. A new hunting grounds is more enticing than you may appreciate.”
“You are right, Majesty. I shall continue to keep my eyes and ears open.”
“The more pressing concern on my mind is their presence back in the Feywild. As Ascendant, it is my duty to oversee the Feywild, and the return of the Hunt may upset and unbalance what we have.”
Jaezred nods pensively. “Majesty, if I may.” He takes a deep breath. “The banishment of the Wild Hunt was no accident. They would be seeking revenge with — could we presume — the backing of the Winter Court, would they not?”
Nicnevin’s eyes narrow slightly. “Precisely. I see you understand the gravity of this, Jaezred. We don’t know who banished the Hunt, or why… But we can presume they will not be pleased about it. And now they are back, they will surely be wanting to hunt again.”
Even Queen Nicnevin, the oldest of the fey monarchs, doesn’t know? Concern and confusion are plainly visible on his face now.
“And how shall we view the Wild Hunt, Majesty? As an entity under the Ascendant’s stewardship like the other courts, or as an enemy?”
A long pause hangs in the air as she considers his question. “See them as a rogue entity, to be treated with caution, but not necessarily an enemy. We currently don’t know their agenda and we may yet find an unexpected use in their return. Historically, they were more a rebellious entity rather than considered a political power. They would have seen the Feywild descend back into its wild origins, where everyone does as they please… But the Lord of the Hunt has been gone a long time and things have changed in their absence. We will have to see how they have changed too, and how they feel about the landscape before deciding what, if anything, we do.”
“That…sounds similar to the Unseelie’s agenda,” Jaezred observes.
“You should call them adjacent, if anything. It is remarkably similar in premise to the Unseelie, but the Wild Hunt is comprised of both Seelie and Unseelie… It’s something more nuanced than just the Unseelie agenda.”
Because if there’s one thing Feywild politics need, it’s more complexity. It’s curious, though, that the strict Queen Morinn is in love with such a wild man.
“I understand, my Queen. Perhaps…if the Lord of the Hunt publicly swears fealty to the Ascendant, that would put many minds at ease.”
The tone of his voice betrays how unconvinced he is of that notion, having little faith in both the likeliness of that happening and the effectiveness of the probable gesture. He bows deeply before the Queen and takes his leave from the chamber.
Mogtron may be dead, but the havoc he set into motion in Kantas, Joran, and the Feywild will live on. Nothing can be undone. They are damned to live with the consequences. In a way, that is the best revenge one could hope for.
⚔️🌙⚔️
Haspar Knoll, the Witching Court
Evening, 6th Kythorn 1500
She’s safe now, under the roof of the quaint stone cottage she calls home. Sunken into the sofa, a blanket draped on her shoulders, flanked by Lillian and Beulah on either side of her. Lillian pushes a cup of tea into her hands and she stares at the reflection in the rippling, dark liquid. A haggard-faced, bleary-eyed drow stares back, looking almost as bad as the time she returned from Phlegethos.
“I can’t remember,” Zola murmurs softly.
Lillian lays an affectionate and comforting hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay, deary. Many struggle to resist the call.”
“What do you remember?” Beulah asks, her voice gentle but barely hiding its powerful tones.
“Just…colours and shapes. The next thing I know, we were in the Glacier Palace. He had a…reunion with Morinn, and then they sent us back to the Material Plane.” Zola looks up at Lillian. “What do you know about the call of the Hunt, Mother Lillian?”
“Oh, not much, only that many who hear it fall under his spell, deary. I can’t say I’ve heard it myself. I’ve seen some who have, though, a long time ago now, mind. When was—”
“A long time ago, Lillian,” Beulah says, stopping her wandering thoughts.
“Ah well, yes, a long time ago… No, deary, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. I’m afraid you’ve experienced more than I on this particular case now. But everyone I did meet was always a little confused and needed something to settle them. Drink up, dear, it’ll calm your mind a touch.”
Zola takes a long, grateful sip from the cup. It’s a cold brew, carrying floral notes with a touch of something spicy-sweet like cinnamon, but not quite. It’s delicious. It’s just what she needs.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asks.
“Well, it’s been a while since he’s seen Morinn, so I imagine he’ll—”
“What she means is, the Lord of the Hunt is probably occupied right now, dear,” Beulah cuts in. “But he has been gone a long time… I’m afraid only he and Morinn might know what he intends to do next.”
Beneath the layers of exhaustion, guilt, and helplessness, a wrath still simmers within Zola. She’d handed two out of three of the artefacts to the Wildlings on a silver platter. Two out of fucking three. And now, she has failed to stop the Wild Hunt from reviving itself, failed to stop them from killing Jasper, and gone on a ride with them.
What the Hells is wrong with me? How can I fix this?
“The Wildlings said someone has to pay for what happened to them. W-What if they begin a new hunt?”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. If something were to happen to Pearl or Beulah, I’d be livid.”
“Is there an indication of who is to blame, Daughter?”
“Lord Jaezred thinks Queen Titania was involved back then, all those years ago, and maybe the Queen of Air and Darkness too. I think he’s right about that.”
“And what is his basis for thinking this? It is a bold claim to involve archfey, even with evidence.”
“She’s right, deary, even if you think he’s right.”
Zola tells them of what she had herself seen in the fiore popolare and what he had told her up on the mountain. The hags exchange a look with each other before facing Zola again.
“Well… That all certainly does sound as though he may be right,” Lillian admits.
“But it is not definitive either,” Beulah adds.
“Let’s not forget they might’ve just been running their own schemes anyway, without the Hunt.”
The three of them turn around to see Pearl entering from the backdoor, wrapped in a tattered shawl she is peeling off to hang on a hook. “P’rhaps they wanted Oriniax for themselves. Or maybe that prison’s for each other… Who knows what they’re up to,” the bheur hag says in her usual grumpy manner. She looks at Zola, taking in the state she’s in, and pauses.
“You ain’t the first to lose themselves to the call, Daughter. And you won’t be the last.”
🕸️🕷️🕸️
The Fiore Popolare, Daring Heights
Dusk, 6th Kythorn 1500
Despite the late hour, Daring’s trendiest cocktail bar is buzzing with patrons and talk. The bubbling from the waterfall is a gentle backtrack to conversations happening everywhere. Leona Autumn, master mixologist and proprietress of the fiore popolare, is enjoying her place in it all, smiling and chatting to any and all who come up to her.
When Jaezred’s tall, dark form slips in through the doors, her cheeks flush as she waves a hello to him. “Lord Vandree, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she says, finishing the last touches for a tropical-looking drink, complete with a tiny red umbrella. She sets it next to a vine that wraps around it, lifting the glass up and away to a patron on one of the upper-level platforms. “How have you been?”
“Miss Leona, sorry to come in so late. I’ve been…better.” A sigh puffs out of Jaezred as he settles down on a stool at the bar. “And what about your sweet self?”
“Late the hour may be, but for a client like you, my doors are always open.”
She places a glass on the bar in front of him, already beginning to mix up a drink. “I am well. Yes, things are going exceptionally well.” Leona turns away to grab a small bottle with a handwritten label that reads Dark Remembrance. “A small hiccup after the grand reopening but it should be fine now. Have you spoken to Lady Daybreaker?” Her eyes flick up to Jaezred’s, a hesitation present in her gaze.
“Uh, yes, I have. She…regrets how things went down the last time she was here. Her ladyship was quite high-strung at the time, as I’m sure you could imagine.”
Leona nods. “There were a lot of high emotions at that time… I’m glad there are no lingering resentments.” The relief is written plain as day on her face.
“That makes two of us. And please be assured, Miss Leona…” He playfully holds up his left palm and puts his right hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to keep Oziah from misbehaving the next time she’s here. As much as I can, anyway. She can stuff me into a little box if she wants to.”
That makes her chuckle, her brown eyes sparkling in the low light of the fiore popolare. She adds the last ingredient, a small cube of tiorem deigh, and plucks a sprig of rosemary from a vine holding it out to her. With a flourish, Leona presents the Three Bloody Spectres to Jaezred, a half smile underneath her searching gaze.
“And you, my lord, have a particular air about yourself. What, pray tell, is on your mind at this late hour?”
Jaezred can’t help but see this drink he’s created in a different light now. The irony of it all twists a small knot in his stomach. When he spoke to Drusilia in the Festerwoods those many months ago, he did not have the faintest inkling that what he learned that day would be so, so important in the coming year.
Nevertheless, he scoops up the glass with a grateful smile and takes a long sip of the bittersweet apéritif.
The emotion liqueur kicks in quickly: he feels as though he is walking alone through a dark and ancient wood, remembering the many lives lost within it to a bloody, long-forgotten conflict.
A little fear sprouts in the deepest corner of his mind. It whispers to him that the fate that befell the Festerwoods could, one day, befall the Witching Woods too.
“You may have already heard the news,” he says, his shoulders sinking even lower with the weight of the thought. “Change is coming to the Feywild, Miss Leona. It seems as though an age is ending and another one is beginning. And we must bear with all the uncertainties that come with it.”
“I have heard, yes,” she says, quietly. “Is that what worries you? Or…”
“We have many things to worry about here in Kantas. But this one seems to dwarf all other concerns, for me.”
Leona studies him for a moment. “I understand. I had my whole world taken away from me once already. It’s… It is not an easy thing, change.” She pauses, gaze going distant. “Sometimes it comes whether we want it or not.”
“And we can do nothing but let it pass over us.”
He tears his wistful gaze away from the smoking, scarlet cocktail and looks up at her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up. It’s been a while since I’ve had a normal conversation.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “Do not apologise to me for that. What you should be apologising for is how long it has been since your last visit,” she teases. As quick as it came, it is replaced by an earnest look. “There will always be a drink here for you and a chance for some ‘normal conversation’, Lord Jaezred. Even a lord such as you deserves that much.”
A warm smile spreads across his weary face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible above the din, though the heartfelt genuineness in his tone is unmissable.
Change is inevitable, and knowing the inevitable would not stop it from happening. Yet some things stay the same, like steadfast friends and the satisfaction of a good drink after a hard day’s work. And tonight, that’s good enough for Lord Jaezred Vandree of the Witching Court.
Best to enjoy that drink before the storm of the wild riders comes for them all.
(Jaezred and Leona’s conversation continues in Fiori del Cuore.)
Co-written with:
Anthony as Queen Nicnevin and the Hags of Haspar Knoll 🔮
Riah as Leona Autumn 🍹
