2023-06-01 Season XII Finale - The Return - Wik

The howls have already begun, their hungry cries filling a night sky already boiling over with dread.

The villagers of New Hillborrow rush to pull their friends and loved ones inside - animals and children alike rush behind closed doors, as though the thin wood separating them from the great beasts will be enough.

As though they have any hope at all.

But hope persists, stubborn as it is, in the form of five figures.
Five who remain, standing in the center of town, when all others flee.

Jasper.
Slender.
Sly.
Tapping an impatient rhythm on cobbled stones.

Kavel.
Strong.
Steadfast.
Ever the towering pillar, his foundations unsteady, his mind... elsewhere.

Lolli.
Kind.
Caring.
The perfect ray of harengon joy, bouncing from foot to foot in nervous energy.

Zola.
Still.
Silent.
Her twin blades of divine retribution, twirling in the setting sun.

And Cechec.
Or are you Dulgrun this evening?
Or maybe Wik, bursting at the seams, the hidden becoming known?
Do your golden scales shine with a silver glow?
Are your golden eyes flecked with emerald?

Not yet.

"We don't yet know where Drusilia is."
Jasper.
Quick.
Harried.

"We don't know where she is doing the ritual."
A glance.
Kavel.
"The Quarlani'omah is searching the Spirit Road as we speak."
Nathalie.
Lover.
Loss?

A howl.

Screams, shouts.
Children.
Animals.
Adults.
Elders.

"We have to get them inside. But be ready. Word could come at any moment."

A separation.
Jasper to the south.
Zola and Cechec west.
Kavel and Lolli east.

A return. Two harengon, floating over the tops of the houses.
A return. Beasts of smoke and shadow, of glowing eyes and fiery tongues.
A return. Ghostly sylphs, flitting between trees. Called away, to a greater purpose.

An omen.
A moon, blood-red.

A struggle, silver and rose glinting in the night.
A strike, lightning awful and awesome and bright.

A firbolg. Blue. Towering.
Powerful.
Hope.

A retreat.
Or is it a progression?

It matters not - the choice is the same.

West? Port Ffirst.

East? Daring Heights.
Rux.
Yom.
Home.

There is no choice. Not for you.

A tap. A tunnel. A town already under seige.

But that isn't all, is it?

You feel different.
Or maybe the world feels different.
Are you here, now?
Is this place real?
Or is this just another mask?
Change within, change without.

If you change, and the world does not,
Or the world changes, and you do not,
Is there a difference?

A separation.
Jasper remains.
Zola and Cechec to the north.
Kavel and Lolli west.

Another omen.
You left him alone at Adventurer's Rest.
How many blows did he take?
Even one too many is still too many.

A struggle, wood splintering and bones breaking.
A hart, silver and serene.

A half-elf, stoic and scarred.
Powerful.
Hope.

A tap. A tunnel. A tree-lined horizon beneath a blood-red moon.

A return.
The Feywild.
You should be happy.
You're home.
The gang's all here.
The two harengon, surprisingly un-broken.
The satyr, and the dryad.
The hounds.
The sylphs.
Drusilia.
Oriniax.
And him.

Don't worry.
You'll meet him soon.
He can't wait to meet you.

But you've gone too far, haven't you?

Now you've done it.

A little invisibility, courtesy of Lolli.
Funny how we forget who we are when we can't see our hands.
But this isn't real, anyway.
Go ahead.
Change over.
Dulgrun is waiting for you.

He'd never let you down.

"He should not have been betrayed."
"He's been hindered from coming back."
"He went far, far away from here."

"Do not speak on what you know nothing of!" Jasper. Teeth bared. Vulpinous.

"Are the Wild Hunt dangerous?" Kavel.

"Only if we're hunting you. If we're not hunting you, who's to say."

"Who are you hunting?" Lolli.

"No one, currently."
"Someone, soon."
"Someone has to answer."
"Someone has to pay."

"Tell me."
"How many times have you tried to hinder us and failed?"
"Or helped us and succeeded?"
"I am here to extend an invitation."
"A front row seat to his return."
"Participation in the dance."

A drumbeat.
A heartbeat.

A separation once more.

A leap. A lunge. Each in turn dashing through the forest, rushing ever forward.
A call. A threat. "Well if you've changed your mind, then why don't you just keep up? You can do that, right?"

The trees.
Tall.
Towering.
Greater than you've ever seen.
Their bark glistens with silver and blue veins.
The branches of maroon leaves hang heavy with golden apples.

A portal.
Crimson waves of arcane magic.
Bolts of brass and yellow.

Drusilia.
Skin pulsing in time to her chant.
Infernal and Sylvan.

Oriniax.
You remember her.
You helped her get her memories back.
I'm sure she's grateful.
It's hard to regret helping someone remember who they are.
Do you know yet?

She holds a spear aloft, pointed at the portal.
It sits on the border of the crossing of the Feyverge Valley.
One foot in the Feywild.
One foot in the Material Plane.
You know a little of what that feels like.
Pulled between two worlds.
Stuck at the border.
You two will have plenty in common then.

Drusilia blows the horn.
It is both awful and inspiring.
It vibrates through the air and ground.
It is a primal force, as old as time and all beginnings.
It is the sound of death.
The thunder of a stampede.
The roar of nature.

Oriniax throws the spear.
It pierces the veil.
Opens the door.
Returns Him to us.

A hand reaches through.
It grabs the spear.
It flies in Jasper's direction.

I told you it was an omen.
You didn't listen.
Maybe you could have saved him.
You won't know now.
Jasper, the spear through his chest, pinning him to the ground.

A tap.
A tunnel.
A tale for another day.

Drusilia hands Him the Horn of the Wild Hunt.
His horn.
The Lord of the Wild Hunt.
His lips wrap around it.
He blows.

"Come."

Maybe this is easier.
You always worried so much about being seen.
Found out.
Discovered.
Mistrusted.
Hated.
Ostracized.
When you run with The Wild Hunt, you belong.
You're part of the pack.
A Wildling, just like them.
Maybe this is easier.
No hiding.
No running.

No masks.

A sprint.
A run.
A walk.
Until you stand, shoulder to shoulder, in the throne room of the Winter Court.

Queen Morinn.
Her gaze finds you all.
No, it finds the Lord of the Hunt.
Ice cracks and breaks.
Glaciers warm and melt.
You've never met her.
But you know she never looks like this.

The Lord of the Hunt steps up to the Queen.
Gently takes her hand.

"I'm back. I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

"How? Why? I thought you were dead."

"No. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you, my love."
A kiss on her hand.

A Queen. Concerned.
"They're from the Dawnlands, they shouldn't be here."

"True,
"But they did help me come back.
"I figure it fitting that they get at least one ride with the Hunt."

Her gaze finds us once more.
"Send them back."
Glaciers freeze.
Ice forms once more.
She takes her hand away
She turns away.
The perfect Snow Queen.

"Send them away,
"And we need to talk."

And then you return.
New Hillborrow in one piece.
Good for you.
Congratulations.
Does it feel like a victory?
The next in a long line?
You've been helping them this whole time.
Only fair you see the fruits of your labour.

Ah, but you're a bit different now, aren't you.
I left something out.
Dashing through the trees, chasing after the Wildlings.
Rushing to stop Drusilia.
You did something, didn't you.
For a moment you were her.
No, not her.
She's gone.
You gave her up.
Her.
Oriniax.
The Great Mount of the Wild Hunt.
You used her voice, stole her tongue.
I'm impressed.
I didn't think you had it in you.
And how do we feel, hmm?
It's been ages since you donned a new mask.
Wore a new face.
Did this one fit right?
Were the straps too tight?
Will it last, when you hold it to the light?

One way to find out.
Whichever mask you choose,
promise me this:

Wear it a little tighter next time.