Session 09: Gone Fishing

General Summary

Journal of the Eldertwist

  The wind stirs the leaves of my boughs, carrying whispers of those who walk the Unclaimed Wyld. I sense their arrival long before they reach me. They are new to these woods, unfamiliar with its silent watchers and the remnants of forgotten battles. Yet, they step forward with purpose, guided by the trail of pigment left by unseen hands.   The large insect—curious, eager—collects the remnants of the past, bones lost to time, now unearthed by his touch. Another stumbles over what was once a warrior, now indistinguishable from the roots that cradle it. They move forward, avoiding temptation in the form of golden lures, resisting the path that seeks to unravel them. In this, they are wise—or merely fortunate.   When the sun dips below the horizon, they settle in a clearing near the illusionary pond. It reflects nothing of them, yet they test its truth. The one called Skreet, drawn by curiosity, dares to drink from waters that do not feel wet. He is met with claws and fury—a Bukavic, hidden beneath the surface, seeks to claim him. His companions pull him from its grasp, and steel meets flesh. The forest drinks deeply of the creature’s lifeblood, and still, Skreet reaches for the water again. His will is strong, but his wisdom is yet to grow.   As they slumber beneath my kin, the night shifts unnaturally. The dark is heavier here, whispering forgotten things, and though their watch is steady, it is the last pair who see the world shift. One moment, the hush of night. The next, the brightness of morning, the scent of sulfur thick in the air. I listen as they puzzle over their sudden displacement. The scent draws them forward, to the trickling laughter of unseen fey, to the warmth of springs that beckon weary souls.   Josie is the first to succumb. The water pulls her in, sinking its touch into her mind. Her tongue turns sharp, her voice cruel, and her words wound those she would protect. The springs do not offer healing but deception. Yet, she is fortunate—her friends do not abandon her to its grasp. She is pulled free, but her shame lingers. Such is the way of mortals.   The music reaches them next, drifting through the trees like strands of silk. The musicians appear as men, but they are not men. Their bodies mimic the shape, but not the balance. Their song calls to the soul, but does not command it. Most are not moved. Some watch, intrigued but wary. The fey do not often act with malice, but neither do they offer their gifts without cost.   The one called Skreet is close now. He follows my presence, though he does not understand how. I test him. I shift, move myself beyond the path he follows, yet still he finds his way. His faith is unshaken, even as his companions question. When they finally break from the trees, I allow myself to be found.   They come before me, wary yet hopeful. The flowers welcome them, shifting to create a path. My bark hums with color, streaked in the hues of time. They reach for me, and I speak. I grant them knowledge, but knowledge is rarely a gift without burden. They ask of the Court. Of the wagoneer taken. Of the purpose behind these trials. I give them answers, but I do not give them peace.   When night falls, the celestial dreamer sees a vision. Fire, ruin, the fall of their fort. The past? The present? Or something yet to come? She does not know. The small one, Tich Tich, understands that fate has moved its hand. He seeks to send word to his kin. The response is fractured, but the warning is clear: The Court must not be engaged. To do so would break a long-held treaty. A treaty they do not yet understand.   At dawn, the cat comes. Mr. Whiskorworth. He is a creature of favors, of debts, and of whims. He offers guidance back to the paint trail, and they accept. They walk the path until they find a battle—a lesser carcolh, a hatchling, hungry and surrounded by kabouter, several fallen. The party fights to help defend the diminutive fae, winning. And in return, they are gifted stones of value, both practical and arcane. The kabouter clear their debts, for such is their way.   At last, they find the paint’s end. A ring of mushrooms, a portal woven of nature’s magic. It would take them to the Court, to the heart of the unknown. But they hesitate. They choose the road instead, to return the way they came, rather than leap blindly into fate’s hands.   As they set their camp once more beneath the dark bows of the forest, I listen. I watch. I wonder. Their path is uncertain, but their resolve is strong. The forest does not yield its secrets easily, but perhaps these travelers will learn what others have not. Time will tell. And time, I have in abundance.