Arrival at Nimmerburg

Dear Diary,
 
We stumbled through the portal into Nimmerburg, the air still crackling with the aftertaste of Vivienne’s spiteful winds. And there, just arrived before us, stood a trio of strangers—two hulking figures clad in antlered plate armor, and between them, a woman no taller than Hayley but thrice as commanding. Her horns curled outward from her head, and her eyes gleamed like twin moons trapped in amber.
 
Gael bowed and blurted an apology sharper than Dadroz’s lockpicks. The woman - Elanna, she named herself - merely tilted her head, her gaze dissecting us with the precision of a fey surgeon. “You must be the guests of honor I had heard about,” she mused.
 
She claimed dominion over Raven, a mortal city, yet her very aura hummed with the Feywild’s cruel melody. When Gael confessed we’d “risked” the portal, her face frowned. “I’m surprised no means of travel was arranged for such honored guests,” she purred.
 
Gael’s next question hung in the air like a spark waiting to catch “What’s the date on the Material Plane?” Elanna’s answer was a bucket of icy reality: the 29th of Gobu. Two months. Two months lost to the Feywild’s capricious tides.
 
Elanna offered no sympathy, only a flicker of fey pragmatism. “A powerful fey could’ve anchored you,” she said, as if we’d simply forgotten to pack one in our saddlebags. Hayley flashed her most disarming grin—the one that usually precedes either brilliance or exotic food—and asked, “You could do that, couldn’t you?”
 
To her credit, Elanna didn’t hesitate. She moved among us, her touch light as a moth’s wing but cold enough to make my bones ache. When her hand brushed my shoulder, I felt the Material Plane’s timeline snap into place like a taut wire. Finally. A thread of certainty in this realm of chaos.
 
Hayley vowed, “If you ever need a favor…” leaving the promise hanging. Elanna merely smiled, her horns catching the light like polished onyx. We spoke of Keralon then, of its silver spires and fey-touched shadows. “Raven is much the same,” she mused. “An interplay of fey and mortals…”
 
We pushed through the teleportation chamber’s doors, revealing two ogres in gilded armor, halberds gleaming like teeth. They tensed—rightfully—at the sight of us bedraggled interlopers. But Elanna’s voice, soft as a lullaby, soothed their growls. “They’re not with me,” she said, as if we were stray cats she’d deigned to feed. “But they’re… important.”
 
The ogres’ glares could’ve melted steel. “Who are you?” Not a question—a demand, growled through tusks. Gael stood tall, his voice steady as a smith’s hammer: “We’re expected. Here to deliver an apology.”
 
They spat at our feet, the sound wet and venomous. “You are the ones that attacked a fey lord,” one snarled, halberd trembling in his grip. “Had we been there, you would not have gotten away so easily.”
 
Fifteen minutes we waited, stewing in their contempt. Then a guard arrived—stiff-backed, silent—and led us into the palace’s belly. Corridors coiled like drunken serpents, stairs spiraling into ceilings, doorways leading to rooms that defied geometry. We turned and when we should have ended in the same spot, we were somewhere new.
 
A window flashed by—Nimmerburg sprawled below, the palace perched like a vulture on a hill. Two steps later, another window: the city now a jagged silhouette under a green sky, streets writhing like roots. Impossible.
The guard grinned, nodding to a sweet, cloying scent wafting through distant door. “That’s for later,” he said, as if we were guests at a banquet and not pawns in a fey king’s game.
 
The guard then led us through doors taller than Keralon’s bell tower, into a throne room that swallowed reality whole. Forest would be too small a word—this was a woodland carved from madness. Trees burst through walls, their branches knitting a canopy where fruits dangled like forbidden jewels. Paintings of hunts stretched across every surface: fey lords chasing after lizard-horse abominations, their spears glinting as if alive. At their lead, a hobgoblin with eyes like smelted iron—High King Ulther, no doubt. The air hummed with prismatic light, casting shadows that slithered like serpents.
 
Ahead, the empty throne itself loomed, roots coiling into a seat fit for a titan. Keralon’s throne room could fit inside this one twice over—and still rattle like a pebble in a cauldron.
 
The throne room buzzed like a kicked hornet’s nest—fey darted about, arranging tables laden with fruits that winked and goblets that wept gemstone tears. Above it all loomed the empty throne, a gnarled monolith that seemed to watch us with wooden eyes. And then—him. Davozan, the fey giant whose ribs we’d bruised to reach the gate. He spotted us instantly. His grin split his face like an axe through kindling.
 
“The guests of honor!” he bellowed, his voice shaking petals from the ceiling vines. Liliana dropped into a bow, her apology already half-spilled, but Davozan waved her off with a hand the size of a cartwheel. “Save your pretty words for the feast, little one. That’s what you’re here for, no?”
 
He seemed delighted by our punctuality. “Half the court bet you’d arrive late. Or dead. Or both!” His laughter boomed, scattering a flock of jewel-winged sprites. “No rooms prepared, of course—you weren’t expected yet. But the palace has plenty of place to hide you away. Or,” he added, winking, “you could brave the city. Ulther’s coin, your comfort. Choose.”
 
We chose the palace. Six “rooms” were soon conjured by what I expect is a small army of invisible servants.
 
Davozan gestured to a table draped in moss and malice, offering food that glistened like poisoned rubies. I eyed it as one might a sleeping viper. Trust is a currency here, and I’ve none left to spend. Hayley apologized again for our earlier… enthusiasm during our first meeting. “Nothing personal,” she said, shrugging. “Just gates and destiny.”
 
The giant chuckled, a sound like boulders tumbling down a cliff. “No grudges,” he rumbled. “It was Ulther’s pride that was bruised, not mine. But mind your tongue—speak ill of him, and he’ll hear.”
 
He spoke of feasts and folly: a grand banquet already underway, a tournament of “challenges” for knights bold or foolish enough to entertain fey whims. The apology—our reason for this madness—would come in two days’ time. Until then, we were free to wander the city’s “delights” or the palace’s labyrinth.
 
Liliana thanked him. Davozan grinned, adding, “You have free reign of the palace. But any doors locked or guarded? Best assume they’re locked for you, I know you have trouble understanding that.” A small jest to catch us off guard.
 
Our “suites” were less rooms and more fey propaganda—grand, absurd, tailored to perfection. A corridor stretched before us, three doors on either side, each etched with our emblems. Our emblems. Carved as if they’d known us for decades, not hours. I traced my sigil—a tower engulfed in fire—and wondered if the wood still remembered the chisel’s bite.
 
Inside, wardrobes burst with silks and velvets, each stitch a mirror of our measurements. (How? Had they measured us in our sleep? While we bled? While Vivienne cackled?) A feast waited too: fruits plump as stolen jewels, bread still warm, cheese sharp enough to cut through fey lies. The wine chilled in ice that never melted. Of course.
 
I collapsed onto a bed softer than daydreams, the scent of lavender and something… older clinging to the sheets. Rest? Unlikely. Every comfort here feels like a blade sheathed in velvet.
 
Two hours later, we emerged from our gilded cages—refreshed, if not reassured. The palace gates yawned open, and we crossed a bridge that arched over a ravine so deep, its shadows seemed to swallow the light whole. Below, whispers of wind hissed like a warning. Or perhaps an invitation.
 
Nimmerburg sprawled before us, a beast of stone and green, twice Keralon’s size and thrice its audacity. The walls glittered under the fey sun, workmen slathering them in molten silver—a mirror of home, yet sharper, colder. Imitation or mockery? I couldn’t decide.
 
The city pulsed with familiar chaos: carts clattering, merchants hawking wares that hissed and sang, fey nobles gliding past like ghosts in silk. But the signs twisted in Sylvan and Elvish script, their curves and slashes alien to my eyes. Common tongues were scarce, the air thick with lilting vowels and sharp consonants. Even the laughter sounded like riddles.
 
Serenity melted away as we wandered deeper into Nimmerburg’s veins, and towards the central park where we had heard a festival was being held. The air thickened, warm and damp as a dragon’s breath, carrying smells of spiced wine, burnt sugar, and something… feral. Guards thinned, replaced by laughter that bubbled like cauldrons and music that slithered through the crowd—violins weeping melodies that made my teeth ache.
 
The park was a living creature. Tents and pavilions bloomed between the trees like poisonous flowers, their silks rippling in hues no mortal loom could replicate. Elves played instruments strung with moonlight, their songs twisting into shapes that danced just beyond understanding. Children darted underfoot, chasing blink dogs that flickered in and out of existence, jaws clamped around stolen sausages.
 
Hayley vanished into the chaos, drawn like a moth to a feast. She returned clutching a pastry that shimmered like a soap bubble. “Memory food!” she declared, biting into it. Her eyes glazed over—some sweet reverie, no doubt—before she sighed, crumbs dusting her cloak.
 
Liliana bought a biscuit. One bite, and blood welled on her lip. “Glass,” she muttered, inspecting the shards. “Charming.”
 
Dadroz reappeared with a smirk, holding a sapphire-topped cupcake. “Firbolg swore it’s ‘non-lethal’,” he said. The baker—a towering figure with moss-bearded cheeks—nodded solemnly. I half-expected it to explode.
 
I strayed toward the pavilion’s heart, where forges belched emerald flames and spell scrolls hung like cursed laundry. The air reeked of ambition and burnt ozone. I bartered for a handful of scrolls—useful ones, mind you, none of that fey nonsense about “laughter-infused lightning” or “tear-soaked timers.” By the time I returned, my arms laden with parchment, chaos had claimed my companions.
 
They’d been lured to a wheel taller than Davozan, its spokes painted in colors that hurt the eyes. A fey creature cackled as Liliana stepped forward. Dadrozhissed, “What’s the catch?”. The fey shrugged, her grin sharp enough to fillet hope. “No catch, just a small chance that you owe me something instead…”
 
Liliana spun the wheel anyway. Of course she did. Her and her damnable courage. It landed on a fishing rod that stretched longer than Alistan’s patience. She beamed, hoisting it like a sacred relic.
 
Hayley, never one to resist a gamble, spun next. The wheel stuttered—hesitated—then lurched through three promises: darkness, despair, and finally, a jester-headed wand that giggled when shaken. The fey’s mood swung like a pendulum, her cheers curdling to a pout. “Next time,” she hissed, thrusting the wand at Hayley.
 
We retreated before our luck did actually run out.
 
Then suddenly a pixie, no larger than my hand and twice as irritating, latched onto Liliana’s trousers like a burr of pure mischief. “Partners!” it squealed, its wings buzzing with manic glee. “Play the game, keep the prize—I just want to watch!” Before Liliana could refuse (not that she would), it shoved her into a tent reeking of sugar and spite.
 
Inside, an elf lounged on a throne of moth-eaten velvet, his smirk etched with centuries of condescension. He spotted the pixie and sneered. “You? No chance.” The game, it seemed, was insults—a duel of words, with candies that turned your face the color of your shame. Liliana popped one into her mouth, shrugged, and tossed a half-hearted “Ladies first.”
 
The elf rose, his robes slithering like oil, and unleashed a torrent of barbs sharper than Vivienne’s winds. Liliana stood unflinching, then struck back with a jab at his hair and his attire . His face purpled like a bruised plum.
 
Victory awarded her a necklace with a moon-phase amulet, its silver shifting from crescent to full as we watched. Liliana tossed it to Hayley. And on we went again to explore the rest of the festival.
 
Hayley had just purchased a ludicrous white fox fur coat for her raven, Fiachna. Then, the screams began.
 
Fey scattered like leaves in a gale, their silks flapping as we grabbed one by the arm. “Menagerie escape!” they gasped. “The chimeras—!” No more needed. We ran, the cobblestones trembling underfoot, until we found the beasts: lion fangs dripping, dragon tails lashing, goat eyes rolling with mindless hunger. Civilians cowered beneath overturned carts, their cries sharp as shattered glass.
 
Gael moved first, his magic snaring two chimeras in vines that burst from the earth like grasping hands. I wove a firewall around the third, its flames roaring defiance—but the creature laughed, scales glistening, and lunged through the inferno. Its mouth exhaled a blast of fire so hot, it singed my eyebrows. Hayley yelped, her coat’s fur smoking, but we smothered the flames with a flick of twin spells. (Note: Thomas siblings—1, Feywild pyrotechnics—0.)
 
Together, we battered the beasts into retreat. Alistan’s shield crumpled a lion’s jaw, Liliana’s swing cracked a goat’s skull, and Dadroz—wherever he’d slunk off to—managed to trip the last chimera with a well-placed shot. The owlbears, who had gone into a panic themselves, were equally subdued.
 
That’s when I saw them: two figures in masks, watching from a rooftop. Wolf and stag, their wooden faces carved into hollow grins. No applause, no thanks—just cold observation. As the last chimera fell, they turned and vanished, their cloaks fluttering like discarded shadows.
 
Liliana stormed through the menagerie’s gates like a woman possessed. The keepers babbled gratitude, showering us with blessings that reeked of fey irony. Alistan gained the ability to talk to plants. Hayley was gifted the power to shift her skin’s hue at will.
 
But the revelry curdled when we found the cages, latches pried open, hinges bent by something sharper than claws. Sabotage. The word hung in the air like a poison fog. Something or someone had wanted this festival to end in tragedy.