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1st of Madan, 126 Year of the Tree

The Fey Tournament

by Luke Thomas

Dear Diary,
 
We spent days in Nimmerburg’s library, buried between towers of books and digging out ancient mysteries, between dodging assassins (not worth mentioning). But the knowledge unearthed! Worth every near-miss. Two gems pried from the fey’s clenched jaws:
 
The Elemental Towers:
Fey texts spit venom when describing them. Hated. Despised. Built by Keralon’s first king’s mages to curb the Lorewood’s fey magic. Four towers, each syphoning power from the elemental planes—a force older than the Feywild itself. Their energy was channeled through stones placed at the Lorewood’s edge… and into the fey realm itself. How? Why did the fey allow it? The texts are silent. But if the fey don’t like them, they have moved up on my priority list!
 
Brother Stalker & Sister Willow:
Ancient. Primal. Spirits born with the Feywild’s first breath. Not archfey—something rawer, like the realm’s bones exposed. They slept as modern fey rose, until the gods’ theft of Feywild fragments woke them. Hags—the only fey who remember that primordial age—lulled them back to slumber. Now they stand vigil. Sister Willow is described as a spirit of fear, grief and longing. While Brother Stalker is a spirit of rage and hunger. Very aggressive and tenacious.
 
The next day, trumpets shattered the dawn—a fanfare sharp enough to flay sleep from bone. Overnight, Nimmerburg had been remade. Streets once choked with carnival chaos now gleamed under bright banners, every lamppost wound with silver vines. The park? Transformed into a tournament field: pavilions like armored beetles, tribunes carved of ornate woods All traces of yesterday’s madness swept away as if by a capricious god’s hand.
 
Guards clad in elegant plate intercepted us at the field’s edge. Recognition flickered in their eyes. "Spectators are forbidden at this time," one intoned, "but competitors…" He gestured us toward a tent striped crimson and white—our tent, apparently. Fey efficiency, or fey mockery? Hard to tell.
 
Inside: sparse but serviceable. A few chairs, saddle oils, bandages… and two horses. Horses. Alistan approached one, his gauntleted hand gentle on its midnight neck. Liliana’s palm glowed faintly as she communed with the beast. "Starmane," she announced, as if introducing a dignitary.
 
Hayley, distracted by stomach and suspicion, vanished toward the food stalls—only to freeze, her gaze locked on a distant corner. There: the wolf-mask and stag-mask nobles, slipping into a tent darker than the others.
 
Gael and Liliana strode onto the archery field, flanked by fifteen fey archers whose bows gleamed like frozen starlight. The air crackled with tension—each arrow loosed was a whispered threat, a promise, a sigh. Gael’s focus was a blade’s edge; Liliana’s, a hammer’s certainty. When the last target thumped, Gael stood victorious, his autumn-gold hair slicked with sweat, a rare smile touching his lips.
 
Alistan’s joust was next—a clash of lances and honor. He unhorsed his first opponent with a strike so clean, the crowd roared from the tribunes. Gael, less fortunate, fell in the third round, his mount outmaneuvered by a fey with a smirk sharper than Dadroz’s daggers.
 
I scanned the stands. Empty. No nobles, no velvet-draped seats—just lies and shadow. Odd, even for fey.
 
Then—chaos. A pixie dive-bombed my lap, shoved a riddle-scrawled parchment into my hands, and buzzed off. The "Battle of Wits" had begun. Five riddles, each more absurd than the last, but I manage to solve each one with haste and speed. I won. Pixies swarmed me—a cyclone of wings and giggles—dumping a silver coin heavy as guilt into my palm.
 
Alistan dominated the joust again in the next round—lance steady, honor unbroken—while whispers coiled around us like smoke. Liliana’s jaw tightened. "They laugh," she muttered. Hayley’s eyes narrowed. "This whole tournament reeks of fey farce."
 
The melee was next. Alistan and Liliana surged into the fray, blades flashing against fey steel. I watched, pride warring with unease... until agony tore through my shoulder. A crossbow bolt, buried deep. My yelp scattered crows from the tribunes.
 
Hayley’s magic erupted—a fog thicker than fey lies—swallowing us whole. Blood slicked my tunic as I plunged into an assassin’s mind: two shadows, venom on their blades. I tried to will one into a turtle, but my magic sputtered. Fail. Rage burned. So I became the rage—a giant ape, roaring, fists hammering earth. But they slipped through my fingers like smoke.
 
Gael’s arrow sang—a perfect strike. One assassin crumpled, unconscious. Captured.
 
Chaos reigned. Liliana, spattered in mud and melee-glory, was declared victor—but she pointed to Alistan. "His honor, not mine." Before debate could ignite, guards flooded the field, armor clanking. "Ambushed," Gael stated, calm as winter’s heart. "While they bled for your spectacle."
 
Now the prisoner lies bound in our tent and their interrogation looms.

Continue reading...

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by 3 Armored Kittens · Prodromos v.1.1 - World Anvil 0.9.15.045 © 2017-2025 [en] | Anvil Time: 01:05, Aug 6 2025