He considers.
Eh… the man falters at the thought of punishment, and how sincere you seem.
Now, look here. We were JUST NOW sent to intercept you lot. He seems to gather his resolve back.
Have the plans changed so quick-like? How did he tell you so fast? Not like him to ignore his old company friends. Not like him at all, to keep us out of the loop when it comes to business such as this.
The boy rattles off a brain teaser just slow enough to understand, yet too fast to truly parse.
"Good sir, I gift you sage advice, as favorite of our future queen. If you should seek to rise within the ranks of... the Klavakian... you'll follow orders yet to 'scape your lord commander's lips. Tis folly to expect your prince to know what future holds. I bid you, fancy this: An hour from now, the prince will hear his love was safe an hour in the past — but thanks to your obedience, her most unwelcome fate was sealed."
The leader quickly pieces together Birne’s meaning; his outward appearance belies a sharp mind (Burg’s eyes, on the other hand, glaze over while the boy talks).
The man smiles at Birne. And I’m sure it was his idea all along — so long as the venture is profitable, that is. If not, we’ll, it’s my neck in the noose. Ain’t that the way it always goes, eh?
He leans in close to the boy, and whatever small air of camaraderie he had instantly vanishes. There’s a thing that’s eluding you yet, lad. We none of us wish to “rise within the ranks.” Y’see, we ain’t that type. We like it here in the mud, doing what we want, to whoever we want, whenever we want. We’re the prince’s boys.
You remember that if you don’t make good on your word, because I’ll see to it you pay, all of you, even if you don’t see official recompense.
He turns and shouts.
The group jogs off.
Klaytal smiles, then nods approvingly at the brothers. "Well done, lads. Now should we be off?"
He clicks his heels and takes off at a trot.
The Boy named Birne will tell you that the forest can get quite cold the deeper you get. In fact, it can get Severely Cold and you can die of exposure.
You also purchase cold weather gear on the way out of town. As you all have piles of gold to spend, I assume you purchase nothing short of the most fashionable cold weather gear that money can buy. It's what the Dowager Countess would insist upon, after all.
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The boy rubs his face into the ermine ruff of his luxuriant new jacket and fingers its cobalt blue suede. "‘Twas good of you to think about our comfort as we trot the forest depths, friend elf."
He shudders as he imagines a world where such beautiful clothes with brutal origins are protested with the throwing of red paint. And hugs his well-blanketed pony. "I ask you, who’s a good, good pony, Roan Oak? Tis you! Tis you!"
With limited knowledge of the forest, the boy looks to Klaytal for guidance. "You've trod these shaded paths much more than I. Where shall we start our hunt?"
Yes, the Boy has a good idea of where to go, but it's deep inside the forest.
Klaytal is also familiar with the many alchemical items of the forest from his previous adventure there (due to his backstory), and can help identify dangerous or useful fauna along the way.
Klaytal feels the hairs pm the back of his neck stand up as the go further into the forest.
.
”Anyone feel like we’re missing something obvious here? Maybe we can try climbing up the three to look for puffs of smoke?”
The boy holds the felt Rabbit Prince doll in his hand, choking it's neck firmly while he rides his pony. Not much of a rider, he instead steers his pony with gentle song, urging her down the well trodden path.
"Hm. Not a terrible idea, I suppose. Be careful as you do, though; the woods can be treacherous."
You make your way out of the city and into the Haunted Forest. As before, the forest is gloomy; tangles of dead vines and snow keep the place in a permanent dusk.
After several hours of travel towards the heart of the forest, you see a light ahead — sunlight!
As you step into this wide open clearing in the forest, you are surprised to see a large number of fey creatures. Though some have taken interest in your arrival, none seem particularly threatened by you. Visible throughout the glade are a large number of small and colored barrels. Some have faces painted on them, some are all one color, while still others have patterns on them. There are crude, yet beautiful, tables and chairs scattered through the glade. The chairs seat all manner of fey and the tables are covered in wonderful smelling foods and fun-looking games. After a moment, one small fey, a pixie, separates from the pack and flies over to you.
Hello! she says in a high-pitched voice. Welcome to our home! You can stay here, as long as you aren’t meanies! Are you meanies?
Once again the boy becomes doll as he dismounts.
"We’re seelie as the twilight’s dim, unless you serve the Rabbit Prince or others of his ilk. What shall I call you, pixie friend?"
The pixie nods, not even batting an eye at the boy's weird transformation.
However, seeing that the others don't follow the doll's words, proceeds in common:
Such courtly manners — are you a prince of the dollhouse? You may call me Doch, my prince. She does a curtsy in the air. None here serve the tricksy Phocce — the Prince of Hares. We are here to play games with Drona, the queen of Feyglade!
Come, come, you must meet her!
Doch takes you over to one particular table, where a woman sits contemplating the playing pieces of a board game that you do not recognize.
She is clothed in verdant lichen and bright perennials; she has skin of velvety moss, and living grass for hair in which a crown of flowers bloom.
Her opponent, a small creature that seems to be entirely made out of sticks and branches, waits patiently.
Finally, the woman moves one of her pieces (a carved little frog prince), and says, Buait with a gently smile. The stick person rubs its hands together in appreciation and then hops down from its chair, running off to play another game. The woman stands and turns to smile at you. Patches of clover and milkweed sprout in the grass around her bare feet, blooming to life wherever she moves.
Welcome to our glade she says, bowing her head slightly. I am Drona. Those who live here call me ‘Queen,’ but we don’t have much use for many rules — or rulers — here. I am the oldest, to be sure, and the others seem to think that makes me the wisest as well.
I saw that Doch greeted you, so I assume she told you not to be mean. This is true. We welcome you to our home, as long as you harm no other. What brings you to our secret glade?
The doll summons up magic without bothering to hide it as his friends dismount.
The doll considers what he knows of the Blodeuwedd Queen, Drona, before responding.
Probably best to let Birne do the talking here. He seems to know what he's doing.
"Your majesty, an honor, to be sure. I serve a lady of the hearth, beloved of Morsain. A group of seven little folk have taken her as guest. Alas, they had no room within their cart for gentles such as us. Might you direct us toward their manse?"
It's almost time to eat! Sit, sit, dine with us, my guests!
A bell tinkles and grinning Brownies come out from the forest, carrying platters of food. The fey gather around tables big and tiny, each according to general size and shape. A Mockingfey (a creature with the head of a humanoid and the body of a brilliantly colored parrot) sits at your table, along with the stick-like being from before, Doch, and Drona.
Strange succulent meats and fresh salads are served on stone platters; cool springwater is poured into bark cups. The meal is pleasant, though each fey creature takes each bite with great reverence.
Drona sees that you have noted this and smiles benevolently. All the plants and animals and fey in the forest are our brothers, sisters, mothers, cousins. We show our family respect, even when they are being eaten.
"That seems wise. Thank you for sharing with us."
"And biscuits too, Gateau." The doll’s porcelain face somehow conveys irony before he asks, "The East would seem to lie untouched. Has it been claimed by some unseelie force?"
There? Our former brother Skogi lives there, Drona says sadly.
Well, ‘lives’ may not be the right word. One day, he came back from the forest and was laughing and laughing about a trick he played on a young girl. He was always mischievous and playful, but over time he felt worse about this particular trick, because he went back to see her and found that this was no prank. She was still asleep, even after many years.
He went out into the world and gathered many panes of mismatched glass until he had built himself a glass coffin, saying that it ‘was what he deserved.’ He placed himself in the casket, closed the lid, and ate a pomum fruit. His last wish was to be left undisturbed. He lies there now, hidden in that tall grass.
Ripe pomum are very difficult to find in the Haunted Forest. They do grow on the trees but once they ripen, the fey immediately pick them and hide them in the deepest part of the woods, in places too dense for most to traverse.
Hucklepuck considers for a moment.
"A wish fulfilled, a daring quest for family bonds, or true love’s kiss. A mighty fruit indeed." Foreswearing apples forever, the doll looks over towards Swori’s resting place. "Would your good majesty object if I should have a look?"
I suppose. Please do not break his work of art, his coffin.
You go to the Eastern part of the glade, and part the tall grass. There is a large coffin here, seemingly pieced together from shattered remnants of stained glass. The kaleidoscopic coffin is weather-worn and smudged with dirt. You wipe some fallen off the lid and see a vague shape inside: something powerful and furry, with large canines.
The stained glass looks fragile. If you want to open it you will need to be swift and delicate about it.
"I know not if we’ve wish to let this mongrel wake, nor true love’s potent kiss. But surely he’d have much to say if mischief’s fruit should lose its grip upon his eyes."
Samen walks slowly toward the coffin, flexing his fingers and pulling a small leather roll from a concealed pocket. He looks through the tools contained within, then turns back to his fellows. "I'll give it a go if you want, but are we sure we want to bother? I don't think the princess is inside."
"I have no doubt your tools are blessed by mischief’s steady hand."
The doll sings and Samen’s hand feels all the more sure.
Samen deftly opens the glass lid. There's a bear inside. He's asleep. He looks quite peaceful in his ursine way.
A sprite taps you on the shoulder.
Skogi's so boring — all he does is sleep! You should play Kasta with us! Come play!
Samen starts and nearly drops the lid when the sprite speaks. He gently sets the lid down before replying. "Oh? And how does one play this Kasta?"
"How came a bear to build a coffin out of glass? You've such a marvel here, dear sprite. A legend for the age!"
The sprite giggles at Hucklepuck. I'll tell you, if you play Kasta!
She turns to Samen and points at a pile of barrels sitting by a tree; they are painted insane colors or decorated with chaotic patterns.
This is how you play Kasta: us little ones get inside those barrels. Then, the big ones stand on top and roll them around the field, trying to knock each other down! The sprite flutters around in wild circles. It's so in a hilarious, being inside a bashing barrel and then falling out, all dizzy!
Drona glides over, her bare feet sprouting flowers as she walks. She smiles benevolently. Weren't you looking for something? A wager in a fairy-glade sounds delightful — and after all, it's never good to give something away for free.
Biscuit crumbs falling from his mouth, Gate asks, ”You gave something away for free? What was that? Not to us, I’m sure. We only just got here. I have, however, been known to be a betting man. What kind of wager are you talking about?”
Drona looks crossly at the crumbs on Gate's chest. You ate our family with us, at our table — surely, that is not nothing.
It's simply fair to give something in return for good hospitality, don't you think? Else, you may be pranked in the forest or never welcomed back.
A wager it is! She points to an old beeswax candle on the table, lit and almost burned all the way down.
A small wager. We like you. If you lose, stay here and play with us until that candle burns out. If you win, I'll direct you to this beloved lady — and tell you secrets of the forest, to boot.
The doll stays quiet for a moment, waiting to see how clever or cynical his comrades are.
”Win what? A game of this barrel rolling? Seems easy enough to me.”
Simplicity itself. Is it a wager then, Gate?
"I’m sure you’ll see the candle’s ember fade ere half a century’s done, Gateau." The light glints off the doll’s waxen face in a sarcastic manner.
Tut tut now, doll. I am a queen of my word, and this candle burns fast. Nor will I snuff it out.
"Let's play then already. What do we do? Just kick one of these barrels? Seems hard to lose."
"My queen, of course your word is clad in gold. But mortals have a wretched sense of time. To them it passes at one speed, and not the changing tempo of an epic tale. What realm has wrought this tallow and its wick? The twilight realm or this, the land of men?"
Drona looks wounded. The pixies begin to cry. 'Tis a Klavakian candle, no more. Stolen by Gundeline the brownie from honest merchants passing through our realm. It burns lower even now. You can see the wax dripping; by all evidence it's perfectly mundane. I may have to think of another bet if we dither more…
Drona hears Gate's words and grins. She turns and looks at him. A wager it is, then! You are brave and noble-hearted indeed, Sir Gate!
The fairies cheer and cavort around Gate and his entourage. A troupe of melon-sized dragonflies buzz madly about, hovering in front to Gate and grinning at him with their little gnome-like faces. They then cartwheel off through the air, turning in a circle over the candle... and the wind from their wings snuffs it out!
Drona shakes her head sadly. Oh dear. Accidents happen so often in the feyglade, especially when they get excited. Snuffed, your candle may never burn out burn out. She puts it in the fold of her robe for safe-keeping. As you look around, you see that the exits from the glade seem to have vanished, and the briars in the woods that ring the glade seem much thicker.
And now we play Kaasta!
A grig hops onto Gate's shoulder. You know, the barrels are pretty slippery. If you take off your shoes, they're easier to roll. She laughs. I want to see a good game, after all!
Fey start gathering around the playing field — they sit in grass chairs drinking dew, in the tree-branches enjoying the cool shade, or in the air throwing confetti.
Your opponents gather their barrels of choice on the other side of the field.
Murdock the toad hops onto an orange barrel, his bright, mucousy toes sticking to the old wood.
Flink the Faun climbs onto a barrel panted with a heart and a smiley face; his goat hooves easily finding purchase among the tiny crevices in the smooth wood.
Shimmir the Dryad pirouettes onto a barrel that is sprouting tiny leaves; her toes curl into the foliage, giving her strong purchase.
Wone the Gerbie, his mousey eyes glinting, somersaults onto a plain-looking barrel. His long tail swishing in the air and providing excellent counterbalance.
Rabbits, weasels, crows, and lizards emerge from under the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree. The rabbits hop with fifes, the crows carry tiny cymbals in their claws and flit up into the air to crash them together, the weasels have snare drums strapped across their shoulders and hedgehog-quill drumsticks in their paws, and the lizards blast their trumpets before tumbling over backwards. The procession is led by a blind vole, who wears a little hat and carries a baton.
This tiny marching band begins a cacophonous performance as it meanders haphazardly around the playing field, and the crowd cheers. It's time to begin!
"Dance well, dear lads, or you may one day be as much a toy as I."
The doll boy removes his shoes and fills his friends with mystical urgency .
Round 1 of Kaasta
Shimmir the Dryad
Hucklepuck
Murdock the toad
Samen
Flink the Faun
Wone the Gerbie
Klaytal
Gate
Shimmir gets the drop on you. She rolls the barrel forward at
She rolls toward Hucklepuck! You see she is very good at gripping the branches growing out of her barrel, and she attacks more competently than you'd imagine, giving her a bonus on her attack roll!
Even with this advantage against the flat-footed doll, she only gently nudges the barrel.
The fairies in the glade sigh in disappointment.
Round 1 of Kaasta
Shimmir the Dryad
Hucklepuck
Murdock the toad
Samen
Flink the Faun
Wone the Gerbie
Klaytal
Gate
Hucklepuck is up!
Full of silent fury, the doll dances upon his wooden steed, tilting the dryad's barrel with elan.
As Hucklepuck moves the barrell, the fey inside pokes at his bare feet with the sharp end of a raven feather, making it harder to strike accurately!
Shimmir cries out in surprise as she falls to the ground. With a wave of a finger, Drona creates a lush bed of moss for her to fall comfortably upon.
Normally a favorite in Kaasta, it seems as if the dryad is not having a good day. She blinks up at the angry Hucklepuck as her friends move into action.