A Feywild Festival

by Luke Thomas

Dear Diary,

The village was a patchwork of whimsy and unease—cottages crowned with grass and moss, trees in full bloom despite the season’s caprice, and air thick with the scent of melted chocolate and candied roses. Music drifted through the lanes, lutes and flutes weaving a melody that tugged at our feet. Not a compulsion, but a suggestion, as if the ground itself hummed with rhythm. I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to tap along.

Elves and eladrin emerged from their homes, their eyes bright with curiosity as they waved us toward the square. Alistan and Liliana returned the gestures, their guard lowered by the Feywild’s honeyed illusions. I hung back, my staff a comforting weight.

The square buzzed with chaos masquerading as festivity. Tents sagged under garlands of ivy, kegs overflowed with orange liquid that glowed faintly, and stalls offered cupcakes dusted in gold. But it was the stone blocks that chilled me—each the size of a wagon, half-carved by fey hands. Some bore the beginnings of elegant figures; others lay untouched, their surfaces smooth and waiting.

Alistan approached a couple of eladrin perched on a bench, their fingers entwined as they critiqued a half-formed statue of a dancing dryad. The woman—Selphine Doomglimmer—grinned at his questions. “No reason for the festival!” she trilled. “We simply woke and decided to be glorious!” Her companion pressed cups of orange drink into our hands, his smile too wide.

I declined, but the others drank. Within moments, their laughter grew looser, their movements fluid as creek water. Hayley twirled, her new draconic armor glinting, while Gael’s usual stoicism melted into a grin. Even Liliana’s words lilted like a song.

Selphine gestured to the stones. “Join the competition! Sculpt beauty, and watch it breathe.” Her words slithered with promise.

We joined the sculpting contest, we had heard that this was our opportunity to acquire a mount to help in our traversal of the Feywild. But with the fey drink’s haze clouding the others’ judgment, we knew we had to be careful. Alistan and I started carving a drake, its stone form rough but taking shape under his hammer and my guidance. The elves flitted around us, offering candied meats and pastries glazed in honey—temptations I refused, nibbling instead on stale rations. Time warped around us; the sun hung fixed at noon, yet exhaustion weighed our limbs as if days had passed. When we begged rest, the fey shrugged, indifferent. “Sleep where you like,” they said, as if the concept of an inn were quaint.

We pitched tents at the square’s edge. I layered wards around us, spells humming like angry bees. Sleep came fitfully—and when we woke, the world had iced over. Winter’s bite gnawed through cloaks, the village now cloaked in darkness, breath visible in the air.

The festival had twisted. Lutes played dirges, glühwein steamed in place of orange nectar, and meat pies oozed greasy warmth where sweets once sat. My friends drank again—their laughter louder, movements clumsier, minds sharpened in some ways, dulled in others. Alistan’s grip on his hammer was fiercer, but his feet stumbled. But we picked ourselves up and continued work on our state, our minds almost covered in the haze of this twisted realm. Each pick of a chisel sounding as a melodious cymbal in tune with the otherworldly festival.

Then the wolves came.

Fangs tore into my cloak, pain searing my arm. I shoved the beast back, blood slick on my sleeve. More wolves surged past, toward the square’s heart. I hurled a fireball, flames engulfing fur and stone alike—a statue shattered in the blast. Alistan barred the rest with his shield, steel ringing against claws as I chanted spells, the air reeking of burnt hair and ozone.

When the last wolf fled, the fey drifted back, giggling at the carnage as if it were part of the revelry. No concern for the broken statue, the blood on snow. Just another verse in their endless, capricious song.

We carved until our hands ached, the drake’s form emerging jagged and proud. But time here is a riddle—how long had we labored? Hours? Days? When we asked the fey when the contest might end, they giggled and clapped. “An endpoint! What a delightful notion!” They agreed to consider it, their laughter trailing us as we retreated to camp, exhaustion dragging at our bones.

Sleep came like a hammer blow. We woke to a scorching dawn, heat rippling across the village in visible waves. Winter’s snow vanished in an eyeblink, grass surging waist-high, emerald and voracious. The square had transformed again: fey danced in silken scraps, red wine flowed like blood, and the air swam with the sizzle of spiced meat on open flames.

We returned to our statue, the drake’s scales still rough. My boggle familiar, Pim, proved unexpectedly useful—his… excretions, when refined, formed a pearlescent mortar that shimmered like true dragonhide. The fey crowded around, cooing at the glittering effect, their fingers brushing the stone as if it were alive.

Then the wolves came—summer wolves this time, fur like molten copper, fangs dripping embers. Gael’s arrows pinned them in a tangle of vines before they could strike, but one broke free, lunging at Liliana and Hayley. The heat radiating from its body forced them back, their armor scorching. Hayley with a quick flick of her wrist, warped space to hurl the beast back into the pack.

Fire spells were useless here—I dared not risk empowering them. Instead, I loosened magic missiles, their force knocking wolves aside as Alistan and Liliana carved through the rest with blade and prayer. Even singed and sweating, we drove them off, the fey barely pausing their dance to notice.

After driving off the wolves, Gael questioned the fey about the attacks. "Does this happen often?"

"Once a day," they chimed, as if discussing the weather. "A war king sends them. All seasons but spring—how droll."

Gael bargained: "Point us to this king. We’ll put a stop to his raid, in exchange for… advantages in your contest."

The fey tittered, but agreed. "A fair trade! But first—finish your statues."

We slept uneasily, dawn breaking on an autumn morning. The air bit with a crisp chill, leaves blazing amber and gold. Clouds hung low, spitting occasional rain. The music had shifted—structured, almost solemn—as the fey murmured encouragement. "Almost done," they whispered, their eyes gleaming.

Alistan knelt by the drake, melting copper into scales that shimmered like liquid sunset. A cold wind gusted, carrying the distant howl of wolves.

We tightened our grips on weapons and wills.

The war king’s pack would come again.

And this time, we’d be ready.

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A Feywild Festival

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