Entry 67: Into the Neverhold

Dear Diary,
 
 
The next morning greeted us with the smell of heaven—eggs frying, bread fresh from the oven, bacon crisping just right. Dynia had outdone herself, as if she’d poured all her care and worry into the meal. The table groaned beneath the weight of it all: sweet fruit, fresh milk, golden butter, and warm bread that steamed when we tore it open. It was a farewell breakfast, a quiet gesture of love before another journey into the unknown.
 
Even more touching were the carefully wrapped parcels she handed to each of us—provisions for the road, neatly tied and labeled. Gael’s, of course, was a little larger, and had a ribbon on it. Love, returned in the way Dynia knew best.
 
And then—curse her beautiful, brilliant soul—Liliana had to open her mouth.
 
She asked Dynia, straight-faced, about the glamour surrounding her.
 
(Just kidding, Liliana. You know I adore you. But your timing…)
 
Thankfully, Dynia didn’t seem to understand what Liliana was talking about. Her confusion was genuine, her smile unguarded. The others looked curious, of course, but I managed to brush it off with a few deflecting words and a bit of forced laughter, steering the conversation elsewhere. Hopefully, by the time we return, they’ll have forgotten all about it.
 
The glamour poses no threat to us—not directly—and it clearly keeps Dynia blissfully unaware of it. I hate keeping secrets from them, but this one… this one I must keep. For now.
 
Just as the tension started to rise, Vivienne chose the perfect moment to arrive, map in hand, saving us all from further awkwardness. She spread the chart across the table, and Luke immediately began his barrage of questions. Typical.
 
Vivienne pointed out the key landmarks. Nimmerburg—grim, proud—marked the seat of High King Ulther, nestled like a thorn at the heart of the Neverhold. It was separated from the rest of the land by a jagged divide called the King’s Cleft—a massive gorge that cut across the landscape like an old wound.
 
No one knew where it had come from. According to Vivienne, it appeared a century ago, out of nowhere. She believed Ulther knew its origin but was keeping it to himself. The timing, I noted, curiously aligned with the Leper’s Revolt.
One more mystery to toss onto the growing heap.
 
Another important landmark Vivienne pointed out was Whitewail—her own domain—tucked along the coast like a pale jewel. Immediately the thought struck me: could we sail from there to Nimmerburg? It would be dangerous, yes, but likely no more so than trudging through fey-controlled lands full of lords looking for reasons to delay or derail us.
 
Vivienne seemed to catch onto the same thought. She mentioned we’d be welcome in Whitewail—technically—but reminded us, rather uncomfortably, that she too had received instructions from Ulther on how to "deal with us." She claimed not to know the contents of the other nobles’ orders, though I suspect the purpose is obvious: stall us. Distract us. Break us, if they can’t kill us outright.
 
She didn’t outright agree to help, of course—she couldn’t. But she did say that we might be able to rent or commandeer a ship in her port. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Gael, ever the pessimist when it suits him, argued against the sea route, claiming the waters near Neverhold would be treacherous. And while he’s likely right, I countered: what part of this journey won’t be treacherous? If sailing gets us around the vipers’ nest of fey lords and their thinly veiled traps, I’ll take my chances with a storm.
 
Since we can’t bring our own horses into the feywild—because of course we can’t—Vivienne suggested we first head to Hall, a small town near the Neverhold border. The Moonshadow Festival is in full swing there, and she believes we could acquire feymounts—beasts better attuned to the strange flows of the feywild. I’ve heard of them in passing—half-wild, half-spirit creatures with eyes that gleam like moonlight and hooves that barely touch the ground. It might be our best shot at covering ground quickly.
 
And then, she hit us with the truth I had been dreading all along.
 
High King Ulther might not just want an apology. He might want time. In the feywild, time doesn’t behave. It stretches and coils, and the king—being what he is—can twist it even further. Vivienne warned us that what might feel like two weeks to us could mean months or even years passing in Keralon.
 
A year gone, and Galiene lost forever. A year gone, and our kingdom with it.
 
All of it—all of this—over a political show. Over a fey giant with a bruised ego and a high king playing games with lives.
 
And the worst part? None of it had to happen. If they'd stood up—if any of them had stood beside me in that hall when it mattered—we might not be here now. We might be helping Galiene. We might be saving her instead of gambling with her time like coins on a rigged table.
 
If Ulther drags this out—if time slips through our fingers—I swear, they will hear about it. Again and again. And again.
 
There was, surprisingly, a silver lining in all the bleakness—a glimmer of hope. Vivienne told us that she could shield us from the feywild’s time manipulation. But, of course, there was a cost: one full year of servitude from each of us. One year pledged to her, to be collected whenever she deems it necessary.
 
She left us to discuss it amongst ourselves.
 
Liliana agreed immediately, no hesitation. No surprise there. I think what did surprise everyone was that I, too, agreed. Not because I liked it—I don’t—but because the risk of doing nothing was far too great. We can’t afford to lose Galiene to a time trick. Not when there’s a choice, however bitter.
 
Alistan followed suit, then Gael, with less conviction but still committed. Luke, ever the hopeful, said he would ride to Keralon and search for an alternative—some spell, some ally, anything. Dadroz, predictably, was almost insulted by the very idea. He all but refused outright.
 
In the end, it will come down to what Luke can find. We must all agree—or none of us are warded.
 
After Luke departed for Keralon, the rest of us made our way to the abandoned church and the overgrown graveyard beside it. There, at long last, we laid Alistan and Liliana’s brother to rest. To our surprise, a long line of villagers stood along the path as we passed—silent, respectful, offering nods and tears. Even in these hard times, kindness endures.
 
Liliana spoke first, voice trembling, words faltering. Alistan followed, but grief caught his tongue as well. It didn’t matter. The love in their words—raw, unpolished—spoke louder than any speech could have. We buried him beneath the old oaks, and for a time, all was still.
 
With the ceremony done, we turned to our next mystery: the strange woman in the hag’s cabin.
 
From the outside, it looked like someone had been living there for weeks. Smoke still rose lazily from the chimney, and the place smelled of herbs and fresh wood. We knocked—and were clearly invited in by a voice. But inside… nothing. No one. Just the warmth of a recently vacated room.
 
No magical presence lingered, either. I reached out with my mind, but felt nothing beyond my companions. Still, there were signs. A pot of coffee on the table, still warm. And beside it, a single object of note: a hunting horn, carved from the bone of some long-dead beast. Etched on it was a message:
 
“Blow in case of emergency.”
 
 
Curious and cautious, I examined it with magic. Its enchantment was clear and loud: blowing it would alert every creature within miles. Definitely not a toy, and certainly not something to be used lightly.
 
With nothing else to go on, we left a letter on the table, explaining who we were, and that we would welcome a meeting—soon. Then we stepped back into the forest, unanswered questions in our pockets and a growing list of enemies and allies to sort through.
 
We waited at the keep for Luke. He arrived shortly after, his cheeks red with the flush of effort—and something else. Agitation. He had news. About the time manipulation—and about Elsa.
 
Let’s start with the former.
 
According to his research, time manipulation in the feywild can be resisted. Not easily—but it’s possible. Powerful beings—ancient fey, hags, creatures with deep roots in the feywild—can block it. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help us much unless we plan to strike bargains with yet more dubious entities. There’s also another angle: defensive magics that block detection or magical targeting. That… might be within our reach. Difficult, yes, but a far more palatable solution than servitude. It's not a full answer, but it’s something.
 
Then he spoke of Elsa.
 
Apparently, she’s in financial trouble. A bad deal gone worse, and now she’s tangled in a debt with the Long Table. She asked if we could put in a good word—see if we could get the debt extended. I had another idea.
 
Instead of pleading with bankers, I proposed we use our favor with Morenthene. She could purchase the debt outright, and in return, we would hunt down the man who stole from Elsa. A favor for a favor, and no friend left behind. I reached out to Rachnar, and true to his word, he agreed to help. He’ll contact Elsa and handle the details while we’re away.
 
With our affairs as settled as they could be, we turned to Vivienne and gave the word: we were ready to enter the feywild.
 
We also declined her offer of protection. Not out of pride—but because we needed unanimous agreement, and Dadroz was still unwilling. I had hoped he might change his mind at the last moment. In truth, I’m not sure how I feel. Relieved, perhaps. Vivienne owning a year of my life never sat well with me… and yet, I would have done it. I still would, if it meant protecting the others.
 
But now it’s out of our hands. We walk into the Neverhold as we are—no safety net, no wards against time. Just our wits and our will.
 
Vivienne didn’t seem surprised. She simply nodded, her expression unreadable, and said she’d never expected all of us to accept her offer anyway.
 
And with that… the path ahead lay open.
 
Without further ado, we headed into the Lorewood.
 
The journey started simply enough—an uneventful two hours until we arrived at a quiet clearing, with a still pond at its center. Vivienne gestured toward the water and gave her instructions: each of us was to take a sip from the pond, and then walk around it counterclockwise. No elaborate ritual, no cryptic riddle—just that. And yet, somehow, it worked.
 
As we followed the instructions, the trees parted, revealing a hidden passage through the undergrowth. We stepped through—and everything changed.
 
Gone were the familiar woods. In their place sprawled a wide, dreamlike grassland. Wildflowers carpeted the earth in impossible shades, and the sky above was dipped in an eternal pink twilight. We had arrived. The Neverhold.
 
Gael took the lead as we pressed into this foreign land, and for a time, the feywild seemed oddly welcoming. The grass itself parted for us, making our travel easy. But the feywild never stays simple for long.
 
Soon, Dadroz and Luke pointed out something strange ahead—a thicket of dark-leaved bushes with purple berries, standing like a wall across our path. Luke, ever the pragmatist, was quick to suggest we burn it all down. I stopped him. Fire rarely solves fey problems—it usually invites new ones.
 
I sent Fiachna aloft to get a view from above. The patch wasn’t large—maybe 50 meters across either side. Small enough to go around, even if it cost us a little time.
 
But Gael, being Gael, decided to talk to the bush.
 
And of course, the bush answered. Not with leaves or whispers, but with a rabbit. A talking rabbit.
 
It introduced itself as Rollam and confirmed our direction—yes, Hall lay beyond the thicket. But the fey never give something for nothing. Rollam grinned (yes, rabbits can grin here, apparently) and said he could lead us through if we brought him a tear of happiness from a bride at a wedding nearby.
 
A typical fey deal—charming on the surface, maddening underneath.
 
I could already see the flicker in the others’ eyes—the glint of a new adventure, of mystery, of some absurd diversion. But I cut in before the magpie instincts could take over. We don’t have time for this. Not now. Not when every day here might cost us months back home.
 
We’re going around.
 
We’ll see if the Neverhold lets us.
 
The others agreed with my suggestion, and we set off around the thicket.
 
The moment we left the convenient path, the Neverhold reminded us that ease was only ever borrowed. The grass, once pliant, now stood defiantly tall—soon we were swallowed in a sea of green. Blades the size of saplings rose around us, brushing at our armor and whispering in fey tongues. It felt like wading through a dream that didn’t want us to wake.
 
I sent Fiachna overhead to help guide us, her sharp eyes making sense of the twisting patterns where none of ours could. She flew in slow, circling sweeps above, and we moved beneath her like pilgrims following a silent star.
Then, as though the sun had grown bored of the sky, it simply dipped. No dusk. No warning. Just sudden, jarring darkness.
 
It should have unnerved me more, but this is the feywild. Of course the sun doesn’t care for rules. Determined not to stop, we pressed on, until eventually the grass shifted again—folding back, curling into the shape of a tunnel.
Dark. Silent. No answer when we called in.
 
Not knowing what waited inside, we set up camp beside it and agreed to leave the decision until morning. Liliana and I took first watch, sitting back to back beneath a canopy of whispering grass.
 
And then, a snout emerged.
A mole-person—startled, wide-eyed, blinking up at us like we were the ones burrowing through his living room. He vanished the moment he saw us. We called out, assuring him we meant no harm, and slowly, he returned.
His name was Nog. Curious, polite, a little shy.
 
He hadn’t expected company at his tunnel’s entrance—understandable, given the hour and location. When Gael asked him about Hall, he admitted he didn’t know the path through the wilds, but he could guide us beneath them. Through his tunnels. In exchange, he asked only for food.
 
Gael obliged with a handful of goodberries, and with that, Nog led us underground.
 
It was a miserable crawl.
 
The tunnels were tight, damp, and utterly disorienting. The darkness was complete, save for the faintest glow of our lightstones. At some point I lost track of time entirely—minutes or hours, who could say? I started wondering if Nog was leading us in circles. But then, just like that, he vanished again—and ahead of us, daylight.
 
We scrambled out into open air, blinking in the sudden brightness at the edge of Hall.
 
And then the sky decided it was done with morning and shoved the sun to its peak. In the space of a few heartbeats, the world went from midnight to noon.
 
Gael laughed. Called it “cool.”
 
I just stared at the sky and rubbed my temples. This place is going to wear me down long before the king ever gets a chance.
 
I’m not sure what I’d imagined Hall to be. Something more ominous perhaps, considering all we’d gone through just to get here. But instead, we were met with something that could have come from a dreamer’s mind on a sugar high: a quaint village bursting with color, as if spring itself had taken up permanent residence.
 
Music drifted through the air—not played, exactly, but conjured, like it grew from the trees and buildings themselves. It danced around us, light and playful. Flowers bloomed out of window boxes and curled over rooftops. The breeze smelled of honey and citrus. If any of the villagers found our presence odd, they were too polite—or too whimsical—to show it.
 
With stealth being unnecessary, we walked straight into town.
 
The central square had been overtaken by a celebration, the kind that apparently requires no cause or calendar. Eladrin filled the square, chipping away at large stone blocks with the focus of true artists, and the laughter of those who knew they had all the time in the world. Stalls lined the square, offering only the sweetest foods and a single drink—an orange concoction that smelled both floral and faintly intoxicating. Luke and I wisely passed.
 
We were quickly approached by Selphine Dewglitter—yes, really—an Eladrin woman whose kindness and enthusiasm were almost exhausting. She welcomed us warmly, offered drinks, and when asked what the celebration was for, gave a most feywild answer: there was no reason. Who needs a reason to carve statues and enchant them to life?
 
Because of course, that’s what the contest was for. The best statues would be granted life—turned into companions, mounts, or worse, depending on intent.
 
We decided not to question it further.
 
Sensing an opportunity, we split into teams to try our luck. Liliana and I set to work crafting a goat—majestic, noble, ridiculous. Luke and Alistan sculpted a drake, all claws and snarl. Gael and Dadroz chose a tiger, which somehow ended up looking like it might eat us instead of the other way around. Naturally, each group drew spectators, whispering feyfolk who seemed more interested in our “mortal technique” than the actual results.
 
Time slipped again, as it tends to here. The sun—oblivious to the passage of hours—remained stubbornly pinned at the top of the sky. It was only the ache in our backs and the weariness in our hands that reminded us how long we’d been working.
 
Deciding we’d done enough, we left the square and set up camp at the edge of the village. The music still played in the distance, undeterred by nightfall that never came.
 
I’m not sure how I feel about this place. Beautiful, yes. Safe, maybe. But nothing here makes sense. And nothing here stays still.