Quisling Fey

So, yesterday, the weather SUCKED. We shifted the game over to Discord, though we didn't last long over there because everyone from the group is out of practice playing online. (Kind of the opposite for me? Most of my gaming groups are still either on Discord or are playing via some other video conferencing program.) But, the DM was having a lot of trouble parsing all the chatter (which is fair, since it included a chat stream) and so we quit early. That was only a bit of a bummer because it took nearly half the time just for everyone to get on the voice channel and to get the Dice Maiden working properly.

Ah, well, it was still, as usual an action (and angst for poor Idyril) filled night.

Oh, and should any of you D&D/RPG playing nerds need or want it, I found a good English to Elfish online translator: https://funtranslations.com/elvish

Also, because I'm like this, I asked Google if there was an official term for a group of pixies. The answer: troupe. Apparently, a group of goblins is either a malignity or a horde. I've adjusted the previous letters accordingly, because I feel like Idyril would absolutely be the sort of person who would use the correct word.


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January 4

Brendelfort, Kingdom of Shira

Dearest Ave,

I fervently wish that Papa Bernard, Grigor, and the others of The Caravan were not so kind-hearted. If we would but slaughter all of these wretched Fey creatures quickly and cleanly, I swear none of this would weigh so heavily on my heart. 

Now, thanks to Theophina’s clever bargain, I am complicit in enslaving my own kin.

Despite my better judgment, The Caravan agreed to aid Anathi Varmi, the Halfling innkeeper and meadmaker. It seems something invisible had been running off with mead and other foodstuffs from her larder. After some argument over how to surprise the little thieves--half of our party lying in wait and, comically, Zavala, the Chosen of Avandra, hiding in the outhouse--we nevertheless quickly found ourselves in combat with a small troupe of pixies. 

These creatures seemed armed with arrows capable of striking fear even into a heart like mine, which normally feels nothing in battle but a thirst for blood. I may have lost a dagger in the battle, having been forced to throw it as I could not will my feet to move forward against the enemy. 

The sprites fled as soon as Zavandra’s magics burnt one of their kind of a crisp. Not that I blame them, entirely. They seemed to be little more than supply thieves, working for a more powerful boss. All of those we fought in the streets escaped. That is, except one wretched soul that Papa Bernard tackled with his great mass, a wee pixie named Brown Branch--or as it is said in Sylvian, Varneolwa. Some other pixies, spotted by those who lay in wait in the inn, made off with a bottle specially marked by Theophina, which she hopes to use to track the wee ones to their lair.

A clever precaution, though one we may not need. As, since we had a captive in tow, I acted once again as translator and chief interrogator against my Fey cousin. 

From poor Varneolwa, we extracted much information. We got from him the whereabouts of the rest of his troupe and that he greatly feared his master, a fellow whose name we’ve heard bandied about on the roads--Bedeview the Black. Bedeview is a warlock, it seems, who travels with a pack of trained blink dogs. Varneolwa spoke of “experiments” and pixies the size of halflings that purportedly are the results of this unholy medicine or magicks.

Unlike with the Dream Squire, The Caravan did not see the wisdom in simply letting Varneolwa go after our grueling interrogation of him. Instead, I was enlisted to broker a deal, a Bargain. In exchange for Varneolwa’s life, he would become a spy for us. We would take responsibility for his well-being, but he would act as an informant. 

This fey, much like myself, has been conscripted into turning on his own kind.

You have no idea, Ave, how difficult it was for me to translate Theophina’s words into Sylvan. My tongue was heavy with guilt; my teeth clenched with rage. If Bellamy had not shown a quickness in study of the Sylvan language, I would have been sorely tempted to tell Baruolwa to fly to his Queen and inform her that Idyril Trevorian holds her love token and wishes to meet for parlay. But, it’s clear that my companions are beginning to be familiar with Sylvan, despite its complexities of syntax and tone. I dared not take the risk this time.

I know you disapprove, my dear sister. You think me foolish to even entertain any allegiance with the FeyWild and their chaos. But, again, in the heat of battle, I felt a strange surge of Wild Magic seize me, move through me… consume me. I am Fey in my blood, Ave--in my very bones.

And so I remain,

Your brother,

Idriyl