Chapter 2: On the Horizon

“It’s so different here, in the Material plane. I knew it would be different than how it was in the Feywild, but It’s like nothing I have ever seen. I guess that’s probably what people say when they stumble into my world, but I never imagined people lived in a world like this. It’s so,,, empty? Not in a way where I see nothing around me, but empty in a way where nothing is ever happening. I’ve been here for almost a year, a notable amount of time on the Material plane I believe, and yet I feel like this world is so stagnant and mundane. It seems I arrived in a relatively rural area with few towns, let alone cities or large communities. I've come across a handful of smaller towns, most of which have been relatively informative and helpful, though I cannot say all were particularly welcoming. Though I’ve tried to dress and present myself in a way I thought would be customary of this place, simple clothes in muted colours, nothing extravagant or odd, it seems my mere physical appearance is not as discreet. Turns out a small settlement built on the border of a thick forest is not the best place for someone such as I to parade into and try making pleasantries. The people here have a strange idea that every odd creature from the woods MUST be a trickster fey here to steal their name or kidnap their firstborn or whatnot. Clearly they generalize every faerie to have their worst intentions in mind, and were not keen on my inquiries of the local area. I had to leave in a bit of a rush from there, as it was made clear I would not be welcomed for the night. I’ve taken note that coving my rather tall pointed ears may be a good decision,,,  Despite some peoples’ unwillingness to help, I have managed to chart a reasonably accurate map of the surrounding landscape and even begun compiling sketches of the Material Plane’s celestial tapestry. Although I was taught to navigate by the familiar stars of my home plane, here the constellations and moon appear alien. I catch fleeting glimpses of shapes I might recognize, yet no steady pattern connects this sky to my own. In these quiet nights, as I lie in open fields or high in the treetops to document the heavens, I find a small measure of solace. With the Material Plane being so separated from the magic of the Feywild, it feels as if every day I spend here I am drained of the very energy that makes me up.  Simple spells, once effortless, now falter and fizzle out in my hand as if the power itself is beyond reach. Curiously, I witness local clerics and mages perform their craft with ease—suggesting they draw upon a different wellspring of magic than that of the Feywild. I hope to find some kind of literature on the topic as I travel to my next stop. I was pointed southwards by a lovely woman in the previous town I visited. She said that there was a large port city that way, where I believe my options for travel and socializing will greatly increase. At least, that’s what I hope. I find myself feeling as if I’m missing out on something here. I go from walking miles and miles, fighting off mortal beasts and creatures, resting in whatever safety I can find, and starting back up from the beginning again. There must be something more here, something more than survival in the wilderness. I think a bigger civilization is my best bet for expanding my connections and knowledge of this world so new to me, and so that is where I will head.”

The sun dipped below the horizon, its vibrant orange rays giving way to the gentle luminescence of moonlight. As dusk embraced the land, Morrison snapped his journal shut with slight dissatisfaction, noting with mild dismay his dwindling supply of ink and a bag full of broken writing quills. He would need to buy more at his next stop—though he’d learned that finding shops that accepted the apparently uncommon fey currency he carried was a difficult task. With a few silvers stashed from his travels, he felt he’d be able to get what he needed, but further purchases would likely require a more steady source of income than picking up coins off the ground. Packing his belongings beneath the shelter of a massive elm, he escaped the sudden downpour that had beset the day. The tree’s broad canopy shielded him—and his bundles of rather water soluble paper maps and drawings—from soaking wet ruin. Under its looming branches, he settled in, tucking his rapidly filling journal away and unfurling a small, flat pillow to prepare for the night’s trance.

He awoke with a start, a pricking sensation of pins and needles behind his eyes as they fluttered open. Pain, sharp and unrelenting, forced him to squint at the towering tree overhead. Yet this was not the elm beneath which he had slept; a vast willow now encircled him, its cascading, weeping branches weaving a delicate, dripping web. The tree was adorned with bright red and yellow leaves—a familiar sight reminiscent of the willows from the Crimson Grove of the Feywild, where he spent his youth. As Morrison attempted to rise from the soft, mossy earth, his limbs betrayed him, unmoving. Suddenly, a new agony surged through his body as something impaled his right shoulder, pinning him fast. The searing pain and the rush of hot blood streaming down his arm and chest came from a sword, expertly wielded by a shadowy humanoid figure. With a deliberate twist, the assailant drove the blade deeper, the chill of iron mingling with a hint of poison as the cloak of shadows dissipated.

Zenith Alderwood’s face—a cold, scarred visage devoid of emotion—loomed over his impaled, paralyzed step-son. Behind him, his six transparent insectoid wings unfurled, while heavy teal carapace armor encased his lean form. His piercing purple and green eyes burned with a remorseless intensity. The sword clutched in his grasp was the very one Morrison had claimed nearly a year ago; its opalescent pommel sparkled mockingly as pain wracked Morrison’s body. From behind Zenith, another figure advanced—Quintessence, standing at his side, his husband. Lowering his face toward Morrison’s bleeding, tear-streaked visage, he sneered:

“Oh my, what do we have here?” he mocked, his words laced with venom. “Seems a little bird flew the coop, doesn't it?” Leaning close enough to almost brush noses with his son, his warm, fetid breath contrasted starkly with the chill of Morrison’s tears. The Archfey’s gold and crimson hair hung over him, mimicking the web of autumnal branches weaved around them. His appearance was an elegant and merciless reflection of his court’s domain, a reminder of how cold and unforgiving the chill of autumn could be.

“We can’t have that now, can we?” Quinn quipped sarcastically. “I think our little birdie needs his feathers clipped.” With that callous remark, the tall Archfey brought his heeled boot down with a resounding crunch, shattering the bone of his son’s leg like a twig on floor of fallen leaves crushed under a footstep.

Morrison’s eyes snapped open again, the echo of his broken leg and his father’s cruel laughter resounding in his ears. A cold sweat dampened his increasingly pallid skin as he fully emerged from a nightmare that had stolen his sleep. Once more, he found himself under the rain-soaked elm—the very tree that had once provided refuge. Rest was a luxury he could no longer afford; instead, despair clutched him as tears streamed down his face, echoing those of his dream. In his distress, he retrieved his journal and frantically recorded every detail, the ink smearing into jagged streaks like inky icicles as his trembling tears blurred the words. The page would surely be illegible once it dried, but that didn’t seem to be the priority concern. Loneliness and terror had haunted him all his life, and even now, despite his many years, the pain remained. Shivering and sobbing like a frightened child huddled under a blanket in the dark, he realized that although the source of his fears and pain spanned dimensions away, he felt no more comfort than when he was home. The months spent battling nature and wild beasts had done little to fortify him against the dread his own parents invoked in him. By sunrise, the dried tears traced sorrowful paths on his dirt-streaked face, and his ink-stained hand bore the mess of ruined words. The only positive he could find that morning while exhausted and covered in his own ink and tears, was that no one would ever have to see him in such a pathetic state. The thought of being found in such a vulnerable state, bawling his eyes out over a nightmare, humiliated him more than he cared to admit.  Knowing that lingering would only invite more peril and possible embarrassment were any travelers to stop and find him, he readied to take his leave for the day’s trek south. Still yet, a part of him yearned to vanish beneath the elm until the earth reclaimed him. But, clinging to the fragile hope of something better, he trudged onward—a solitary wanderer with nothing left to lose and eyes that beheld infinite possibilities on the horizon.