Phealaferian Frontiers: 15: Winter Is Coming
The curse of Timberwood had been lifted in a blaze of fire, steel, and courage. With the Tree Warden defeated and the village restored, the party returned triumphant. But not all had made it through unchanged—Thomas had been transformed into a tree by an arcane backlash from the mausoleum. Left behind in the grove while his companions carried on, his fate seemed uncertain…
Thomas stirred to life once more—his bark-like skin receding, his limbs shedding wooden stiffness until he stood as himself again in the shadow of the mausoleum. Around him lay the charred remains of the Tree Warden, the grove eerily quiet and empty.
Before panic could take root, the ghostly form of Opal Whitestorm appeared once again, her translucent features calm and composed. She gently explained what had happened during his transformation: the battle was won, the curse broken, and his friends had returned to the village.
“Oh no, not again,” Thomas muttered, running a hand through his hair. “How long has it been this time? Another five years?!”
Opal chuckled softly, brushing her ghostly whiskers. “No, no. Twelve hours at the most. Come now. Let’s get you back.”
With a wave of her spectral paw, the great oak behind her opened, revealing a glowing passage of green light and twisting bark. Thomas hesitated only briefly, then stepped through—and immediately burst out of another tree just outside Timberwood. He blinked at the sunlight, just in time to see his companions leaving the inn. With relief flooding him, he rushed to rejoin them. The party greeted him with cheers, relieved laughter, and no small amount of ribbing.
Together, they made their way to the town hall to check in with Elder Nestor. Still looking disheveled from his time as a tree, the old man thanked them sincerely. He promised that New Albion would hear of their heroism and that Timberwood owed them a great debt. Though he was clearly still recovering, he smiled through the sap and offered what blessings he could.
Packing up their supplies, the group hit the road once again, the mood lighter than it had been in days.
As they travelled, Thomas opened up about the toll of their recent battles. He admitted that the brand over his eye wasn’t just a mark—it was a curse. It kept him from fully healing from any wound, no matter how small. “Every hit leaves a scar,” he said. “And I’ve been collecting a lot of scars lately.”
Guardian, moved by Thomas’s honesty, spoke more openly than usual. They shared stories of life under the hag Morlatha’s influence, growing up in the timeless chaos of the Feywild. Guardian didn’t know how long they’d truly been alive or how much of their life had been warped by the strange, cyclical flow of Fey time. The weight of memory and confusion hung thick in their voice, but the act of sharing it seemed to ease some of the burden.
The journey was long but peaceful. They passed through quiet forests and gently rolling hills, the leaves starting to turn with the coming season. One evening, they stopped in the village of Briarwood and took rooms at a modest tavern. In the middle of the night, Tosk was awakened by the haunting howl of wolves in the distance. Still half-asleep and convinced of danger, he lashed out from his bedroll—and accidentally punched Guardian square in the chest. The startled warlock groaned, and the room broke into quiet laughter.
Several uneventful days later, the party returned to New Albion.
Back within the familiar, mismatched walls of the Tavern With No Name, the party began to unwind. Their return didn’t go unnoticed for long. The tavern’s door creaked open, and in stepped the ever-dour Councillor Travan Hale.
Before he could even close the door, Thomas stormed toward him, pointing a stern finger. “You cleaned my wolf pelts!”
Travan blinked. “I assure you, Mister Wilderman, I cleaned nothing of yours. If you have any complaints, I suggest you take it up with the Cleaners’ Guild I contracted. Now, if you’ll allow me, we have important business.”
He produced a sealed parchment from within his coat, broke the seal with a letter opener, and dramatically cleared his throat.
“Right then. Here’s the short of it. Civil Resource Affairs is… pleased—surprisingly so. You lot didn’t screw up, didn’t die in a ditch, and apparently that’s enough to warrant a glowing report.”
He skimmed the document with casual disinterest. “Yada yada, commendations, civic pride, gratitude, you know the drill.”
Flipping to the details, he continued: “The source of the disruption in Timberwood was confirmed to be magical in nature—neutralized. Town’s back in working order. Casualties? Technically zero, if we’re not counting ‘temporarily converted into trees’ as fatal. So, well done.”
He turned the parchment to show a portion written in elaborate script. “And because you didn’t fuck up and die, the city’s decided you’re worth investing in. Compensation follows: one hundred gold for investigation, two-fifty bonus for full resolution, and a cherry on top—one hundred and fifty Phaela-Credits in municipal development grants.”
Travan smirked and squinted at a particularly pompous section. “And your names, for what it’s worth, have now been officially added to the Provisional Contractor Registry under the grand title of—‘Competent – Reliable – Re-deployable.’ Which, translated from bureaucratic nonsense, means you didn’t embarrass the city, and you’ll likely be sent back out the next time something catches fire.”
He closed the parchment with exaggerated precision, giving a slow, sarcastic clap. “Congratulations. You’re officially worth the city’s time. Try not to ruin it.”
With that, he placed a clinking bag of 350 gold on the table. The party divided it evenly—50 gold each, and 50 set aside for tavern improvements.
Business concluded, a few members of the party stepped forward with personal requests.
Erisa approached first. “I’d like help finding someone. My mother. Lady Brightglade.”
Travan’s brow arched slightly. “Ah. The vigilante. I’m aware of her—an elusive figure. Very few leads, but I’ll put out some feelers.”
Tosk followed. “I’m looking for another Luxodon. A mammoth like me.”
“Not a common sight in these parts,” Travan said, thoughtfully. “But their rarity makes them easier to track. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
Tobias stepped forward, voice low. “I’m cursed. I can’t heal. Is there someone who can help?”
Travan nodded slowly. “Temple of Illinay—goddess of the moon and truth. They deal with curses like that. Depending on the severity, you may need a petition to reach the High District sanctuaries.”
Finally, Guardian stepped forward. “Do you know anything about a hag named Morlatha?”
Travan shook his head. “No. But if she’s a hag, you’d be better off speaking to the Monster Hunters’ Guild. If she’s a known entity, they’ll have something. That said, the city is warded against major magical threats—you should be safe within the walls.”
“Thank you,” Guardian said.
Travan nodded, adjusting his coat. “But of course. This is, after all, a business relationship. You help me, I help you. We all stay alive and profitable.”
With a polite, shallow bow, Travan turned and disappeared into the streets of New Albion, leaving the party to plan their next steps in the ever-growing tapestry of their adventures.
In the aftermath of Timberwood, life in New Albion returned to a relative calm. But for the party, the echoes of curses, ghosts, and strange transformations refused to fade entirely. Each member took to the city with a mixture of purpose and reflection, eager to shape themselves into something stronger. Winter crept slowly toward the city walls, and as the air chilled, so too did the sense of restlessness in the air.
Tobias found himself drawn again to the Temple of Ilmater. There, beneath flickering candlelight and stoic stone saints, he swore the Oath of Devotion. Though the curse in his eye still pulsed faintly—mocking every cut, every wound that refused to heal—his heart was steadier. Ilmater’s teachings became a tether. Tobias vowed to uphold compassion, honesty, and courage. The pain might linger, but so would his purpose.
Tosk, never one for words, began showing up unannounced at Tobias’ forge. At first, he watched. Then he asked questions. Then he grabbed a hammer. Within days, the forge rang with the sound of fire meeting steel as Tosk created weapons with uncanny focus. His smithing style was intuitive and brutal—pounding iron like it owed him money. But the results were impressive: thick-hafted weapons adorned with experimental runes, brimming with potential. Beneath his rugged fur and gleeful destruction, the Luxodon was a savant.
Guardian retreated into quiet obsession. The grimoire once mistaken by others as a cookbook revealed new layers of arcane geometry and whispering spells. Each turning page reshaped their understanding of magic—and themselves. New spells danced at their fingertips, each one carrying a hint of the Feywild’s volatile power. Guardian read late into the night, often found slumped over their desk, ink-stained and haunted by things only they could see.
Thomas took to the city’s streets, eyes sharp and calculating. The memory of Isenvale, of time-warped disasters and impossible dragons, never left him. By day, he observed the guards—learning their paths, their patterns. By night, he studied tracks in the woods and honed his ability to disappear without a trace. When the wind stirred, he seemed to move with it, always just ahead of danger. There was weight behind his eyes now—and lethal precision in his hands.
Eldrin grew quieter, more focused. He remembered the feel of chains, the weight of helplessness. He swore never to feel it again. Training with blades and shadow, he embraced his Assassin’s path. His strikes turned surgical. His movements, practiced and silent. Where once he fought to impress, now he fought to survive—and to end fights before they truly began.
Erisa underwent the most mysterious transformation. It began innocuously enough. Sat at her desk in the tavern, hunched over a charcoal sketch of Tobias throwing his arms skyward in the Timberwood clearing. The morning was quiet. A mug of tea steamed beside her, untouched. Smoof curled lazily across her lap, purring.
She dropped a pencil. It rolled off the desk, just out of reach.
Erisa sighed and reached for it without thinking.
The pencil froze mid-roll, hovered, and slowly floated into her hand.
Erisa stared.
Then her heart thudded. Mage Hand. It had come unbidden, naturally. Like blinking. She stood, testing it again. Then again. It responded with ease. Her eyes lit up. Magic—real magic—was in her blood.
Breath catching, she fetched her ritual components. “Let’s try something fun,” she whispered. She began the familiar chant, coaxing power toward the bond she shared with Smoof. Her voice quivered with excitement. “Find Familiar.”
Her vision clouded. She was no longer in the tavern.
A bubbling cauldron filled the view, green light flickering across a warped stone room lined with jars. The air reeked of herbs and something fouler.
Then came the voice.
“Oh, you traitorous little shit… Hello there, girly.”
Erisa froze. She felt her body seated in the real world, but her mind—her senses—were trapped.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The voice smiled through the syllables.
“I am Morlatha, dear.”
Everything inside Erisa screamed to cut the spell, to run, to scream. But she stayed.
“I need to go.”
“No, no, please stay. We’ve waited so long. I see you and Smoof have become very close. That’s nice. I asked them to watch you, you know.”
Erisa swallowed. “Watch me? Why?”
“Because, darling, you’re here because of me. I made a deal—with your parents.”
The words hit like ice water. Erisa’s mouth opened, then closed.
“What deal?” Erisa asked, the words tumbling out in a rush. Her voice cracked as the weight of the moment caught up with her. “You know my parents—do you know where my mother is?”
Her heart thudded. She could feel it in her throat. Morlatha’s presence was like smoke curling into her thoughts, invasive but strangely warm. The idea that this monstrous thing knew her parents sent a chill down her spine. Her fingers clenched, knuckles white, but she didn’t pull away.
Mum…?
She tried to picture her mother’s face, but it flickered—half memory, half hope. Was it even real? Could she trust that it had been real?
Her chest tightened. She wasn’t ready to hear what might come next—but she had to.
There was a long pause, as though Morlatha were savoring the moment. Then came the reply, smooth and sweet as rot: “Oh no, I’m afraid not. I don’t know where she is now… but if we made a deal, I could help you find her. I could help you become powerful enough to truly search for her—and find her.”
Erisa shook her head, tried to pull back—but the room swam.
Morlatha’s voice softened. “Power, sweetling. Freedom. Family. You deserve all three.”
Before Erisa could respond, the world snapped back. The tavern. Her desk. Her tea now cold.
Tobias stood over her, eyes glowing faintly from the protective magic he’d just cast.
Erisa’s lip trembled. “Morlatha. She spoke to me.”
Guardian burst up from his seat, alarm flaring. “You talked to her? Don’t. Ever.”
“She said she made a deal with my parents!” Erisa snapped. Her hands trembled.
“She lies,” Guardian said, his voice low. “She killed people. She ruined Orthod. She—”
“She said I’m here because of her,” Erisa whispered. “She said she could help me find my mother.”
“Hag’s don’t lie,” Eldrin said quietly from a corner, “They make twist the truth, but they don’t lie. Though she may offer to help, hags don’t do it for free. There’s always a catch. She’ll twist you.”
Erisa’s eyes burned. She pulled her sketchbook open and jabbed at the drawing of the fetish. “THEN WHY DO I KNOW THIS SYMBOL?!”
“I don’t know,” Guardian said, helpless. “She told me I had a sister. I—”
“WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!”
The air was tense. Heavy.
Erisa’s book shut itself with a snap, hovered into the air, and followed her out of the room. She didn’t look back.
Behind her, silence.
Even Smoof didn’t stir.
A few days later, while the tension still lingered, a bell rang outside the tavern.
“Snow’s coming!” a voice called.
Tobias stood in the doorway, surveying the clouds. Winter had crept into the city’s bones. It was time, he thought, for proper coats. He turned to the group. “We should go shopping.”
Erisa, from a nearby bench, held up a hand. “Wait. Just… watch.”
Tobias nodded and stepped outside, followed by Guardian, Tosk, and Eldrin.
At first, the street was quiet. Empty.
Then—WHAM! Eight inches of snow dropped in a solid sheet, burying everyone but Tobias in a frozen heap. Tosk flailed, Guardian yelped, and Eldrin groaned under the weight.
Erisa, untouched under the tavern awning, crossed her arms smugly. “Told you so.”
She turned and walked back inside, snow trailing from her boots like breadcrumbs.
The others, still half-buried, stared after her.
Winter had truly arrived—and so had the storm behind Erisa Brightglade’s eyes.
