Phealafarian Frontiers : 20 : The Journey North / Starlight Festival
With supplies packed, saddlebags strapped, and winter cloaks drawn tight against the snow-chilled wind, the party gathered at the tavern for one last check before the journey north. The tavern hearth crackled with warm cheer, and garlands of holly and golden ribbon were wrapped around the beams in honour of the Starlight Festival. Smoof dozed beside the fire, occasionally flicking an ear at the bustle around it. An air of quiet excitement had settled over the group. Today, they would set out toward Mistvale.
Just as they were preparing to leave, a soft knock interrupted the bustle. A courier stepped in, the scent of frost following them, and handed a sealed letter to Erisa — the parchment crisp, the wax stamped with the symbol of a crescent moon entwined with vines. She stood frozen for a moment, staring at her name written in familiar, careful script. Then, without a word, she retreated upstairs.
The Letter:
Erisa,
I don’t have the words for how many times I’ve imagined receiving this letter — and feared I never would.
Your handwriting is older now. Steadier. But I see the girl you were in every loop and curve.
Zaryth told me you were coming. That you’re safe. That you’re strong.
I always knew you would be.
I want to say so much, and there is so much I can’t. I saw the places where your pen hesitated — the questions you meant to ask.
You’re right to wait. Those questions deserve to be answered in person. Face to face. From me — no one else.
I’ll wait. As long as it takes.
I hope the road is kind to you, though I know it rarely is. But you are not alone — and that gives me hope.
There will be food, warmth, and firelight waiting in Mistvale.
I have never stopped loving you.
And I never stopped hoping you would find me.
Come home.
With all my heart,
Mother
(Lyra)
Upstairs, Erisa sat on the edge of her bed, the letter trembling in her hands. Her eyes welled with tears — not sorrow, but something heavier and warmer. Relief. Hope. Longing that had grown quietly into something fierce. She wiped her cheek with her sleeve and folded the letter carefully, placing it into the inner pocket of her coat.
A knock at the door. Tobias peeked in, voice soft. “You alright?”
Erisa nodded, eyes still shining. She held out the letter wordlessly.
Tobias stepped inside, took the letter, and read in silence. When he finished, he looked up, stepped forward, and wrapped her in a firm, steady hug.
“We’ll get there,” he promised. “You’ll see her soon.”
The morning sun glittered on the snow as the party and Zaryth loaded up their mounts. Horses were blanketed in padded gear, carts stocked with provisions and holiday snacks, and Tosk’s rented elephant stood proudly beneath a tarp of patchwork wool. The group gave a final wave to the tavern windows before setting out, leaving tracks in the fresh snow that wound out of the city and into the quiet countryside.
Tosk made a valiant effort to stash his “treasures” — a collection of found objects, old tools, a cracked lantern, and a box of slightly bruised potatoes — onto Tobias’ cart.
“No,” Tobias said flatly, redirecting Tosk’s arm.
“But they’re cultural artifacts!” Tosk protested.
“They’re damp trash.”
“Historic trash!”
Still grumbling, Tosk stuffed the sacks back onto his own mount.
The roads, though dusted in snow, had been cleared by the city’s effort crews. Meltwater made the going muddy in places, but the caravan pressed on steadily. As they passed out of New Albion proper, the scent of pine grew stronger, mingling with the scent of baked goods and spices from travelers along the way. They passed through Briarwood — quiet and dusted in frost — and then Timberwood, where a few of the locals waved, recognizing the party with small smiles and gloved hands.
As the afternoon light faded behind clouded skies, the group reached the northern edge of the Aslan Peninsula. A line of watchtowers loomed ahead, their spires dark against the snowy foothills. Tosk grew visibly tense.
“Everything alright?” Guardian asked.
“Yeah,” Tosk muttered, watching the towers carefully. “Guards just… make me nervous.”
But the guards paid them no mind. The watchtowers were facing outward, their sight set not on travelers leaving the peninsula — but on whatever might one day try to come in.
Six days into the journey, with the festive season drawing closer, a few members of the party noted something concerning: their rations were running low. The crisp, snow-dusted landscape had offered little in the way of forageable goods, and the extra days on the road had drained more supplies than anticipated. The joviality of the season lingered, but a sense of realism began to set in.
Tosk, having spent the entirety of his coin renting the elephant (which he had affectionately named ‘Mammoth Junior’), looked around sheepishly. “Well… I can’t exactly buy more. Maybe we should pick up a bit of work along the way, yeah? Something to tide us over.”
The party agreed, and their next stop brought them to the town of Lamaton — a quiet crossroads village blanketed in snow, with a warm golden glow in its windows and the scent of baked bread, pine resin, and roasted chestnuts wafting from chimneys.
In the local tavern, decorated with strings of silver bells and evergreen garlands, Tosk marched boldly up to the counter and announced, “I’m looking for delivery work! We’re headed north — strong backs, fast legs, and one elephant!”
An old woman, seated by the hearth with knitting in her lap and spectacles low on her nose, raised a brow and beckoned them over. “I have something that needs delivering,” she said, her voice warm and creaky. “A Starlight Festival gift for my grandson in Okoheller. It’s about two days north of here.”
Tosk considered this with all the seriousness of a seasoned negotiator. “Seventeen gold.”
The party collectively groaned, some even covering their faces.
“That’s a bit much,” the old woman chuckled. “I was thinking something more… festive. How about a hot meal for all of you?”
Thomas nodded. “Maybe a bit of extra food for the road?”
“Oh of course, dear. There’ll be leftovers. I’m a grandmother after all.”
Soon the party found themselves seated around her hearth, enjoying a hearty home-cooked meal of roasted root vegetables, honey-basted ham, warm spiced cider, and a surprisingly delicious cranberry-glazed loaf. Her small cottage was crowded but cozy, decorated with paper stars and hand-sewn ornaments that filled the walls with memories. The laughter and clinking of cutlery made for a warm evening pause.
True to her word, she packed up generous helpings for the road ahead — thick-wrapped bundles of meat and bread, sweet buns, and a sealed jar of pear preserves.
As they bundled up to leave, Erisa asked, “Oh — what’s your grandson’s name?”
“Simon. Simon Slubbins.”
Back on the road, with the cold wind picking up again and stars just beginning to twinkle in the evening sky, Tosk looked at the neatly wrapped package nestled in the cart.
“Sooo… we just open this and keep it, right?”
Guardian extended a hand silently. Tosk, slightly deflated, handed it over — only to watch Guardian quietly tuck it into his travel bag without a second glance.
“Oh,” Tosk muttered, disappointed. “I thought you were gonna at least peek.”
The journey continued, snowflakes beginning to fall again as they followed the winding path northward — a package of promise riding safely among them, and the spirit of the Starlight Festival brightening the long road ahead.
That night, the party settled in around a crackling fire under the canopy of pine and stars. Blankets were unrolled, guards were assigned, and the wintry hush of the forest stretched around them like a velvet curtain. The wind whispered softly through the boughs overhead, carrying the distant calls of owls and the soft rustling of frost-coated needles. It was a night like many others they’d camped through—peaceful, reflective—until something unusual occurred.
Watches were quiet, uneventful—until sometime between Eldrin’s and Guardian’s shift.
When Guardian rose for his turn at the fire, he blinked in surprise. Sitting at the foot of each party member’s bedroll was a small, gift-wrapped box tied neatly in bright ribbon. The paper shimmered faintly in the firelight, each box bearing an elegant hand-penned tag. None had been there minutes before.
Guardian immediately shook Tobias awake.
“We have a situation,” he said, gesturing toward the boxes.
The rest of the camp stirred. Blankets rustled. Eyes blinked open. Tobias sat up groggily, quickly taking in the sight.
Tosk, however, wasted no time. With an eager grin, he tore into his box.
“Wait—it might be a fae trap!” Tobias warned, suddenly alert.
“Or a bomb,” Guardian added with concern. But it was already too late.
Inside Tosk’s box was a squat, stoneware jug painted with cheerful mammoth tusks and capped with a cork. Its surface was faintly warm to the touch, and when he shook it, it sloshed invitingly, promising warmth and mischief in equal measure.
Tobias activated his Divine Sense. A wave of faint celestial residue clung to the boxes like a soft breeze of incense and candlelight—gentle, benevolent, and unmistakably magical in nature.
He cautiously opened his own box. Inside was a single, oversized mitten—thick and patchwork, woven in red, gold, and white yarn that shimmered faintly with unseen energy. The moment he touched it, warmth spread up his arm, calming and bright.
Thomas squinted at the tag on his box. “To Thomas Wilderman, From Papa Ungarmass.”
Tobias checked his wrapping. His bore the same message.
One by one, they unwrapped their mysterious presents. Guardian’s box revealed a small, flour-dusted oven mitt stitched with cheerful blue thread and embroidered with a loaf of bread—and beside it, a tiny likeness of his horse, Sebastian, prancing proudly. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, comfort, and warm kitchens.
Thomas found a battered brass compass. Its needle spun briefly before settling to point due north. There was nothing magical in its movement—just the plain, steady direction of a well-worn traveler’s tool. Still, the craftsmanship was fine, and it held a quiet dignity in its aged design, nestled in soft wool and tied with twine.
Eldrin’s gift was a heavy bronze coin, set on a dark leather cord and stamped with the image of a rising sun. The metal was warm to the touch, the warmth steadying—a hearth against the cold darkness at the edge of his thoughts.
Erisa’s eyes widened as she unwrapped a delicate porcelain mask. Its surface shimmered subtly with painted colors, etched laughter lines shifting like trick light. A pink ribbon threaded through the eyes.
Curious, Erisa raised the mask to her face—and in that moment, her mind pictured Sweets, clear as day: his voice, his posture, his easy grin. In an instant, her form shimmered. The party gasped as Sweets stood in her place, complete with his trademark expression and posture.
The group stared.
“That’s… uncanny,” Tobias muttered.
Immediately, everyone turned back to their gifts with new enthusiasm.
Tosk, holding up his jug, grinned and thought, “Beer.” The jug filled instantly, foam bubbling over the top with a crisp, golden brew. He downed it in one, then thought of something else—nothing happened.
“Okay, so one thought per day?” he mused, wiping froth from his chin. “Reasonable.”
Eldrin slipped the medallion around his neck. The quiet, gnawing anger that usually tugged at the back of his thoughts seemed to withdraw, its edge dulled for the first time in weeks. He exhaled slowly, eyes closing in rare peace.
Guardian, putting on the oven mitt, began cooking breakfast over the fire using leftovers from Granny’s meal. The food sizzled with new aroma, and when the party ate, they felt bolstered, energized, their spirits rising with every bite.
Thomas turned his compass in his hand, frowning. “It’s just a compass.”
Tobias, staring at his oversized mitten, was equally stumped. “It’s… cozy.”
Then he noticed a slip of parchment inside the mitten.
“For every pain endured, may joy return twice over.”
He blinked, re-read it, then turned to Tosk. “Punch me in the face.”
Tosk didn’t hesitate. With cheerful, unblinking enthusiasm, he stepped forward and, without a single word, delivered a sudden, solid right hook straight to Tobias’ jaw. The sound echoed across the quiet camp. Tobias reeled, dazed, blinking stars from his vision as he stumbled back a step.
“You know, I probably should’ve started with a scratch,” he mumbled, holding his cheek.
He cast Lay on Hands through the mitten. The healing surged through him brighter than normal, a warm pulse that lingered in his chest and fingertips.
Thomas found his own note tucked inside the compass’s wool:
“You’re not lost, lad. You’re just finding new ways home.”
He focused for a moment, thinking of the Tavern With No Name. The needle spun and then pointed steadily south, a comforting reminder of where he belonged.
The others rifled through their wrappings, discovering notes of their own:
Erisa: “For every face you try on, remember the heart beneath is always yours.”
Eldrin: “Let each day be your own, not the echo of the last.”
Guardian: “You can’t feed the world, but you can warm a heart.”
Tosk: “Strong arms, Stronger Drinks, Warm Friendship, Warmer heart.”
Zaryth, last to open hers, found a slender silver bell engraved with tiny lunar phases. Its clear chime carried through the trees like moonlight in sound. Tied around its handle was a cord of blue silk and a folded note:
“May your light reach those wandering, even when you cannot. —Papa Ungarmass”
They sat together by the fire a while longer, talking quietly, watching the flames and turning over their new treasures in their hands. The gifts felt personal, impossibly thoughtful—like they’d been made not just for what each of them did, but for who they were.
With the dawn casting rose gold across the snow, the party packed away their gifts with quiet reverence. Whatever magic had left them these gifts, it seemed kind—an ember of comfort against the winter road ahead.
Shouldering their gear once more, the party continued northward—toward Okoheller, and whatever lay beyond.
