We definitely weren’t in Kansas anymore.

  It takes me a second to adjust to the change. One moment, the damp chill of the crypt pressed against my skin, the lute’s non-existent strings humming faintly in my mind; the next -- a warm, fragrant breeze washed over me, carrying scents and sounds so vivid, so real, that they hit like a physical force. My eyes snap open, blinking against a sudden flood of color and light that make the crypt’s gloom seem like a distant dream.

  My bare feet sink into a thick carpet of bioluminescent, indigo-colored moss. It is pleasantly soft and springy, each step releasing faint puffs of glittering spores that caught the dim sunlight streaming through the canopy above. The air shimmers with them, a haze of tiny, glowing motes that danced like fireflies in the golden glow -- and I realize with a blink that actual fireflies, as well as what look to be tiny pixies, are joining them in a consummate, carefree dance through the air.

  I inhale deeply, and my head reels—jasmine mingled with honeysuckle, undercut by sweeter tones, like ripe berries crushed underfoot. The scents of life would have been strong here, even to normal people. To me, with my enhanced senses, the smells are intoxicating, almost overwhelming, and I feel a strange tug at the edges of my mind, as if the very atmosphere of this place wanted to pull me deeper into its embrace. For a fleeting instant, I want nothing more than to stay here. Forever.

  The rest of the forest is equally magical -- pulsing with a vitality that defies common sense. Ancient trees tower overhead, their gnarled trunks twisting into shapes that suggested faces frozen mid-expression—some laughing, some weeping. Their leaves shimmer with an inner light of their own, shifting through hues of emerald, gold, and sapphire in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Vines hang from their branches like living curtains, studded with flowers more beautiful than any tropical flower I’ve ever seen back on Earth; they open and close slowly as if breathing, their petals glistening with dew that sparkles with fiery rainbows like tiny diamonds. Every rustle of the leaves seems to carry whispers, a chorus of secrets just beyond comprehension, while the distant babble of a brook seems to weave faint laughter into its melody (but, of course, it could very well be actual laughter, since all kinds of water fae and spirits may be responsible for such a thing).

  The air itself hums with latent power, a subtle vibration that prickles against my skin and raises the hairs on my arms. In the distance, will-o’-the-wisps dart between the trees, their ghostly lights flickering in patterns that tease at meaning—in a language I can't quite grasp. The woods themselves seem aware of our presence.

  Watching.

  And then, there is the music. It drifts through the forest like a faint whisper. The sound is distant, inhuman, softened by the thick canopy of ancient trees and the glowing mushrooms that faintly illuminate our surroundings. Deep, resonant drums carried the farthest, their steady rhythm echoing through the towering oaks and willows, a primal pulse that mingled with the rustling leaves and the murmur of unseen streams. Each beat feels like a subtle nudge, a far-off heartbeat urging us onward.

  Higher notes—ethereal flutes and lutes—followed, but they are faint, their melodies fragmented and ghostly, as if the wind itself struggled to carry them this far. The music twists through the magical air with an otherworldly edge. Alongside it, I can faintly make out what might be the muffled sounds of laughter and shouts, their sharpness dulled by distance, blending into a low hum of manic energy that hinted at revelry still out of sight.

  The forest itself seems to respond. The branches overhead sway faintly, apparently keeping time with the drums, and the air buzzes with a subtle undercurrent of magic that prickles against the skin.

  Someone in the distance is having one hell of a party.

  I turn to my companions, their faces reflecting the a mix of awe and unease. Karlach is rooted in place, her amber eyes wide, her tail twitching as she scanned the surroundings. Her usual grin is gone, replaced by a cautious, childlike wonder, her massive frame absolutely dwarfed by the towering trees. After escaping a decade of literal hell, I would image that suddenly finding herself in the middle of an enchanted forest would be jarring to say the least. Let alone enchanted trees, does Karlach even remember what regular trees look like up close, after all those years stuck in Avernus? Has she ever even seen a regular, unenchanted old growth tree while growing up in Baldur's Gate?

  Astarion isn't doing much better -- the Vampire Spawn looks even more stunned than I initially felt, his enhanced vampiric senses must be getting absolutely hammered with all of the available stimuli. His stance looks guarded, his red eyes narrowed -- as though he is expecting the beauty around us to peel back and reveal a maw of hungry fangs.

  Gale, on the other hand, seems to have kept his composure quite well. I suppose that, for someone who has been to Elysium -- a heaven-like plane associated with Mystra -- enchanted forests wouldn't present quite the same levels of shock. He was capable of speech, at the very least.

  “By Mystra’s weave,” Gale murmured, his voice hushed with reverence. He took a tentative step forward, his robes brushing against a cluster of glowing mushrooms that pulsed faintly in response. “This… this is the Feywild? Or one of the Fey associated planes, at any rate. I suspected that lute might have some fey enchantment woven into it, but—” He cut himself off, spinning to face me with a sheepish grimace. “I should’ve warned you earlier not to touch it. Fey magic is an unpredictable, capricious thing, and now look where it’s flung us.”

  I arched a brow, a wry smile tugging at my lips. I would definitely have touched the lute regardless of any warnings. It was literally our only lead to find the girls!

  Astarion snorted, flicking a speck of glittering pollen from his sleeve with exaggerated disdain. “Oh, yes, let’s all thank Gale for his impeccable timing. Still, I’ll admit—this beats another moldy crypt.” He tilted his head, his smirk sharpening. “Though I’d wager this place is far more likely to kill us. It’s a bit… much, don’t you think?”

  Karlach shifted in place, her boots sinking into the moss with a soft squelch. “Beautiful, sure. But it’s giving me the creeps. Feels like the whole forest is staring at us.” She glanced at me, her expression hardening into something resolute. “What’s the play, Soldier? We didn’t exactly pack for a stroll through fairyland." She pauses, looking at me pointedly. "Or... did we? Do you have any forest supplies in that... space of yours?”

  Gale perks up, looking interested in seeing more unusual magic, while I smirk back at her.

  "Oh, Hot Stuff, with me close by, you won't have to pack for anything ever again. I've got you."

  (Note: )

  I took a moment to size her up. At 6’4”, I was no small figure, but Karlach matched me stride for stride—a barbarian hewn from muscle and fire, her shoulders straining against the battered leather armor she wore like it was a too-tight skin she longed to shed. Our heights aligned near-perfectly, and a spark of inspiration flared. The Skyrim armors I forged for myself and my companions -- like the Glass Armor I'm considering -- might just fit her. They might be a touch loose around the waist, but should be close enough to serve.

  “Here, try this on,” I said, my tone gruff but edged with anticipation. “Might be a bit roomy in spots, but it should do the job.” With a flicker of intent, I willed the armor into being from my inventory. Some of my finest work in-game, the masterpiece materialized before her in a shimmer of light. This Glass Armor was a marvel, born from Skyrim’s rarest volcanic glass—malachite, alive with a hypnotic swirl of green so deep it felt like staring into a forest’s molten heart. Its surface wasn’t static; it moved, faint veins of emerald pulsing beneath a smoky translucence, as if the glass breathed with a will of its own. The breastplate curved like a wave frozen mid-crash, its edges honed to a lethal sheen that caught the light and threw it back in jagged slivers. Pauldrons rose in graceful, tapering arcs, their tips gleaming like polished jade, while the bracers hugged the forearms with a segmented elegance, flexing as if alive. The greaves clung sleek and unyielding, their glassy shimmer shifting with each step, and the boots—light as a sigh—ended in reinforced toes that sparkled like enchanted pools under a noonday sun. (For a moment, I lamented that there could be no matching helm at the moment -- owing to Karlach's... horny problem. In the future, I would have to make one custom-fitted to accommodate those horns of hers).

  But the beauty of this piece was only half the story. Beneath the seemingly delicate form, this armor was a veritable fortress of enchantment, layered with magic I’d pushed well past Skyrim’s limits, bending the rules until they sang. I’d woven in protections so potent, they thrummed beneath the surface like a heartbeat. The armor included over 100% resistance enchantments to Magic, Frost, Flame, Shock, and Poison, and was tipped off with a Waterbreathing enchantment -- for no reason other than I was able to include one. This Armor was designed for a singular noble purpose: keeping my Skyrim followers alive while they walked behind me in the most... extreme and unforgiving of environments. And now, I hoped that it would prove its value in this new world.

  Karlach let out a low whistle, her eyes widening as she stepped closer to her prize. Her calloused fingers brushed the breastplate’s edge with a delicate touch, and the glass answered with a faint hum, its glow rippling across her red skin, mingling with the wisps of steam curling from her infernal heat. “Gods, Soldier,” she rasped, her voice thick with something raw—admiration, perhaps, but laced with a quieter awe she’d never voice outright. “This is… unreal.” She lifted the chestpiece, testing its weight—impossibly light for its strength—and a grin broke across her face, sharp and wild, like a predator tasting freedom. “Loose or not, I’ll make it dance. Where in the world did you manage to find something like this?"

  I crossed my arms, a smirk tugging at my lips as she began to don the armor. Each piece settled onto her frame with a surprisingly snug fit, as if it had been forged with her in mind all along. “Find? Karlach, you wound me! I made it myself!” I said, my voice rough with pride. “Both the glass smithing and the enchanting are my work. As for the latter... let’s just say no effort was spared. Frost, fire, lightning, poison, magic, even drowning—you should be completely safe from all of these things. In fact, you don't have to worry about getting hurt while wearing this -- not unless it's from something really exotic.

  She ran a finger along the armor's smooth, greenish surface, then looked up at me, her voice catching slightly. “I… Soldier, I can’t accept something like this! What about you? You’re out here risking your neck too!”

  I gave her a lopsided grin, waving off her concern. “Oh, don’t worry, Hot Stuff. I’ve got my own.”

  With a casual flick of my mind, I summoned an identical set of Glass Armor from my inventory. It materialized around me in a shimmer of enchantment, each piece snapping into place with a faint, crystalline chime. The boots grounded me first, then the greaves hugged my legs, the cuirass wrapped my torso, pauldrons settled on my shoulders, and bracers encased my forearms—all of it gleaming with that volcanic glass sheen, minus the helmet, of course. The dirty silk pants I’d been sporting vanished in an instant, replaced by the sleek, reflective leg armor that caught the surroundings' vibrant light in a dazzling dance of colors.

  And there, atop my head, still sat my lucky fishing hat—a weathered, floppy thing that looked absurdly out of place atop the formidable ensemble. I adjusted it with a smirk, letting it tilt just so.

  Karlach blinked, then let out a bark of laughter, her whole frame shaking with it. “By the hells, Soldier, you’re a sight! That hat—seriously? You’re keeping it with all that?”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “The Hat Stays On,” I playfully shot back, tipping the brim at her. “Sentimental value. Plus, it keeps the sun out of my eyes.”

  Astarion’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and smooth as a dagger’s edge. “Oh, how charming—decking her out like some knight in glittering glory.” He leaned against an ancient tree, his smirk a practiced mask, but a flicker in his crimson eyes betrayed him—envy, thin and cutting, lurking beneath the sarcasm. “Tell me, Darling, do I get a set too, or is this a private little tailoring session?” He tossed his silver hair with a flourish, burying the sting under disdain, but it lingered in the air like a ghost.

  "You do, actually." I tell our resident Vampire Spawn. "As does Gale, and anyone else who travels with us. I just have the one size with me at the moment, but I'll be more than happy to make a new custom set for everyone... after we rescue my friends and get a few free nights."

  Astarion looked at me in disbelief, not having expected such a blunt and generous response. His smirk twitched, faltering for a moment as he processed my words, his return quip seemingly caught in his throat.

  "But, for now, I do have a couple high-quality unenchanted robes for you and Gale. They aren't exactly top of the line Glass Armor, but they are a damned sight better than the torn, mindflayer gunk covered clothes you're currently wearing!" I quickly pass a pair of silk robes -- modeled after the Telvanni Robe -- over to Gale and Astarion.

  Then, as Astarion changed, Gale stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowed with scholarly intensity. “Harald,” he began, his voice low but brimming with curiosity, “I can tell something is there—powerful, intricate, woven into the very essence of this armor. But I feel nothing in the Weave. No echoes, no resonance. How is that possible?” He tilted his head, fingers brushing the air as if searching for the familiar threads of Mystra’s magic. “Everything I know suggests magic in this world is bound to the Weave—or, for the initiated, Shar’s Shadow Weave -- the Dark Goddess' would be alternative to Mystra's blessings. But, Harald, just what in the blazes... is this?”

  I shrugged, offering him a lopsided grin as I leaned casually against a tree. “Oh, Gale, there's a very simple explanation. You see, my method of enchanting uses a primordial energy called Magicka. Neither Mystra’s Weave nor Shar’s Shadow Weave are involved in any way. It’s… its own thing. Untethered. Free.” I paused, then added lightly, “Oh, don't look at me like that. Everything will be okay—I promise. I’ll teach you!”

  Gale’s jaw slackened, his eyes widening as he felt the world he thought he knew flip upside down. “You’ll.... teach me?” he repeated, his voice a hushed mix of awe and disbelief. “Just like that? Harald, don't you realize what this means? This, what you've discovered here... wizards guard their breakthroughs with secrecy bordering on paranoia—major arcane discoveries are hoarded, hidden away. You barely even know me... and you’d share this… revelation with me so freely?”

  “Why ever not?” I said, my tone sharpening as I straightened, the levity giving way to something fiercer. “Let me tell you something, Gale. I... despise the fact that wizards in this world are reliant on the whims of some goddess—however benevolent she may be—to perform magic. Mystra’s Weave might be a wonder, but it’s ultimately a chain, Gale. A gilded and shiny chain, perhaps, but a chain nonetheless. Should you wish it, in time, we can build a better future. One where magic needn't be borrowed or begged for any longer. One where the destiny of the intelligent races will be placed in their own hands, and built from the ground up: by the people and for the people. The likes of Mystra are outdated relics best left in the past; let the petty gods keep their so-called heavens. You and I, Gale: we'll make an Elysium of our very own -- right here on the Material Plane. In time, it is the gods that shall look upon our works in envy.”

  My bold declaration settled between us, heavy with intent, a quiet rebellion against the foundations of Gale’s world. He fell silent, his brow creasing as he stared at me, then down at the staff in his hands. His fingers tightened around it, tracing the familiar carvings as if grounding himself in the known while my words tugged at something deeper. I could see it in his eyes—the spark of resonance, the flicker of a mind that had spent years bowing to Mystra now daring to imagine an ambition beyond her reach. He didn’t speak, but the thoughtful tilt of his head told me the idea had taken root.

  Astarion broke the stillness with a theatrical sigh, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “Well, that’s all very stirring, Darling, but can we save the magical reform manifestos for after we’ve dealt with your little rescue mission? Some of us prefer our revolutions with a side of survival.”

  I chuckled, nodding as I turned back to the path ahead. “Fair enough. Let’s go take a look around -- that party I'm hearing seems like a good place to start.”

  ++

  We’d only gone a few paces along a winding trail when something zipped out from the undergrowth—a flicker of light almost too quick to track. My hand almost moved to intercept on its own accord, before I relaxed.

  Then, we were met with the welcoming committee: a pixie -- an adorable little thing -- barely the size of my pinkie, hovering on wings that shimmered like dragonfly scales in the sun. She was dressed in a tasteful, makeshift tunic made from loose petals woven with spider silk. Her skin glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped under glass, and her golden hair floated around her like a halo. She grinned at me, all sharp teeth and sharper mischief.

  Her voice chimed out in a playful rhyme:

  “Well met, you travelers bold and grand,

  Who tread the paths of fey-born land.

  I’m Sylvie, swift, a sprite so spry,

  But heed me now, before we fly:

  No steel nor blade may come along,

  Or hosts shall sing a wrathful song.”

  Astarion froze, his hand hovering near his dagger. “No weapons? Is the little insect saying we’re to stroll around this place defenseless?”

  Sylvie’s wings buzzed as she bobbed in the air.

  “Trust is law in revel’s keep,

  Break it not, lest peril leap.”

  Karlach grinned at the little one. “Oh Gods, she's adorable. What do you think, oh feareless leader? Shall we disarm like our guide asks?”

  I nod confidently. "Of course! It wouldn't do to show poor manners. Especially where the Fae are concerned."

  Gale nods along beside me. "Right you are. The Fae can be dangerous, but they do have to follow rules. If hospitality applies to us, then, in theory, we should be fine if we play along." He tilts his head, eyes alight with curiosity. “But that music—something tells me it’s no ordinary tune. What’s its source, Sylvie?”

  The pixie twirled, her laughter a cascade of bells.

  “After years of three by three,

  The Fey convene in revelry.

  The Grand Revel, a fest so rare,

  Where music soars through magic air.”

  The air shimmered with the Feywild’s strange magic as Sylvie finished her explanation, her words hanging like a melody. Gale’s eyes widened, his breath catching as he stammered, “No way… it’s real? But… How did...?”

  I raised my eyebrow in curiosity. “Do you recognize what’s happening, Gale?”

  He turned to me, his hands gesturing as if trying to pluck sense from the air. “It's the Grand Revel—I thought it was a just myth. A bedtime story Bards tell each other to fabricate epic stories for a heightened sense of self-importance. But it’s actually real? And we managed to stumble upon it from a random crypt of all places? Which, in turn, we would never have even looked twice upon, had we not entered the Material Plane in a nearly random location using a Mind-Flayer ship escaping Avernus...? Forgive me, it's all just so... Unbelievable.”

  His voice crackled with awe, his scholarly mind already racing to unpack the revelation.

  Karlach leaned forward, her arms crossed and a grin tugging at her lips. “So, it's a fancy Fey party of some kind? What do you know about it, Gale?”

  Gale took a deep breath, steadying himself as his gaze grew distant, lost in half-remembered lore. “Well... there are several variations of the story, but they all agree on one thing: every nine years, the Fae hold a huge banquet, at the end of which is a bardic contest of epic proportions. That contest is by invitation only, by the way—only the best of the best are said to be invited, and the fae that find and invite the most skilled performers are handsomely rewarded by the Courts. The contestants play original music to try to impress the judges. Those who win the judges' favor can ask for fantastical boons—fame, power, riches -- the fey can grant all of that and more. Problem is, the judges aren't easily impressed by mere mortal crafts. Those whose performance is deemed subpar must stay and serve the fey until the next contest -- in repayment for the Grand Ravel's generous hospitality.” His words flowed with the enthusiasm of a man who’d spent years dreaming of such tales, now standing in their reality.

  A silence settled, broken only by the faint hum of the strange winds that abound in this place. Then, Gale’s brow furrowed, his fingers tapping absently against his staff as he thought for a moment. “You know, I’ll bet that parchment and lute we found were an invitation to participate,” he said, his voice brightening with realization. “But the Bard in that crypt must have died before he could take part. That would explain how we got here—the invitation’s magic must have lingered, pulling us through!" He shakes his head. "Though... the chances of any of us touching that lute at a time coinciding with the Grand Revel were beyond astronomical.”

  I nodded, the pieces falling into place. “So, we’re here by accident, caught up in some long-dead Bard’s unfinished business.”

  Karlach chuckled, flexing her shoulders. “Well, I say we make it our business now. This sounds like a party worth crashing!”

  Astarion smirked, twirling a dagger lazily. “Oh, I'm all for it -- as long as I’m not the one strumming for my supper. Nine years of Fey servitude wouldn't suit my complexion.”

  I smile at that. None of the core companions were Bards by default, so, expecting them to know their way around musical instruments -- and at a world-class level to boot -- would be quite the tall order. And, speaking of companions.

  "Sylvie. Did you happen to see anyone else come through here before us? It would have been two women -- one, a cleric with dark hair. Another, a githyanki warrior?"

  Sylvie dipped closer, her gaze sweeping over us.

  “Through this path, none came before,

  No souls have crossed this hidden door.

  You alone now tread this way,

  First to seek the revel’s play.

  But, through the woods where shadows play,

  A myriad paths do wind away.

  And in this wood's enchanted air

  Your friends, perhaps, have wandered there?

  Yet I can guide you to the tune,

  Beneath the stars and silver moon—

  If you will grant a gift to me,

  A token fair, a rarity.

  A piece of sweet, or three to share,

  For mortal sweets are rich and rare.

  And guide you thence, I’ll play my part,

  With pixie guile and a true heart.”

  I considered her words. Pixies loved sweets, and a deal could bind her to us—at least for a time. This could be a very good thing. Although pixies were at the bottom of the Fey food chain, their magic wasn't to be underestimated -- after all, a big plot point of Act 2 was the ability to navigate the Shadow Curse using artifacts called Moon Lanterns, which were powered by pixie magic. If I could somehow draw this Sylvie into a more long-term deal... A plan began to form in my mind.

  In my hand, I materialized a sweetroll -- an iconic Skyrim dessert slightly larger than my fist. Sylvie's eyes widened in anticipation.

  "This is called a sweetroll -- a dessert that is out of this world. I can guarantee that you've never tasted the like. So, here's my proposal, little one." I hold up three fingers. “Three sweetrolls for your service, guidance, and protection lasting three days... and for as long thereafter as the sweetrolls remain beneficial to you.”

  Sylvie was beyond excited to take that deal. She clapped her tiny hands, wings flaring.

  “A bargain sweet, a pact so fine,

  For three days hence, my aid is thine.

  And while your rolls my joy sustain,

  I’ll guard you through this wild domain.”

  Her grin faltered briefly, that warning glint returning.

  “But mind the rule, I spoke it true,

  No weapons bared, or woe to you.”

  I smiled, glancing at my companions. The Fey thrived on rules and deals—breaking their customs could cost us more than a fight... but those deals also cut both ways. As long as we played by the Fey's rules, we should be perfectly safe. In fact...

  “Of course, Sylvie. We shall sheath our blades. You may taste your prize if you wish.”

  She beamed, darting upwards with a flourish, before diving directly into the Sweetroll. She practically inhaled a good quarter of it before -- with an audible eep, she suddenly fell down, comatose -- my telekinesis quickly catching her before she hit the ground.

  Karlach frowned at me, angrily. "Soldier, you.... surely didn't poison the poor little thing, did you? You wouldn't do that, right?"

  Gale, too, looked ready to say something, before I raised a hand to explain. A quick peek with a diagnostic spell confirmed my suspicions.

  "It's OK, guys. The pixie isn't dead -- she's just... well... really, really full at the moment. You see, I happen to be an accomplished Alchemist. When I cooked that particular dessert, I imbued it with a rather powerful restoration effect."

  I do a quick status check on the remaining Sweetroll, and see a window with familiar information.

  Item: Sweet Roll (Legendary)

  Weight: 0.1

  Value: -1509825678

  Effects: Regenerates 1257023759% Health for 5329872576 seconds.

  "Though, that restoration effect is both good and bad news for our new friend. You see, if it works as intended... Sylvie here will derive benefits from her treats for just a bit longer than a mere three days."

  "How... much longer?" Gale asks, in morbid fascination.

  I smile back with a shrug.

  I don't particularly trust Fae, and couldn't pass up the opportunity to test the effects of my more powerful consumables on living beings. Sylvie will soon awaken with a powerful regeneration ability -- or she won't, and, by analyzing what went wrong, I'll know more about my creations' interactions with the natural laws of this world. And, if she does awaken, our group would get a useful Fae servant, bound to us for quite awhile. It was truly a no loss scenario; a little heartless, perhaps -- but real life is no game. And I have no intention of playing fairly.