The Fey Woods breathed with a light not born of sun or moon. Lantern-moths drifted through the twilight canopy, their wings scattering sparks of emerald and silver. In the center of a moss-ringed clearing, Evoker Kalo stood, his blue hat tipped forward, golden rune glowing in his hand, and his blade of sky-blue steel catching the strange starlight. His eyes narrowed—he could feel the wrongness seeping into the trees.
From the mist emerged Dario, his form cloaked in ectoplasmic shadow. Tendrils of green-white energy writhed from his body like serpents, reaching hungrily for anything alive. His voice was a low, resonant hiss.
“You do not belong here, boy of heather. The Fey Woods answer to the dead now.”
Kalo lifted his sword, its runes flaring brighter, and took a step forward. “Not while I draw breath.”
With a gesture, Dario’s ectoplasm surged, twisting into skeletal hands that lashed out, seizing Kalo and dragging him upward. For a moment the koopling dangled in midair, his boots kicking, the glow of his rune dimming under the suffocating grip.
But Kalo closed his eyes and whispered the old words of the Heath. A surge of azure fire erupted from his blade, severing the spectral arms. He landed on the moss with a roll, the edge of his sword crackling as it cut through ghostly forms.
The forest itself seemed to shudder as their powers collided—ectoplasm meeting rune-light, death pressing against life. Moths scattered. Roots twisted. The air grew thick with power.
And still, neither gave ground.
For Dario’s shadows were endless, but Kalo’s resolve was deeper still, bound to the breath of the Heath and the promise of light in the darkest wood.
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Virgilius
The Fey Woods breathed with a light not born of sun or moon. Lantern-moths drifted through the twilight canopy, their wings scattering sparks of emerald and silver. In the center of a moss-ringed clearing, Evoker Kalo stood, his blue hat tipped forward, golden rune glowing in his hand, and his blade of sky-blue steel catching the strange starlight. His eyes narrowed—he could feel the wrongness seeping into the trees.
From the mist emerged Dario, his form cloaked in ectoplasmic shadow. Tendrils of green-white energy writhed from his body like serpents, reaching hungrily for anything alive. His voice was a low, resonant hiss.
“You do not belong here, boy of heather. The Fey Woods answer to the dead now.”
Kalo lifted his sword, its runes flaring brighter, and took a step forward. “Not while I draw breath.”
With a gesture, Dario’s ectoplasm surged, twisting into skeletal hands that lashed out, seizing Kalo and dragging him upward. For a moment the koopling dangled in midair, his boots kicking, the glow of his rune dimming under the suffocating grip.
But Kalo closed his eyes and whispered the old words of the Heath. A surge of azure fire erupted from his blade, severing the spectral arms. He landed on the moss with a roll, the edge of his sword crackling as it cut through ghostly forms.
The forest itself seemed to shudder as their powers collided—ectoplasm meeting rune-light, death pressing against life. Moths scattered. Roots twisted. The air grew thick with power.
And still, neither gave ground.
For Dario’s shadows were endless, but Kalo’s resolve was deeper still, bound to the breath of the Heath and the promise of light in the darkest wood.
