Sylfir's hand instinctively goes to her pack. It's now rich with the bounty she has collected during her time in the forest, which, judging by the waning light of day, has been extensive. She's found most things on Khaliss' list, from acorns to the rare, colourful wings of a butterfly, made so much rarer by the tainting of the forest. She's had to travel far and wide to avoid it when finding such things now that the corruption has spread farther. Frankly, she's exhausted and is looking forward to completing this ritual. All that remains is for her to return to the ruins of the druid's sanctum and follow Khaliss' instructions.

She wends her way there now. A few more minutes of walking between the dying forest trees—their bark cracked and infiltrated by strange, black filaments—has the statue of Mielikki in her sights. As she approaches the welcoming goddess of rangers, the growing debris of rotting leaves dampens her footsteps. Bones, not fresh kills, litter the way to the sanctum, and the tracks she once used to find this place are now semi-covered with no new prints to replace them. Sylfir wonders if the beast and its master have moved on to another part of the forest.

The thought eases her somewhat. Khaliss' instructions indicate the ritual will take some time, and she cannot afford to be interrupted. She only has the resources to do this once. Still, she is a little tentative as she walks past the statue of Mielikki, taking in her features one last time before venturing past the barrier of the illusion. She continues onward, descending to the sanctum below via the root-ridden path, shepherded along by the elk, bears, and leopards wrought in stone.

Upon reaching the circular sanctum, the stink of corruption forces its way into her nostrils, though the smell of carrion is lessened, with many corpses no more than brittle bones. Still, she wrinkles her nose in disgust—she would rather not linger here. Like before, the sight of a druid's sanctum defiled in this way—even though it is little more than an abandoned ruin—breaks her heart. All things must fade as life gives way to death, leading to life again, but what festers here is not natural. It is something that impedes the cycle, and she must see it gone from this place.

As she reaches the entrance to the sanctum, she looks past the central and imposing figure of Silvanus to King Oberon and the altar beneath him. Even from here, Sylfir can see that someone replaced the components she destroyed. The growing strength of the corruption tells her the ritual has already been repeated. What remains is simply an excess of materials.

She envies the red-eyed woman. It seems her search for components is spared the difficulties she faces. With the expansion of this blight and the waxing oppression of its necromantic magic, the search for materials is wearisome. Sylfir would be lucky to complete this ritual once, let alone twice.

She takes the long route to the statue of the Faerie King, going anticlockwise and scanning the rubble by Eldrath's feet. The small notebook is gone.

Reaching the King, she gains a clearer view of the altar. It is still stained with blood, though it bears more gems than before, and the bowl only carries burned herbs. The number of berries and mushrooms isn't worth mentioning, either. What she sees confirms her earlier suspicions—the ritual has been repeated.

Sylfir sweeps the altar clear of tainted components with her forearm before shaking the blood and gore from it, making space for a ritual that is purer. She reaches into her pack and takes Khaliss' notebook, turning the pages and skimming past copious notes made during the drow's travels until she lands on the most recent entry. Though she has read these words several times already, she reads them once more, and carefully, just to make sure she understands.

Place the herbs, acorns, butterfly wings, and crystals and/or gems in a bowl (in the absence of a bowl, simply placing them on the altar will suffice). Add incense if possible (advisable but not necessary).

If the items are not already blessed by a fae creature of good temperament, then one must be summoned to do so. Only then can you set the combustable ritual components aflame.

Let the flames burn for at least fifteen minutes (preferably until the flame wanes almost to the point of dying), then douse them with the vial of holy water. Then, pray to the god whose favour you wish to incur. This will only work for those deities who are neutral or good. The offering should be such that they give their aid willingly, according to the tome.

Sylfir sets the notebook down, leaving it open so she can refer to the instructions before taking out the ritual components sealed away in her pack. First, she takes out delicate butterfly wings as large as the palms of her hands. They're striated by pitch black curved lines that follow their contours, cutting through brilliant hues of sky-blue and sunset-pink. She places them at the centre of the altar before taking out the herbs and the incense Khaliss gave her.

Then comes the many acorns she's collected in the wilds, and finally, the hard-won gems and crystals she has spent so long digging for. Her fingers are still raw from the effort, and they almost seem to pulse with pain from the memory of it.

With most of the contents of her pack now evacuated, it deflates, sitting lighter on her person. She looks at her components on the altar, feeling satisfied with her foraging. The bright colours of the butterfly wings and the crystals and gems are a welcome sight among the dour surroundings of the ruined sanctum. Now, all that remains is to summon the fae creature. Then she may proceed with the ritual.

She reaches for her pack one more time, searching blindly for something delicate until she feels the thin edge of something cool and flimsy. She takes it in gentle fingers and removes it from her pack, holding it in both her palms like something precious.

Indeed, it is one of the most precious things she owns, and partly crafted by her hand, no less. A gilded flower: a beautiful dahlia. She transformed it into something golden with great care and painstaking attention to detail over many days, along with the help and resources of those in her home village. To replace or remake it is no mean feat, so it serves as a perfect offering to a creature that hails from the Feywild, known for their fickleness and whimsy.

She places the gilded dahlia on the altar, setting it apart from the ritual components. She then casts the spell to summon a fae with a gentle chant on her tongue and a graceful flourish of her hands. The air hums with primal magic that reaches from Toril to the Feywild, and a creature materialises.

Their outline is small and delicate, and shimmers like glitter. They're humanoid, though they bear the distinct shape of butterfly wings, and stop no higher than her waist. The wings are first to fill out, revealing colours of fiery orange fading to sanguine red from top to bottom. Then comes their body, their frame narrow and boyish. Their face is boyish, too, bearing piercing orange eyes wide with wonder, and sharp, narrow lips parted in surprise underneath a small, flat nose. Their delicately pointed ears remind Sylfir of a half-elf's, and a shaggy head of bright orange hair halos their face. It almost hides the little antennae that protrude from their head.

Sylfir's eyes follow their torso, which is barely clothed in a vest made of woven vines and leaves. She notices how their soft green-brown skin transitions seamlessly into carapace at the hips, from which a thin loincloth of stitched leaves hangs. She soon realises they have the segmented legs of an insect, adorned with sharp spines near the feet, which end in sharp claws.

The faerie sighs and stretches as if waking from a recent nap, though Sylfir suspects the action is more theatrical than earnest. They look up at her with enthusiastic, bright eyes. "To be invited by my distant kin is always something that brightens my day. Although I must say, your choice of venue certainly leaves something to be desired!"

They speak in the soft consonants and drawn out vowels of the Sylvan language. Sylfir watches their expression turn sour as they take in the surroundings. Their eyes go to the cracked bones of disjointed animal skeletons and the rubble of the ruined sanctum. They sniff the air and their hands go to their mouth as they stifle a retch, shaking their head. Still, they continue soaking in the sanctum until they turn back to see King Oberon, gasping.

"Ah! King Oberon, resplendent in stone," they say, performing a deep bow from the hips with a graceful, theatrical flourish of their arms. "Defender of the woods in the Feywild!"

"Don't forget Queen Titania," Sylfir says, pointing to her stone likeness.

The faerie gasps again, their head swivelling to the visage of the Faerie Queen. "My Faerie Queen, the strongest of us all. I could never forget a face so fair!"

"Indeed." Sylfir hums. "But I did not summon you here to revere the stone likenesses of the king and queen of your pantheon, as much as they deserve it."

The faerie turns to her with a frown. "Oh, pray tell, why did you summon me here?"

"I wish to beg a boon. See the altar beside you? I would have you bless what lies upon it."

"Oho? She begs a boon with such command!"

"A gift was freely given," Sylfir says.

The faerie bobs their head, a cheeky smile curling their lips. "Fair is fair, so I shall bless your bounty."

Sylfir watches as they fuss over the objects laid out on the altar, humming as their hands hover over them. They seem impressed, but Sylfir knows not to take their expression at face value—they could be mocking her just as easily as singing her praises. Once they have finished examining her hard day's work, they begin to chant, their sonorous voice ringing through the air as their magic swells, encompassing the altar and causing Sylfir's skin to tingle and break out in goosebumps. A low, reverberating wobble rings out as if the very air is being suddenly shunted—though everything remains still—and a sudden sense of lightness pervades the environment.

"Now, with your bounty blessed, I must leave you. But not without a veil of protection!"

Sylfir frowns at their words, but she still lowers to one knee when they beckon her. They hum and chant and kiss her cheek, completing the spell, and she feels their magic wrap around her. It is something tangible, like mist on the skin. It is undeniably good.

"What was that for?" she says.

"Look behind you."

Sylfir whips her head around, but the ruins remain unchanged.

"I don't see anything," she says, turning back to the fae creature.

But they're already gone.

"Of course you wouldn't."

Sylfir whips around toward the unfamiliar voice, but she sees no one. She frowns, but then the air warps and wobbles as the faint silhouette of a robed figure takes shape just before the statue of Silvanus. Her heart hammers in her chest as piercing, sanguine eyes bore holes into her from a masked face. The very same that looked up at her the first time she saw the beast.

"Little mice never do until it's too late. Let's see if you're fast enough to evade the cat's claws."

The disdain in the red-eyed woman's voice is palpable, but it's not what alarms Sylfir. No, it's the flourish of her hand, pale and icy, as she points toward the statue of Rillifane Rallathil. Sylfir's gaze follows her finger to find the air warping and shifting there, too. To her terror, a cloak of invisibility falls to reveal the malformed head of a black wolf. Its lips curl back in a vicious sneer as a low, rumbling growl leaves its throat. Its acid-green eyes fix on her, its pupils widening, and it steps forward on the paws of an owlbear, its brown feathers bristling. Sylfir's fear is paralysing as it opens its terrible maw, acrid breath washing over her, and she looks up to the boughs of the trees above through wide eyes. She envisions herself taking flight. She calls to the raven within.

But the beast roars, and she flinches in terror. She can only watch as it pounces, its claws sweeping in a broad arc. It swipes the offering on the altar she worked so hard to collect, scattering its contents on the tainted soil.

"No!"

In her despair, Sylfir is too slow to instigate her transformation, the golden wisps of her primal, transformative magic ebbing away as she watches the beast lunge at her. She tries to evade the blow, but its claws rip through her armour like a knife through warm butter. They cut through her soft flesh, throwing her to the ground with jarring force. She gasps as her hands reach for her stomach, and when she withdraws them, they're covered in red. Her heart pounds like a blacksmith's hammer against an anvil, and she drags herself to her feet, frantically looking around to gain her bearings again. She locks onto the woman's red eyes, now watching her with surprise, then frustration, before she turns to the beast.

"Again!" she commands.

Sylfir doesn't hesitate this time. Turning her gaze toward the sky, she calls on her magic, focusing it through her ruby ring and letting it envelop her. Her transformation, usually blissful, is now tainted by her desperation and the pain of her fresh wound. The beast closes in on her, swiping with formidable claws again, but they strike nothing except air as she takes flight as a raven. She soars into the air, breaking through the illusion that covers the ruined druid's sanctum and flying free of the beast's reach.

She keeps flying and never looks back. 

But she finds that her wings don't carry her as high or as quickly as she wants them to. She's barely able to break through the canopy to the clear skies above. Her wound still festers, and it steals the life from this form. She fights it, willing herself to stay aloft as she turns back to Summerfall, but her avian body fails her, and she dips beneath the canopy again.

She weaves through leafless branches, cawing a warning of what follows in her wake. Spurred on by panic, she frantically bats her wings to create as much distance between her and the sanctum as she can before she succumbs to her burning wound. Dread takes her as she grows dizzy, and her transformation takes hold against her will, her sickness forcing her into her natural form mid-flight. 

Now she falls instead flies, her strength leaving her as her golden aura dissipates, and she strikes the ground at speed. She rolls over gnarled tree roots, rotting leaves, and solid rock, tumbling down a sharp, jagged incline, her skin slicing open, her body bruising with each blow.

She cries out as she suffers what feels like a perpetual fall, her body bending and almost close to snapping. The contours of the land are forcing her joints into positions they should never assume. Through the dull, pulsing pain of every impact, the fire of her wound burns enough to bring tears to her eyes.

With a great thud and a low groan, she lands on her front, tasting soil with her tongue, its bitterness heralding the end of her fall. When she pushes herself onto her back, she is weak and disorientated spitting out the dirt that found its way into her mouth. All she can see are the boughs of corrupted trees, their leafless branches letting in the wan light of a setting sun in broad swathes, but she has no idea where she is.

She pants like a dog, groaning again as the heat of her wound demands her attention. When she looks down, she sees her blood seeping from it through the gashes in her stomach, stretching from her navel and curving down to her hip. Just looking at the wound makes it burn hotter, and she hisses as her hands reach for it, healing it with her touch, her voice little more than a whimper as she speaks a healing spell. There's a moment of relief, but the wound never mends, and the burning comes back again with force. It pulls more tears from her eyes, and they spill down her cheek as she whimpers.

A pitiful sigh leaves her. She is winded by the realisation she suffers from the same corruption those animals on the fallows succumbed to. It sparks a fear within her that sees her find the strength to push herself up, despite the agonising pain that comes with movement. She lacks the skill required to tend to this hurt. She needs Khaliss.

With a bite of her bottom lip, she stifles another cry as she shifts onto her hands and feet, begging herself to find the strength to stand, but she can't. She has to heal herself again, hugging herself as she sits on her haunches, muttering healing spells in quick succession. They're enough to mend those injuries incurred in the fall, but not the one from the beast, though they quench its heat enough for her to find her feet with a stifled groan. She takes her spear from her back, using it like a walking stick, though she does not know where to turn.

Looking around, she realises she's never been in this part of the woods. Or perhaps she has... but she can barely recall the details of the frantic journey here. Getting her bearings will be difficult, but her sense of urgency pushes her to do so quickly. She looks down at her wound again, her hand going to it as it continues to seep blood. She's never felt so weak before.

Crack!

She freezes. The sound is distant, but it could never be distant enough. She turns in the opposite direction and begins walking.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

I wrote some lines in (an altered) iambic pentameter. Can you guess which ones? :)