The morning sun, filtered through the impossibly vibrant leaves of the Feywild, painted the forest trail in shifting patterns of emerald and gold. Sylvie stretched, the silk robe Harald gave her pooling around her like captured moonlight. It was still so , this… bigness. Her limbs extended further than she remembered, her fingers, once delicate as flower petals, now had a substantial length and strength. She flexed them, marveling at the subtle play of light on her newly formed nails, each one a beautiful, opalescent curve.A giggle escaped her lips, a sound deeper and richer than the tinkling chime she was used to. It resonated within her chest, a vibration that felt both unfamiliar and exhilarating. Standing, she felt a sense of groundedness she’d never experienced as a pixie. Her feet, no longer mere points, pressed firmly into the mossy earth, a sensation that sent a shiver of through her.

  She tried to flit, to perform the effortless, dizzying dances that had defined her pixie existence. But her larger form was… resistant. Instead of a graceful arc, she managed a slightly clumsy hop, her feet thudding softly on the moss. A cute pout formed on her lips, quickly replaced by a determined grin. “Well, that won’t do,” she murmured to herself. “New body, new tricks!”

  As she stepped out further into the woods, the world seemed… deeper, more detailed. Her senses seemed significantly sharper, and were tuned differently than before. The scent of exotic blossoms, once a delicate perfume, now filled her senses with an almost overwhelming sweetness.

  Should she socialize with, and question, some of the other fae? “What a great idea!” she thought, as she started towards the main revel area.

  As she walked, she noticed other pixies flitting about, seemingly oblivious to her change. They zipped past her without a care in the world, their tiny wings a blur of motion, their laughter like the ringing of tiny bells. They didn’t seem to recognize or even notice her at all. Sylvie watched them, a pang of something akin to nostalgia tugging at her heart.

  That used to be her!

  Carefree. Light. Unnoticed by the larger world.

  A bit further on, she passed a group of slightly larger fey – sprites, she thought – gathered around a cluster of luminous mushrooms. As she approached, they glanced at her, their chatter abruptly ceasing. They offered quick, nervous nods, their eyes widening slightly as they took in her form. There was no open disrespect, but their deference felt… hollow, devoid of genuine warmth. It was as if they were acknowledging her presence out of a sense of fear or obligation, not genuine recognition. They didn’t seem to make the connection between her and Harald; they simply sensed she was stronger than them, and that power was something to be wary of.

  Sylvie tried to smile, to offer a friendly greeting, but the words felt awkward in her new throat. “Hello,” she managed, her voice sounding deeper and far more resonant than she intended.

  The sprites offered a chorus of hurried “Greetings,” their voices tight with a politeness that bordered on fear. They quickly resumed their conversation, their eyes darting towards her occasionally, their voices hushed and strained. Sylvie frowned slightly. This wasn’t the easy camaraderie she was used to.

  As she ventured further, the revel grew louder, more chaotic. Satyrs danced with nymphs, their laughter echoing through the trees. Gremlins haggled over strange trinkets, their voices a cacophony of barters and boasts. Sylvie, in her larger form, found it harder to navigate the throng. She bumped into an Eladrin Elf, his brows bristling in surprise.

  “Apologies,” she said, her voice resonating in the crowded space.

  The Elf’s eyes widened as he looked at her eyes. He didn’t seem angry, but there was a flicker of unease in his gaze. “No harm done,” he mumbled respectfully, quickly moving away, his glass of enchanted wine sloshing precariously.

  Sylvie sighed internally. It was becoming increasingly clear that her new size had changed everything. She was no longer invisible to the world, but she wasn’t exactly welcome either. She wasn’t used to her new station; didn’t know how to carry herself; didn’t really know anyone she could trust. She… no longer knew how to fit in.

  She wandered towards a quieter part of the enchanted woods, a small grove where a group of upper class fey were gathered. They made for impressive figures – two satyrs with thick, gnarled horns and muscular builds, and an oread with sharp, predatory eyes and a long, flowing mane of earth-colored hair. They were laughing and joking, their voices rough and boisterous. The satyrs slapped each other on the back, their movements exuding a sense of confidence and perhaps a hint of arrogance. The oread leaned against a moss-covered boulder, her gaze sweeping across the area with an air of detached amusement. Their clothing, a mix of woven vines, polished stones, and intricately carved wooden adornments, spoke of status and a connection to the deeper, wilder magic of the Feywild. They exuded an aura of power and self-assurance that was both intriguing and slightly intimidating to Sylvie.

  Drawn by their energy, she approached the group hesitantly. She missed the easy camaraderie of the pixies, the feeling of belonging. Perhaps these fey would be more accepting of her? She hoped that their elevated status would mean they were more understanding and less prone to the petty squabbles she sometimes witnessed among the lesser fey. The pixies, while fun-loving, could also be quite cliquish, and Sylvie had always yearned for a sense of connection with someone older and wiser, someone who possessed a greater understanding of the world.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice still carrying a hint of nervousness.

  The satyrs and the oread turned to her, their laughter dying down abruptly. Their expressions shifted from amusement to something colder, more calculating. They looked her up and down, their eyes lingering on her bare feet and the robe she wore.

  “Well now, what’s this then? A , lost in the woods?”

  The others chuckled, their laughter harsh and mocking. The oread stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Lost? Or perhaps she’s just trying to find someone to… with?”

  Sylvie’s cheeks flushed despite herself. She didn’t understand their insinuations, but their tone was unmistakable. It was mean, laced with hostility, with a disdain that cut deeper than any physical blow.

  “I… I was just exploring,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Exploring, were you?” the other satyr sneered, taking a step closer. “Or perhaps you’re looking for a handout? Trying to use that pretty face to get something you don’t ?”

  Tears welled up in Sylvie’s eyes. She didn’t understand why they were being so mean! She had never been treated like this before. The other pixies teased, sure, but it was always in good fun, never with this venomous edge!

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  “Oh, we know what you've done,” the oread hissed, her voice like the rustling of dry rocks. “I can smell all over you. You latched onto that Godling, didn’t you? Used your… to gain power you didn’t earn.” The oread’s words dripped with a venomous certainty, as if she possessed some secret knowledge of Sylvie’s intentions. She stepped closer, more than a head shorter than Sylvie, but her sharp eyes still glinted with a predatory light.

  The words stung like acid. Sylvie didn’t understand why they were attacking her, but their words hinted at a raw spot of insecurity she didn’t even know she had.

  Suddenly, she felt a surge of anger -- a hot, unfamiliar emotion that bubbled up inside her, overwhelming her usual cheerfulness.

  “I didn’t—" she began, but the satyr cut her off, his voice a low growl.

  “It’s clear you seek to elevate yourself. You aspire to a station beyond your merits. You think that by associating with... , you can somehow bypass the natural order of things? That you can skip the steps, the trials, the of proving yourself that the rest of us have endured?”

  He took another step closer, his muscular figure far heavier (though not taller) than Sylvie’s. His gaze raked over her, taking in her trembling form, the tears streaming down her face, the sheer vulnerability she exuded. He seemed to relish in her discomfort, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. “You think gaining a little power makes you our , little stray? You. Are. Nothing! You are Vermin. Filth beneath my feet. And the world has a way of dealing with those who overreach.”

  The tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. She felt small and vulnerable, despite her larger size. She wanted to shrink back, to disappear, to return to the safety of her pixie form.

  But then, something within her. The anger, fueled by their cruelty and her own righteous hurt, coalesced into something… different. It wasn’t quite the playful magic of the pixies, tied to nature and whimsy. It was something darker, something far more potent, something… .

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  Unbidden, a surge of power erupted from Sylvie: a violent storm, a tempest of raw energy that lashed out at the world around her. The temperature in the grove plummeted, and a bone-chilling wind whipped through the trees, causing the luminous flowers to flicker and dim. Cracks snaked across the mossy ground, widening into fissures that seemed to pulse with phantom colors that weren't quite.

  Black, thorny vines emerged from the ground around the group; they twisted and writhed, growing with unnatural speed, their points glistening with a viscous, dark fluid. They didn’t just tear through the surroundings; no, they seemed to deliberately seek out living things to pierce. The satyrs and the oread cried out as the thorns lashed at them, tearing through their clothes and flesh, leaving behind bleeding wounds.

  One particularly thick vine snaked towards the closest satyr, its thorns elongating into cruel, hooked barbs. It wrapped around his leg, lifting him off the ground with terrifying ease. He scrabbled at the vine, his fingers slipping on its slick surface, his face contorted in agony as the thorns dug deeper into his flesh. His cries echoed through the grove, a horrifying symphony of pain and fear.

  The oread, her face pale with terror, tried to flee, but the thorns seemed to anticipate her movements. They erupted from the ground in front of her, forming an impenetrable wall of black spikes. She turned to run in the other direction, but the same thing happened. She was trapped, surrounded by the writhing, bloodthirsty thorns.

  Sylvie watched in horror as the scene unfolded before her. She could feel the power continuously surging from her, but she felt like a mere observer, no longer in control. The satyrs’ and the oread’s screams echoed in her ears, mingling with the cracking of the earth and the whistling of the cold wind. She had never intended for any of this to happen. She had only wanted them to stop their taunts. But her new power had taken on a life of its own, twisting her anger and hurt into a living nightmare.

  She stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. The sight of the satyr dangling helplessly in the air, the oread trapped and bleeding, filled her with a profound sense of dread. This power was … wasn’t it? It was coming from her. But she didn’t understand it, couldn’t direct it. She never had power before, and control was proving difficult; illusive.

  Focusing with all her might, Sylvie tried to retract the vines. It was like trying to rein in a wild animal, but slowly, haltingly, the thorns began to recede. The satyr dropped to the ground with a sickening thud, landing in a heap of tangled vines. The wall of thorns blocking the oread parted, creating a narrow opening.

  The trio didn’t wait for an invitation. They scrambled away from Sylvie as fast as their bodies would allow, their faces etched with pure, unadulterated terror. They didn’t even spare a glance back, their only thought to escape.

  “I-I'm so sorry! I didn’t mean to--” Sylvie called out after them, her voice trembling and choked with tears. But her words were lost in the wind, swallowed by the sounds of their desperate flight. She could barely contain her sobs, her chest heaving with the effort.

  Despite her fear and distress, Sylvie knew she couldn’t stay here. She had to keep moving, keep trying to gather information as directed. Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she focused her will, drawing upon the familiar magic of the pixies. Her form shimmered, then vanished entirely, leaving no trace of her presence behind.

  The grove was silent once more, the only evidence of the recent chaos being the torn earth and the lingering scent of something unnatural.

  But the silence didn’t last long. A rustling in the nearby bushes heralded the arrival of another fey.

  The new figure stepped into the grove with a regal bearing, her movements fluid and graceful, yet carrying an air of authority that commanded attention. She was tall for a Fey, with a posture that spoke of noble lineage and countless years spent navigating the intricate web of Fey politics. Her face was stern, framed by a cascade of shimmering, auburn hair that cascaded down her back like a silken waterfall. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, scanned the surroundings with an intensity that seemed to penetrate the very essence of the grove. They were the color of a stormy sea, reflecting a keen intellect and an unwavering resolve. She was clad in a gown of looked like woven moonlight, the fabric shifting and shimmering with every step she took. It was adorned with intricate patterns of silver thread, depicting scenes of ancient Feywild battles and forgotten deities. A delicate circlet of woven starlight rested upon her brow, further emphasizing her status.

  Lady Myrianth had felt a disturbance, a ripple in the usually harmonious flow of magic that permeated this Plane. It was a sensation akin to a discordant note in a beautiful symphony, jarring and unsettling. She had been attending a small, intimate gathering of her own nearby, when the tremor of sheer reached her. Someone close by was genuinely — and this shouldn’t be the case in this place of joy and revelry.

  Driven by a sense of foreboding, she had excused herself from her own gathering, her apologies brief and formal. She had traversed the distance with a speed that belied her elegant appearance, her mind racing with unanswered questions and growing unease.

  As she entered the grove, her keen senses immediately registered the aftermath of what was clearly a clash. The air crackled with residual energy of some kind — felt very faint, but was still perceptible to someone of her great skill. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, took in every detail. The torn earth, the twisted and broken flowers, the faint traces of a viscous, dark fluid that stained the mossy ground. Her gaze lingered on the deep fissures that scarred the earth.

  A knot of unease tightened in her stomach.

  Halting in the center of the damaged grove, she closed her eyes, focusing her senses. She reached out with her awareness, seeking to unravel the mystery of what occurred here.

  What she found sent a shiver of fear down her spine.

  There were clearly remnants of… kind of magic here — but what she felt was… alien; unlike anything she had ever encountered in all her centuries of existence. It was not of Mystra’s Weave, nor the dark and disgusting Shadow-weave of the Lady of Loss. No, this felt… chaotic, untamed, and utterly unpredictable; it tasted ancient, yet somehow disturbingly new, as if it belonged to a realm far removed from the Feywild.

  It seemed powerful, yes, but that wasn’t what concerned her. There were powerful beings in the Feywild: dragon-kin, archfey, minor deities, and ancient spirits whose power easily dwarfed her own. She had even faced some of them before, stood her ground, and emerged unscathed.

  No, what terrified her was the of what she was seeing.

  Lord Hyrsam’s Decrees.

  Not mere wards or enchantments; they were fundamental laws woven into the very fabric of this plane of existence. They prevented the manifestation of all unauthorized, hostile magic; snuffed out power deemed undesirable by the Hosts. They ensured that the Revels remained a sanctuary, a place where overt violence was forbidden.

  And yet, here was undeniable proof that those wards had been breached. Shattered. Defiled.

  Or rather…

  …Bypassed and ignored entirely?

  The implications of this were staggering. The foundations of her world, the very principles and assumptions that have underlain her existence, suddenly seemed fragile, vulnerable.

  A wave of nausea washed over her, and she had to fight to maintain her composure. Her face, usually a mask of regal serenity, paled visibly. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She wanted to flee, to turn and run as far as she could from this place of violated sanctity. But she was a Fey Lady, a guardian of the ancient ways. She had a duty to investigate, to understand.

  …

  Didn’t she?

  ...

  Yet, the fear was overwhelming. It whispered insidious doubts in her mind, painting vivid images of a world where the Feywild was no longer a safe haven but a battleground for forces beyond her comprehension. Did she

  wish to risk her existence to confront whatever did this?

  She opened her eyes, her gaze darting nervously around the grove, as if expecting some unseen horror to leap out from the shadows. The enchanted wood, once a place of beauty and tranquility, now seemed menacing, tainted by the unsanctioned power that had been unleashed.

  Myrianth knew she should stay. She should examine the scene more closely, gather more information, try to piece together what had happened. But her instincts, honed over centuries of survival, were screaming at her to leave. To get as far away from this place as possible, for nothing good could come from getting involved with powers that could ignore the Old Laws.

  She made her decision.

  It was not a decision she was proud of, but it was a decision born of self-preservation. She was a Fey Lady, not a martyr. She had her own court to protect, her own interests to safeguard. She could not afford to be reckless. This Plane was Lord Hyrsam’s domain. Let whatever chaos happened here be , or Lady Titania’s, problem.

  With a swirl of her iridescent cloak, Lady Myrianth turned and vanished, leaving the ravaged grove behind. One of the Archfey could handle this; she wanted no part of it.

  The departure of the Fey Lady left a void in the grove, a stillness that was almost as unsettling as the chaos that had preceded it. For a long moment, the only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. Then, life began to stir once more.

  The earth itself seemed to breathe a collective sigh. The cracks and fissures that had scarred its surface began to knit themselves back together, the edges drawing closer and closer until they met in a seamless join. It was as if the very ground was a living thing, capable of mending its own wounds.

  The twisted, broken flowers, their petals still glistening with the residue of the strange new energy, slowly began to unfurl. Their colors, momentarily dulled by the chaotic magic, gradually returned to, and then even exceeded their former brilliance. They reached happily towards the morning sunlight, their delicate forms swaying gently in the breeze, as if celebrating their return to life.

  Even the air itself seemed to undergo a transformation. The sharp, acrid scent of ozone, a lingering reminder of the raw power that had been unleashed, began to dissipate, replaced by the sweet, earthy fragrance of the surrounding flora. The oppressive atmosphere that had hung heavy over the grove began to lift, replaced by a sense of lightness and tranquility.

  The land absorbed and fed upon the new energy, not erasing it, but joining with it, integrating with it… and it rejoiced in that process! This was a merging of two separate, but ultimately compatible things — a feeling not unlike putting ketchup on French fries for the first time. The wild magic of the plane eagerly reached out, restoring the natural order.

  And it was fast.

  Soon enough, the flowers and moss regrew with an almost preternatural speed, their colors seemingly even more vibrant than before. The earth sealed completely, becoming whole once more, the scars of the recent conflict erased as if they had never been. The grove was, if anything, teeming with a sense of vitality.

  Some traces of the conflict lingered. A faint impression of violence still hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the raw fear that had been felt in this place. And, if one looked closely, one might still find a few scattered droplets of fey blood, shimmering like tiny, opalescent jewels, clinging to the underside of a leaf or nestled amongst the roots of a flower…

  Until even those droplets sank into the earth, and the grove became quiet and peaceful once more.