The skiff, with the mirror and other magic items onboard, rocks gently as it leaves the shelter of the falls gorge, gliding onto the clear, moonlit waters of the babbling brook. A clear sky is seen above through a canopy of tropical tree silhouettes. Stars are mirrored in the glassy water creating a tapestry of silver and deep blue above and below. The glow-stones embedded in the riverbed pulse softly breathing in time with the current.
And then all believe they hear the brook sing.
At first, perhaps it is just the wind—a soft hum carried on the rippling water. But soon, it grows in strength, shaping into words woven in liquid melody, a voice not quite mortal, not quite fey, but something in between.
"Brave of heart and strong of hand,
They broke the curse upon the land!
The river laughs, the dark is gone,
The brook now sings a hero’s song!"
The water itself dances at the sound, creating tiny whirlpools of light around the boat as the song continues.
"Regan’s hammer, bold and true,
Smashed the chains and let light through!"
Cordey’s ancient wisdom, newly bright,
Turned the mirror, revealed the blight!
Admiral’s strike, the storm did call,
Lightning fell—the hag did fall!"
Sail on, oh hearts brave and free,
The river sings your victory!"
As the final notes dissipate into water ripples, the brook sighs—not in sorrow, but in contentment. The water, once tainted by the hag’s presence, now flows freely, and even the trees seem to breathe easier, their branches swaying gently.
...
Eventually the brook joins the greater river once more, and the journey continues peacefully. The skiff drifts smoothly, winding them up the river. The stars seem impossibly close, almost touchable.
Jin sits near the edge of the boat, staring into the water, lost in thought. His grandfather’s ship must be close now—but an uneasy weight seems to rest on him. Tasya sends him silent compassionate glances that he doesn't see to notice while deep in thought. He has not outwardly questioned why his grandfather Madagast made the deal with the fey to take the troupe's ship. What price had his grandfather paid?
His thoughts appear to linger as the the still waters of Menehune stretch before them. The current is calm, unnaturally so, as if the river holds its breath.
Then comes the mist...
It rises slowly at first, curling along the water’s surface in delicate threads of silver. The jungle sounds, so vibrant and alive just moments before, fade into silence, swallowed by the creeping fog. The temperature drops, sending a shiver through the air.
The skiff continues forward, but the world around them feels suspended, as though time itself hesitates to move.
And then, she steps from the mist.
She emerges from the mist like a figure woven from moonlight itself, graceful and ethereal, untouched by the weight of time. She walks upon the water as though it were solid ground, each step sending ripples outward, though the river does not dare disturb her reflection.
Her gown shimmers with the radiance of the stars, a flowing fabric of silver and midnight blue, shifting like liquid light. The hem does not drag through the water but melds seamlessly with the mist.
Her hair cascades in soft waves of silver, shifting with an unseen breeze, weightless as drifting clouds. Small constellations glimmer within each strand, as if she carries the night sky upon her head.
Her face is strikingly perfect yet somewhat pointed and delicate. There is something unnatural in her beauty—a stillness in her expression, a sharpness in her gaze that makes it clear she is not mortal. Her eyes are deep pools of star-flecked darkness, vast and knowing, filled with an amusement that does not touch her lips.
Her presence is serene yet suffocating, a quiet dominance that demands attention without a single spoken word. When she finally speaks, her voice is like water slipping over polished stones, soft and melodic, yet carrying the weight of ancient authority.
Every movement she makes is deliberate, flowing like the current of a slow-moving river. There is no wasted motion, no hesitation, as if the world itself bends to accommodate her passage. Even the mist that surrounds her seems alive, curling protectively at her feet, whispering unseen words that only she can hear.
Though her expression remains calm, almost kind, there is a glint of something unreadable in her gaze—a quiet hunger, a fey amusement, or a hint of something more dangerous.
Her voice is smooth as still water, soft yet carrying the weight of ancient authority.
"Travelers," she says gently
"you drift upon a river not wholly yours. These waters are touched by the fey, and the lake you seek lies beyond a threshold that few may cross."
The air grows colder. The skiff slows to a stop.
