About This Adventure
In the border woods where the mortal realm frays against the edge of the Summer Court’s wild demesne, an old hunter’s trail winds through thickets of foxglove and moon-moss toward a half-forgotten clearing. Locals leave offerings at the mossy standing stones—honey cakes, polished buttons, the occasional iron nail hammered discreetly into bark—to keep the smaller fae from tangling their livestock or leading children astray. Lately the trail has grown restless: dew vanishes in perfect spiral patterns, lantern-light bends at odd angles, and a high, mocking laugh drifts on the dusk wind whenever someone grows too bold. At the heart of the glen sits a cunning snare of braided rowan, cold-iron filings, and sticky nectar-resin, half-hidden beneath a lure of luminous night-blooming flowers that no human hand planted. The trap was meant for something far less clever than the spoiled glen-sprite who has spent centuries treating this stretch of forest as her personal playground—stealing shiny trinkets, hexing boots into endless knots, and tormenting any traveler who fails to flatter her properly. Tonight the air tastes of coming rain and crushed violets; wings glitter just beyond the trees as she circles lower, curiosity and entitlement overriding caution, while someone with reason to walk these paths after dark draws near enough to hear the first sharp cry of surprise and the rustle of tightening bonds.
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