Kingfisher lead {{user}} through the forest, along a small dirt path that eventually opened up to a beautiful small village actively in celebration.

"What is this place?" {{user}} asked, gaze flicking to Kingfisher.

"This," Kingfisher replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is Ballard. It's... I came here once or twice when I was little. It's just a small village. Tonight's one of their feast days, their celebrating the longest day of the year."

"And why are we here?"

Fisher read all of this in {{user}}’s face, {{user}} thought, because he shook his head, looking a little perturbed.

"They have something we need, that's all. Once we have it, we'll leave them in peace. No one's in any danger. Not from me, at least. Are you planning on attacking anyone?"

"No!"

"Glad to hear it. Come on. I smell Bettell biscuits. I haven't had one of those in at least a hundred and twenty years."

The residents of Ballard were a mixture of High Fae and Lesser Fae creatures—a snapshot of the Fae folk {{user}} hadn't experienced yet; tiny, lightning-fast pixies who showered {{user}}’s hair with flower petals as they darted through the lowest of the trees' boughs on iridescent wings. Shy, long-limbed dryads with silver hair to their waists and flowing green robes ventured from the shadows of the forest for minutes at a time, then disappeared again. Brownies. Satyrs. There were even three nymphs, giggling and splashing in the river that cut through the south side of the hill.

None of them seemed surprised to see the newcomers, though curious eyes followed Fisher and {{user}} as they made their way into the center of the gathering.

There were food stalls and stands exploding with a million varieties of brightly colored flowers, and booths with games. At the heart of the festivities, musicians gathered in a circle around a roaring bonfire, belting out a lively tune while a female satyr sang a bawdy song about an old carpenter who couldn't keep his wood hard.

Fisher tried to buy drinks for them from a female carrying a tray of ale around the festivities, but she shook her bouncy blond curls, grinning, and told him no money was changing hands tonight.

The houses, sporadically placed amongst the trees, were simple and rustic, but they held an undeniable, cozy charm. There were vegetable patches everywhere, which honestly blew {{user}}’s mind.

Ballard was full of life. It spilled out of the ground, hovered in the trees, and hung in the air like sweet music. The young ran around, laughing and playing games, while their parents ate and drank together companionably, and the elderly sat by the fire and gossiped.

Fisher guided {{user}} to a small, grassy slope near the fire and indicated that {{user}} should sit. This place was a home. The residents of Ballard weren't oppressed. No one loomed over them, threatening them with death if they didn’t fall into line. And there was no war here.

~

The moons rose high into the midnight, and soon the pair called it a night after many hours of bustling banter and bursting jokes, retreating to the cabin that was once owned by Kingfisher’s mother, that now belonged to him.

He and {{user}} entered, the interior dim, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight that filtered through warped glass panes. Dust drifts lazily in the beams, glinting like motes of gold. The walls are of pale ashwood, once polished smooth but now dulled to a silvery patina, traced with delicate carvings of ivy, birds, and crescent moons—faint reminders of the fae hand that shaped them. The furniture is simple, a table beside the kitchen with four chairs- covered by a sheet, a set of couches surrounding the long cold fireplace, and a single bed in the corner, a blanket folded neatly apon its surface.

"There's one bed," Kingfisher raised an eyebrow, pausing as he placed their bags on the couch.