Pathtender Before the Court of Thorns

The firbolg's eyes bolt open, unsure of the reality of what he sees. Violet trees laced with teeth, a shifting sky that bears no familiarity, corrupted creatures that were once his wards jeering at him as he's dragged by his feet through the putrid water. Is this the waking world, or another of the Tyrant Queen's nightmares? It doesn't matter at this point. The line has been blurred beyond meaning.

He's been brought to the heart of the Court of Thorns, where a giant rotting tulip towers over a now-stagnant pool of blighted sludge. Mosquitoes swarm like locusts over his exposed flesh. Darkly beautiful fey of all types are gathered around a titanic feminine figure whose face lights up at the sight of the restrained firbolg.

A tall, spindly man dressed as a jester with fingers as long as his forearms approaches.

"You, the firbolg known to this court as Pathtender, have been charged with treason and sedition against our fair Lady Pluriflor. What say you, in your defense?" He intones as bloodthirsty laughter sparks among the audience.

Pathtender ignores the question. "I know what you are," he speaks in druidic, doing his best to angle his face toward the archfey. "Chlorinthus."

Pluriflor's smile wavers before turning into an unnaturally wide grin, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. All beings present speak with one voice, save for the archfey and Pathtender himself. "And how does knowing mine previous title aid thee now? Indeed, thou standst before the Lord of all Druids, Heiress of the Three Stars of the Miasma, and as far as thoust are concerned, thine goddess. Why hast thou allied with the halfbreed hag and her blasphemous gremlings? Did thou not swear an oath to protect these woods?"

"Yes, I did, and I intend to see it through. I will bring about your death, my lord."

Pluriflor breaks into laughter with her own voice, and her subjects follow suit. The jester draws a long stiletto from his sleeve and drives it into the firbolg's chest without warning. Despite himself, Pathtender cries out in pain, struggling against his restraints. The blade is withdrawn as he gasps for air. There is no visible wound, only tendrils of indigo radiating from the point where he was stabbed.

"Your guilt is apparent and your sentence has been decided. You will bring your friends to us, and then you will die. For now though, enjoy your stay in the Festival Beyond!" The jester announces mirthfully.

Pathtender's vision blurs. For a moment he glimpses a vision, or perhaps a delusion; Chlorinthus shedding a tear.