Party Crashers

We definitely weren't in Kansas anymore.

It takes me a second to adjust to the change. One moment, the damp chill of the crypt pressed against my skin, the lute's non-existent strings humming faintly in my mind; the next -- a warm, fragrant breeze washed over me, carrying scents and sounds so vivid, so real, that they hit like a physical force. My eyes snap open, blinking against a sudden flood of color and light that make the crypt's gloom seem like a distant dream.

My bare feet sink into a thick carpet of bioluminescent, indigo-colored moss. It is pleasantly soft and springy, each step releasing faint puffs of glittering spores that caught the dim sunlight streaming through the canopy above. The air shimmers with them, a haze of tiny, glowing motes that danced like fireflies in the golden glow -- and I realize with a blink that actual fireflies, as well as what look to be tiny pixies, are joining them in a consummate, carefree dance through the air.

I inhale deeply, and my head reels—jasmine mingled with honeysuckle, undercut by sweeter tones, like ripe berries crushed underfoot. The scents of life would have been strong here, even to normal people. To me, with my enhanced senses, the smells are intoxicating, almost overwhelming, and I feel a strange tug at the edges of my mind, as if the very atmosphere of this place wanted to pull me deeper into its embrace. For a fleeting instant, I want nothing more than to stay here. Forever.

The rest of the forest is equally magical -- pulsing with a vitality that defies common sense. Ancient trees tower overhead, their gnarled trunks twisting into shapes that suggested faces frozen mid-expression—some laughing, some weeping. Their leaves shimmer with an inner light of their own, shifting through hues of emerald, gold, and sapphire in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Vines hang from their branches like living curtains, studded with flowers more beautiful than any tropical flower I've ever seen back on Earth; they open and close slowly as if breathing, their petals glistening with dew that sparkles with fiery rainbows like tiny diamonds. Every rustle of the leaves seems to carry whispers, a chorus of secrets just beyond comprehension, while the distant babble of a brook seems to weave faint laughter into its melody (but, of course, it could very well be actual laughter, since all kinds of water fae and spirits may be responsible for such a thing).

The air itself hums with latent power, a subtle vibration that prickles against my skin and raises the hairs on my arms. In the distance, will-o'-the-wisps dart between the trees, their ghostly lights flickering in patterns that tease at meaning—in a language I can't quite grasp. The woods themselves seem aware of our presence.

Watching.

And then, there is the music. It drifts through the forest like a faint whisper. The sound is distant, inhuman, softened by the thick canopy of ancient trees and the glowing mushrooms that faintly illuminate our surroundings. Deep, resonant drums carried the farthest, their steady rhythm echoing through the towering oaks and willows, a primal pulse that mingled with the rustling leaves and the murmur of unseen streams. Each beat feels like a subtle nudge, a far-off heartbeat urging us onward.

Higher notes—ethereal flutes and lutes—followed, but they are faint, their melodies fragmented and ghostly, as if the wind itself struggled to carry them this far. The music twists through the magical air with an otherworldly edge. Alongside it, I can faintly make out what might be the muffled sounds of laughter and shouts, their sharpness dulled by distance, blending into a low hum of manic energy that hinted at revelry still out of sight.

The forest itself seems to respond. The branches overhead sway faintly, apparently keeping time with the drums, and the air buzzes with a subtle undercurrent of magic that prickles against the skin.

Someone in the distance is having one hell of a party.

I turn to my companions, their faces reflecting the a mix of awe and unease. Karlach is rooted in place, her amber eyes wide, her tail twitching as she scanned the surroundings. Her usual grin is gone, replaced by a cautious, childlike wonder, her massive frame absolutely dwarfed by the towering trees. After escaping a decade of literal hell, I would image that suddenly finding herself in the middle of an enchanted forest would be jarring to say the least. Let alone enchanted trees, does Karlach even remember what regular trees look like up close, after all those years stuck in Avernus? Has she ever even seen a regular, unenchanted old growth tree while growing up in Baldur's Gate?

Astarion isn't doing much better -- the Vampire Spawn looks even more stunned than I initially felt, his enhanced vampiric senses must be getting absolutely hammered with all of the available stimuli. His stance looks guarded, his red eyes narrowed -- as though he is expecting the beauty around us to peel back and reveal a maw of hungry fangs.

Gale, on the other hand, seems to have kept his composure quite well. I suppose that, for someone who has been to Elysium -- a heaven-like plane associated with Mystra -- enchanted forests wouldn't present quite the same levels of shock. He was capable of speech, at the very least.

"By Mystra's weave," Gale murmured, his voice hushed with reverence. He took a tentative step forward, his robes brushing against a cluster of glowing mushrooms that pulsed faintly in response. "This… this is the Feywild? Or one of the Fey associated planes, at any rate. I suspected that lute might have some fey enchantment woven into it, but—" He cut himself off, spinning to face me with a sheepish grimace. "I should've warned you earlier not to touch it. Fey magic is an unpredictable, capricious thing, and now look where it's flung us."

I arched a brow, a wry smile tugging at my lips. I would definitely have touched the lute regardless of any warnings. It was literally our only lead to find the girls!

Astarion snorted, flicking a speck of glittering pollen from his sleeve with exaggerated disdain. "Oh, yes, let's all thank Gale for his impeccable timing. Still, I'll admit—this beats another moldy crypt." He tilted his head, his smirk sharpening. "Though I'd wager this place is far more likely to kill us. It's a bit… much, don't you think?"

Karlach shifted in place, her boots sinking into the moss with a soft squelch. "Beautiful, sure. But it's giving me the creeps. Feels like the whole forest is staring at us." She glanced at me, her expression hardening into something resolute. "What's the play, Soldier? We didn't exactly pack for a stroll through fairyland." She pauses, looking at me pointedly. "Or... did we? Do you have any forest supplies in that... space of yours?"

Gale perks up, looking interested in seeing more unusual magic, while I smirk back at her.

"Oh, Hot Stuff, with me close by, you won't have to pack for anything ever again. I've got you."

(Note: https://krembruleed.tumblr.com/post/750742786924478464/height-comparison-chart-based-on-the-in-game)

I took a moment to size her up. At 6'4", I was no small figure, but Karlach matched me stride for stride—a barbarian hewn from muscle and fire, her shoulders straining against the battered leather armor she wore like it was a too-tight skin she longed to shed. Our heights aligned near-perfectly, and a spark of inspiration flared. The Skyrim armors I forged for myself and my companions -- like the Glass Armor I'm considering -- might just fit her. They might be a touch loose around the waist, but should be close enough to serve.

"Here, try this on," I said, my tone gruff but edged with anticipation. "Might be a bit roomy in spots, but it should do the job." With a flicker of intent, I willed the armor into being from my inventory. Some of my finest work in-game, the masterpiece materialized before her in a shimmer of light. This Glass Armor was a marvel, born from Skyrim's rarest volcanic glass—malachite, alive with a hypnotic swirl of green so deep it felt like staring into a forest's molten heart. Its surface wasn't static; it moved, faint veins of emerald pulsing beneath a smoky translucence, as if the glass breathed with a will of its own. The breastplate curved like a wave frozen mid-crash, its edges honed to a lethal sheen that caught the light and threw it back in jagged slivers. Pauldrons rose in graceful, tapering arcs, their tips gleaming like polished jade, while the bracers hugged the forearms with a segmented elegance, flexing as if alive. The greaves clung sleek and unyielding, their glassy shimmer shifting with each step, and the boots—light as a sigh—ended in reinforced toes that sparkled like enchanted pools under a noonday sun. (For a moment, I lamented that there could be no matching helm at the moment -- owing to Karlach's... horny problem. In the future, I would have to make one custom-fitted to accommodate those horns of hers).

But the beauty of this piece was only half the story. Beneath the seemingly delicate form, this armor was a veritable fortress of enchantment, layered with magic I'd pushed well past Skyrim's limits, bending the rules until they sang. I'd woven in protections so potent, they thrummed beneath the surface like a heartbeat. The armor included over 100% resistance enchantments to Magic, Frost, Flame, Shock, and Poison, and was tipped off with a Waterbreathing enchantment -- for no reason other than I was able to include one. This Armor was designed for a singular noble purpose: keeping my Skyrim followers alive while they walked behind me in the most... extreme and unforgiving of environments. And now, I hoped that it would prove its value in this new world.

Karlach let out a low whistle, her eyes widening as she stepped closer to her prize. Her calloused fingers brushed the breastplate's edge with a delicate touch, and the glass answered with a faint hum, its glow rippling across her red skin, mingling with the wisps of steam curling from her infernal heat. "Gods, Soldier," she rasped, her voice thick with something raw—admiration, perhaps, but laced with a quieter awe she'd never voice outright. "This is… unreal." She lifted the chestpiece, testing its weight—impossibly light for its strength—and a grin broke across her face, sharp and wild, like a predator tasting freedom. "Loose or not, I'll make it dance. Where in the world did you manage to find something like this?"

I crossed my arms, a smirk tugging at my lips as she began to don the armor. Each piece settled onto her frame with a surprisingly snug fit, as if it had been forged with her in mind all along. "Find? Karlach, you wound me! I made it myself!" I said, my voice rough with pride. "Both the glass smithing and the enchanting are my work. As for the latter... let's just say no effort was spared. Frost, fire, lightning, poison, magic, even drowning—you should be completely safe from all of these things. In fact, you don't have to worry about getting hurt while wearing this -- not unless it's from something really exotic.

She ran a finger along the armor's smooth, greenish surface, then looked up at me, her voice catching slightly. "I… Soldier, I can't accept something like this! What about you? You're out here risking your neck too!"

I gave her a lopsided grin, waving off her concern. "Oh, don't worry, Hot Stuff. I've got my own."

With a casual flick of my mind, I summoned an identical set of Glass Armor from my inventory. It materialized around me in a shimmer of enchantment, each piece snapping into place with a faint, crystalline chime. The boots grounded me first, then the greaves hugged my legs, the cuirass wrapped my torso, pauldrons settled on my shoulders, and bracers encased my forearms—all of it gleaming with that volcanic glass sheen, minus the helmet, of course. The dirty silk pants I'd been sporting vanished in an instant, replaced by the sleek, reflective leg armor that caught the surroundings' vibrant light in a dazzling dance of colors.

And there, atop my head, still sat my lucky fishing hat—a weathered, floppy thing that looked absurdly out of place atop the formidable ensemble. I adjusted it with a smirk, letting it tilt just so.

Karlach blinked, then let out a bark of laughter, her whole frame shaking with it. "By the hells, Soldier, you're a sight! That hat—seriously? You're keeping it with all that?"

"The Hat Stays On," I playfully shot back, tipping the brim at her. "Sentimental value. Plus, it keeps the sun out of my eyes."

Astarion's voice sliced through the air, sharp and smooth as a dagger's edge. "Oh, how charming—decking her out like some knight in glittering glory." He leaned against an ancient tree, his smirk a practiced mask, but a flicker in his crimson eyes betrayed him—envy, thin and cutting, lurking beneath the sarcasm. "Tell me, Darling, do I get a set too, or is this a private little tailoring session?" He tossed his silver hair with a flourish, burying the sting under disdain, but it lingered in the air like a ghost.

"You do, actually." I tell our resident Vampire Spawn. "As does Gale, and anyone else who travels with us. I just have the one size with me at the moment, but I'll be more than happy to make a new custom set for everyone... after we rescue my friends and get a few free nights."

Astarion looked at me in disbelief, not having expected such a blunt and generous response. His smirk twitched, faltering for a moment as he processed my words, his return quip seemingly caught in his throat.

"But, for now, I do have a couple high-quality unenchanted robes for you and Gale. They aren't exactly top of the line Glass Armor, but they are a damned sight better than the torn, mindflayer gunk covered clothes you're currently wearing!" I quickly pass a pair of silk robes -- modeled after the Telvanni Robe -- over to Gale and Astarion.

Then, as Astarion changed, Gale stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowed with scholarly intensity. "Harald," he began, his voice low but brimming with curiosity, "I can tell something is there—powerful, intricate, woven into the very essence of this armor. But I feel nothing in the Weave. No echoes, no resonance. How is that possible?" He tilted his head, fingers brushing the air as if searching for the familiar threads of Mystra's magic. "Everything I know suggests magic in this world is bound to the Weave—or, for the initiated, Shar's Shadow Weave -- the Dark Goddess' would be alternative to Mystra's blessings. But, Harald, just what in the blazes... is this?"

I shrugged, offering him a lopsided grin as I leaned casually against a tree. "Oh, Gale, there's a very simple explanation. You see, my method of enchanting uses a primordial energy called Magicka. Neither Mystra's Weave nor Shar's Shadow Weave are involved in any way. It's… its own thing. Untethered. Free." I paused, then added lightly, "Oh, don't look at me like that. Everything will be okay—I promise. I'll teach you!"

Gale's jaw slackened, his eyes widening as he felt the world he thought he knew flip upside down. "You'll.... teach me?" he repeated, his voice a hushed mix of awe and disbelief. "Just like that? Harald, don't you realize what this means? This, what you've discovered here... wizards guard their breakthroughs with secrecy bordering on paranoia—major arcane discoveries are hoarded, hidden away. You barely even know me... and you'd share this… revelation with me so freely?"

"Why ever not?" I said, my tone sharpening as I straightened, the levity giving way to something fiercer. "Let me tell you something, Gale. I... despise the fact that wizards in this world are reliant on the whims of some goddess—however benevolent she may be—to perform magic. Mystra's Weave might be a wonder, but it's ultimately a chain, Gale. A gilded and shiny chain, perhaps, but a chain nonetheless. Should you wish it, in time, we can build a better future. One where magic needn't be borrowed or begged for any longer. One where the destiny of the intelligent races will be placed in their own hands, and built from the ground up: by the people and for the people. The likes of Mystra are outdated relics best left in the past; let the petty gods keep their so-called heavens. You and I, Gale: we'll make an Elysium of our very own -- right here on the Material Plane. In time, it is the gods that shall look upon our works in envy."

My bold declaration settled between us, heavy with intent, a quiet rebellion against the foundations of Gale's world. He fell silent, his brow creasing as he stared at me, then down at the staff in his hands. His fingers tightened around it, tracing the familiar carvings as if grounding himself in the known while my words tugged at something deeper. I could see it in his eyes—the spark of resonance, the flicker of a mind that had spent years bowing to Mystra now daring to imagine an ambition beyond her reach. He didn't speak, but the thoughtful tilt of his head told me the idea had taken root.

Astarion broke the stillness with a theatrical sigh, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "Well, that's all very stirring, Darling, but can we save the magical reform manifestos for after we've dealt with your little rescue mission? Some of us prefer our revolutions with a side of survival."

I chuckled, nodding as I turned back to the path ahead. "Fair enough. Let's go take a look around -- that party I'm hearing seems like a good place to start."

++

We'd only gone a few paces along a winding trail when something zipped out from the undergrowth—a flicker of light almost too quick to track. My hand almost moved to intercept on its own accord, before I relaxed.

Then, we were met with the welcoming committee: a pixie -- an adorable little thing -- barely the size of my pinkie, hovering on wings that shimmered like dragonfly scales in the sun. She was dressed in a tasteful, makeshift tunic made from loose petals woven with spider silk. Her skin glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped under glass, and her golden hair floated around her like a halo. She grinned at me, all sharp teeth and sharper mischief.

Her voice chimed out in a playful rhyme:


"Well met, you travelers bold and grand,

Who tread the paths of fey-born land.

I'm Sylvie, swift, a sprite so spry,

But heed me now, before we fly:

No steel nor blade may come along

Or hosts shall sing a wrathful song."

Astarion froze, his hand hovering near his dagger. "No weapons? Is the little insect saying we're to stroll around this place defenseless?"

Sylvie's wings buzzed as she bobbed in the air.


"Trust is law in revel's keep,

Break it not, lest peril leap."


Karlach grinned at the little one. "Oh Gods, she's adorable. What do you think, oh feareless leader? Shall we disarm like our guide asks?"

I nod confidently. "Of course! It wouldn't do to show poor manners. Especially where the Fae are concerned."

Gale nods along beside me. "Right you are. The Fae can be dangerous, but they do have to follow rules. If hospitality applies to us, then, in theory, we should be fine if we play along." He tilts his head, eyes alight with curiosity. "But that music—something tells me it's no ordinary tune. What's its source, Sylvie?"

The pixie twirled, her laughter a cascade of bells.


"After years of three by three,

The Fey convene in revelry.

The Grand Revel, a fest so rare,

Where music soars through magic air."


The air shimmered with the Feywild's strange magic as Sylvie finished her explanation, her words hanging like a melody. Gale's eyes widened, his breath catching as he stammered, "No way… it's real? But… How did...?"

I raised my eyebrow in curiosity. "Do you recognize what's happening, Gale?"

He turned to me, his hands gesturing as if trying to pluck sense from the air. "It's the Grand Revel—I thought it was a just myth. A bedtime story Bards tell each other to fabricate epic stories for a heightened sense of self-importance. But it's actually real? And we managed to stumble upon it from a random crypt of all places? Which, in turn, we would never have even looked twice upon, had we not entered the Material Plane in a nearly random location using a Mind-Flayer ship escaping Avernus...? Forgive me, it's all just so... Unbelievable."

His voice crackled with awe, his scholarly mind already racing to unpack the revelation.

Karlach leaned forward, her arms crossed and a grin tugging at her lips. "So, it's a fancy Fey party of some kind? What do you know about it, Gale?"

Gale took a deep breath, steadying himself as his gaze grew distant, lost in half-remembered lore. "Well... there are several variations of the story, but they all agree on one thing: every nine years, the Fae hold a huge banquet, at the end of which is a bardic contest of epic proportions. That contest is by invitation only, by the way—only the best of the best are said to be invited, and the fae that find and invite the most skilled performers are handsomely rewarded by the Courts. The contestants play original music to try to impress the judges. Those who win the judges' favor can ask for fantastical boons—fame, power, riches -- the fey can grant all of that and more. Problem is, the judges aren't easily impressed by mere mortal crafts. Those whose performance is deemed subpar must stay and serve the fey until the next contest -- in repayment for the Grand Ravel's generous hospitality." His words flowed with the enthusiasm of a man who'd spent years dreaming of such tales, now standing in their reality.

A silence settled, broken only by the faint hum of the strange winds that abound in this place. Then, Gale's brow furrowed, his fingers tapping absently against his staff as he thought for a moment. "You know, I'll bet that parchment and lute we found were an invitation to participate," he said, his voice brightening with realization. "But the Bard in that crypt must have died before he could take part. That would explain how we got here—the invitation's magic must have lingered, pulling us through!" He shakes his head. "Though... the chances of any of us touching that lute at a time coinciding with the Grand Revel were beyond astronomical."

I nodded, the pieces falling into place. "So, we're here by accident, caught up in some long-dead Bard's unfinished business."

Karlach chuckled, flexing her shoulders. "Well, I say we make it our business now. This sounds like a party worth crashing!"

Astarion smirked, twirling a dagger lazily. "Oh, I'm all for it -- as long as I'm not the one strumming for my supper. Nine years of Fey servitude wouldn't suit my complexion."

I smile at that. None of the core companions were Bards by default, so, expecting them to know their way around musical instruments -- and at a world-class level to boot -- would be quite the tall order. And, speaking of companions.

"Sylvie. Did you happen to see anyone else come through here before us? It would have been two women -- one, a cleric with dark hair. Another, a githyanki warrior?"


Sylvie dipped closer, her gaze sweeping over us.


"Through this path, none came before,

No souls have crossed this hidden door.

You alone now tread this way,

First to seek the revel's play.

But, through the woods where shadows play,

A myriad paths do wind away.

And in this wood's enchanted air

Your friends, perhaps, have wandered there?

Yet I can guide you to the tune,

Beneath the stars and silver moon—

If you will grant a gift to me,

A token fair, a rarity.

A piece of sweet, or three to share,

For mortal sweets are rich and rare.

And guide you thence, I'll play my part,

With pixie guile and a true heart."

I considered her words. Pixies loved sweets, and a deal could bind her to us—at least for a time. This could be a very good thing. Although pixies were at the bottom of the Fey food chain, their magic wasn't to be underestimated -- after all, a big plot point of Act 2 was the ability to navigate the Shadow Curse using artifacts called Moon Lanterns, which were powered by pixie magic. If I could somehow draw this Sylvie into a more long-term deal... A plan began to form in my mind.

In my hand, I materialized a sweetroll -- an iconic Skyrim dessert slightly larger than my fist. Sylvie's eyes widened in anticipation.

"This is called a sweetroll -- a dessert that is out of this world. I can guarantee that you've never tasted the like. So, here's my proposal, little one." I hold up three fingers. "Three sweetrolls for your service, guidance, and protection lasting three days... and for as long thereafter as the sweetrolls remain beneficial to you."

Sylvie was beyond excited to take that deal. She clapped her tiny hands, wings flaring.


"A bargain sweet, a pact so fine,

For three days hence, my aid is thine.

And while your rolls my joy sustain,

I'll guard you through this wild domain."


Her grin faltered briefly, that warning glint returning.


"But mind the rule, I spoke it true,


No weapons bared, or woe to you."


I smiled, glancing at my companions. The Fey thrived on rules and deals—breaking their customs could cost us more than a fight... but those deals also cut both ways. As long as we played by the Fey's rules, we should be perfectly safe. In fact...

"Of course, Sylvie. We shall sheath our blades. You may taste your prize if you wish."

She beamed, darting upwards with a flourish, before diving directly into the Sweetroll. She practically inhaled a good quarter of it before -- with an audible eep, she suddenly fell down, comatose -- my telekinesis quickly catching her before she hit the ground.

Karlach frowned at me, angrily. "Soldier, you.... surely didn't poison the poor little thing, did you? You wouldn't do that, right?"

Gale, too, looked ready to say something, before I raised a hand to explain. A quick peek with a diagnostic spell confirmed my suspicions.

"It's OK, guys. The pixie isn't dead -- she's just... well... really, really full at the moment. You see, I happen to be an accomplished Alchemist. When I cooked that particular dessert, I imbued it with a rather powerful restoration effect."

I do a quick status check on the remaining Sweetroll, and see a window with familiar information.

Item: Sweet Roll (Legendary)
Weight: 0.1
Value: -1509825678
Effects: Regenerates 1257023759% Health for 5329872576 seconds.

"Though, that restoration effect is both good and bad news for our new friend. You see, if it works as intended... Sylvie here will derive benefits from her treats for just a bit longer than a mere three days."

"How... much longer?" Gale asks, in morbid fascination.

I smile back with a shrug.


I don't particularly trust Fae, and couldn't pass up the opportunity to test the effects of my more powerful consumables on living beings. Sylvie will soon awaken with a powerful regeneration ability -- or she won't, and, by analyzing what went wrong, I'll know more about my creations' interactions with the natural laws of this world. And, if she does awaken, our group would get a useful Fae servant, bound to us for quite awhile. It was truly a no loss scenario; a little heartless, perhaps -- but real life is no game. And I have no intention of playing fairly.

++

The forest path unfurled before us like a living thing, a serpentine trail of velvety moss and dappled shadow that throbbed with the enchanted forest's untamed pulse. Every step felt like a negotiation with the land itself, the air humming with a restless energy that prickled my skin. I glanced down at the soft pouch dangling from my belt—a makeshift cradle I'd fished from my inventory earlier, its enchanted silk supple, yet sturdy. Inside, Sylvie lay blissfully unaware, her tiny pixie form curled into a ball of delicate limbs and gossamer wings. She'd gorged herself on the sweetroll, the treat -- and its absurdly overpowered restoration effect -- overwhelming her fragile metabolism, and now she slept off the indulgence. Nestled among the pouch's frostbite spider silk lining, she looked almost too comfortable. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each exhale a faint, melodic snore that blended with the distant trill of the forest. Occasionally, her wings twitched, iridescent veins catching the dim light filtering through the canopy, and a tiny hand clutched at the fabric as if dreaming of flight.

"Still out cold," I murmured, adjusting the pouch so it rested securely against my hip.

Karlach snorted beside me, her tail flicking with amusement. "Lightweight," she said, her voice a low rumble. "Not even one pastry, and she's done for."

The Forest, however, cared little for Sylvie's nap or our banter. Space here was a trickster, a kaleidoscope of warped perceptions that mocked mortal logic. The path ahead shimmered and bent, stretching into an endless tunnel one moment, then snapping back to a mere handful of steps the next. The distant roar of music—wild, intoxicating, and threaded with laughter—taunted us, its source shifting with every breath. It echoed from the left, then the right, then above, as if the trees themselves were playing a game of misdirection. Straight lines curved without warning; landmarks—a gnarled oak, a cluster of glowing mushrooms—reappeared behind us as often as ahead.

"This place is a bloody maze," Karlach growled, her clawed hands flexing as if itching to punch through the illusion.

It seems Sylvie was right to offer her help as a guide -- no ordinary mortal could navigate these twisting paths. A good thing, then, that I could cheat my way through.

Closing my eyes, I summoned the familiar pull of Clairvoyance, letting it coil through my mind like a silver thread. A luminous filament sparked into existence, visible only to me—a shimmering guide that snaked through the air, weaving between trees and over roots. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal glow, tugging me toward the revelry's heart through the most efficient possible path; penetrating the forest's illusory tricks with contemptible ease. "Follow me," I said, stepping forward -- then carefully hoping twice to the left before doubling back, -- "and step exactly where I do. If we get separated out here, finding everyone again will be a real pain."

The thread in my mind led us onward efficiently, but progress seemed anything but linear. The forest toyed with us, forcing sharp turns where the path seemed straight, doubling us back through thickets we'd seemingly already passed. At one point, we circled the same pond three times—before the thread veered sharply left, pulling us through a curtain of vines. Karlach cursed under her breath as brambles snagged her armor, while Astarion sidestepped with feline grace, smirking at her plight. Gale muttered theories about dimensional folds, his voice fading into the hum of the forest as I focused on the spell's guidance. The thread was our lifeline, a beacon in this shifting labyrinth, and I clung to it as the music grew louder, its rhythm sinking into my bones.

Gradually, the forest itself began to transform as we pressed deeper. Trees stretched every skyward, their bark twisting into sinuous shapes—here a lithe figure frozen mid-dance, there a face locked in a silent moan. Vines draped like silken curtains, studded with blossoms that pulsed faintly, petals unfurling to release a scent of honeyed wine and musk. The air thickened, heavy with promise, and every breath carried the tang of overripe fruit, the bite of spice, the primal undertone of sweat and desire. It was a sensory assault, intoxicating and disorienting, and I felt my pulse quicken despite myself.

Through gaps in the foliage, the revelry teased us with fleeting glimpses. Beside a sunlit pool, a cluster of nymphs bathed, their laughter a cascade of silver bells. Water sheeted off their supple bodies, glistening over skin that shimmered like polished opal—pale blues, soft pinks, and deep golds blending in the water-reflected light. One reclined against the bank, her legs parted as rivulets traced the contours of her thighs, pooling in the hollows of her hips. Her breasts rose with each breath, full and taut, nipples pebbled from the chill as she tipped her head back, letting a companion pour a stream of water from a shell onto her chest. The liquid ran in glistening trails, and she sighed—a sound so rich with pleasure it seemed to stroke the air itself—while her hands slid lazily over her curves, inviting every gaze to follow. (Which Gale's gaze most definitely did -- before he put that legendary Wizard's concentration to use and forcibly re-focused on following me.)

Further on, a satyr lounged against a tree, his furred legs sprawled as he coaxed a haunting melody from a bone flute. His chest gleamed with sweat, dark curls matting against bronzed skin, and his eyes—half-lidded with mischief—tracked the fey drawn to his song. A dryad swayed before him, her body a tapestry of smooth bark and tender flesh, her hair a cascade of ivy that brushed his thighs as she leaned closer. Her fingers danced along his jaw, then lower, tugging at the scrap of cloth slung low on his hips. He grinned, teeth flashing, and shifted to give her better access, the flute's tune unbroken even as she pressed her lips to his throat, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. The music wove a spell, a thread of sound that wrapped around my senses, tugging at something deep and primal.

The path twisted again, and we brushed past a procession of Eladrin Elves bearing lanterns—orbs of glass that flickered with flames in hues of violet and amber. Their faces were flushed with ecstasy, lips parted as they chanted in a lilting tongue that shivered down my spine. One, a lithe figure with hair like spun copper, caught my eye. Her toga clung to her like a second skin, sheer silk outlining the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the shadowed cleft between her thighs. She stepped closer, her scent—jasmine and smoke—washing over me as she purred, "Come and dance with us, mortal! Lose yourself until the world forgets you." Her voice was a caress, her fingers grazing my arm, and for a fleeting moment, I considered it. But the Clairvoyance thread pulsed, sharp and insistent, and I shook my head. "Sorry love, maybe next time!" I said, stepping back. She laughed, a sound that lingered like perfume as we moved on.

At last, the forest relented, parting to reveal the revelry's core—an expanse so vast it defied the space we'd crossed to reach it. The clearing sprawled beneath a bright, rainbow-clouded sky, its edges lost to a haze of color and motion. The ground was a lush carpet of emerald grass, slick with dew that mirrored the heavens above in countless tiny prisms. Flowers erupted in wild abandon—roses with petals that wept crimson tears, lilies veined with molten gold, orchids unfurling to expose cores that glistened with nectar, their fragrance a heady mix of sweetness and sin. The aroma curled into my lungs, a drug that sparked heat in my veins, urging my heart to match the drums' relentless beat.

Fey of all shapes and sizes filled the glade, a swirling tide of unnatural beauty and excess that dazzled and overwhelmed. Satyrs with curling horns and sinewed legs chased nymphs through the throng, their hooves pounding the earth in a rhythm that shook the ground. One caught his prey—a nymph with skin like burnished copper—and pinned her against a tree with a growl that rumbled through the air. Her hair streamed like liquid flame, garlands of ivy slipping from her shoulders as he pressed against her, his hands tearing away what little covered her. Her breasts heaved as she arched into him, full and flushed, and her thighs parted to cradle his hips. Their kiss was a clash of hunger, lips bruising, tongues tangling, and his fingers dug into her flesh, leaving faint marks as he thrust against her -- not at all mindful of his audience -- the tree groaning under their fervor.

Nearby, three dryads entwined in a dance of limbs and sighs, their bodies a symphony of texture—bark smooth as satin, skin warm and yielding. Two flanked a third, their hands roaming with deliberate grace: one traced the arch of her spine, nails grazing the swell of her ass, while the other slipped between her thighs, coaxing a gasp that trembled on the air. Their lips met in a slow, sensual collision, tongues sliding together as sap glistened on their skin, dripping in amber beads to the grass below. Pixies—tiny, glowing kin to Sylvie—darted above, laughing and showering them with dust that shimmered like starlight. The dryads collectively shuddered, their bodies writhing in a pulsing rhythm only they could hear.

All around us, the gathering was a banquet of indulgence, not just of flesh but of every sense. Tables sprouted from the earth, their wood alive and twisting, laden with platters of luminous fruit—grapes swollen to bursting, strawberries that stained fingers red, peaches splitting to spill nectar that glowed like molten silver. Fey tore into them with abandon, juice cascading down chins, pooling on bare chests, soaking into silks that clung like wet paint. A silver-haired elf reclined atop a table, his tunic discarded as he bit into a peach, letting the liquid drip onto the nymph sprawled beneath him.

She writhed as he traced its path with his tongue, lapping from her navel to the peak of her breast, her moans rising as he pinned her wrists and claimed her with slow, deliberate greed.

Wine flowed in torrents, poured from decanters that sang with crystalline voices—ruby, sapphire, gold—splashing into goblets, over hands, across bodies locked in embrace. A satyr tipped a horn to his lips, the excess streaming down his chest as he stumbled into a ring of dancers. They spun around a bonfire that roared with unnatural flames—emerald and indigo tongues licking the sky, fed by herbs that thickened the air with a smoky, euphoric haze. A fey with antlers and skin painted in glowing runes stripped bare, her curves glistening as she leapt into the fire. The flames parted, cradling her, licking her thighs and breasts without harm, and she danced within them, her ecstatic cries piercing the chaos as the blaze worshiped her flesh.


The crowd surged and parted as we neared the center, revealing a dais of living wood, its surface a lattice of roses and ivy that pulsed with faint light. Atop it stood a crescent table, its edges aglow with golden fire, and five figures presided—beings of such potency that the air noticeably bent around them, their presence a siren call that silenced my thoughts. These were the architects of this madness, the judges of the Grand Revel, and their sheer presence was a force that demanded reverence.

The host sat at the center, a wildfire in fey form. His frame was lean yet taut, draped in a crimson tunic that hung open to reveal a chest dusted with dark, curling hair. Cloven hooves gleamed like obsidian beneath the table, and the braids of his wild hair were strung with bells that chimed with every tilt of his head. His mane of chestnut hair tumbled wild and tangled, woven with feathers and beads, and his eyes burned with a manic green flame, pupils slit like a beast's. A lute lay across his lap, its strings trembling with unspoken notes, and his grin—sharp-toothed and feral—promised chaos. He leaned forward, laughter rolling from him like thunder, stirring the crowd into a frenzy of cheers and motion.

Beside him lounged a woman whose beauty was a blade, cutting through the haze with radiant precision. Her dress was... literally made of liquid sunlight, a golden sheath that flowed over her like a living thing, shifting to tease the eye—now baring the curve of a breast, now the sweep of a thigh, then veiling it in a flicker of translucent quasi-modesty. Her skin glowed ivory, her hair a cascade of molten gold that shimmered past her hips, and her emerald eyes swept the glade with a queen's pride. She reclined with effortless grace, her fingers—long and pearl-tipped—tracing the rim of a goblet, her every movement a promise of delight.

To his left loomed a giant of primal might, his bare chest a map of scars and muscle, tanned to deep bronze. A kilt of green leather hung low, fringed with bones that clattered softly, and antlers—broad and branching—crowned his head, laden with trophies of claw and fang. His black hair fell in silver-streaked tangles, his amber eyes glowed with a hunter's focus, and a wolf-headed staff rested in his grip. At his feet, a dire boar snorted, its tusks gleaming, a mirror to his untamed power.

On the host's right sat a woman of vibrant chaos, her gown a swirl of silk—scarlet, sapphire, amber—that danced with her every sway. It clung to her curves, sheer enough to outline every line, and her rosy-gold skin sparkled with glitter. Copper curls tumbled free, chiming with tiny bells, and her sky-blue eyes glittered with wild joy. She leaned forward, her crimson lips parted in a warm smile full of gleeful abandon. Her laughter reminded me of a brisk Spring morning.

At the table's other end perched the last figure, her diminutive form radiating an ethereal beauty that seemed to draw the very light of the surroundings toward her. Standing at around 4'6" tall, she appeared as a demure, slim nymph, her delicate frame cloaked in an aura of quiet enchantment. Her luminous, pale green skin shimmered faintly, reminiscent of dew-kissed leaves, while her deep emerald hair flowed in cascading waves, interwoven with living strands of ivy that rustled softly as they brushed the table's edge. Her large, luminous eyes—a captivating swirl of violet and gold—gazed out over the revelry with serene detachment, their depths hinting at ancient wisdom and subtle power. A faint, knowing smile played upon her full, unpainted lips, balancing innocence with an enigmatic allure. Her attire was as minimal as it was tantalizing, consisting solely of gossamer garments no larger than handkerchiefs, their sheer fabric offering only the barest nod to modesty. One delicate scrap of what was -- probably -- some sort of spider silk draped loosely across her chest, shifting with each breath to reveal or conceal the gentle curve of her form, while another rested low on her hips, leaving the smooth expanse of her thighs and the graceful dip of her waist fully exposed to the warm, enchanted air. Barefooted, her slender feet rested lightly on the dais, adorned with tiny silver toe rings that caught the light with every subtle movement. A circlet of white roses -- complete with thorns -- adorned her brow, its white blossoms glowing softly, framing her face with a faint halo that enhanced her otherworldly presence.

The five presided over a table strewn with excess—goblets, glowing fruit, instruments humming with latent song. The host raised a hand, bells jangling, and the crowd roared, a tide of adoration crashing against the dais.

+++

A few minutes later, as we tried to get our bearings, the world continued to pulse around me like a living heartbeat, its magic a relentless tide that flooded my senses and tugged at the edges of my sanity. The Five's presence still loomed at the high table, their presence a weight that pressed against my chest, making every breath feel borrowed. All around us, the Grand Revel unfurled in a riot of sound and color, a spectacle that dwarfed anything I'd ever witnessed, even in the hyper-real VR sims of the 2040s. The air was alive with laughter, but that sound was both joyous and edged with something... feral, something that didn't care if we lived or died.

Beside me, Gale shifted uneasily, his scholarly poise cracking like thin ice. His hands fidgeted with the collar of his robe, and his dark eyes flicked from one judge to the next, wide with a mix of awe and dread. "By the Weave," he muttered, his voice nearly lost in the revel's cacophony.

"They're all here. All of them."

"Who?" I asked, forcing my tone to stay level despite the knot tightening in my gut. In the words of Doc. Brown, Gale was someone who has "seen some serious shit," having a sexual relationship with a Greater Deity included — and if he was this shaken, we were in deeper trouble than I'd thought.

Gale swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he nodded toward the figure at the table's center. "That right there has to be Hyrsam, the Prince of Fools. An archfey---ancient beyond measure, far older than recorded history. Chaotic, unpredictable, and very, very dangerous. They call him the oldest of all fey, the very incarnation of Music itself. His voice, his laughter—it's said to shape reality, Harald. He's a primal force, a storm given flesh and sound."

My senses concurred with Gale's assessment -- although I've never met him, our host -- Hyrsam -- gave me the most dangerous feeling of the five beings at the High Table. Now that I thought about it, was it his realm we were currently in? That would certainly explain a number of things.

Gale's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, urgent and strained. "To his right: that's Titania, Queen of the Summer Court. The mightiest of the Seelie fey—legends say she emerged when the first light kissed the Feywild's soil.

Titania was a vision that hit me like a physical blow. Her dress -- if one could call it that -- flowed over her like liquid sunlight, a cascade of gold that shimmered and shifted with every movement. Her golden hair spilled down her back in waves that caught the light like a halo, and her emerald eyes swept the crowd with a regal calm that belied the power coiled within her. She was beauty made manifest, but her gaze held an unnatural, unyielding edge—a promise that her grace could turn to ruin in an instant.

"Beside her," Gale went on, "is surely Oberon, the Green Lord. Titania's consort. A primal warrior, master of the Feywild's beasts -- of all beasts, even. His strength is unmatched—some say he's wrestled dragons and won. Some Druidic Circles worship him as a God."

Oberon's sheer presence dominated his seat. He indeed looked like he could uproot the glade with a flick of his wrist. Was he stronger then myself? Perhaps this... wasn't the most productive of questions to ask at the moment.

Gale's whisper grew fainter, as if the act of naming them sapped his strength. "There, to Hyrsam's left, that's Lliira -- you know, the Goddess of Joy? She's not a fey, but a deity from Faerûn. I actually met her Avatar once, when... well, never mind that now. She's celebration incarnate—a peaceful and kind Goddess, but one that's strictly against violence. Her blessing of this Revel... is truly something significant."

I knew who Lliira was, of course -- genuinely kind, joyful, and honorable to a fault, she was, by far, my favorite goddess of the Dungeons and Dragons pantheon -- and one of the few divines I actually respected in this shithole of a multiverse.

"Finally," Gale said, nodding to the table's end, "Verenestra, the Oak Grove Nymph. Titania's daughter and an archfey of beauty and nature. A mistress of all kinds of illusions, her charm's said to be able to bend even the strongest of minds."

Verenestra was... really attractive, I suppose, I one was into short women -- but she, for all her... cuteness... didn't quite have either Titania's unnatural allure, nor Lliira's pure-hearted charm. Besides, she looked almost comical next to my 6'4 frame. I suspected a lot of her supposed attractiveness was due to her skills with illusions more than anything else. Did she develop those skills due to feeling self-conscious next to Titania? I supposed it was quite likely.

I let out a slow breath, the realization of the depth of the shit that was our situation beginning to sink in like a sewer maintenance worker into an uncleaned pipe. Four archfey—Hyrsam, Titania, Oberon, Verenestra—each wielding the power of a god, plus Lliira, an actual deity. Here, in the heart of their strength, the distinction between Lesser and Greater Deity was a meaningless semantic quibble when the very air twisted to their desires. To be frank, violence simply wasn't an option—first, from a purely practical standpoint, it'd be like challenging a hurricane.... Well, five hurricanes, each with its own brand of devastation. Yes, I still had a few "aces" up my sleeves, but, even if I were confident of winning the resulting fight (or, at least, escaping from it alive) -- which I definitely wasn't -- I would never willingly risk harm to any of my companions. Nor would I want to hurt Lliira -- the sweet and pure goddess definitely didn't deserve such harsh treatment.

No. There would be no forcing our way through this mess. Our only hope -- other than a possible stealth route -- was to navigate our hosts' rules, and pray they found us amusing enough to let us go.

No pressure.

My mind spun back to the VR games I'd sunk countless hours into during the 2040s—sims like Godslayer: Rift, where I'd faced down deities and titans with a sword in one hand and a spell in the other. Back then, I'd thrived on the thrill of it: the rush of outsmarting an AI god with a perfectly timed dodge, the satisfaction of a combo that shattered a boss's health bar. Throughout the years, I'd been the Dragonborn, the Nerevarine, the Chosen One, and many other variations on that Main Character theme—titles earned through blood and cunning, all within the safe confines of a headset and haptic suit. But this? This was no sim. There was no logout option, no save file to fall back on if I screwed up. The Fey magic was real, visceral—I could feel it in the way the ground vibrated under my boots, in the way the music wormed into my skull and tugged at my thoughts. One wrong move here, and I wouldn't just lose a life; I'd lose everything—my freedom, my companions, maybe even my soul.

And yet, despite everything, that old gamer instinct in the back of my mind still reared up, stubborn and reckless. A part of me—the part forged in Skyrim's frozen wastes, where every dragon was a challenge to be met head-on—itched to draw my blade and fight anyway. Even now, I could almost hear the roar of my Dragonborn shout, Fus Ro Dah, echoing through the glade, scattering pixies and toppling tables. In those games, violence wasn't just the answer: it was the question, and the answer was usually an enthusiastic YES. Hit hard. Hit fast. Keep swinging until the enemy fell.

Come on, you can take 'em!

I... forcibly pushed my fighting spirit down and got my mind back on track. Discretion and Diplomacy, not violence, were called for here. No matter; I'd adapt—play their game, abuse the hell out of their rules, and find a way out. That's what a Gamer did, after all: improvise, survive, win.

"Gale," I said, keeping my voice low, "tell me there's a way out of this that doesn't end with us licking their boots."

He grimaced, tugging at his beard with nervous fingers. "If there is, I can't see it. We're guests in their domain. Our best shot is to play along and hope they don't decide we'd serve better as decorations—or worse."

Before I could argue, the Revel lurched into a new phase. Hyrsam leapt to the bells in his hair jangling like a mad chorus, and flung his arms wide.
"Revelers!" His voice cut through the din, bright and jagged, a blade of sound that silenced the crowd. "Behold—two who dared scorn our sacred laws!"

The ground shuddered, and the crowd parted like a tide. Vines erupted from the earth, writhing and twisting with a life of their own, their tips glistening with green sap that smelled of pine and iron. They coiled into two wooden cages, bars pulsing as if alive, and inside them, bound and defiant.... were Lae'zel and Shadowheart.

Lae'zel thrashed against her bonds like a cornered beast—the living wood around her tightened with every struggle, creaking ominously. Her armor was scuffed and dented, her sword nowhere in sight, and her yellow-green eyes blazed with a fury that could've melted steel.

Beside her, Shadowheart knelt, thorny cords lashed around her wrists, drawing her arms backwards in a painful-looking strappado, the thorns digging cruelly into the skin, her dark hair spilling over her face like a shroud. She looked... drained, her skin pale against the black of her cleric's garb, but her jaw was set, her defiance unbroken.

The crowd jeered, a mix of glee and mock indignation rippling through them—satyrs stomping their hooves, pixies buzzing with shrill laughter.
Hyrsam's grin sharpened, predatory and gleeful. "This gith dared to enter our glade armed, her blade bared—a grievous insult to our hospitality!" He swept a hand toward Shadowheart, his tone dripping with exaggerated sorrow. "And this one—a disciple of Shar, the Lady of Loss herself—slunk among us as a spy, forbidden in our realms by ancient decree!"

Murmurs and gasps swept the fey. Some shrank back, clutching their goblets as if Shadowheart's mere presence might taint them; others leaned closer, eyes glinting with curiosity.

My chest tightened. Lae'zel's warrior nature, or maybe pride, have kept her weapon drawn—because of course they did. And Shadowheart's current devotion to Shar, the primordial goddess of darkness, marked her as an intruder in this realm of light and revelry.

And yet, I would never leave them to their fate -- in fact, my body was already stepping forward before I even consciously made the decision.
The judges' gazes quickly focused on me, their scrutiny a physical weight that sank into my bones. The crowd fell silent, and I squared my shoulders, facing the high table with as much courage as I could muster -- preparing to put that Speechcraft skill to good use.

Predictably, Hyrsam beat me to the punch.

His eyes flared with delight, and he clapped his hands like a child unwrapping a gift. "Oh, a Little Godling graces our gathering! Welcome, new friend—to what do we owe this pleasure?" He leaned forward, his grin widening into something feral. "Oh, but do mine eyes deceive me—you're not here to spectate, but... to compete? How deliciously… unexpected!"

The word compete slammed into me like a brick, confirming Gale's hypothesis. Still, maybe I could still salvage the situation with a little diplomacy?

"Great hosts," I said, my voice steady but laced with respect, "I am Harald, drawn here after accidentally encountering and touching a certain enchanted lute on the material plane. These..." I sweep theatrically towards the two caged ladies "are my dear friends and companions, and they are equally here by chance. Although they can be foolish, stubborn, and lack diplomatic tact, they are not malicious. I'm quite certain they did not mean to needlessly offend our esteemed hosts. Please, allow me to negotiate for their release -- I trust that we could agree on a suitable compensation for any harm they have caused, after which we all, perhaps... could humbly take our leave?"

Hyrsam tilted his head, exchanging a knowing glance with Titania. The latter's sunlight-dress shifted, revealing a fleeting glimpse of her perfect form as she leaned forward, her voice a purr of silk over steel. "Oh, Little Godling, we sympathize with your plight, truly. But there are rules in play here that even we must obey. The old ways decree that Elion the Bard—or his designated successor—must compete. The invitation was accepted when you knowingly touched his lute and crossed our threshold. One of your number must perform."

I took a moment to consider her assertion, but, in my heart, I already knew there was no dodging this. We were ensnared, and the only way out was through.

"Very well," I said, meeting the Five's gazes head-on. "I accept. I'll take part in your contest."

Hyrsam's happy laughter erupted, sharp and wild, a sound that shivered through the glade like breaking glass. "Marvelous! Oh, this is simply delightful! You're just in time for the final round, too! It's tomorrow night, beneath the full moon. Mingle with our guests, partake of the festivities, sleep where you please—you're perfectly safe here while the Grand Revel lasts. An attendant shall notify you when your turn comes!"

Relief flickered through me, brittle and fleeting, overshadowed by the weight of what I'd committed to. But, Lae'zel and Shadowheart were still trapped. "Great hosts," I said, dipping into a respectful bow, "As these ones are a part of my group, I humbly ask that they be released into my care. I'll ensure they abide by your rules and shall accept full responsibility for their actions."

Hyrsam waved a hand, almost dismissive. The vines unraveled with a wet, slithering sound, retreating into the earth like snakes fleeing light. Lae'zel stumbled free, catching herself with a warrior's grace, her fists clenched. Shadowheart slumped, her strength sapped, and I lunged forward, catching her as she fell into my arms.

Her eyes met mine, an exhausted delirium shadowed by a glint of dark humor. "We've really got to stop meeting like this," she murmured, remembering a faint echo of our first meeting on the Nautiloid when I'd freed her from that pod.

I grinned, gently cradling her while sending forth waves of restoration magic.

"I always expected you would fall for me, Shadowheart. I just didn't expect it would be quite so soon -- or quite so often!" I quipped while helping her up.

She rolled her eyes at my silliness, but I was sure I could spot a faint hint of a smile. "At least those big arms of yours seem good at catching me."
She opened her mouth to say something else, but the moment was broken by the approaching Hurricane Lae'zel, her expression a tempest of both gratitude and fury.

"You've freed us, but at what cost? I heard what they said about this being a Bardic contest. In case you've forgotten, none of us are bards. Can you even play an instrument? Tsk, it would have been more prudent to leave us to our fates than to risk a rescue against such odds."

The crowd's focus drifted back to the revel, music swelling anew, as I considered Lae'zel's statement. "Perhaps you're right -- but remember this: I don't abandon friends in need, no matter what "the odds" might be.... and don't write those odds off just yet -- my musical skills might just surprise you!" I added with a wink.

Astarion sauntered up, smirking. "Well, it'll be a spectacle, at least. I simply adore a good performance."

Karlach cracked her knuckles, grinning wide. "I'll be your loudest cheerleader, Soldier. Might even dance!"

I shook my head, a faint smile breaking through. Karlach's positive attitude was infectious. I would find a way to get us through this.

After all, this was just another game.

And I... was THE Gamer.