A Kenku merchant known for peddling curiosities, walked briskly through a dense area of the Green Sea.
The sky darkened, a transformation painted with strokes of deep purples and inky blacks. The silvery gleam of the rising moon cast ghostly reflections on dew-kissed leaves, their surfaces shimmering like a sea of tiny mirrors. As Moon-Mumble's beady eyes darted around, the once-familiar trees now appeared hauntingly alien, their bark gnarled and twisted, and their roots weaving intricate patterns on the mossy ground. The once lively chirps of nocturnal creatures were overtaken by a deafening silence, occasionally broken by the distant hoot of an owl or the mournful howl of a distant wolf. Every step Moon-Mumble took felt heavier, the damp earth clinging to his feet, the path ahead obscured by a curtain of fog and mist. His grip tightened on his cart of goods that he pulled behind him.
The dim light revealed a figure up ahead, standing along the side of the path looking into the woods. The Kenku, always eager to make a sale, approached, calling out to the figure with his best salesmen's voice.
"Good evening, Traveler! Care to take a look at some of my wares?" the Kenku asked.
The figure, about average height, turned to face the Kenku, and the merchant's stomach sank as it did. The being appeared mostly humanoid, but its face was eerily blank, like a canvas waiting to be painted. Its attire was an intricate tapestry of fabrics, seemingly representing various time periods and cultures, all overlapping one over the other. As it moved, various layers of the tapestry became visible, almost like there wasn’t even a body underneath.
The figure spoke with a voice that seemed to echo from a distance, even though the figure stood right before the merchant.
"Moon-Mumble, isn’t it? A seller of rare and unique curiosities from across the lands," it said while tilting its head slightly.
Taken aback, Moon-Mumble hesitated. "How... How do you know my name?"
The figure leaned in closer, its blank face inches from Moon-Mumble's. "I see many faces, merchant. And with them, I glimpse memories, names, secrets. You've traded with some fascinating individuals."
Trying to maintain his composure, the Kenku mustered a nervous laugh. "It’s just good business to know a lot of people. Are you interested in buying something or not?"
The figure straightened, seeming to consider the question.
"Perhaps," it said finally. "However, I have no money."
Moon-Mumble let out an exasperated sigh and started to walk again.
"Yeah, alright," he said. "I ain't a charity."
"And I seek no alms," the figure said, following his movements with an eye-less stare. "I seek a trade of memories."
Moon-Mumble stopped and turned to look back at the figure.
"Memories?" he said, confused.
"Indeed," the figure said. "I have been to many places and have seen treasures beyond your belief. I will trade you the memory of one of these locations and its contents. In return, I would like the memory of how you came to possess... this."
The figure reached out a bony hand with delicate fingers from beneath the layers of tapestries and pointed to an amulet on the merchant's cart. The amulet, forged from a dark, shimmering metal, bore the crest of Falconspike – a majestic falcon in mid-flight with talons outstretched over a spiked citadel. Tiny runes, echoing tales of Falconspike's legacy and power, circled the falcon, barely visible but glowing faintly in the dim light.
Moon-Mumble looked back and forth from the amulet and the figure, protective of an item that clearly had significant ties to a renowned city. "That’s a relic from Falconspike," he stammered, both proud and wary. "It's not for sale. You only want to know how I got it, and you’ll give me the location of a treasure?"
The figure nodded slowly.
"I'll even be generous and give you my memory first," the figure stated as it moved its hand to Moon-Mumble's head. He recoiled for a second before he allowed the figure to touch him.
Suddenly, his mind was able to recall a memory of traveling through the Green Sea to the Ruins of the First King to the north. He saw the traps and knew the directions to a hidden storehouse full of ancient coins and artifacts.
"And now for yours," the figure stated. "Think on the amulet and the story of its acquisition."
Moon-Mumble closed his eyes and felt a gentle tug from the figure's cold hands as if it were pulling a string from the tapestry of his mind. He felt a rush of emotions and sensations all at once before they were replaced with a numbness that felt like a waterfall sounded.
He opened his eyes and looked at the figure, who looked almost satisfied, as if they just feasted. Moon-Mumble, still recovering from the jolt of memories bestowed upon him, noticed a subtle change in the figure's posture. A tense, expectant energy seemed to surround them.
"You possess a memory I was not expecting, Moon-Mumble," the figure began, its voice more resonant, its cadence more deliberate. The forest around them seemed to draw breath, waiting. "Someone I've been searching for: The Green Knight. I was promised my return to the Feywild if I captured them. I would be able to shed the name of Maskweaver and retake my old crown. For this, I must take everything."
Moon-Mumble's beady eyes widened in alarm. "Everything? But we had a trade!"
The Maskweaver's blank face somehow conveyed a deep, abiding hunger. "This is bigger than our trade. This is about balance, about ancient rites and the fabric of this forest. With Balthazar's return, I will take my sibling's throne. Believe me, this is for the greater good."
And as the Maskweaver spoke, the trees began to sway and rustle, their branches reaching out towards Moon-Mumble, as if yearning to touch him. The gnarled and twisted trunks seemed to pulse with life, their bark cracking and reshaping, whispering old tales and forgotten lullabies.
Moon-Mumble, filled with a surge of panic, attempted to flee. "You won’t have me so easily!"
He tried to pull his cart between him and the Maskweaver, scattering some of his precious curiosities onto the forest floor. As he fumbled to grab an artifact he believed might protect him, the tendrils of the Maskweaver’s tapestry lunged, snaking around his limbs, pulling him close. The cold touch of the threads felt like hundreds of tiny mouths, each sipping away at his essence, his memories, his very soul. The threads began to weave him into the vast expanse of the tapestry, integrating him into its design.
He felt his consciousness stretching, becoming thinner and thinner, until he was but a whisper, a single thread in the vast design. The world around him darkened, and the last thing he felt was the all-consuming embrace of the tapestry.
The forest resumed its nightly song, and the Maskweaver, now adorned with a new, intricate pattern on its robe, continued its ageless journey through the Green Sea. The trees whispered tales of the Kenku merchant who became one with the forest, a new chapter in the ancient lore of the woods. And so, in the heart of the Green Sea, the legend of Moon-Mumble was woven, forever a part of the tapestry.
As dawn's first light pierced through the dense canopy, the Green Sea transformed once more. The suffocating fog that had blanketed the forest floor now began to lift, revealing patches of dew-drenched grass shimmering under the morning sun. Birds serenaded the new day with cheerful songs, but the part of the path where Moon-Mumble had met the Maskweaver remained untouched by the sun's warmth. A villager, out to forage for berries, happened upon this stretch of the woods. As she neared, a sudden, icy chill enveloped her, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She paused, looking around, sensing an unsettling presence, the lingering essence of old magics and forgotten tales. With an instinctual shiver, she quickened her pace, eager to leave behind the strange, shadowed part of the forest where legends were whispered and old memories still clung to the air.