Previous parts

• From the Notebooks of Jaspera von Kupferthal, Part 1
• Field Notes from an Expedition to Brugh na Ciorcal, Part 2

Blossombud 26th

I need to find the time to fix the mental construct. I am enjoying being a wyrmling again too much.

But with Giorsail’s around, I cannot do it here, and my hostesses are loath to let the ‘princess from the big city’ out of their sights.

Anyway, observations.

For the first time, I was able to observe the druid perform a ritual up close.

Saraid’s water broke.

I was lucky enough to be within smelling range.

I immediately bolted for the master bedroom, assuming (correctly) that the birth would occur in there. I hid behind a large trunk (thank goodness for this stupid collar.)

The druids were called for, and they arrived promptly.

I witnessed the birthing ritual in full.

The druids started to murmur in an antiquated dialect of fey similar to the runic tongue of Faerie used in spellcasting, but not quite.

Fortunately, I am fluent in most forms of fey, including this particular dialect of the Runic Tounge of Faerie

The structure was formal—almost bureaucratic. Titles were announced, permissions invoked, and roles acknowledged.

There were invocations of various spirits with names like “Viscount of the Third Root” and “Steward of the Western Wind”—titles that sounded precise but whose referents I could not identify. These include invocations of the elements, references to what sounded like royal court proceedings, and the presentation of a visiting noble to another noble’s court.

I would once have laughed at its absurdity. I am no longer certain that would be appropriate. Again, I hate how the spell is making me act.

I have a theory that the rituals the druids perform are leftover bits of protocol from the Faerie kingdoms of yore.

My friends at the Natural Philosophers Society in Silberberg have coined the term “Cargo Cult” to describe how newly contacted stone-weapon-wielding tribes on the continent of Yohualtlan react to explorers wielding modern technology. They perceive the explorers as gods and start to worship them, especially when the explorers trade spare axes and other tools for rations.

I suspect a similar process may be at work here—rituals preserved long after their original meaning has been forgotten, retained for form rather than function.

However, I am not sure how typical what I saw is compared to other enclaves. It may be worth some follow-up expeditions.

Back to the observations.

The new member of the Eochaid clan was a boy. Once the druids filled out, the family filled in to witness the new arrival. I took this opportunity to slink out of my hiding spot back into the brugh.

I unfortunately ran into Giorsail and Luthais sharing an… intimate moment in the central hall. She’s… a lot younger than I first assumed, maybe a few years older than Luthais, which makes her all the more terrifying that she can pull off seeming like she’s in her mid-20s all the time. From the sound of it, they were serious about the relationship.

Fey have been known to have flings outside their species, but inter-species love affairs are beyond rare.

It’s the sort of thing that they write epic poems about whenever it happens, the sort that either ends with love conquering all through magic, the lovers eloping, or mutual suicide.

Of course, they noticed me.

Luthais lifted me off the ground by the scruff of my neck as though I weighed nothing. He threatened me, saying that if I said anything, he would prove himself a dragonslayer to his father. I found myself genuinely afraid.

Giorsail, by contrast, was calm—watching me in a way that suggested she saw far more than I would have liked. She said that my “mother” was an important person back in Sliberberg. There was some discussion. It sounded like they were planning to run away to the big city.

I took my chance and said that my big sister, Cinni, was out adventuring in the area, and she would surely help them if I asked nicely. It seemed to placate them, and they let me go on my way.

The only other thing of note was a large feast in honor of Gòrdan’s birth. Thankfully, there was no meat at the feast, just normal veggies. All I could say about it is that it was a bigger version of the usual dinner served in the Eochaid clan’s brugh. 

However, I caught Sir Labhruinn and Samthann talking about me, saying that he loathes to let me leave the village until my mother or my older siblings come to collect me. Samthann was delighted to have the princess from the city stay a little longer.

This complicates matters.

I was planning to stay until a few days after Beltane and then head back home once I started to wear out my welcome. But apparently, the Eochaid clan loves me and is looking for an excuse to have me stay a little longer, or more likely, meet my “mother.”

As I said, my daughter, Cinnibara, is somewhere in these hills with her mortal friends. I could possibly contact her to be my chaperone. But on the other hand, I would rather not.

She does not approve of my methods.

Ironic since her cohort are ruffians more interested in coin than research.

Her finding a wyrmling version of me would be an awkward conversation.

I could sneak out of the village. Maybe spend some time exploring. I really enjoy being little again, and it’s tempting to go exploring in this form and experience the wide-eyed wonder I had when I was young.

More tempting than it should be.

Ugh, the construct is affecting my judgment now.

I will sneak away in the morning and fix this mess—before I lose the inclination to do so.

Blossombud 27th

NO, NO, NO. This has gone very wrong.

I was reworking my spell beneath a tree outside the village when I smelled another dragon.

It was Cinni.

She had her adventurer friends with her, and they were coming straight to the village.

Everybody knew that she was coming, and the first thing she did was introduce herself using her full title.

She would see straight through me if my disguise were not perfect.

I panicked and miscast the spell.

The construct is now even stronger than before. I can get to my adult knowledge if I really concentrate, but I cannot hold on to it for long.

Worse, the suggestions that the concentrate are really intrusive now. My attention span is gone. I am even more impulsive. 

I can still read my crayon drawing notes, but just barely.

I feel… smaller. Simpler. Thoughts slip away if I do not hold onto them.

I may have made this more difficult to undo than intended.

I am not sure I want to.

I am, it seems, going to be the wyrmling Garnette von Kupferthal for the foreseeable future.

At least I do not smell like myself. That is good. It means the disguise may hold.

I snuck back in town and found my new friends. They brought me to meet my “big sister.”

My reinforced childhood was enough to fool her—at least, I think it was; her delight in meeting her youngest sister was genuine. I am sure of that.

She immediately doted on me as though I truly were her little sister. She even removed the shrinking collar I had been saddled with over the past few weeks.

It is so strange to have our relationship inverted, with her acting like the mother and me the daughter.

I do not think she would approve of this version of me.

She, I, and my new friends spent the rest of the day together, playing and making floral crowns for Beltane. She even shrank herself down to horse size so we could play together without frightening the others.

We are now sharing a room in my friend’s house. She is fast asleep, curled around me as I once did when she was little.

I like it when she holds me like this.

We are going to be staying here for a while

Her last delve went poorly. She is uninjured, but her companions are not.

Gunaakt, the orc landsknecht, will be bedridden for several days.

Once he recovers, they intend to return to Sliberberg—and take me with them.

I will go.

I may have to accept that this is no longer a research expedition.

It may become a… vacation.

Perhaps one that is long overdue.

That thought is… concerning.