The Threefold Toll of the Laughing River

A moon-pale river bends through the Feywild, its bank slick with silver moss and bright toadstools that hum when the wind turns. In the center of a shallow pool sits a ring of carved stones, each beaded with dew that never falls, and the current keeps tugging at the reeds as if trying to speak through them. When anyone steps close, the pool reflects an impossible night sky and the stones answer with soft, bell-like knocks, as though the river itself is waiting to be addressed.