Fungal Halo

The King’s new advisor was a treacherous man, this much was obvious to most members of the court. There was a scheming air about him, and there had to be supernatural reasons why the King seemed to hang on his advisor’s every word, surely.

It’s a strange party you find yourself in the middle of. You had no idea your friends knew so many different creatures from every plane you’ve heard of—and a few you haven’t.

You don’t see anyone you recognize right now, but everyone is chill, and you lower your guard.

Elegant, hand-painted flowers adorned the glossy white surface of the mask in my hands. The more I looked, the more of its intricate detail jumped out at me. Every delicate line, every brush stroke—it all seemed perfectly in place.

“Found something you like, did you?”

Why me? Of all the people at that party, why am I the one you drugged and dragged out and brought to that dingy basement of yours?

Why does it have to be me you tied up and left in an empty room with only a bare bulb and a mirror in front of me for company?

Why any of this?

The dryad visits just once per cycle of the moon, but you always look forward to its arrival. Sometimes it brings gifts from the forest, sometimes gifts from the other towns it visits, sometimes just the gift of its company, but it is your friend, and you always greet it happily.

The mask’s smooth curves, its flat colors, its simple lines, all have so much appeal on their own. No effort made to imitate a living person, all simple iconography—with some decorative flourishes—in crisp, clean lines.

You press it to your face, and it’s seamless.

You never questioned why your exploration of this hidden temple’s ruins went so smoothly and easily, did you? How you seemed to instinctually notice the hidden passages and trap triggers? You and your fellows rode a wave of excitement all the way to the most hidden chamber here.