The air grew still as Nicole Reeyn of the Hexenzirkel, her codename a simple 'N', raised a delicate hand. A hush fell over the gathered circle, a strange assembly of wanderers, harbingers, and creatures of myth. Nicole’s voice, soft as falling snow, carried the weight of ages. "You wish to hear a story of the moon? That tale begins long, long ago..."
Before she could continue, a small figure tugged at the sleeve of the towering Varka. The child, Aino, pointed towards the storyteller with an impatient huff. "Mister, Nefer's starting her story already." Her voice was a clear bell, breaking the sacred quiet.
Varka, the Knight of Boreas, smiled down at her, but his eyes were fixed on the pale orb hanging in the sky. "You're right. I came here for the moon." He wasn't here for mere fables; his purpose was carved from moonlight and longing.
Next to him, Jahoda, a seasoned tracker, rummaged through a worn leather bag. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "The moon's a long way off. We might go hungry, but at least we have plenty of time." A practical soul, Jahoda knew that journeys measured in moonbeams required more than just stories; they needed snacks.
From a shadowy corner, a rumbling voice, both ancient and childlike, spoke up. It was Durin, the great dragon resurrected. His scales shimmered with forgotten starlight. "The story about the moon... Mother must have told you too, right?" He wasn't asking Nicole, but rather the empty space beside him, as if speaking to a memory. The 'mother' he spoke of was the alchemist Rhine, and her tales of the eternal night held a peculiar, melancholy magic.
Suddenly, a cold, mechanical laugh sliced through the gentle narrative. Sandrone, the Fatui Harbinger known as Marionette, stepped forward, her intricate doll clicking beside her. Her expression was one of pure, condescending amusement. "The Frostmoon Scions, again? Hah... A laughably futile rebellion." She saw the quest for the moon not as a journey, but as a broken, pathetic uprising to be catalogued and discarded.
Into the cold silence she left, a new voice rose, trembling with devotion. It was Lauma, an emissary clad in furs and ancient sigils. She knelt, arms raised towards the sky. "O pale white Frostmoon, I, your loyal emissary and scion of Hyperborea, beseech you to cast down your gaze from the celestial dome above." Her prayer was a thread of warmth in the icy night, a genuine plea from a lost child of a forgotten moon-crowned kingdom.
Nefer, whose story had been interrupted, finally spoke again, her gaze sharp and probing. She looked at the audience, from Varka to Sandrone, and asked with a hint of a challenge, "You didn't come here for the story, did you?" The question hung in the air, heavy as a prophecy.
A man who had been trying to blend into the shadows coughed. Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, a low-level functionary from the Fatui's intelligence network, adjusted his gloves nervously. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person." But his eyes betrayed him; they shone with a glint of pure, uncut moonsilver. "Who, me? No, I’m just here for the free night air," he seemed to say with his whole fidgeting posture. The moon has a way of finding even the best liars.
Before anyone could press him, the surface of a nearby pool, perfectly still until now, began to ripple without wind.
From the water, a figure ascended. "Moon Maiden" Columbina, the Third of the Fatui Harbingers, drifted upwards as if pulled by invisible threads. Her eyes were closed, her voice a spectral lullaby. "In the water, the future mirrors the past. The veil of lies is slipping..." Her words painted a truth: the story of the moon wasn't a tale of what was, but a reflection of what is and what must be. The Frostmoon Scions, the ancient mothers, the rebellions—it was all one continuous, watery thread.
Finally, as if the magical chaos needed a garnish, a portal ripped open with a cheerful pop and the scent of gunpowder and candy. Alice, the legendary adventurer of the Hexenzirkel, codename 'A', bounded out. She took one look at the frozen tableau—the praying emissary, the smirking Harbinger, the confused spy, and the water-wreathed Columbina—and declared brightly, "Here at last! And things look even messier than last time."
Nicole Reeyn, having lost control of her own story, simply smiled. The moon, after all, had a gravity all its own. It pulled confessions from Harbingers, prayers from forgotten sons, and even drew an old knight from his path. The night was still young, and the tale was far from over. The clock now read 2026, but under the Frostmoon's light, time was just another story waiting to be unmade.
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