The Hall of Dust

No one remembers who built The Hall of Dust, or who it used to belong to. Perhaps it was never built, it merely is. During most of the time only ruins lay there, no walls, no fancy ballrooms, only dirt, dust, a chaotic mess of plants left to rule over the wreckage, and an old clock face counting down the time to The Night Magic is Woven, the event that defines this building.
But once every seven years it changes.
There are some who like to go to where the ruins wait before The Night starts, to be witness to such a transformation. Fey Folk gather around this place during the day, more and more of them as the sun descends and the sky turns violet, a gradient of blues until it meets the horizon. They are all dressed in their finest clothes – dresses made of magic that sparkle even without any light, masks made by the most talented artists, the finest cloths and colors any plane has ever seen. The clothes are a performance by themselves, were this not the Feywild.
They gather and they wait.
As soon as the sun disappears beyond the horizon, it begins. Stones shift in silence as walls begin rising from the ground. The hands of the clock turn back all the damage and degradation the Hall has magically suffered, as grey turns back into vibrant colors, as colored glass returns to its windows, as thinning cloth weaves itself together again to form majestic tapestries, tall curtains, sumptuous carpets. Ivy and roses grow on the outside walls, forming curlicues and curves that don’t seem quite natural, but are all the more beautiful for it. The castle rises from the ground like a great ship emerging from the fog until it stands complete, magnificent, as if it hadn’t been ruins, rocks, and memories long gone merely some minutes ago.
No one says anything for a while. The windows are still dark, the doors still closed. Around the castle the wild terrain also transforms into stunningly manicured gardens, with statues that almost seem to move, bushes cut in impossible shapes, trees with fruits whose color should be impossible, but which look delicious and enticing. Everything seems to take more space than where the ruins had previously been, taking over all its surroundings, eternally growing.
The smell of dry leaves and abandonment is replaced by something fresh, and a light breeze picks up. And just as the first note of music drifts in the air, the windows become awash with light, and the front, wooden doors open, the music bursting out into the night, inviting everyone in.
There’s a great hall inside, brightly lit orbs of warm light spread towards the room, close to the ceiling. There’s a pristine, crystal chandelier that is not being used, and paintings on the walls that move, and whose occupants chatter away with each other and with the ones who pass by them. There are doors to each side of the hall that lead to other rooms where people can chat, gossip, sit around and lounge. There is always food displayed in all of the rooms, fresh and delicious, even though there are no servants to be seen.
Eventually everyone will want to go to the center of the Hall of Dust, the great, sumptuous room where everyone will dance the night away. This room seems to be bigger than it would seem from the outside, and it’s where the music is coming from. The ground and the walls are made of pure marble, so shiny and reflective that it seems to prolong the room to infinity and beyond. There are tall glass doors on one of its sides, which open up into the gardens at the back of the building. Some prefer to dance outside, or take a walk with those close to them. There’s a lot of open space to explore, but also hidden corners, and a sprawling labyrinth of tall bushes which those more adventurous might want to explore and get lost in.
The night is young, and the night is yours. The Hall of Dust awaits you with open arms and whispered promises, the one night where really anything could happen.

The Night Magic is Woven

Beauty and the Beast by Karl Simon

Every seven years there’s a night when all Fey folk put aside their differences for a common goal - The Night Magic is Woven. No one knows when this ritual started, or why it did. It happens every seven years, because seven has a lot of meaning behind it - it means renewal, perfection, security, prosperity - and the Fey are great appreciators of symbolism. Everyone knows that if you break this tradition, luck will run out, blight shall cover the land, and all that is bad will come to pass. And so they gather, every seven years, and present their tributes to the Thread – the embodiment of magic, time, fate. A creature even Fey have learned to fear and respect. A being no one quite understands.
These offerings are usually people - amazing artists, or someone who’s specially beautiful, strong, peculiar or exceptional somehow. They are never from the Fey Folk themselves, but they’re people from other planes they’ve either kidnapped or welcomed into their Courts, someone who wandered into the Feywild and was captured for this or some other purpose. While being a tribute to the Thread is a great honor, the Fey wouldn’t do that to themselves, with very few exceptions.
Both Courts and the Courtless gather in The Hall of Dust, keeping peace between them for the sake of the rules, of tradition. It is expected that every Archfey will be in attendance, whether they belong to a Court or not, as well as all sidhe, although people without a title are welcome to witness the event. The building seems to change size, at least from the inside, to accommodate everyone who wishes to attend. There’s no set time for eating seeing as there's food all throughout the night, and the music lasts hours upon hours, letting people waltz to their heart's content, and then some more. And at the end of the Night - the teind, the offering.
The tributes perform to everyone in attendance, to show them why each of the Courts chose them, why they are the best of the best. They might dance, or fight, or play with illusions as amazing as any dream can be, showcasing their powerful and distinct magic. And then, once the Clock strikes true, the Thread will appear. They will be gifted these tributes - and what an honor to be one - and they'll be embraced as The Thread's own family, taken away to a plane no one else can reach. And so life and death go on, stories continue to be told, and magic keeps covering the land like a safe mantle, letting all be as it should be.
And then as people leave the Hall of Dust, it slowly goes back to being ruins, to letting the Wild take control of what lays there, all that was beautiful and magnificent reduced to pieces and dust. Only the Clock remains there, leaning against the wall, counting down the time to the next Night.
Tradition is important in the Feywild, the Night more than any other, for it's what keeps the fine line between chaos and balance in check. The Feywild can only be a mess of magical entropy as long as this Clock keeps turning, as long as every seven years the Hall of Dust returns, and the cycle repeats.

Castlevania Concept Art by Adam Burn

Location Courtless territory
Type of Building Manor house
Extras: For one night every seven years the Courts put aside their differences and promise to be civil, if not friendly, towards each other. Fighting within the Hall of Dust is forbidden, an omen of bad luck, something that could anger the Thread and curse the Feywild.

The Thread

The Thread embodies Magic, Fate, and Time, and it’s the being, concept, idea, or perhaps all of those that keeps reality together. They have their own small universe, a Plane separated from all others but that can still influence them, since magic and time are everywhere. They’ve been living isolated in this place for as long as it is known. Try as many have, no one has found a way there.
Since they're responsible for Fate as well, the Fey Folk believe they must appease the Thread with tributes every seven years. And that is why The Night Magic is Woven exists - to bring gifts and tributes to the Thread, to keep everything working as it should be. If this doesn't happen, bad luck will befall the land, and all that is bad will come to be.
No one remembers what the Thread looks like. They all see them during the Night as the tributes are gifted to them, but after that it's as if their memories become blurred, and there's nothing concrete there beyond an idea, a feeling, a belief.