Welcome to Nevicata
Day 1 of Ferrell's adventure in Nevicata
This little series will intersect with other tales based in the world of Nevicata devised by Maryellen Brady 💗📚 for her 24-Day Advent-ture. She’s invited us all into her world.
PROMPT: Create a mystical character who is now feeling lost and broken in Nevicata, and how they receive a welcome.
You can read the companion story here:
He dropped into Nevicata with all the grace of a sack of coal—straight into a drift of powdery snow, snout first, paws flailing, dignity nowhere to be seen.
The snow hissed at him.
He hissed back, because that’s what a proper hellhound pup was supposed to do, even if his voice cracked pathetically at the end.
A tiny frost spirit peeked over the lip of the crater he’d made.
It looked roughly like a child’s doodle of a person—stick arms, oversized head, frost flaking off it like dandruff.
“How interesting,” it said. “What are you supposed to be?”
He growled. Or tried to. It came out like a dog toy being stepped on.
The frost spirit blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get any of that.”
He lifted his head, snow dripping off his ears like sad little flags.
“My name’s Ferrell. I’m a Cerberus,” he muttered. “Obviously.”
The spirit stared. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “I’m just… small for my age. And very fierce.”
A lie.
Cerberi were not supposed to have fear tremors every time the wind blew.
They were not supposed to lose their courage in the Underworld and bolt through a crack between realms so no one would witness their shame.
But here he was.
The frost spirit circled him once, unimpressed.
“Well, whatever you are, you’re in Nevicata now. We don’t usually get Underworld things. The locals will have opinions.”
“Well, you know what they say about opinions,” he muttered.
“Yes,” the spirit said, rolling its pixelated eyes. “How charming.”
Then, with the tone of someone saying you’ll get used to the smell, added, “I’m sure they’ll welcome you.”
It held out a twig.
A gesture of greeting.
Or a challenge.
Hard to tell.
He didn’t take it.
Where he was from, people didn’t just give you things—unless there were strings attached. Usually literal ones.
The spirit shrugged and flicked the twig at him.
It bounced off his nose.
“Come on,” it said. “I’ll take you to the gate.”
“There’s a gate?” Ferrell perked up. “I’m good at guarding gates.”
The frost spirit gave him a polite laugh that didn’t sound polite at all.
He scowled.
Scowling was the only thing he was good at today.
Somewhere deeper in the village, lights shimmered.
Music drifted.
Bright, tinkling, unbearably cheerful.
It sparkled through the air like someone had weaponized optimism.
He grimaced.
Nothing in Hades ever sounded that… pleased with itself.
But it also made something inside him shift.
Not courage.
Not yet.
Something smaller—the awareness that he no longer had to hide.
No one here knew him. And therefore no one would know the shame he’d dragged behind him like a broken chain.
He took one step toward Nevicata, then another.
The frost spirit fluttered beside him with all the enthusiasm of a bored usher.
When they reached the gate, he felt a brief pop of joy—rare and unfamiliar.
He loved gates.
They opened.
They closed.
They locked.
They unlocked.
Gates didn’t judge you.
A gate never said,
“Too small,”
“Too loud,”
“Not scary enough,”
or
“You lost your courage again?”
Gates stood between worlds.
Gates were a threshold.
Gates made things clear. You were either in, or you were out.
Simple.
Honest.
Purposeful.
And guarding them was what he was born for.
This one was unguarded.
A disgrace.
He made a mental note to make inquiries at the administrative building.
Obviously someone needed to guard this gate—if only to keep people like him out.
The frost spirit cleared its throat.
“Welcome,” it said, trying and failing to sound enthusiastic.
Ferrell barked as best he could.
The spirit smiled.
“I think you might want to work on that.”
As Ferrell attempted another bark (which sounded only marginally less pathetic), the frost spirit suddenly stiffened.
Its head jerked toward the snowy path beyond the gate.
“What on earth is that?” it whispered.
Ferrell followed its gaze.
A tall, pale figure was sliding down a hill in a silent, open-mouthed scream, trailing torn black fabric like a banner of bad decisions. A crow circled overhead, making exasperated commentary in the shape of caws.
“Oh,” Ferrell said. “That’s a banshee. And a crow.”
The frost spirit blinked. “I know what a crow is. What’s a banshee?”
Ferrell tilted his head, ears still drooping with leftover snow.
“Uh… they’re like… screaming ghosts? Except not dead. And very dramatic about everything. They predict death or something. Or cause it. Depends on the day.”
The spirit stared at the descending nightmare-scarf of a woman as she silently screamed her way to the bottom of the slope.
It shook its head slowly, frost rattling off its stick-arms.
“What the heck is going on around here?”
The adventure continues here: A Light Snack
Jack, this is so flipping fun. Oh my word, I love the description of the fae with the dandruff, and Ferrell, I want to bring him inside so he can sleep by the fire & guard the door. I love love love where you & GG are taking this.....please keep going.
I had no idea sharing a world would be this fun.
LoL, this was absolutely charming, I love Ferrell where can I get one. You described the banshee as a nightmare scarf ... I laughed that is so my sense of humor. 😂