They called him Gervic the Dreamer, and not kindly. With his threadbare maps of phantom continents and his pockets bulging with chipped stones and feathers, he was a figure of ridicule in the age of steamboats and cold, hard facts. Yet, the whispers of dragons and undiscovered lands burned brighter in his soul than any hearth fire. His wasn't the life of a scholar or a merchant; he was a chaser of the horizon, the believer in the impossible.

The day his battered vessel stumbled through a shimmering rip in the fabric of the cosmos, he'd have forgiven anyone for thinking him madder than ever. Planets aren't supposed to shimmer like dragonfly wings, or have trees woven from emeralds and sapphires. The very air tasted of starlight and promises, and in the distance, a hill sighed, shook off a grove of silver-barked trees, and took flight on shimmering wings.

"Gervaise," he breathed, the name settling on the planet like a blessing, a tribute to himself – the one who found it, who believed when others scoffed. It was as much his as it was its own.

The Fae came first – sprites with voices like chimes, water nymphs with laughter that bubbled like brooks, and ancient, gnarled beings rooted in the ever-shifting earth, their eyes glimmering with the eons-old magic of the Weavers. They welcomed him, not with the suspicion of men, but with open curiosity. After all, hadn't this unexpected human arrived on a marvelously absurd vessel that belched smoke like a grumpy dwarf?

Here, on his Gervaise, treasure wasn't measured in gold. His first precious find was a song caught in the swirl of a seashell – a melody carried on a salt-laden breeze. Then came a feather from a cloud-bird, its touch infusing his dreams with the sensation of flight. With playful sprites, he wove a fabric from threads of sunlight and laughter, just to see what patterns they would create upon the shimmering canvas of the sky.

Of course, the whispers of a true hoard snagged at the explorer in him. Legend among the Fae told of the Gemstone Caverns, a place where the very essence of Gervaise's magic crystallized. Armed with stories and a satchel woven from moonlight, he ventured towards the ever-shifting mountains.

It wasn't about the wealth; it was about the wonder. Rubies bloomed from the ground, their hearts pulsing with a deep, red light. But they hissed with discord if he moved too quickly, and the handful he'd scooped up turned to dust in his palm. Sunlight hung ripe and golden, but it slipped through his fingers like liquid laughter – no earthly pouch could contain it.

He was ready to collapse in a heap of frustrated wonder when a sprite with eyes like polished amethysts found him. "See, not take," she giggled, leading him deeper. The true hoard held no coin, but experiences: tasting starshine in dewdrops, deciphering the patterns of a waterfall that told stories in its flow, learning to breathe starlight till his lungs glowed, ever so slightly.

Dragons? There was no scaled beast with smoke and flame. But there was a power thrumming beneath Gervaise – playful, unpredictable, as likely to sprout a shimmering castle as it was to turn it upside down. He felt it in the beat of his own heart, the sudden urge to build, to create, to chase the horizon even within this world of endless wonder.

When the portal pulsed back into being, it took every ounce of his strength to step through. The townsfolk flinched at the starlight still clinging to his hair and the song of a thousand rainbows humming beneath his skin. Let them call him mad, let them doubt the tales of his Gervaise. His pockets weren't full of coin, but of dreams made real - the warmth of a sunbeam in a crystal vial, the echo of a spritesong caught in a conch, the whisper of wind given voice. He was Gervic, the adventurer, the believer, forever changed by the planet bearing his name, the planet whispering back in the very beat of his wonder-seeking heart.