Chapter III: Whispers of the Woods
Wherein trees whisper secrets, dwarves debate economics mid-looting, and a warlock confuses a dragon with a polite tourist.
It was supposed to be over.
The villagers were safe—well, most of them—and the Mind Flayer had vanished, presumably back into its interdimensional lair of body horror and smug superiority. The party had earned their coin. They’d even been thanked, which, among adventurers, is rarer than clean socks.
So they returned to Rassalantar expecting stew and sleep.
Instead, they found silence.
No barking dogs. No clatter from the blacksmith. No lanterns. No voices. Just empty homes and cold hearths, all frozen in mid-life. A steaming kettle sat abandoned on one doorstep. A child’s doll lay face-down in the street, its painted smile chipped.
Rigg stared around, brow furrowed. “Okay, this is either a haunting or a very elaborate surprise party.”
“No bodies,” High Jinks noted, crouching to inspect the ground. “Just… vanished.”
“Footprints,” Valen murmured, pointing. “Two hundred people don’t just disappear. They walked out.”
Lagerick squinted into the gathering dusk. “They headed west. Into the woods.”
The Githyanki adjusted the grip on his blade. “We follow.”
High Jinks sighed. “Of course we do. Into the creepy forest. Again. Maybe next time, evil can just write us a letter.”
Loot and Lies
Before they left, Rigg made a beeline for the general store.
“What are you doing?” asked Lagerick, arms crossed.
“Resupplying. Emergency salvage tax.”
“You mean looting.”
“I mean ensuring our survival with redistributed assets.”
“Ah. Thievery, but with paperwork.”
They emerged with 700 gold in trade goods and temple offerings. Lagerick insisted on blessing the stolen items, muttering prayers to cover their moral tracks.
“I’m not a thief,” he grumbled.
“You’re just holding it until the rightful owners return,” said High Jinks. “Which is adorable.”
As they prepared to leave, the miners—former clients—handed over a small pouch of gold.
"Guess we won’t be going to Westbridge after all," one mumbled. "We’ll head back south. You lot... good luck. You’ll need it."
The forest swallowed them shortly after.
Into Kryptgarden Forest
Kryptgarden wasn’t just a forest. It was the forest—the kind that made trees in other places feel inadequate. Towering, ancient, and wrapped in mist like a blanket of secrets. Vines hung like nooses. Every bird call sounded a little too intelligent. And the shadows didn’t wait for nightfall.
They pressed on, boots crunching on roots and fallen bones.
“Do trees... usually hum?” Rigg asked.
“Not unless they’re bored,” Jinks replied.
Then they found the shrine.
A half-collapsed ruin, its walls etched with fading elvish script. A statue of Corellon stood, cracked but serene, offering a bowl filled with water clear as crystal. Moonlight filtered down, painting the clearing silver.
High Jinks approached, ears forward. “Offerings,” she whispered. “It’s still active.”
They each left something behind—a coin, a token, a whispered prayer. The forest stirred in approval. And from beneath the bowl, something clicked.
Rigg reached in and drew out a sword.
Long. Elegant. Its blade glowed with a soft white light—moon-touched.
“Claimed!” he called, grinning. “Finders keepers, blessed by divine accident.”
“Don’t wave it around,” Valen warned. “It’s glowing. That’s basically a torch that screams ‘stab me first.’”
Merchant of Misfits
At the edge of a clearing, they found a wagon.
It was more of a traveling circus cart, if said circus specialized in bad decisions. A man in wide robes stood beside it, holding up a tunic stitched with what looked like owlbear feathers.
“Adventurers!” he cried. “Just the clientele I was hoping for!”
"Great," Rigg muttered. "A bard who sells pants."
The merchant bowed. “Olavryn of Oakhollow, purveyor of the peculiar, collector of the uncanny. May I interest you in some wares for your dangerous journey into certain doom?”
Gold changed hands quickly.
- Lagerick bought a full suit of plate armor so polished it doubled as a breakfast mirror.
- High Jinks claimed Boots of Elvenkind and immediately tried walking silently on Lagerick’s shoulders.
- Valen took a wizard’s hat—wide-brimmed, crimson, and theatrically unnecessary.
- Dino (the Githyanki) scowled but eyed a longbow with rune-etched limbs.
By the end, they were better equipped and much, much poorer.
“Dino owes me 122 gold,” Rigg announced cheerfully.
“I owe no one,” Dino replied.
“Exactly what someone in debt would say.”
The Green Witch
The forest grew darker. Wilder. And wrong.
They found signs—burned trees with no source, pools of water that rippled without touch. Once, they glimpsed a silhouette between trunks: a woman tall as a stag, robes of green flame, eyes glowing faintly yellow.
She was gone before anyone could speak.
“Did anyone else—?” High Jinks began.
“See the ominous forest queen radiating arcane power?” Rigg finished. “Yeah.”
They did not follow her. Not yet.
Tracks and Terror
Finally, the trail of the villagers reappeared—bare feet, small shoes, dragging gaits. All heading toward a low stone rise choked in roots.
“This,” Valen said, “feels like a trap.”
Rigg unsheathed the moon-touched sword. “Which means we’re going in.”
“I hate that this makes sense now,” High Jinks muttered.
They passed under moss-covered stones. The air grew colder. And then—
A hiss. Then skittering. Then eyes.
Spiders and the Drow
Three spiders dropped from above like nightmares given gravity. Their legs clacked on stone. Fangs glistened.
The first landed beside Valen and reared back.
He snarled. “Not today.”
A wave of fire blasted from his palm, catching the beast mid-lunge. It shrieked, twisted in air, and slammed against the wall smoldering.
Another spider shot a line of web—ensnaring Rigg’s arm and yanking him skyward.
“Nononononono—!”
THUD. His body hit the ceiling. The wrench went flying.
High Jinks leapt up the wall with feline grace, slicing the web with a glowing claw. Rigg dropped like a sack of potatoes.
“Graceful,” she quipped.
The third spider lunged for Leydrick. The dwarf met it with a roar and a flash of radiant light. His holy symbol flared like a miniature sun, scorching the spider’s face before his mace caved in its skull.
A shape stepped from the darkness.
Slender. Dark-skinned. White-haired. A drow, blades lowered, eyes gleaming with caution.
“Stop,” he said. “We are not enemies.”
“Depends,” said Rigg. “Are you with the brain-squids?”
The drow grimaced. “No. We hate them more than you.”
“I find that unlikely,” Valen muttered, eyes still glowing.
But they didn’t attack. Not yet.