The Singing Grove

We quickly discovered why they call it the singing grove. Looking back the decision to wear something to ward off the charms couldn't have been better. Immidately upon entering the grove we heard it. Not really a singing, but certainly a melody, it grasped at our minds trying to drive us mad to no avail.
Quickly we understood the source of the 'singing' it was not something nor someone that was singing to us. Rather the mushrooms that littered the cave reacted to the sounds we made, any time that it got too loud, they began to sing.
 
We trekked across an open field of sorts, far in the distance a massive tree confronted us. Taking refuge underneath it appeared to be other travelers. Francics and Chago insisted on scouting ahead, although I have always found it much easier to just go figure out peoples intentions; it also never hurts to not have the suspicion of being spies on your side too. No matter. They quickly discovered that the travelers were no longer, reduced to mere corpses shoved underneath the roots of this tree.
 
Chago spotted a book, and his curiosity got the better of him. Remember we were only here to figure out if these mythical truth telling statues were indeed real, and if so: where to find them. This book would have post dated any statue by hundreds if not thousands of years. Distraction seems to be the biggest weakness of this group. No matter, as this distraction proved to be my first real introduction to the members of the Foamers.
 
As the cat tried to grab at this book the tree grabbed back. We all watched in astoundment as the tree came to life. Deftly breaking free the cat made a run for the group, once again narrowly avoiding the clutches of the tree. Attempting to charm the horror, so that we could all get away safely, proved ineffective, as I felt the strings of my charm wrap around its mind they came loose.
 
Ku'ruq the turtle, charged into the frey. Issuing a provocative roar, shockinlgy not disturbing the mushrooms. Certainly it did provoke the tree's ire. A smokey purple haze ebbed from Francis, completely enveloping the tree. I ascertain that he is a warlock, and quite a potent one at that.
 
The dwarf was another case all together. For Steve neither ran away from the tree, nor did he run towards it . He calmly removed a small container, added a component, and gave it a shake before hurling it at the tree. What followed was an entrance into combat that certainly surprised me. For a scholar of such small stature, a pyroclastic detonation of that magnitude did not seem in his nature. Although as I would come to learn Steve remains perhaps the most influential member of the Foamers.
 
The tree was quick to retaliate, with surprising dexterity, he lifted one of the corpses that sat beneath its roots, and returned volley at Steve. Something must have been off that day, as the rotten jutting ribs tore through my small friend sending him flying backwards unconscious. Either from the impact or the concussive knock-back, Steve lost a finger.
 
Chago, now far enough away as to not be directly under one of the tree's branches, finally had his own chance to introduce himself. The ghost that I saw at the bath house once again emerged. I know not how, but the two seem to work in some sort of symbiosis. her hand reached out and withered a patch of bark to rot in the blink of an eye. The phantasm did wonderfully, however Chago is formidable in his own right. He drew back a bow loaded with what appeared to be a crossbow's bolt. Glowing with some form of magical rune, the bolt embedded itself deep within the tree, the erupted into a cacophony of fire. Seemingly the most effective attack of the bunch, although I am dubious of the consistency, he seemed to have shocked himself at the effectiveness. Perhaps it is of Steve's making.
 
I turned my attention to the greviously injured dwarf. He wasnt too far gone, and I managed to get him breathing again with some degree of frequency. The elf and the turtle continued to throw what they had at him, but ultimately it was the Warlocks familiar "Wittle-bones" I believe who struck the final blow. A strange imp of seemingly good tempermant enveloped the heart of the tree in a whirlwind of fangs and venom, splintering the heartwood in two.
 
As we attempted to revive Steve, I made a most interesting observation: his vials are not labeled. Seemingly a poor choice for a scientist, especially one that makes explosives.