A SHORT CUT TO MUSHROOMS

A brief novelization of a History of events as Scribed by Lux Abscandi 82 AS

The man awoke to the sound of birds nearby.

“There are some nice parts to sleeping in the open air,” He thought to himself, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly to a crooked smile, a trademark of his. Another bird call and a soft splat, followed by a wet feeling on his face, and the corner of his mouth turned down. “On the other hand… I am looking forward to getting the Bastion cleaned up and having a proper bed.”

He sat upright, and opened his eyes, looking about for a cloth. There was a moment of confusion, as his eyes presented him with no light. ‘Is it still..?” and then it came back to him, Riki’s death, the crumbling tower, the staff, the curse. His hand went to his eyes. Indeed, they were open. He closed them tight, then opened them again, an effort he knew futile, but feelings of desperation and panic were creeping into his chest. As he knew it would be, there was still just darkness. His chest puffed out full, a breath, as large and deep as he could muster filling his lungs as he reached back in his mind, to his mentor and guardian’s teachings. The breath he expelled was hot, and carried with it more than just the air of his lungs, as he worked to rid himself of the welling panic in his body. He was blind, but it was not forever. No his friends knew a way, and it was only a matter of time. In fact this day he would set out for the Runidiri in the Ren Forest, to the great tree, where the spirit of the Stag wandered with its incredible branching antlers of light. Surely those elves would have a way to help, perhaps sooner even than Monique could prepare her own remedy, and he would be again able to take in the light of Celestine through his own eyes.

His short meditation over he extracted himself from his bedroll and stood, stretching into the sky, his limbs reaching like that of a tree seeking the sun’s nutrients. With a short pause he took a breath, and with that breath bent, towards his toes. Planting his palms, he kicked his feet out and went through a short sequence of stretches, timing his movements with his breath. With that finished he went about cleaning up his small camp. He rolled his bed and strapped it to his pack. The work was slow as he fumbled through the normally mundane actions blindly. Finally, he lifted his Adamantine breastplate, buckling the clasps and lifting the once golden yellow cloth of his old and fraying monks wrap over his shoulder. The wrap held, mixed memories, of childhood wonder, thoughtful lessons and hot-headed mistakes, “Sorry Old Man,” he said to himself and shook about slightly, letting his equipment shift and settle. He reached down for the magical club by his pack, a sense of protection and safety growing around him as his hand closed on the wooden shaft, careful not to get on the wrong side of its bladed handle. Latching it into a strap on his back he reached for his other weapon. This one was new to him, but already precious. As his hand closed on the handle of the sheathed sword a warmth spread through him, and a strength swelled in his chest. The memory of a gruff but loyal wolf, flames licking from its maw flit through his mind and he reached up to pull down his wooden mask. The visage, that of a wolf, was masterfully carved. It bore a flame on the forehead, the workmanship of which was less skilled but well worn, a slight rust color settling into its depths. With a light flick of a feather adorning the mask's top, and a nearly superstitious spin of the amulet about his neck he slowly started forward, finding his way to his horse, a companion that was never far as of late.

“Alright Spooks, let's find the Kid.” He said, lifting himself up into the saddle he gave the horse a light tap with his heels and set off, heading towards the Gravesend church.

—--
The party gathered at the edge of town, just outside the gardens of the Church, a ground with complicated implications about it these days. Jene Dark, once the church's greatest advocate, sat in his saddle with his back to it, giving an energetic speech to those gathered. Amongst them was his Aunt Robin, whose pack shifted suspiciously on her back as she kept her mount facing her nephew listening carefully to his words. To her left was by far the largest member of the group. Standing next to his mount the Chef of the Devils Den still stood a head above the horse’s shoulders. He seemed to be struggling to buckle his pack which was bursting with fresh herbs and salted meats. Though focused on his task, he still managed to throw a huzzah or vigorous nod at particularly emboldened parts of Jene’s speech. The man was ever the supporter of those around him.
A bit further removed from the group was the eccentrically dressed bard Patrick. His loot strapped securely to his mount, unlike himself as he seemed to be attempting some sort of arm balance on the beast’s saddle, and doing quite well, though he shifted slightly here and there with a bit of a grimace, telling that something about the action was causing a bit of pain.
Opposite the tumbling bard was the final member of the party. He seemed the odd man out with his dark and runic robes. He was busy corralling a pale and sickeningly slim elf, who seemed oblivious to his wandering mount while he spouted nonsense.
As an above average height man in a monks wrap and shining breast plate trotted in on his horse Jene wrapped up his speech abruptly, distracted as he worked to keep an eye on the new arrival, blindly leading his horse in circles around the group. He deftly rode up next to the wandering man and grabbed his mount's bridle, slowing the animal and guiding it to a stop facing out of town.
“Well mister Stiks, should we see about getting those eyes of yours fixed?” Jene said, a smile weighed with too much hardship for a boy his age adorning his face.
“Don’t worry about me Kid, I’ll manage one way or another,” he forced a grin, “But for sure, let's get this shit moving. It’s about Aunty Bee on this one, getting that spirit of hers to the Runidiri for some guidance and answers is priority number one.” Bracing in his saddle he leaned in towards the younger man, his hand fumbling about to find Jene’s shoulder, and in a hushed voice added. “And no lie, I won’t mind that enormous bee being a bit… further away, ya know?”
Jene winced, as a memory of stinging insects made his skin itch. He nodded enthusiastically and tightened his grip on Spooks. Turning back to the others of the party he called out to get moving. And with that seven set out on the road to Longburrow, and beyond it, the Runidiri temple of the Renforest.
___
The journey took but a day and half on horseback and the party ate well for the time.
“Honestly Chef, I think ya cook better on the road, this is delicious.” Stiks blurted out during a short meal, his speech muffled by the food in his mouth, manners seemingly distant thoughts to the man.
Demirken Rune smiled his broad smile, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes showing that his face was no stranger to the expression. “Ah Stiks ya flatter me, eat up, there's more where that came from.” He returned to chopping some herbs from his pack, his smile slowly shrinking as he thought about the words, “Wait, what do you mean by ‘better’?…” but he cut himself short, dismissing the thought and returning to his work with a shrug, a smile returning to his face.
____
As the sun crested overhead on the second day the adventurers found themselves at a clearing that held a settlement of a size somewhere between a camp and a small village. It was familiar to some, but the state of it was surprising to them all.
“Well, looks like things have resolved themselves here!” Patrick remarked with a sense of self satisfaction. “Must have been a brokerage of peace between the Goodgub lumberjacks and the elves. Wonderful.”
“It is good that the sacred ground is no longer threatened, but I'm uncertain it is all good news.” the dark robbed being known as Pale Moon stated darkly as he guided his horse into the clearing, gazing about the overgrown camp. The makeshift structures, just two months ago built new, were grown over with moss and vines. The forest seemed to be wasting no time in reclaiming what was once its own.
“What happened here?” Robin asked, leading her well-groomed steed up to pair as they discussed, “Have you two been here before?”
Pales began to answer, but Robin herself cut him off, raising her hand to him and looking over her shoulder. “Something is approaching.”
Not a moment later three Elk, Runidiri elves mounted on their backs, emerged from the woods. The noise with which they broke into the clearing spoke to the skill that the elves bore in moving through the forest, as the elk and their riders could have been mistaken for but rodents skittering through the undergrowth, their steps so practiced in this, their sacred home, the forest of the Elk spirit. One amongst the party in fact thought as much.
“I dunno Aunty Bee, just sounds like a squirrel to me…” Stiks surmised.
“What brings you here to the sacred forest of Ceranos?” The lead elf inquired. Her tone was authoritative and a bit belittling, as she separated from the two riders at her side, her elk mount stepping ahead gracefully. There were tattoos at the corner of her eyes, which appeared young, for an elf.
Ever the broker of peace, Jene answered first. “We are emissaries of Celestine and her true church, come seeking the guidance of the Runidiri regarding your god Sindar and his children.” His voice was proud, and carried a weight beyond his years, but there was a hesitation in his speech, betraying his lack of experience with these elves and their gods. Gods, the concept itself was something he was still trying to grasp.
The lead elf, who introduced herself as Whisper Wolf, frowned at child before her. “Sindar is not my god.”
Stiks cocked his head at this, still processing that these weren’t talking squirrels. “Not your god?...” He mumbled to himself.
But it was Pales that cut in, a frown on his face as he regarded Jene, his introduction of their party a bit presumptuous for him. “Greetings Whisper Wolf, I’m Pale Moon, we were here but a month ago and aided in a negotiation with the Goodgub lumberers of this camp with others of your clan to stop the desecration of this sacred forest while on our way to return the staff of Nago to Roaming River at the Great Tree. We’ve again to seek guidance and return,” He paused a moment, and looked to his blind friend. “Another staff, that of Hireek, who is dead. Slain in battle, as his mind was twisted by wild magic that haunted him after he was resurrected in a flawed ritual. The staff however is cursed and our friend here, has lost his vision as a result. We were hoping you could help with that as well?”
Whisper Wolf nodded her head in acknowledgement, “We have heard of the fate of Hireek, it is good he was laid to rest, so that he may be properly resurrected. The staff,” She paused a moment, looking at Stiks, “We will see about. Roaming River is at the Great Sentinel Tree, I will take you to him and you may inquire with him about this, favor.”
“May I ask?” Patrick interjected, “What happened here? Was a peace brokered between the elves and the lumberjacks?”
“The Baron of Malaster recalled them.” Whisper Wolf answered.
“Oh that was good of him.”
“Indeed. It was emissaries of his that brought news of Hireek’s fate to us. They are there now discussing with the elders. Roaming River is amongst them, so perhaps you can speak to them yourselves.”
“Did she say someone from Malaster?” Stiks calls nervously from the side, his mount having wandered a bit, shying from the new arrivals.
Robin shushed him and turned to the tattooed elf. “We look forward to it. We have… other business to inquire with Roaming River as well, perhaps we can get moving?”
Whisper Wolf gave a curt nod and turned her mount about. “Try and keep up.”
___
The journey to the Tree was swift, the elk riders setting a blistering pace that seemed impossible through the thick forest, but Robin was deft in leading the group, picking a path expertly in pursuit of the riders.
As the party arrived at the Great Sentinel Tree, pausing a moment to take in its majesty, they overheard arguing.
A young elf stood before a gathering, apparently preaching to the group. He spoke of modernization, and fear of falling behind the rest of the world. He advocated for forming a proper military in preparation for what was to come.
“That is Copper Wind.” Whisper Wolf said to the group. “He has no clan as of yet but is a strong voice amongst the younger generations of Runidiri. He is rumored to be destined for the Star Watcher clan, who guide much of our future decisions.
The group watched on as an older elf stepped up before Copper Wind, voicing arguments of the old ways, tradition and cautioning such actions.
“And that is Sun Orchid, he is bound to Tiltup, and is… of a more traditional mindset.” It was clear Whisper Wolf favored Copper Wind’s point of view. “I will go see if the Elders will have you, they are currently meeting with the Baron’s emissaries. I will return when I have word.”
“Thank you, Whisper Wolf, we will eagerly await your return.” Jene said, with great diplomacy. His role as the High Priest of the Church of Celestine’s Truth may not have held much weight with many yet, mostly secret as it was, but the way he carried himself was quickly shifting to that deserving of such a title. Less the rash demon hunter of late.
The party sat for a moment, observing the beauty around them, some settling their gear where it had shifted on their mounts during the journey. It wasn’t more than a few minutes however before Robin put up a hand for silence, turning her head as she strained to hear.
“I hear, voices. Not Runidiri, more, harsh. Over there.” She pointed to the side. There stood a corpse of trees and dense undergrowth, and indeed, voices seemed to drift on the wind from leafy cover.
“Gloria.” Jene said, nodding his head in the direction of the trees. The two of them shared a magical connection, a pact beyond that just of a familiar and its master, a connection that Jene inspired in many, that could see past his rash devotion to the soul deep within. Without hesitation the bat dropped from a fold in Jene’s robes, taking wing and silently heading into the brush. As they lost sight of the bat Jene closed his eyes, concentrating.
“Its two men, certainly not Runidiri.” The young priest said after a moment, “They look more like city dwellers, roguish types, heavily armed.
“It’s Ty Red and Kel Telamon, associates of Haleuth Telamon.” Patrick spoke, his eyes closed like Jene’s, his familiar Owlbert notably missing from his shoulder.
“Shit.” Stiks swore, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Unease was evident on his face as he turned about as if looking for his former employee, though he remained sightless. “Not just associates, his right-hand enforcers. My replacements.” His grip tightened on his sword, “Hal must be here. Damnit of course he’s the Baron’s Emissary. Shit, he’s probably telling some lies to the elves about something to make himself look good. Emissary my ass, probably his idea…”
“Gloria!” Jene winced, cutting Stik’s ramblings short. He was a bit frantic, his eyes opening wide and staring hard into the brush where Gloria was spying. “Something hit Gloria, something she couldn’t’ see.”
“Oh no..” Pales spoke up, concern evident in his tone. He’d been quite for much of the journey, deep in his own thoughts. In truth the Runidiri raised Torovian had been rather reclusive much of late, either busy with a project involving a great spell book or wrangling his rather emaciated friend. But he was alert now, and his concern was evident. “Bonemeal, go.” The bird took flight from the brim of his oversized hat where it perched, heading towards the trees.
There was silence for a moment, as if the group collectively held its breath. Jene busied himself with collecting Gloria, but the others watched Pales intently, until finally he spoke. “He wears a hood, he is powerful, and well cloaked…” He paused a moment as if suddenly fighting to maintain concentration. “We should leave, this man is beyond us. He is one of those that jumped Vinny, powerful, more so than us. We would be wise to leave.”
“Wait, Paley, you mean, you think its him? The one you mentioned?” Stiks whispered harshly, but more loudly than was likely wise. “Yes.” Pales answered shortly, making to cut him off. “And we should go.”
The others protested, confused, missing information. “Palemoon, surely if these are the men that jumped Vinny we should confront them!” Jene remarked, his tendency for decisive, if not rash action winning out over his new station.
“No we must not...”
Pales was interrupted as Whisper Wolf arrived to collect the group. “The elders are ready to see you.”
The young Runidiri led the party up high into the sentinel tree, heading towards its greatest heights. The sights along the way were mesmerizing, but few amongst the group took notice, there thoughts caught with the implications of what they had just witnessed and what challenges lay before them.
Rounding the final curve of the wrapping steps of the Sentinel trees great heights the adventurers found themselves in a beautiful open-air hall of sorts. A great wooden table lay before them, seeming to be both grown and carved from the tree itself it sat the elders of the Runidiri clans present at the tree, as well as the Emissary of the Baron whom they chatted with cordially.
“Shit!” Stiks squeaked, turning on his heel and sliding behind Rune, seeking refuge behind the large mans stature.
Rune gave a respectful bow, years of culinary service in the army of light had him well versed in proper edicat. Standing, he grinned heartily and whispered through clenched teeth. “Stiiiiks, what are you doing?”
“Hal’s in there isn’t he? I’d never forget his voice. Damnit I knew he’d be here, I shouldn’t have come up!” Stiks whispered harshly in response.
“Well, you’re here now so better you stand tall and face him don’t you think?”
For a moment Stiks fumbled for a response, obviously uncertain. “How far up do you think we are? Maybe I could jump before he saw me…”
“Stiiiiks!”
“Okay, okay. Shit. Well just, stay between me an him will ya?”
“Certainly friend.”
Roaming River, one of the more familiar faces of the elves greeting the party stood to address them. “Welcome, Palemoon, Patrick, good to see you again, though I fear your visits are rarely without ill omens. It feels just the other day you returned to us the staff of Nago, yet also artifacts of the void and news of demons. I hear this time as well you have come to return another of our spirits’ staves? Shall I assume with it you also bring more ill tides?” The elder elf nodded to palemoon and patrick in turn, then giving the others of a the party a curt nod of greeting. He lingered on Stiks, and the staff on his back. His look went a bit sour before he continued. “Haleuth Telamon here has traveled to us as an emissary of the Baron of Malaster, returning to us the Khasir of Hireek, his wild madness ended so that we may properly return him to life.”
“It was of course just a gesture of good will to our neighbors here in the Forest of ___. An apology, in part, for the misunderstanding with the Goodgub traders, for which the Lord Baron is truly sorry.” The well-dressed elf spoke gracefully, each word considered, his tone even and friendly. It was words spoke such as these that had warped Stiks actions for years in Malaster. Just the sound of his voice grated at the emotional monk, terrible memories flooding his mind as he shakily took his seat beside Rune.
“And how mayhap did you come by the Khasir of Hireek Mister Telamon, Sir.” Jene asked as he sat at the table beside his Aunt. He was polite and formal as ever, though he nearly spat the title of man, his contempt seething.
Haleuth chuckled, bemused at the veiled attempt at slander. “One of my subordinates was amongst those that ended the great spirits suffering. He made great haste with the Khasir to myself in Malaster once the deed was done, as I had instructed. The Baron and I thought it most important to get the spirit stone to its people as quickly as possible, lest it fall into the wrong hands, a Demons perhaps” His words were calm, but pointed. The reference to the groups failure to stop Malice taking the Khasir of Altos was not lost on them.
“Strange, as I was there as well when Hireek’s suffering was ended.” Pales chirped in. His words were quiet as ever but carried more confidence than the shy wizard often spoke with. “Indeed, I followed Vinny, a comrade of ours, as he made his way to Malaster, lured there by a cursed coin that made suggestions in his mind. A coin he came in possession of from the Hellhowlers, whose son is the Bishop of Malaster and your friend is he not?”
Haleuth shrugged, “Indeed some of my associates used ill-advised means along their path, but I assure you Vincent was of good mind when he brought me the Khasir.”
“And when your men stabbed him to death when he brought them the Stone?” an edge of frustration crept into the necromancer’s words.
“A horrible misunderstanding, I assure you.” Haleuth calmly replied. “But he is well and alive now, yes? Mended and returned to Gravesend I hear?” the compassion in his voice felt more a trap than the certain lie it was to Palemoon as he forced himself to remain seated, his eyes flaring in the pits of his mask as he grasped with the unshakeable confidence of the elf before him.
Another of the Runidiri took to splitting the moment of tension, leaning forward in his seat to address the group. Lichen Tusk had more edge to him than the soft-spoken Roaming River, and it showed in his defense of Haleuth. “Haleuth and the Baron brought us the Khasir and by means I trust justified. They bring with it a promise of supplies and weapons. A chance for autonomy for our clans in the coming conflicts. What is it that you bring us, that you feel you can insult our guest so?”
“If I may,” Patrick spoke up. “We have a few orders of business we would like to discuss with you, though some more discreetly than others.” His eyes shifted Haleuth’s way, to which the elf simply smirked. “But to begin we have come to return the Staff of Hireek to you, it’s rightful owners.” With a touch of unease he added, “However, it was recovered from a goblin shaman who was under the thumb of the Demon Lord Lust and as such the Staff carries with it a curse, one that afflicts my comrade as we speak.” He gestured to Stiks as he finished, who did not acknowledge.
There was a moment of awkward pause to which Patrick added an impatient “ahem” and Rune drove an elbow into Stiks shoulder.
“Ow, what?” Stiks asked, confused.

“The staff?” Rune replied.

“Oh, Oh!” Stiks responded, hastily fishing the staff from his back and holding it before him, over the table.

“Yes, as you can see the staff has blinded my friend here. We have come by means of removing the curse through a contact of ours but wished to bring it by yourselves as the proper owners of the item before we went down that path.” Patrick continued, directing a good amount of impatience Stiks way.

“It is cursed you say?” Roaming River asked.

“Yes, whomever touches it is robbed of their sight, though it can only affect one unlucky soul at a time.” Patrick answered.

“Well then we should destroy it.”

“Oh?” Stiks and Patrick replied in unison.

“It is not a simple ritual to remake it, but I can be done, and as Hireek is now resting, it will be a time before it is needed.” Roaming River explained.
The party was surprised, none more so than Stiks himself, but they all agreed that the business of the staff was the Runidiris and if they thought the best course of action to destroy it, so be it. They offered too to help with Stiks ordeal and lift the curse of blindness, for which he was extremely grateful. No sooner however had the dual wielder’s sight been restored than tensions at the table began to rise. Now with his former employer and present tormentor plain to see before him, Stiks agitation grew.

“Stiks my dear friend, it is good to see you again, I was so disappointed when I did not hear from you in regard to my letter. But of course I presume you were predisposed with... other matters.” The sly elf said to the man who once called him Boss. “I trust you have been well. I must say I am curious of this, mask of yours. A wolf, what is the story there?” His tone was light, friendly, but to all that knew him an obvious tease towards the agitated monk in the mask.
Stiks reacted as poorly as any of his comrades could expect, slamming one hand to the table, raising himself to stand, his chair skidding noisily out behind him. His other hand went to the mask, raising it above his head so he could better face the man he’d once followed.
“It is a mask I wear to honor a fallen friend, a warrior who made a great sacrifice for his family…and friends. But I wear these days out of necessity as you and your Baron friend put a price on my head for your own damn devices!” Stiks fumed, a poor showing at the high table, the Runidiri elders looked on in shock at the break in diplomacy.
Haleuth just smiled in the face of the warriors anger and shrugged. “I did not make you kill those city guards my friend. The price I’m afraid is just by Malaster’s rule.”
“No, you just imprisoned my friend and arranged for her execution on some insane claim that she was a demon.” Stiks speech was rushed, guided by passion, not thought.
“Did I?” Haleuth countered, an innocent look on his face. It was a look his former employee knew well, akin to a pot of honey resting within a bear trap.
“Flat brim brought her to you, I know it!” Stiks seethed.
Haleuth again simply shrugged innocently.
“Haleuth, you know this one from your past then?” Lichen Tusk inquired, seeking both to alleviate the growing tension as well as understand whom he was for in this squabble.
“Ah yes, Stiks here used to be in my employ. One of my best, he helped me keep the streets of Malaster in order, during a… darker time in the city’s history. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding that led us part years ago. Do forgive his outburst. He can be, quite passionate, at times.” The emissary finished his thought with a long look Stiks way, letting the words hang a moment as the emotional monk spat and fumed, unable to put words together in retort. Demirken put a firm but gentle hand on Stiks shoulder, guiding him back to his seat.
It was Jene that spoke first to break the tension in the air. He was quite familiar with the hot-blooded emotions of his churches champion, and moved to repair the diplomatic status of their mission. His talk of Celestine and her intentions in the matters to come was confused somewhat as the elves noted they were familiar with the god’s name, cited as she had been by Haleuth earlier. The young priest back peddled slightly as he realized the silver-tongued crime lord was yet again one step ahead of them. With a look to his aunt, who shook her head, he recognized the situation before them as played out for the time and shifted discussion to that of the famed Well of Fallen Stars.
The Runidiri Elders were not surprised by the request to visit the sacred pool. Indeed it seemed Haleuth had inquired of the same. So the mixed group ascended further into the ancient sentinel tree. The elders urged caution to those that would seek the wells knowledge, as such gifts could come at a price.
“So powerful are the visions gifted to us through the Well that one can lose themselves in the sights. Indeed many have, leaving their mortal body to forever swim in the dreams shown them by the fallen stars. The temptation grows with each use, so do not look upon the waters without consideration, that you may never look away.”
Haleuth was the first to gaze into the pool, great confidence in his hungry eyes. He looked into the well for what seemed a long time. For a moment Stiks’ pulse quickened, as he hoped for a moment that he may never look away, but his gut twisted, as he struggled with whether to hate himself for such a thought. After a long moment however the ascending lord of Malaster did indeed look away, though he looked worse for wear and did not linger long. Stiks took some satisfaction in this.
Next it was Jene’s turn and as he knelt by the pool to peer in his aunt and Stiks wished him well. He looked into the well with youthful eyes that had seen more than many wrinkled sages and when he pulled himself upright, those eyes welled with tears. His escorts braced him, as his body was weak with sorrow as they moved away from the pool, resting him away from the others till he could compose himself well enough to speak of his trial.
It was the tumbling Bard Patrick that went next, passing by the masked Wizard Pales as he made his way to the pool. “Pull me out if I linger too long,” he said as he passed, and the Torovian nodded, though he seemed distracted, looking about as if suspicious he was being watched.
On the bank of the pooled stars, opposite Jene, Demirken Rune stood pondering. Presented with this immense opportunity his heart seemed to struggle with his mind as he twisted his mustache into a tight curl, searching for what it was he hoped to learn.
“How long has Master Patrick been looking into the pool?” Jene asked, looking past the shoulders of his aunt who was busy dabbing at his teary cheeks.
With a start Pales tore himself from his paranoia and rushed to the kneeling bard, grabbing his shoulder, and wrenching his gaze away from the well. “Patrick! Patrick are you alright?”
The bards head lolled for a moment as he struggled to orient himself in the new, real world before him. “I, uh, need a moment.” Stiks watched over his shoulder and shook his head. What a strange man. Turning back, he glanced past Jene, still in a state of near shock from his vision, and looked to Robin. “Your turn, if ya think you’re up for it.”
The beekeeper scowled back at the would be monk, like a mother to a mouthy child. “I can handle myself yes, thank you.” She rose to leave, looking back at the kneeling pair for a moment. “Keep an eye on him.” She said to Stiks and made her way to the pool.
The wiser women’s peek into the world beyond was short, and without incident, and she returned to her nephew, his tears nearly dried.
Stiks took his turn next. He had not intended to look upon the Well again, tempting fate was not his preference, as he found fate had enough tricks up its sleeve without his help. However, the exchange with his former boss has him unsettled and his mind worked furiously to understand what he was after, what his plan was. So, he once again found himself looking into the Well of Fallen Stars.
Before him he saw a golden tidal wave wash over the city of Malaster. Many things were washed away, but the cathedral remained. As did the Baron’s castle, and some of the people. Among them he could recognize some faces. Halueth and his cronies, some of the knights of Malaster, Bishop Simon Howl all remained. But beyond that it was difficult to make out. Perhaps that was Tamar Greengate in the distance, and Countess Derringer. Possibly Roaming River, but it was hard to be sure. But one thing was certain all others, of the thousands within Malaster were washed back out to sea with the golden wave.
What did it mean? Certainly, that Haleuth and his allies, the knights and the bishop were destined to take over the city, with the help and alignment of the Archangels it seemed, a golden wave seemed an appropriate dream like analogy for the beings of such power they were like a crashing wave. But Greengate and the Countess, how did they fit in? Were they aligned with the crime lord as well. Certainly, he knew little of the countess, possibly deranged, it was uncertain. But he’d thought Greengate was an ally, if loosely. More troubling was Roaming River’s presence, how was he tied to such a group of faces? His mind reeled, but a soft echo, broke into his thoughts. A voice called to him.
“Enough.” It was the voice of his former instructor, his guardian, Virgil, echoing through his subconscious. It urged him to look away.
And so, he did, the dual wielder looked up, at his friends, away from the pool and stood, and pondered.
Next was Pales.
Pales gazed into the well, the mask on his face offering now clue as to his experience. When his time was over he was surprisingly calm for what he would reveal.
"I saw myself standing on a rocky piller in a vast ocean. There was a thrashing storm and the waves were crashing. I reached into the sky and bonemeal left my shoulder, but was violently struck down by a bolt of lightning. Nothing remained of them. That was the last thing I saw before I turned from the well."
Stiks let out a gasp, “Meal..?” the the stinging wail hung in the air, but dripped with an inflection of confusion at the way Pales had spoke so casually of his friends death. He dropped it however as he observed Pales, and something told him to leave it be. But he would check in with his friend soon, privately.
Next was Rune.

--

Rune looks, and as it is his first time does fine, though his heart seems unsure on what it is looking for. Their turns taken at the well the party of adventurers takes with them the new knowledge of their visions, and solemnly returns with the elves to the meeting hall amongst the branches of the great sentinel tree. There is no love lost as Haleuth takes his leave with his lackies, and the party takes a collective breath as one of their most dangerous enemies departs, again seemingly a step ahead of them.
Pales however does not relax in any measure, looking all about, even his trademark mask unable to hide the suspicion emanating from him.
As the party sits at the long table with the elves a relaxed murmur of discussion rises, to which Pales speaks caution.
“We have to remain vigilante, there is.. still a possibility we are watched.”
“Naaah we’re fine!” Patrick argues, a curiously different demeaner about him since his time at the well.
Pales stares sternly at the bard, “No, you don’t understand the… power… of whom watches us, Haleuth travels with someone I… knew… I fear.”
“Ahhh but it’s fine, here, we’ll take a looky!” Patrick concentrates a minute, his brow furrowing as he waggles his fingers, the action seeming more strenuous than expected as he casts a short ritual, looking about for traces of magic invisible to the naked eye.
Not sharing the brevity of the bard, Rune pushes back his chair, standing and speaking to Pales. “I’ll take a look around friend.” And nods, walking away to check the perimeters, a dance of golden light lifting about him as he leverages a divinity from within, searching their surroundings for signs of hostility or malice.
With a conceding air Pales sits back, as the party begins its negotiation with the Runidiri before them, eager to correct lies laid out by the now departed group from Malaster. But before the talks can gain traction, Roaming River raises a hand for silence, and looks to Pales with a question.
“What is it you fear is about? You seem quite disturbed, yet I can assure you we are well protected amongst the limbs of the great Sentinel.”
“You do not understand the power of the one that concerns me.” The wizard shifts forward in his seat, readying himself to tell a tale. “There is one that travels with Haleuth, one I know from… a previous life. I do not know for certain it is him, but I have great concern that it is indeed a man that should not still be alive, and infact, may not be. He was an apprentice of a powerful mage once, long ago. One of four. Even then his power would have been one to fear, but now, now his power could be truly frightening. Earlier, when scouting with my familiar, I saw him, revealed from his powerful cloaking magic for a moment, and in that moment he nearly ripped Bonemeal from me. With but a whim he nearly severed the link I had with my familiar of many year, no small feat.” He pauses a moment and takes an unneeded but habitual breath. “This same man I saw when I followed our friend to Malaster, after the battle with Hireek. Our friend, Haleuth’s claimed ‘agent’ was under the influence of a cursed coin, and unwillingly tasked to take Hireek’s khasir to Haleuth after the great spirit was put to rest. When our friend arrived in Malaster he was stabbed and beaten, nearly killed, under the watchful eye of this man.” Pales shakes his head in a mix of disbelief and sorrow. “When I saw him I was certain I was seeing things, for there is no way he could still be alive, but of course…” He pauses, looking at his own hands a moment, then again shakes his head. “But it was him, I’m now certain of that, and if he is in league with Haleuth, then truly Haleuth is up to far worse than we may have even feared.” He looks directly at Roaming River, a pleading look in his eyes. There is an edge of caution, and a sense of doom in his voice when he speaks. “I pray you do not fall for this man’s silver-tongued words, know that he seeks only personal gain in any allegiance he offers.
From Roaming River’s side Lichen Tusk scoffs. “It sounds to me that this poweful being would be the better ally, no? For that matter Haleuth does not ask of us, but rather offers us autonomy, arms, the ability to protect ourselves in the coming war, one you yourselves admit is on the horizon. He asks nearly nothing in return. You think you can offer us more?”
“I would caution you on how Haleuth treats his allies.” Pales warns in retort.
Then, in a sudden and graceless manner Patrick interrupts. He bluntly argues the fault in the Runidiri’s view of Haleuth’s offer and speaks again of the true events surrounding the death of the great bat spirit Hireek.
Rather than listen to the words the bard speaks, Stiks is intrigued by the manner in which he does so. The bard had seemed more, blunt, since his time at the well, which made Stiks wonder if there was something more going on there. Had the well done something to him? The elves had cautioned that one could lose themselves in the well if they spent too long looking into its depths. Had the bard looked too long? Did he lose his, charm in there? Stiks shrugged, he honestly kinda liked this version of Patrick more.
With his typical finesse, Stiks jumped into the conversation as Lichen Tusk argued against the parties pleas, inquiring what he could gain from their allegiance versus Haleuth’s and in turn Malaster’s.
“Hal is a scheming devil of a man who has nothing but his own personal gain in mind. And that’s honestly unfair to devil’s now that I think it through. But no matter, point is he’s scum. He’ll tell you all you want to hear to get you to do exactly what he wants to further his goals, regardless of the personal cost to you. You won’t see that cost till years later when you realize what you’ve done, what you’ve become, but know that Hal doesn’t care. He turned in his own father to be executed just so he could rise to power. We may not be able to offer you gold, or autonomy or whatever.” It was obvious to those around him he had no idea what that word meant, but he plowed on regardless. “But we can offer our friendship and our faith. We have hearts, unlike Hal, and we do protect our friends.”
Lichen Tusk scoffed, and with a chuckle retorted. “Hearts eh, that’s what you offer? And you are the ones to be trusted. You who carry a sacred mask, stolen from my people no doubt, over a man representing a city of power willing to offer us the freedom, the autonomy to protect ourselves?”
Something like a growl came from Stiks’ mouth at the Runidiri’s accusations. “I did not steal this mask. I… found it. Recovered from Runidiri killed at the ruins of Maro’s temple, when we were riding it of the demon Malice, an effort that nearly killed many of us, and did claim the life of a great wolf, our friend, who sacrifice himself for us and his family. That is who I wear it for, to honor sacrifice, to remember the love of being that was greater than his own ambition, something Hal would never understand!”
A strong hand rested on Stiks shoulder as Rune held him back with a reassuring but calming touch. Stiks continued to seethe but allowed himself to be guided back to his seat.
With the pause, Jene stepped up to speak, hoping to calm the air, recounting a vision he had of Rhiki, the goblin shaman who’s staff had taken Stiks vision.
The tale is complex, and further clouds the ever-complex tale of good and evil the party seems to weave within, day after day. Then, Jene speaks of his vision in the well. "The Telamons offer power, but that power comes with the same gilded chains that bind Celestine. You would be forever bound to them, and it would be a trifle for them to cast you aside when your usefulness was over. We offer a different path. One of equality and a seat at the table. Where leadership comes from spirited debate and compromise, and power from the people, rather than a ruthless few." The young priest’s eyes were wet as he finished his plea. It was clear the weight of his vision and its meaning was bearing down on him, the truth tearing at the foundation of his world.
Stiks did his best to send strength from across the table, giving Jene a nod.
Lichen Tusk too, was finally moved. He mulled the words over a moment, but finally conceded. “Okay boy, I hear what you say. It is obvious you all believe deeply that Haleuth’s offer is not what it seems. You have in the past been allies to the Runidiri, though it has been, bumpy.” His pointed glare at Stiks left little uncertainty in what he was referring to. “So, I offer you this. We will not take Haleuth’s offer, for now. We will take what meager offering of an allegiance you bring us, but in doing so, expect assistance in matters to come.” He looked about the table and was met with eager and assuring nods.
In the moment of respite, Robin steps forward. "Thank you so much for your trust and understanding. I know you will not regret it and soon will see exactly what we mean. We will do anything we can to assist in matters the Runidiri need, but before we get into detail, I have a matter of great sensitivity I would like to discuss, such that I needed to withhold until I was certain there were no prying eyes."
The Roaming River gestures around the platform. "Again, it is only us here. It is safe. What matter is this sensitive?" Robin nods, and looks to Rune and Patrick who nod back, their magical scrying revealing no spies. Reassured, Robin pulls off her backpack and opens it gently. From inside emerges a gigantic bee. The Runidiri are aghast. It is clear they recognize the spirit as one of the Children of Sindar, but one whom they had not before seen.
"This is Apini. I found her while visiting the Venatos monastery, in a secluded valley where I had once discovered my bee swarm. She was hidden in an ancient cave full of historical carvings of the five Gods, which described their history on this plane. The cave seemed to be a tribute to the friendship of Sindar and Arcanus. I found her hibernating there. It seemed wrong to take her from that sacred place, but she was weak, and it is only a matter of time before the zealots at the Monastery discover the cave and destroy it, just like they have erased every piece of true history they can find. I bring her to you to return her to your rightful care, and for guidance as to where she can be protected from the evils hunting the Great Animal Spirits. We can protect her at the new Bastion fortress if you would agree to it, but I defer to your judgement."
Roaming River ponders for a moment. "We could offer her a place at this tree, but I must caution against it. Three animal spirits, elk, boar, and otter, already reside here. I worry that such a concentration risks the attention of evil. It is clear that you have established a bond with Apini. Perhaps it is wise to entrust her to your continued care."
Robin seems relieved. "Thank you. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe."
Sitting back Robin concludes her business, and Pales rises, bringing his own to the table.
“I’d like to ask the Runidiri for help in another matter, that of the Dark Spore clan, a Runidiri clan lost to the depths below Stone Spire. In a recent journey we discovered them, trapped there beneath the earth. Imprisoned during the war they were driven mad, and many succumb to hivemind of the lichen they once cared for. We were able to rescue one of them, Blue Bark, who we brought here today. I ask if you could care for him. He lost many loved ones in his time trapped in the dark, and it has played havoc with his mind, which is now, delicate. I simply don’t have the means or resources to care for him as he needs.”
Roaming River looks to Pales, a look of distress at the story he tells on his face. But his frown turns to an honest smile at the necromancers ask. “Of course, we will care for our bretheren, and thank you, for getting him out of there. Indeed, we should venture to this place, Stone spire you say? And see that it is properly dealt with.” He looks to Lichen Tusk as he continues, “I believe Tranquil tone is in the area, working to restore the spirit of Maro.” Lichen Tusk nods. “We will reach out to him and see that he can’t assist in the matter.”
Pales nods, thankful, and takes his seat.
As the party wraps up their business and begins to depart Stiks tries to say bye to Lichen Tusk, as he noticed he wasn’t a fan of their stance on love and friendship being a strong asset. He walked away mid-sentence. Stiks, rather used to such actions, simply called a farewell in his wake.
Other Runidiri explain that Nago is in the final phase of his cycle and is in effect dieing for a time. Being linked to Nago, Lichen Tusk is duely stressed. Stiks nods, understanding.
In their departure there is mention of reclaiming Artos, the bear spirit’s, temple and dealing with Malice, which of course the adventurers promise to assist with. No love lost on the three horned demon. Their mediations concluded the heroes of Gravesend inquired with the Runidiri on their expertise of the land as to where they may find Rivercap Mushrooms. Patrick, in his extensive research on alchemical processes had discovered a recipe for a potion that could lessen the burn of flames on the consumer. With memories of Malice and his arm of pure fire seared into many of their minds, pursuit of the ingredients was considered paramount.
Truly shaken by his vision in the Well of Stars Jene chose to stay behind with his aunt, who wished to continue picking the brains of the Runidiri and their knowledge of her tremendously large Bee companion, now identified as a missing child of Sindar, the spirit animal ___. So, Patrick set out to look for his crucial reagents, chatting with Pales along the way. He revealed that he had been studying alongside Patrick for some time, picking up the knowledge and intricacies of the art quickly as he seemed to do with many things. Stiks accompanied the two, making it clear he’d not let his friend Pales go into the woods alone, as the Runidiri warned where the Rivercaps grew was often also attractive to less savory beings of the forest. He also seemed very interested in the idea of anything that would make bringing Malice to his knees easier. Rune too tagged along, expressing intrigue regarding the mushrooms, musing that they could go well with a well seared steak. He didn’t seem to grasp the intended purpose, but his presence always brought with it a sense of warmth and assuredness, so there were no complaints. He was perhaps the newest member of the group that sometimes called themselves friends, but he was always welcome.
The trip in was more difficult this time, without Robin to pick the easy path, but with the direction of the Runidiri they were able to find their way and soon came to the outer limits of Akanai Lake where conditions were perfect for the mushrooms to grow.
“Damn…” Stiks remarked, as he stood forward of the group staring into the distance. Patrick was already looking about for mushrooms, muttering something about being too dry and needing to be closer to the lakes edge when Rune too saw what had Stiks on edge.
“Trolls,” Rune said, his voice gruff and throaty, and as he struck a flint at the rolled paper in his mouth it was clear why. He took a long drag that carried with it a good deal of reflection. “Wrestled one once, smelly bastards. Not a fan of fire, keeps ‘em from healing.” The massive, corded muscles of his arm flexed as he brought his hand to the cig and pulled it from his mouth, deftly flicking the growing ash to the ground. He exhaled an impressive cloud of fragrant smoke from nostrils, hints of clove and spices lingered in the air. He always rolled his own and put as much care and love in the blend as he would any of his dishes.
Pales scowled as he watched the ashes fall to the ground but said nothing.
“Stiks…” Rune always seemed to draw out his name, as if planning it out like a carefully curated menu. “They're big… watch their reach.”
Indeed, the creatures were large, even from this distance it was obvious they dwarfed Runes six-and-a-half-foot frame.
A rustle of leaves and the creak of a branch answered Rune before Stiks. As the large man turned to regard the noise he was met with the sight of Stiks’ waist, now level with the tall man's eyes. Stiks stood beside him, now over 11 feet tall as he dropped an empty potion vial.
“They look small to me.” Stiks said back, his voice deeper, now reverberating through vocal cords twice their former size. He took a step forward, moving deftly for a man now larger than a troll, his long steps squelching lightly in the moist ground as he made his way towards the trolls. “Flame…” He spoke quietly, and his longsword, now much longer, flickered to life, flames dancing about its blade.
“Trolls?” Patrick finally looked up from his search as Stiks lumbered forward. “They have valuable blood!” His voice was excited, as it often was when speaking of alchemy. “Dumb as bugs too.”
One of the trolls' ears twitched, and his face looked pained. Stiks nodded, Pat's words could cut deep. He watched as the bard did a front handspring taking him off to Stiks right, a light groan escaping his mouth as he landed, a hand going to his low back.
Pales stood where he was, unphased by Stiks choice or the trolls. He’d seen too much to be phased. He’d died. Twice. This was nothing. He spoke a soft incantation and deathly cold energy swirled about his hands. With the flick of his wrist the energy surged forward, leaving a shimmering distortion in its path as the air tried to equalize the unnaturally shifting pressure.
Rune lost track of the spell as it traveled forward from the shrouded wizard but saw its effect as one of the trolls gave a groan and a shiver. A huge grin came to his face, the corner of his lip curling into a smirk. He reached out towards his now much taller friend and uttered a few words, “Have faith, I got your back,” as a golden light danced forth from his outstretched hand and the air around Stiks distorted with shimmering light.

HIs lips tightening on his hand rolled cigarette he hefted his ornate shield and drew his cleaver from his belt, its serrated edge catching the light from a hole in the canopy above him. “Let's do this,” and stepped forward.
The troll's heads turned simultaneously as the sound of a cracking branch emanated from the coastal woods, echoing over the lake's edge.
Rune looked down at his foot and the dry, broken branch beneath it. “Damn.”
“Nice one Chef!” Stiks growled, stealth no longer an option. “Get off our mushrooms you puny little twerps!” he shouted barreling forward at full tilt, his long strides closing on the angered troll before it could raise its heavy club. HIs flaming sword went up above his head and with a flick of his writst, came down across his body, trailing wisps of flame in its wake. The troll's eyes went wide at the sight of the sword, for truly there was nothing a troll feared more than fire, it stepped back, outside the blade's arc, narrowly evading the attack. But Stiks adjusted, his off hand angled up. It was a curious sight, for an onlooker it would appear as if the man was holding an ax upside down, its heavy head by his hand and its butt held forward dancing above the troll's head. Odd as it may be it did the job and the troll's eyes went high, following the weapon, and losing track of the flaming blade it feared so much for only a second. A second too long, as the burning blade sliced a deep gash in the troll's chest, the flesh around it bubbling, its normal innate ability to regenerate swiftly, kept in check by the seared edges of the wound. The beast roared in anguish, and Stiks smirked.
This day had started out like most. Goartug had awoken from his favorite sleeping spot feeling particularly refreshed. The moss was extra lush about the edges of the lake, and made for great naps. He’d made his way to the lakes edge in due time, finding a particularly juicy looking deer along the way. That would go wonderfully with the mushrooms at the edge of the lake that were so delicious when spread over fresh meat. They gave a wonderful, spiciness that was both earthy and hot, it burned in the most pleasant of ways on the way down. He’d run into his friend Groctuk at the water's edge, already collecting a bunch of mushrooms for himself. Groctuck was a glutton for punishment, the oaf. Too many of those red ones and you’d pay for it the next day. Things seemed like they were taking a turn for even better now, some yummy humans had wandered into his little corner of the forest, what a treat. Forget the deer.
Things had soured a bit when the large man had begun waving around that flaming sword, but Groctuk was dealing with that. Oh Groctuk, such a glutton for punishment, and a bit dumb. Goartug would make the smart decision and go for the skinny one with a bad back. His long strides brought him through the underbrush with ease arriving before the scrawny man in just a few strides. He did not slow as he approached, rather he picked up speed, rushing headlong at the man. He grinned, a little spittle escaping his mouth as he regarded the tasty little man, and he dove forward, yellowing pointed teeth leading the way.
“Hehe, yum…” Goartug said to himself just before his mouth closed on his lunch.
Rune didn’t know troll, or whatever it was trolls spoke, but he knew that look. It was one he was always happy to see on the faces of patrons of the Devil’s Den when he served up his carefully prepared dishes. But on a troll, looking at his friend. That wouldn’t do.
It shouldn't have been possible, it was certainly not advisable, but Rune didn’t care. He’d spent too much of his life following a path that had brought nothing but death and sorrow to people undeserving. He’d left that life behind, and dedicated himself to a path of protecting those that couldn't themselves, and feeding those that couldn’t feed themselves. Sometimes those that could, but not as well as he could. He was better at this, helping people, and he wasn’t afraid to get a little dirty to do it. He’d never be as dirty as he had been, in his old life.
Goartug frowned, something was in his mouth, he could taste it. Feel it. His jaw tightened, it was flesh, but not as squishy as it should have been. And the matter of the little man, still staring at him, unphased, and too far away. It hurt his head. How could he bite this little man and look into his face? His confusion grew as the flesh within his mouth shifted, grew more taunt. There was a groan, but not from the little man. The smell of oddly pleasant smelling smoke wafted about him and he turned to his left, looking up at the scarred arm of a man who was not scrawny.
“I’ve wrestled trolls before, bigger than you.” Rune exhaled, smoke pouring from his nostrils dancing up towards the troll before him. He strained, ash falling from the roll in his mouth as he shifted his arm, moving the troll whose teeth were deep in his forearm away from Patrick. The corded muscles of his shoulders strained against the weight of the troll's press. Blood dripped from his forearm. That had hurt a bit, but not nearly as much as it would have hurt Patrick. “I was a bit younger, but I think I still got it.”
The distinct sound of fire trailing through the air was not a happy sound for Stiks as his long sword he’d taken to calling Flame, swung wide left, a mistake its name sake wouldn’t have made. But Stiks had over balanced, his 11ft form powerful, but heavy. He came back around with his off hand, the cord wrapped shaft of his bearded ax, which he refused to acknowledge went the other way around, took the troll in the kidney, but the blow lacked the bite of Flame. The troll answered with a swing of his own, emboldened by Stiks' mistake. It’s claw swept across his cheek as he stepped back, only nicking him as a glimmer of golden light danced about it, diverting the blow slightly. He’d have to thank Chef later. The blow did its job though, as the second claw came around, glancing off his breastplate but sinking deep into his shoulder. He winced but managed to just get his ax up as the beast bit down on it, its magical aura lending itself to Stiks as he pushed back at the trolls press.
A cold wind touched the man's cheek, like the stale air of an ancient tomb. The air before him distorted as the troll winced. Pales had his back and had given him the opening. He shoved the weight of the back as it leered from the necrotic touch, opening some space between them.
Stiks shifted his weight back, readjusting slightly as his foot sank further into the moist earth beneath than he’d expected. Being 11 feet tall took some getting used to. He brought the back of his hand to his face and wiped a fleck of blood from his cheek. The troll across from him frowned in confusion as the blood came away, the wound below it already closed.
“Tr..o.l?” Groctuk asked, in horribly broken Common. It was impressive the troll knew anything at all outside its native language. It was scared, this thing it thought a man was as large as he was, wielding a flaming sword that hurt worse than anything Groctuk had experienced before, and now the man was healing like he should have been.
Stiks smirked, seeing the confusion on the creature's face. “Do I smell that bad?” The earth squelched angrily, muck bubbling beneath his weight as he leapt forward, his back foot planting as he brought his lead foot forward, the flaming sword sweeping before him. The troll rocked back, desperate to avoid the hot blade, but the movement set him on his heels, unbalanced on the soft earth. Up came the wooden handle of the reversed ax, its shaft like that of a small tree in the hands of the enlarged man. It took the troll underneath the chin, keeping it off balance. It attempted to bring its claw around to the man's left, but the flaming sword came about, taking a finger. The troll howled, then groaned as he took a blow to the hip. Stiks kept it up, fighting with a ferocity that had earned him a reputation on the streets of Malaster. The counter balanced club in his offhand batting the trolls clawed arms continuously wide as the hot flaming blade of Flame made fast cuts at the trolls chest, its cuts shallow as not to catch in its flesh.
Groctuk hissed in pain, his flesh burning and bubbling as his body tried to close its growing wounds but failed as the flames continued to bite into its skin. Desperation creeping in it stepped into one of the large man's blows, taking the dull stick in the thigh in exchange for an opening at his torturer's neck. For a moment, Groctuk smiled, as the man’s foot sunk into the ground. This was it, his chance, he would end this man and be rid of his stinging, burning sword.
Stiks could see the look in the troll’s eyes. Desperation. It was the moment animals could become the most dangerous, backed into a corner they would do anything to live. And as his foot again sunk deep into the ground, he found himself open to the left as the troll stepped into his ax's blow, biting at his exposed neck. But he was starting to get used to this soft ground, and he went with the dip. Dropping to one knee Stiks’ body went low, and the trolls mouth, too high. There was a sickening slurp and a pop as Flame pierced through the soft underside of the troll's chin and pierced through the thing's skull, its tongue lolling impossibly far out of its gaping mouth, partially severed. The troll's head sizzled as flames climbed around it, one eye bursting as it boiled from the inside as the body fell limp, driving the blade deeper into the dead troll's head. Stiks shifted the dead weight to the side, sliding the thing off his blade. It slopped to the ground, the drool from its open mouth still sizzling as it mixed with the muck, the red capped mushrooms about it unperturbed by the heat.

For a fleeting moment a memory of Jene, tears in his eyes came to Stiks. Dressed in the robes Stiks had appropriated from the gravesend chapel, he kneeled grasping at his robes in frustration, as if the weight of the holy garb made it hard to breath.
“What is the difference between a weed and a prized flower? Can they not all have their place in a well-tended garden?” Jene gasped, near sobbing, trying to understand the weight of the visions, the responsibilities thrust on him.
Stiks looked at the limp body of the troll, burned flesh already beginning to sink into the soft earth of the lakes edge. “Some weeds make better fertilizer.”
The sickening sound of claws on metal pulled him away from his thoughts and he sunk his foot into the wet earth, pushing off into a run towards his friends.
___ Rune strained, his boots sliding on the slick ground. His enchanted shield caught a bead of light as it shifted, the troll's nine foot frame bearing down on him as his footing started to give beneath him. His heavily muscled shoulder ached from the strain as he fought to keep the slab of metal between himself and the troll while his sword arm beat away the other grasping claw. A mocking call rang out behind him as Patrick let out a string of insults on the beast, carried along with magical enhancements the troll's ears twitched and for a moment the weight relented. But the moment was over quickly and flecks of viscous spit mared Runes once white chefs hat as the troll renewed its press. Rune grunted and his gaze shifted past his shield a moment looking out towards his comrade. His heart pumped with renewed vigor as he saw an eleven foot tall Stiks striding towards him, flaming sword in hand, his foe laying in a heep far behind.
A grin that was as at home on the chef's face as a hobbit in a hole spread wide as he let the last of his hand rolled tobacco fall to the ground.
‘Can’t let Stiks show me up.’ He thought.
Goartug grinned, this one was beefy, this one would make a great meal. It had stung him a few times, but it was no matter, he’d heal, quickly. He could almost taste the man as put all of his weight down on the large shield the man held before him, he could feel it falling beneath him as the large man's strength failed. He was drooling. It was so close. But then a strange feeling took him. He felt a shift beneath him, then a strange weightlessness as his feet left the ground.
‘Goartug flies?’ He thought. He’d often watched the birds in the sky and wondered. Was this what it was like, would he know their freedom in the skies?
The roar that bellowed forth from the man in chef’s whites would have made a lion think twice, and he hoped the same would be true of a troll. He’d given into the weight of the troll for just a second, the shift letting him get beneath the troll as it tried to crawl right over his shield, and now it was time to go up. His quads strained with the effort, the chords of his back taunt as he shoved upwards, lifting the troll bodily from the ground, its feet flailing about as they lost purchase. Rune flexed his glutes as he reached the apex of his lift, thrusting his hips forward for maximum power as he utilized the strongest muscles in his body. Proper lifting technique was crucial, as well as a balanced diet and good hydration. As the troll left the ground Rune reached high, angling his battering shield downwards and pumping his shoulder, forcing the beast into the ground with a wet thud. The prone troll's eyes lolled in its head, its breath punched from its chest.
Stiks pulled up, slowing his run as he watched the troll go down before Rune, the chef stepping up on his chest and raising his cleaver overhead. The recovering monk looked on, impressed as he watched the cleaver come down on the beast's skull, with the practiced precision of a man in the kitchen chopping a melon for brunch.
“Well done boys!” Patrick called, rolling out of a nearby tree and fluidly tumbling over to the two warriors. He paused, taking a moment to arch his back, a loud crack could be heard as a relieved look crossed his face. “Now we harvest their blood!”
“And the mushrooms” Pales chimed in, walking over to the group solemnly. It would’ve been an exceedingly suave entrance if the slim wizard didn’t carry with him such a sad air.
“Yes and the mushrooms…” Patrick replied, already unfurling a small kit from his robes as he stood beside the troll Rune had felled.
Stiks looked to Rune, a smirk on his face. He swung his enlarged sword up, arcing it to rest on his shoulder, then winced as the flames bit at his skin. It was a habit of wielding top heavy blunt weapons most of his fighting career. The flaming sword was taking some getting used to. He pivoted, resting its tip on the ground, letting his palm rest on the pommel. The enchanted swords flames licked at the wet ground around it, steam beginning to rise.
“Nicely done short stuff.” Stiks teased Rune, still enlarged, standing well over the normally much taller man.
“And yourself.” Rune replied, attempting to clean some troll drool from his hat. He grunted slightly as Stiks slapped him on the back with force that did not compensate for his new size.
“Right! Well, Paley, you need any help over there?” Stiks called wandering over to his friend.
With some effort, and a little squabbling between Pales and Patrick on the proper technique for good mushroom harvesting the job was done, and the party set off to find more mushrooms. Many would be needed to aid in their struggle against the demons. One demon in particular.

To be continued...

Type

Manuscript, Historical