Chapter 17: Into the Wild

The broken barge drifted aimlessly on the dark waters of the loch, its shattered planks barely floating in the slow, rhythmic waves. A red cap bobbed along the surface, the only lingering trace of Crabtree Rotten, now resting in the loch serpent’s belly. Kalo spared one last glance at the loch, the cap sinking beneath the waves, before urging the others onward. The four travelers—Kalo, Lukan, Sprig, and Eryndor—moved swiftly, putting distance between themselves and the loch. No one wanted to be around when questions arose about the missing passenger. Best not to be linked to whatever might come next.

The air was thick with mist, curling through the trees like a living thing. It muffled their footsteps and distorted shapes in the distance, turning harmless branches into looming figures. Above them, the sky was smothered in gray, and the hush of the forest pressed close, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Ahead, the magic broom flitted through the gloom, scouting a safe path. The most direct route to the dam was crawling with fey—sharp-eyed, sharp-tempered, and always eager to make trouble. That left only the long way around, skirting the edges of Magus Impy’s domain. The land there was different, wary, as though even the earth itself recoiled from its master’s presence. Impy was a mysterious figure, clever and powerful but never seen; he cursed those who strayed too near. Kalo had heard enough stories to know that even thinking about him too much could invite trouble.

The trees grew denser, their twisted branches knitting together above, blocking out what little light remained. The smell of damp pine and rotting leaves filled the air, laced with something sharp and acrid. Somewhere to the north, peat fires smoldered, their thick smoke curling into the sky. People worked in the bogs, their lives worn thin by toil, their struggle carried on the wind like a warning.

Then—

A sharp screech shattered the silence, followed by the frantic flapping of wings. A pheasant burst from the underbrush, streaking low across the path. Then—twang! A crossbow bolt hissed through the mist, striking the bird mid-flight. It slammed into a tree, pinned fast, its last cry fading into the hush of the forest.

Two figures emerged from the gloom, lean and wiry, moving with a predator’s ease. Weasels, but not the harmless kind. These ones were slick with grime, their patchwork leathers stained and worn. One held a crossbow, still aimed, while the other spun a battered hat between his claws, grinning like he already knew how this conversation would end.

"Well, well," said the first, his voice smooth as an old story. "Look what wandered into our neck o’ the woods."

The second plucked the pheasant from the tree, letting its feathers drift lazily to the ground. "Strangers, eh? Hope y’ain’t thinkin’ o’ takin’ our game. That’d be real unfortunate."

Kalo met their gaze, unflinching. "And you are?"

The first gave a mocking bow. "Name’s Sneazel. My partner here’s Mudtoe. We keep to the edges, where wise folk tread lightly."

"Poachers," Lukan muttered.

Mudtoe smirked, unbothered. "Freelance suppliers o’ fine meats, we prefer."

Sprig, coiled tighter on the ground, his scales glinting faintly in the mist. He hissed, his voice sharp and dry. "Huntin’ near Impy’s patch seems a fine way to get cursed. Smells like you’ve already got a whiff o’ somethin’ foul."

Sneazel’s grin didn’t falter. "Ah, but we ain’t fools. We know where Impy’s eyes watch. And we sure as spit don’t go too far north—nobody with sense wants t’get too close to the peat pits. We stay in the in-between places."

Mudtoe flicked a feather from his vest. "Still, y’all are in dangerous territory. Strange things stir out here."

Eryndor’s gaze darkened, his hand resting lightly on the pan flute at his side. "We know. That’s why we keep to the trees."

Sneazel chuckled, slow and knowing. "Smart. But see, Magus Impy’s got ears everywhere. And if he finds y’all creeping around, well… he ain’t exactly the forgivin’ type."

Kalo sighed, the weight of the moment settling over them. "I assume you have something to offer, then."

Mudtoe tapped a claw to his snout, his yellowed eyes gleaming. "Might be. Question is—what’s it worth to ya?"

These weren’t ordinary scavengers. No, these were tricksters, watchers of the wild, playing their own game. And the question wasn’t whether a deal would be struck—but who would come out on top.

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Chapter 18: The Deal

Kalo didn’t like haggling with weasels. They had a knack for twisting words, a talent for making you believe you’d won right up until you realized you’d lost. But there was no way around it—Sneazel and Mudtoe knew these woods better than anyone, and if they had information about Impy or the peat pits, it was worth hearing.

"We’re listenin’," Kalo said carefully. "What do you know?"

Mudtoe flicked the pheasant’s limp body onto his shoulder, his grin widening. "Depends what y’need. Safe passage? Secrets? Maybe a little… insurance?"

"Insurance?" Lukan asked warily.

Sneazel’s grin sharpened. "Magus Impy ain’t just a wizard. He’s a collector. Things get lost near his lands—people, too. And if he catches wind of strangers sniffin’ around, well… let’s just say he don’t take kindly to curiosity."

Sprig slithered forward slightly, his green scales catching the dim light. He hissed, "So you’re sayin’ you can keep us off his radar?"

Mudtoe chuckled. "More like… guide y’all through the places he don’t watch so close. There’s paths only us and the ghosts know."

Eryndor crossed his arms, his voice low and edged. "And what do you want in return?"

Sneazel leaned in, his voice dropping low. "Couple things. First, a favor. Somethin’ small, somethin’ simple. Just a promise y’all help us out if we ever call on it."

Kalo’s gut twisted. Promises with creatures like these were never simple. "And second?"

Mudtoe’s grin widened. "That fancy broom y’all got? Could fetch us a fine price—or save our hides next time we’re runnin’ from Impy’s tricks."

As the weasels shuffled nervously, their eyes flickered to the broom flitting high above, longing in their gazes. The silence grew heavy, their hopes hanging in the air.

After a long pause, Kalo spoke, his tone calm but firm. "That won’t be happening." The weasels’ faces fell, disappointment creeping in.

"But," Kalo continued, his eyes gleaming with mystery, "I do have something similar you might be interested in."

He reached into his pack and pulled from its endless void a rusted, yet oddly magnificent pitchfork. Its tines, pitted with age, shimmered with a faint, sickly green light, as if reluctant to reveal the power coiled within. The air around it hummed faintly, a whisper of old magic clinging to its form. The weasels leaned forward, intrigued.

"This," Kalo said, presenting it with reverence, "is no ordinary tool. It has a history, old and valuable. Though it’s been out of use for ages, its power remains, hidden yet alive. Take it, if you dare."

Sneazel and Mudtoe circled the pitchfork, their eyes narrowing with curiosity. Mudtoe’s claws hovered above the handle. "Ain’t like any relic I’ve seen," he muttered. "Could be valuable… or trouble."

Sneazel, ever the bolder, snatched it from Kalo’s hands and swung it experimentally. The tines sliced through the mist with a low hum, the pitchfork trembling as if waking from a long sleep.

Then—whoosh!

With a wild jerk, the pitchfork surged upward, yanking Sneazel off his feet. "Whoa, hey!" he yelped, claws scrabbling as it dragged him into the air. It veered erratically—like a broom’s untamed cousin—cutting a chaotic path through the mist. Sneazel’s legs flailed, his grip barely holding as he hollered, "Yahooooooo!"—a mix of panic and wild glee echoing through the trees.

Mudtoe stumbled back, snickering as he snatched his hat from the ground where it’d fallen. "Looks like it’s taken a shine to ya, Sneaz!"

Kalo watched with a dry smirk. "Guess it’s got some life left after all."

Sprig coiled tighter, his hiss laced with amusement. "Serves ‘im right for grabbin’ what he don’t understand."

Eryndor’s dark gaze flicked upward, a faint twitch at his lips betraying quiet mirth. "One less weasel to haggle with."

The pitchfork’s wild ascent faltered, then abruptly dropped, dumping Sneazel into a pile of wet leaves with a loud thud. Mudtoe darted over, still chuckling, and hauled his partner to his feet, both grinning like they’d won a prize.

Sneazel brushed himself off, his grin unshaken. "Well, well, looks like you weren’t lyin’ about it bein’ valuable."

Mudtoe hefted the pitchfork, testing its weight, the pheasant still slung over his shoulder. "Ain’t every day you get tossed like that. We’ll take it—but don’t forget that favor we’re owed."

Kalo eyed them cautiously, then extended his hand. "Deal."

Sneazel and Mudtoe shook Kalo’s hand with firm, eager grips. "Follow us," Sneazel said with a wink. "We know a way through the woods, far from Impy’s watch."

The weasels turned, slipping into the thick mist with swift, sure steps. Kalo, Lukan, Sprig, and Eryndor followed, the woods swallowing them as the sound of their footsteps faded into the gloom.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3