Chapter 6: Fork in the Road
The road narrowed as Kalo and Lukan neared Grimthorn Hollow. The golden grasses of the heath had given way to darker, denser foliage, the trees standing taller, their twisted branches casting long shadows in the afternoon light. The air here felt heavier, thick with something unspoken, as if the land itself held its breath.
Then, they came to the fork.
Two paths stretched before them—one leading to the village, marked by a worn wooden sign that read Grimthorn Hollow, the other veering into the unknown, with a single word carved deep into the signpost: The Wild. The letters were old and jagged, as if they had been clawed into the wood rather than carved. The forest beyond was thick and unwelcoming, its darkened boughs swaying as though whispering secrets between the leaves.
But it was not the path that made them stop—it was what stood beside it.
A lantern, tall and iron-wrought, loomed over the fork. Once, it had been a beacon for weary travelers and merchants, its enchanted flame offering safe passage through the treacherous roads of the heath. In ordinary times, it would glow with a steady green light, a soft, guiding presence against the dark. In times of danger, the flame would burn red, warning all who approached. Those who meant harm would find no quarter near it, for the red flame would flare bright, searing the flesh of those with unkind spirits, repelling creatures that thrived in the shadows.
But now, the lantern was dark.
Its glass was clouded with soot, the metal frame cold to the touch. Whatever magic had once given it life had been snuffed out. A single moth fluttered near its unlit core before spiraling away into the air. The road was unguarded.
Lukan frowned. “That’s not right.”
Kalo stepped closer, running a hand along the lantern’s frame. “It should be burning,” he murmured. “It should never go out.”
“The hobgoblin should be here,” Lukan added, glancing around the clearing. “He’s the one who keeps the lantern burning.”
But there was no sign of the hobgoblin. No footprints in the dirt. No trace that he had been here in days, perhaps weeks. Only silence.
Sprig the green asp examined the lantern as well. “We must help, he said softly something is wrong in these lands.”
But how? Kalo had no answer. The lantern’s silence felt like an omen, a sign that the road was no longer safe.
As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting jagged shadows through the trees, they left the lantern behind and set off toward Grimthorn Hollow.
Grimthorn Hollow revealed itself slowly, emerging from the misty hills like a forgotten relic. A village built into the land rather than upon it, its homes and buildings were nestled beneath the sprawling roots of massive trees, their roofs blending seamlessly with the earthen mounds that surrounded them. Lanterns hung from low branches, their dim glow flickering as if struggling against an unseen force.
The village was surrounded by a low stone wall, half-covered in creeping ivy, its entrance marked by a wooden archway carved with ancient symbols. Beyond the wall, crooked houses leaned into one another, their timber frames weathered by wind and time. Smoke curled from chimneys, though the scent was not of hearty meals but of something herbal, something bitter. The streets were quiet, too quiet for a place that should have been bustling at this hour.
The only sound was the distant creaking of a windmill at the village’s edge, its old wooden blades groaning as they turned.
And waiting for them at the entrance was a gnome.
He was small and gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment. A tattered blue coat draped over his thin frame, its buttons tarnished with age. His hair was white, not from age but from something else—something unnatural. His eyes were a deep, sunken gray, like the last embers of a fire long gone out. He stood with his hands clasped before him, watching as Kalo, Lukan, and their companions approached.
“Welcome to Grimthorn Hollow,” he said, his voice as dry as rustling leaves. “You’ve come at an interesting time.”
Kalo met his gaze. “And who might you be?”
The gnome gave a small, humorless smile. “I am called Veln.”
There was something unsettling in the way he spoke, something measured and careful, as though he were choosing his words like a gambler choosing his dice.
Lukan shifted slightly, as if ready to grab his spear at a moment’s notice. “And what makes this time so interesting?”
Veln gestured toward the village. “A sickness lingers here. Not one of the body, but of the land. The lantern at the fork has gone dark. The hobgoblin is missing. And the wild creatures no longer fear the edge of the Hollow.”
Kalo felt a prickle run down his spine. “What happened to the hobgoblin?”
Veln’s expression darkened. “That is the question, isn’t it?”
The wind picked up, rustling the ivy along the stone wall. The village beyond seemed to shudder, its homes shrinking deeper beneath the roots of the ancient trees.
Grimthorn Hollow was not as they expected, something was very, very wrong.
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Chapter 7: The Thorn and Thistle
The gnome, Veln, led them through Grimthorn Hollow, his small steps purposeful and slow. He walked ahead of them, never looking back, his voice continuing to echo in the quiet streets. The village, nestled beneath the gnarled roots of ancient trees, felt as if it were holding its breath. The path they followed twisted between crooked homes, the timber frames leaning into one another like old friends whispering secrets. Windows were closed, curtains drawn, and the villagers’ eyes peeked out from behind them, watching the newcomers with wary curiosity.
“Strangers are a rare sight around these parts,” Veln explained cryptically, his voice thin like the wind that stirred the leaves above them. “Most keep to themselves... especially now.”
As they walked, the air grew heavier, laden with an odd bitterness. The faint scent of herbs mixed with something sharp and unsettling, tickling their senses. Kalo's eyes darted to the shadows, his fingers itching. He could sense something was wrong with the place, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly what.
“Here we are,” Veln said, halting in front of a low, crooked building that seemed to have grown from the earth itself. A sign swung above the door, carved with the image of a thorny vine wrapped around a thistle. The Thorn and Thistle.
The gnome gave a short nod and pushed open the door. The dim glow of lanterns spilled out, revealing the warm, flickering light of the inn’s hearth.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and something faintly pungent, like the earth after a rainstorm. The hearth crackled and popped, casting shifting shadows across the worn wooden floors. Seated behind the bar was a marten, his fur a dark brown, with a streak of white down his chest. He looked up from a mug he was cleaning, his sharp eyes glinting with an unsettling intelligence.
“Welcome,” the marten greeted them in a voice higher-pitched than expected, almost sing-song in its quality. “I be Ferrick Cragglethorn, Innkeeper. Aye, ye must be the ones come to find the hobgoblin, eh?”
Before anyone could respond, the marten gave a sly grin and reached under the counter, pulling out a bottle of something dark and thick. He poured it into a wooden cup and slid it across the bar. “There’s always talk, ye know. Always gossip here in Grimthorn Hollow. About the residents, about the boundary, about strange happenings in the night. Folks talk, but not always the truth.”
The marten's grin widened, showing sharp teeth, before he continued. “But what matters most is what happens on the edge of the Hollow. There’s something, something out there, that keeps the balance.”
Lukan took the cup and sniffed the contents. It was bitter, like the taste of burnt herbs mixed with something metallic. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, accepting the drink as a form of hospitality. Kalo, however, was less trusting, his eyes darting about the room as if searching for something hidden.
The marten seemed to notice the unease. “Come now, ye must be hungry after your travels. Let me fix ye a meal,” he said, a high-pitched laugh escaping him. “Sit by the fire, get warm. The cold seeps into yer bones here, especially when the sun fades.”
They settled around the fire, the heat of the flames comforting as they shared a quiet meal. The walls of the inn groaned with age, the shadows stretching unnaturally as if the darkness outside was creeping in. The wind outside howled, sending gusts of chill into the room as the marten worked in the kitchen, preparing something in the shadows.
After some time, he returned with a plate of food—a strange stew, thick and dark, with bits of root vegetables and what appeared to be meat of some kind. It was not unpleasant, though there was a strange aftertaste that lingered on the tongue.
“Sleep now, ye’ll need it,” the marten said as they finished. “I’ve got a room ready for ye.”
He led them up a narrow staircase that spiraled upward into the second floor. The steps creaked under their weight, the walls seemingly shifting with every step. The room they were given was tucked beneath the sprawling roots of the great tree above, its ceiling low and uneven, as if the room itself had grown in sync with the tree’s twisted shape. From the window, they could see the village fading into the evening light, the last vestiges of the sun slipping behind the horizon.
Outside, something moved along the boundary wall. A lone figure, draped in shadows, walked slowly, carrying a red lantern. The glow of the lantern flickered eerily in the dimming light, casting strange, elongated shadows along the stone wall.
“What do ye think of that?” the marten’s voice drifted from the doorway, where he stood watching them. “Another wanderer? Or something... else?”
He didn’t wait for a response before leaving them alone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Lukan glanced at Kalo, who was staring out the window, his eyes narrowed. The red lantern bobbed in the distance, a symbol of something more than just a passing traveler. It was a warning, perhaps, or a sign.
The air in the room felt thick, almost oppressive. The sense of unease that had begun in the village seemed to press in from all sides, and Lukan could feel the weight of it in his chest.
"Tomorrow," Kalo muttered, turning away from the window. "We'll find answers tomorrow."
But deep down, both of them knew that whatever lay ahead was far darker than they had imagined. Grimthorn Hollow held its secrets close, and they had only just begun to scratch the surface.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
