Chapter 10 – Ferrets Strike
The first light of dawn slithered through the tangled canopy, casting long, golden fingers across the dew-drenched underbrush. In the heart of the wilds, where bramble and thorn twisted in gnarled knots, three figures crouched in the shadows, their fur slick with the damp of the night.
Kroth, the largest of the trio, bared his yellowed teeth, his whiskers twitching with frustration. The magic trail had vanished like mist on a breeze, leaving them blind in the depths of the forest.
Dora exhaled sharply, coiling her garrote wire back into its place at her hip. “Slippery little bastard. Hobgoblins always stink of sweat and rust, but this one? Vanished.”
Teth, perched on a gnarled root, flicked a claw against the stock of his arbalest. “Not vanished. Covered.” His beady eyes narrowed. “Something else is at play here.”
The ferrets sat in uneasy silence, the morning stillness pressing around them. Then, Kroth’s ears twitched. He sniffed the air. “We wasted the night chasing ghosts. But there is something new in Grimthorn Hollow.” His claws flexed against the bark of the twisted oak he leaned against. “Something worth watching.”
Dora smirked. “Those travelers?”
Teth gave a sharp, snorting laugh. “The koopling’s got magic. The otter’s got fight. And the snake… well, I don’t like him.”
Kroth rolled his shoulders, stretching his limbs. “Then let’s get to town. Maybe we don’t leave empty-pawed after all.”
With that, the trio melted into the underbrush, slinking toward the mist-cloaked village where their new quarry wandered, blissfully unaware that sharp eyes now followed their every move.
Inside the Thorn and Thistle, the scent of acorn flapjacks and melted butter was the only warmth in the cold morning air. Lukan stretched his arms as he rose, his otter tail flicking behind him. Kalo, still tangled in a mass of blankets, let out a groggy murmur, rubbing his eyes as his breath fogged in the chilly room. Above them, Sprig uncoiled from the rafters, his emerald scales shimmering in the dim light.
The asp slithered down, landing soundlessly on Lukan’s shoulder. “Something’s off in this town.”
Lukan buckled his belt, checking the weight of the spear at his side. “No sign of the hobgoblin, and everyone here’s got their ears pinned back like they know more than they’ll say.”
Kalo yawned. “You’re always sniffing out trouble.”
Sprig’s tongue flicked the air. “Because trouble is sniffing back.”
With that, they made their way downstairs, wolfing down a quick breakfast before stepping into the gray morning.
Their search began at the innkeeper’s counter, where Ferrick Cragglethorn, the Thorn and Thistle’s weary marten owner, muttered about odd noises in the night and the hobgoblin’s abrupt disappearance. The ferrets lurked unseen above, crouched in the ceiling beams, their claws flexing.
At the blacksmith’s forge, they questioned the old badger hammering away at his anvil. He spoke in grumbles about a half-finished blade abandoned mid-trade, the flicker of a shadow seen leaving the night before. The ferrets watched from the rooftop, hidden in the chimney’s shadow.
In the market square, a fishmonger whispered of strange scratches on her stall and a hobgoblin who’d stopped buying her wares weeks ago. When a loose roof tile suddenly slipped and clattered to the ground, Lukan’s head snapped up, eyes scanning the misty eaves above.
“Something’s following us,” he muttered.
Kalo shrugged. “Rats, probably.”
Sprig’s gaze remained locked on the rooftops. He knew better.
Their path led them along the boundary wall, a crumbling line of moss-slick stone that separated Grimthorn Hollow from the wilds beyond. The deeper they walked into the untamed brush, the heavier the silence became. A wind stirred the brambles, rustling the thickets that loomed in tangled masses.
Kalo’s golden rune twitched in his pocket.
He paused, heart skipping as the old magic stirred, sending a ripple of warmth through his fingers. He raised the rune to his forehead, its surface cool against his skin, and muttered the incantation.
At once, his vision split.
He saw—not through his own eyes, but through the eyes of his broom, far above. The enchanted bristles flickered, soaring over the tangled woods, sweeping past twisted branches and moss-choked ruins.
And there, crouched beneath a thicket, waiting in ambush, were the ferrets.
Kalo’s breath hitched. He saw Dora, her garrote coiled in eager hands. Teth, crossbow ready. Kroth, blade glinting in the weak morning light.
He snapped back to himself, his pulse hammering.
“Trap,” he hissed, shoving the rune away. His hands flew into a sigil, his voice low but sharp. “Vindico—”
Above, the broom swerved hard and dove.
The sky whistled as the broom dropped from the clouds like a falcon, bristles glowing faintly.
“DANGER!” it shrieked.
Dora barely had time to blink before the broom slammed into her mid-air, just as she leaped. Her garrote missed its mark, slicing a sapling in two as she crashed into the underbrush with a snarl.
The broom wheeled around, striking at Teth just as he fired. His bolt veered off course, embedding itself in a tree where the venom hissed against the bark. Lukan twisted aside as Kroth’s dagger grazed his arm, stinging with poison.
Chaos erupted.
Lukan spun, spear thrusting toward Kroth. The ferret dodged, rolling away as the otter’s slingshot snapped up in his other hand. A stone cracked against Kroth’s shoulder, knocking him back.
Teth reloaded, only for Sprig to lash out, his tail snapping across the ferret’s wrist. The arbalest fired wildly, missing its mark.
Dora recovered, lunging at Kalo again, her garrote flashing like silver lightning. Kalo ducked, the wire catching on a gnarled root. With a sharp twang, it snapped from her grip.
And then, Kalo had had enough.
His eyes flared blue, hands weaving a sigil of fire. “Stay down,” he growled.
A torrent of sapphire flame erupted from his palms, roaring across the battlefield.
Teth had no time to scream. The fire engulfed him, his fur igniting in an instant. He tumbled backward, writhing as the magic burned away every strand, leaving him bald and smoking, his arbalest a melted ruin.
Kroth and Dora froze, eyes wide with horror.
“Retreat!” Kroth barked, seizing Teth’s limp form. Dora hesitated for a breath—then turned and bolted into the undergrowth. The three ferrets vanished into the tangled wilds, their shadows swallowed by the underbrush.
Lukan let out a slow breath, spear still raised. “What were those things?”
Kalo’s hands trembled as the fire faded. “Trouble. And they’ll be back.”
Sprig stared into the trees. “Next time, we won’t wait for the broom.”
Behind them, Grimthorn Hollow’s secrets still festered, but the wilds ahead promised worse dangers yet—and the ferrets, singed but vengeful, would not be far behind.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 11 – Magic in the Air
The Hobgoblin slept in his warped, creaky bed, a jumble of hessian sacks, worn pillows, and silken sheets scavenged from a dozen lifetimes. The room around him was a chaotic nest of oddities—a rickety study table cluttered with half-built contraptions, glowing trinkets, and mismatched vials; a self-contained living quarter of twisted roots forming the walls; a small hearth flickering with blue-green fire; and a door that led—if one dared to follow—into darkness.
That door opened onto a faintly lit path, hobgoblin firelight flickering along the stones. It spiraled up a winding staircase, through a vast library, and into nothingness, where pathways splintered into unknown destinations.
This was the Hobgoblin’s sanctuary. His home. His retreat from the world.
But now, sleep abandoned him.
With a gasp, he bolted upright, yellow eyes blazing wide.
"Magic," he breathed. Then, a whisper, eyes darting: "Poison."
A flick of his calloused fingers sent a spark into the old iron lamp beside his bed. It flared, filling the room with a dim, orange glow. His long ears twitched, listening to the hum of the air. Something had happened. Magic had been worked in his territory.
He stood, stretching his knotted limbs, his spine popping as he reached for his brown cap. He muttered to himself, "I must warn them. I must help. The poison works fast… and magic will draw the Drow like moths to light."
Earlier that night...
The group had celebrated after their narrow victory over the ferrets. Spirits were high, the battle won.
Then, Lukan groaned.
His legs buckled, his body shuddered. He collapsed.
Kalo and Sprig barely caught him before he hit the ground. His wound—where Kroth's blade had nicked him—had dark tendrils creeping outward from the gash, poison seeping through his veins.
"Damn it!" Kalo swore, pressing his fingers against Lukan’s fur. The otter burned with fever.
The journey back to the Thorn and Thistle was a nightmare.
Kalo and Sprig dragged Lukan’s half-conscious body through the twisting streets of Grimthorn Hollow, their breath coming in ragged gasps. By the time they stumbled into the inn’s doorway, Ferrick Cragglethorn—the marten innkeeper—and his gnome friend rushed forward with buckets of water and clean linens. But they could do little but watch.
Kalo worked frantically—grinding herbs into a poultice, weaving a healing spell, but he was no healer.
Sprig coiled protectively around Lukan’s feverish form, his tongue flicking in distress. The night would be long.
And time was against them.
Somewhere in the streets…
A hunched figure darted through the alleys, his cloak billowing, his fingers twitching as he drew trails of magic in the air.
He muttered to himself, "I must hurry, I must hurry, I must hurry…"
Across rooftops, over food stalls, leaping with unnatural grace, he made his way toward the Thorn and Thistle.
Up the inn’s roof.
Through Kalo’s window.
Silent as a shadow.
Inside, the room was dim—Kalo, exhausted from the battle, lay deep in sleep. Sprig, always a heavy sleeper, didn’t stir. And Lukan, the fever ravaging his body, barely breathed.
The Hobgoblin crept closer. His long fingers hovered over Lukan’s body, his lips moving in secret words. From the pouch at his hip, he pulled threads of magic—fine, silver strands, woven from his own essence.
Carefully, he spun them into patterns of light, weaving a countercurse.
Slowly, the fever broke.
The poison faded.
Lukan let out a deep sigh, his body relaxing for the first time in hours.
The Hobgoblin exhaled. His work was done.
Dawn had begun to stain the horizon when he finally crept back toward the window. But as he shifted his weight—
A creak.
Kalo’s eyes snapped open.
A blur of motion. A figure slipping out the window.
“STOP!” Kalo yelled, scrambling to his feet.
But the intruder was already gone.
Heart pounding, Kalo rushed to Lukan’s side, panic surging through him—had the stranger harmed him?
Then Lukan’s eyes fluttered open.
He smiled. The fever was gone. The poison, no more.
Beside him, on the bedside table, was a folded parchment, held down by a smooth river stone.
Kalo picked it up with shaking fingers and unfolded it.
A map.
Marked with an X, deep in the heath.
The Hobgoblin had left them a message.
And now, they had a path to follow.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
