Chapter 13 - Revelations

Above the ruins, hidden from sight, lay a crumbling den steeped in the Drow’s dark magic. Below, in the cavernous chamber, he schemed. Shadows pooled at his feet like living ink, and in the center of the room, a dark crystal bowl rested atop a jagged pedestal, filled with liquid black as the void.

The Drow, tall and clad in flowing black, raised a long, spindly finger and dipped it into the inky mirror’s surface. Ripples cast outward, the liquid shuddering at his touch. His fingertip pulsed with an eerie purple glow. The darkness coiled and shifted, and then—images surfaced.

The Koopling wreathed in an aura of magic, his ferret minions scattering. The ferret, Teth, smoldering and burned raw, his once-sleek fur now seared away, his skin cracked and blistered. The Drow’s lips curled in disgust. How dare the little fool defy him?

He focused deeper, searching for the hobgoblin, but the vision blurred—clouded, uncertain. This one eluded him, matched him in power. He scowled, the edges of his cloak quivering as if stirred by an unseen wind.

Muttering under his breath, he turned sharply and raised a hand. From the thickest part of the shadows, something slithered forth—his spy. The creature unfolded, stepping into the dim purple glow cast by the bowl. A gangly bat, its thin limbs unnervingly long, wings stretched and twitching. Its eyes burned with a sickly red gleam.

“Dregar,” the Drow’s voice was a whisper, yet it carried like a commandment. “Find them. Follow them. Before they reach the hobgoblin.”

The bat inclined its head, then let out a snorting hiss. It stretched its wings wide and, without a sound, melted back into the darkness.

The Drow narrowed his gaze at the flickering remnants of the vision before him. “I will have their magic,” he murmured. “Then their lives.”

Far above the ruins, out in the night sky, Dregar burst forth, flapping soundlessly into the clouds, veering toward Grimthorn Hollow.

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Morning came early at The Thorn & Thistle. The inn was stirring with the soft clatter of plates, the muttering of early risers, and the scent of damp wood and old ale.

Lukan groaned as he sat up, his body still sore from the lingering effects of the poison. He could hear movement downstairs. Kalo and Sprig had been up for a while, no doubt working on the counter-potion.

As he descended the stairs into the inn’s main room, Ferrick Cragglethorn was already at work, scrubbing down tables with the precision of a battlefield surgeon. Sprig was curled up on the bar, speaking in hushed tones to Veln, the gnome, who nodded once before slipping out the front door.

Ferrick glanced up, his keen marten eyes flicking over Lukan. “Thank the old gods you’re still breathing. Sit. Eat. You’ve earned it.”

From a back room came a bubbling sound, followed by a sharp, excited yelp.

Lukan stepped closer, peering through the open doorway. Kalo stood hunched over a large cauldron, a dozen ingredients strewn about him. Glass vials, crushed herbs, a mortar filled with some dark, glistening paste. Steam curled upward from the potion as it thickened, the color shifting like the sky before a storm.

“Ahhh,” Kalo grinned, t Offering a warm smile. “Perfect timing, hold out a finger.”

Lukan hesitated.

Kalo brandished a small knife, grinning wider. “Trust me.”

Lukan sighed and extended his hand. A quick prick, a single drop of blood. It fell into the potion with a soft hiss, the mixture swirling violently for a moment before settling.

“Your blood holds the key,” Kalo muttered, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “No more poison for you.”

Ferrick’s voice called from the main room. “Breakfast’s up!”

The three gathered at a table. Sprig coiled lazily around a plate of quail eggs, forked tongue flicking. Lukan dug into a hearty spread—thick-cut bacon, crusty bread, fried potatoes glistening with butter. Kalo, between shoveling down his meal, muttered notes about potion-making and the strange magic at play.

They ate quickly, their conversation low but determined.

Outside, Veln had returned, waiting for them near the entrance. Behind him stood a ragtag group—the newly assembled town guard.

A badger blacksmith, burly and soot-streaked, his hammer slung over his shoulder like a war mace.

A squirrel, bristling with nervous energy, armed with a bandolier of acorns, each carved with a crude X.

A one-eyed fox mercenary, dressed in patched leathers, his single gold eye cold and calculating.

And a rotund female hedgehog, wearing a bucket as a helmet and wielding a rolling pin like a war club.

Lukan stared. Kalo smirked. Sprig flicked his tongue.

“Well, it’s something,” Lukan muttered.

Kalo finished the last of the potion, pouring three small vials. “Drink up.”

They each downed the mixture—bitter, metallic, but warming as it settled in their stomachs.

With the broom hovering at Kalo’s side, he tapped it twice. It shot forward, whirling into the sky, its course set ahead of them. Sprig slithered into Kalo’s pocket.

They set off.

Through town, past the oddly positioned guards—

The squirrel perched atop a chimney, an acorn in each paw, eyes scanning the streets like a hawk.

The badger standing in the middle of the road, hammer planted in the dirt, arms folded, daring trouble to come to him.

The one-eyed fox lurking in an alleyway, pretending to be nonchalant but gripping the hilt of a jagged dagger.

And the hedgehog posted outside the bakery, helmet slightly askew, rolling pin resting on her shoulder like a greatclub.

Each one nodded as the group passed.

Southward, over the narrow bridge, past the silent mill—its magic spark stolen, the town’s grain sitting useless in sacks, untouched.

The land grew wilder. Heather and gorse tangled along the road, the heath rolling into dips and mounds, the wind sharp with the coming of something unseen.

Within the faraway tree, in the dim light of a distant path, the hobgoblin waited.

Above, the broom flitted through the mists, scouting ahead. But it was not alone. High above, silent as death, Dregar followed, gliding in the darkness, unseen and patient.

The cross on the map was near. The land grew rougher. Large boulders, dips in the landscape, tangled brush.

Then—

A sudden wind. A shift in the air.

From above, on a high ridge, the wind howled cold, and a tall, slender figure appeared.

A Drow. Silver hair, spider-silk robes, leather taut over wiry muscle. His black cape billowed, and in one hand, he held a burning red lantern.

He laughed, and it carried over the heath like a curse.

"You three," his voice coiled through the wind, soft, cruel. "You think you can help that sniveling hobgoblin? Foolish, foolish beings."

His gaze burned as he looked upon them. "I see you. And I will have his magic… and yours."

With that, his form flickered—vanishing, leaving only the cold wind behind.

The three stood still, breath visible in the air.

Now, they understood.

Now, they knew who had orchestrated all of this blight.

Lukan clenched his fists. Kalo’s fingers curled in anger. Sprig stirred, sensing their unease.

With urgency, they pushed forward.

They broke through the thickets. And before them, standing monumental in the clearing—

The Faraway Tree.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3