Chapter 15 - The Drow's Wrath
The Wild Heath stretched in all directions, above a moonless sky. Wisps of mist curled between the blackened ruins where the Drow’s warband had made camp. Crumbling stone pillars loomed in the gloom, remnants of a civilization long turned to dust. The air was thick with the reek of damp earth and old magic, a place where ghosts of the past seemed to whisper from the shadows.
Then, from above—a whisper of wings slicing through the stillness.
Dregar.
The bat dropped from the night, his membranous wings catching the last flickers of firelight before he landed in a crouch, his claws scraping against the broken flagstones. He moved with frantic urgency, wings folding tight against his thin, wiry frame as he scurried toward the waiting Drow.
The Drow stood at the center of the ruin, wrapped in the heavy folds of his dark cloak, his dark skin nearly blending with the night. Around him, his men lurked—ferrets, all cutthroats, and thieves, shifting restlessly in the gloom, the embers of their dying campfire casting flickering shadows across their scarred faces. The ferrets—one of them, Teth, his fur still burned and patchy from Kalo’s attack—leaned against the remnants of a toppled column, eyes sharp with pain and hatred.
Dregar came to a halt, bowing low, his breath shallow, ragged.
“They vanished,” he rasped, shaking his head. "A tree—an enchanted one. I could not follow."
For a moment, silence. Then—
"NOOOOO!"
The Drow’s scream ripped through the ruins, a sound raw with rage, crackling with the dark energy that coiled beneath his skin. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if itching to crush something unseen.
With a sudden, violent motion, he turned, kicking a loose stone, sending it skittering into the darkness. The ruins echoed with its sharp clatter, the only sound aside from the tension hanging thick in the air.
"Curse that wretched hobgoblin to hell!"
His voice was a snarl, low and seething, filled with something dark and festering. He turned again, his sharp, clawed fingers curling as he pointed at his gathered crew—Dregar, the ferrets, all standing motionless in the dim firelight.
The ferrets bristled. Teth, his lip curled in a half-snarl, flexed his claws.
The Drow’s voice dropped, low and dangerous.
"If they wish to scurry like rats—then so be it."
From beneath his cloak, he drew his blade—a cruel, curved thing, its blackened steel gleaming under the faint silver of the distant stars.
"Call your cousins." His voice was smooth now, coiling like a serpent. He turned to Teth and his kin. "Call the others—the children of the night. The Hollow will burn under their teeth and claws."
A ripple of excitement ran through the ferrets, their eyes glinting like embers in the dark. One slipped away, vanishing into the ruins, ready to summon the rest of their kin—more ferrets, weasels, and things that thrived in shadow and blood.
"Sharpen your knives. Light your torches."
A slow, wicked smile curled the edge of the Drow’s lips. His violet eyes gleamed, reflecting the flickering torchlight as flames began to lick hungrily at the darkness.
"Grimthorn Hollow shall pay instead."
The first torch was cast against the ruins. Sparks flared. Smoke rose.
And so the night prepared to burn.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 16 - The Hidden Guardian
Beneath the Faraway Tree, Kalo, Lukan, and Sprig followed Windlecrag the hobgoblin down the eerie, glowing path. The air around them shimmered with unseen energy, a strange hum beneath their feet, as though the very earth beneath them whispered secrets long forgotten.
The path led them through a vast and ancient library, its great bookshelves stretching hundreds of feet into the sky, vanishing into darkness above. The shelves were carved from deep black wood, their surfaces etched with beautiful carvings, swirling runes pulsed faintly, like the dying embers of a long-forgotten fire. Books of every size and color lined the towering walls, their spines cracked with age, whispering in a language just beyond understanding.
The scent of old parchment and dust-laden magic filled the air, thick and heavy. As they walked, glowing symbols flickered across the book spines, appearing for only a moment before vanishing again—secrets waiting to be unraveled, if only one knew how.
A distant rustling echoed between the shelves, as though the library itself were alive, shifting, breathing, rearranging its knowledge at will. Shadows flitted at the edge of their vision, but when Kalo turned his head, nothing was there.
Windlecrag moved with ease, his footsteps soft on the ancient stone floor. Without a word, he led them deeper into the library’s depths, winding down a great spiral staircase, its steps carved from glowing green stone. The deeper they went, the colder the air became, carrying the faint, lingering scent of rain on old stone.
The spiral tightened, the descent becoming dizzying, until at last, they stepped into the heart of the hidden realm.
The chamber before them was unlike anything they had seen before. A strange, self-contained world, part dwelling, part lair, part sanctuary of a mind untouched by time. The walls were formed from thick, twisting roots, gnarled and ancient, pulsing faintly as though alive, their rough bark tangled with stray papers, charms, and old relics. Lanterns, suspended by unseen hands, floated in midair, casting a soft golden glow, their flickering light shifting as if responding to Windlecrag’s very presence.
At the far end of the chamber, a rickety study table stood cluttered with half-built contraptions, glowing trinkets, and mismatched vials. Unfinished spells hummed softly from scribbled parchments, some crumpled, others held down by odd bits of metal, gears, and bones. Near the table, a small hearth flickered with blue-green fire, its flames sending eerie shadows dancing across the floor, casting long, twisting shapes upon the roots.
But beyond all this, the heart of the room was the bed, if it could be called that. A warped, creaky thing, more of a nest than a proper resting place—a jumble of hessian sacks, worn pillows, and silken sheets, scavenged from a dozen lifetimes. Some were finely embroidered, others little more than rags, but all bore the marks of history—of places visited, lives touched, magic spun.
To the side, half-hidden by stacks of old scrolls, stood a single, dark door—its surface etched with ancient sigils, the wood so deep a black it seemed to drink in the lantern-light.
That door led—if one dared to follow—into darkness.
And through that darkness, a faintly lit path stretched beyond, illuminated only by the dim, wavering glow of hobgoblin firelight.
Windlecrag settled into his chair, steepling his fingers.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then—
"Ah, but where are my manners?" he murmured, wiggling his fingers.
With a soft whoosh, the table before them filled with a feast—delicate sweet cakes dusted with powdered sugar, thick jam gleaming like rubies, and steaming cups of rich, spiced tea that sent warm tendrils of fragrance curling into the air.
Kalo and Lukan exchanged glances, then cautiously took their seats, Sprig curling around Kalo’s shoulders with a contented hum.
As they ate, the hobgoblin spoke, his voice carrying the weight of ages.
"I am the guardian of magic in these southern lands," he began. His voice was calm, yet tinged with something heavy—regret, perhaps.
"Once, I watched over Grimthorn Hollow and the Wild Heath. I kept balance, ensuring that magic flowed as it should. But then—"
His expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the teacup.
"The Drow came."
A silence stretched between them, the floating lanterns flickering as though disturbed by an unseen wind.
"They were cruel. Greedy. They stole magic, twisted it, seeking power beyond their means. And they sought me—or rather, my essence."
He stirred his tea absently, watching the steam curl upwards.
"I was afraid," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I withdrew. I let the Hollow fend for itself." His fingers clenched, the cup trembling slightly in his grip.
"But now... now I see the evil has grown too deep, too dark. If I do nothing—we are all doomed."
He finally looked up, and his gaze was sharp, piercing—not the look of a weary old scholar, but of a guardian awakening from his long slumber.
"So, tell me—will you help me set things right?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning, as the flickering lanterns cast long shadows across their faces.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
