Chapter 17 – The Fall of Grimthorn Hollow
The first ferret struck at dusk, slinking between the half-buried roots of the old elm that marked Grimthorn Hollow’s border. It moved like a shadow, swift and hungry, its beady eyes gleaming with the promise of slaughter. Then came another. And another. Soon, a tide of wiry bodies poured through the underbrush, their sleek forms weaving through the thickets like living blades. The night air pulsed with their chittering calls, a cruel melody to herald the town’s doom.
The town guard—such as it was—gathered in the square. They were no army, but they were all Grimthorn Hollow had.
The badger blacksmith stood at the center, his fur streaked with gray, his massive hammer planted before him like a monument of defiance. His broad shoulders rose and fell with steady breath, his eyes locked on the approaching shadows. He had tempered steel, bent iron to his will. He would not break.
Beside him, the squirrel fidgeted, his paws flitting over his bandolier of acorns. Each one had been carved with a crude rune, a half-learned ward against dark things. His bushy tail bristled, and he muttered to himself—a half-prayer, half-curse—as he readied his first throw.
To their right, the one-eyed fox mercenary crouched low, his patched leathers blending into the gloom. His single gold eye glinted like a predator’s, cold and calculating. His curved dagger was already in hand, his stance shifting like a coiled spring. He had fought before. He would fight again.
And last, the hedgehog, round and stubborn, adjusted the bucket strapped to her head. It rattled as she raised her rolling pin like a war club. “Come on, then,” she growled. “Let’s see what you little bastards are made of.”
Then the battle began.
The ferrets and weasels struck fast and cruel. Dena was among them, her garrote flashing in the torchlight. The first to die was a young otter, barely past his first season of watch duty, the wire tight around his throat before he could scream. Kroth moved like liquid shadow, his poisoned blade slipping between ribs with silent precision.
From the rooftops, the squirrel launched his rune-carved acorns, each one striking true—but what were acorns against steel? Teth crouched below, his double-bolt arbalest raised. Thwip. The first shot took the squirrel in the leg. He gasped, stumbled. The second bolt slammed through his chest. He teetered, then fell. His body struck the weather vane, impaling him high above the burning square, his limp form turning with the wind.
The badger blacksmith roared, his hammer a whirlwind, crushing skulls and snapping spines. A ferret lunged—he caught it in the chest with a backswing, sending the broken body tumbling across the cobbles. But there were too many.
A weasel darted in, a dagger sinking deep into the badger’s ribs. He grunted, staggered, then brought his hammer down on his attacker’s head with a sickening crunch. Another blade found his back. Another slashed across his thigh. He swung again—his hammer connected with nothing but air. His strength failed. The badger fell to his knees, the great weight of his weapon dragging him down.
Dena slipped behind him, her garrote looping over his throat. “Sleep now, old one,” she whispered. She pulled. The badger let out one final breath and slumped forward, his hammer still in hand.
The fox mercenary fought like a devil, slashing and twisting, using every dirty trick in his book. His dagger found flesh again and again. But Teth was watching. Thwip. A bolt buried itself in the fox’s shoulder. He snarled, turned—Thwip. Another bolt took his knee. He dropped.
Kroth stepped forward, his poison blade gleaming. The fox bared his teeth, his gold eye burning with fury. “Make it quick.”
Kroth did not.
The hedgehog was the last to stand. Her bucket-helm was dented, her breath heavy, but she held her rolling pin firm. “Come on, you slinking cowards!” she bellowed. “You think I’m scared of a bunch of skinny rats?”
Dregar, the bat, swooped low, his claws raking across her face. She swiped blindly, stumbling back. The windmill loomed behind her, its wooden arms creaking. A sudden thud. Thud. Thud.
A shadow fell over her. Teth.
She turned, her bucket-helm slipping to the side. The last thing she saw was the arbalest aimed between her eyes.
Thwip.
Her body landed in a heap. The ferrets and weasels dragged her to the windmill, binding her lifeless form to its turning arms. Thud. Thud. Thud. She spun, round and round, an unholy warning to all who might resist.
The Thorn and Thistle tavern became a pyre. The last defenders—badger, fox, marten—were forced inside, their backs pressed against the ale-stained walls. Ferrick’s store of spirits was stacked high, their potent fumes thickening the air. From outside, the ferrets jeered.
Teth stepped forward, his arbalest slung over his shoulder, holding a burning torch. His grin was the color of fire.
“Feel the lick of flame as I have! Suffer, as I have suffered!”
The torch arced through the air.
Fire bloomed.
The screams started immediately. The badger slammed against the door, his claws gouging the wood as heat seared his fur. The marten stumbled back, coughing, eyes wide with terror. The fox, in one last act of defiance, hurled herself through a window, but met the waiting daggers of the weasels outside. The Thorn and Thistle roared into the night, flames licking at the heavens.
The ferrets and weasels howled with laughter, their eyes reflecting the inferno’s glow.
Above, Dregar circled, his leathery wings catching the updraft of heat. The Drow watched from the shadows, his cold gaze surveying the devastation.
Then, his voice cut through the chaos.
“Enough.”
Silence fell like an axe. The creatures of the night—feral things, bloodied and victorious—hesitated. Then, like mist dissolving at dawn, they scattered, slinking into the woods from whence they came.
Grimthorn Hollow was a ruin. Homes lay in smoldering heaps, their beams blackened, their thatched roofs reduced to drifting embers. The once-bustling square was choked with bodies, their forms twisted in unnatural shapes.
And in the mill, buried against the sacks of grain, Veln the Coward Gnome wept—mourning the loss of his friends, mourning the shame of his survival.
The fall of Grimthorn Hollow was complete.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 18: Goodbye to Friends
Kalo cupped the tea in his hands, inhaling its soothing aroma—a taste of home, far to the east. Around the table, they spoke in hushed tones, sharing what little they knew of the Drow. The green light from the strange lamps flickered, dimmed, then sputtered as if struggling to stay alight.
The hobgoblin stopped mid-sentence, his head turning toward the trembling glow. A single tear welled in his eye, then fell. And another. His shoulders sagged as he let out a deep, weary sigh.
The room fell silent.
Finally, Windlecrag lifted his brown-capped head. His voice was low, heavy.
“So much pain... so much death... We must go now, or none will be left.”
He pushed back his chair, grabbed a few items, and opened the back door—to nowhere.
The others hesitated but followed, compelled by an unshakable sense of urgency.
The hobgoblin murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
“Grimthorn Hollow is under attack.”
They ran.
Down long, eerie-lit paths surrounded by darkness. Their hurried footsteps echoed against stone. A ladder loomed ahead. One by one, they climbed—higher and higher—until suddenly, impossibly, they fell up.
And yet, somehow, down.
They landed in patches of heather on the wild heath. The first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and violet. In the distance, Grimthorn Hollow lay silhouetted against the rising sun—smoke curling from several buildings.
Then they saw it.
They ran harder.
Over the bridge. Into death. Destruction. Despair.
The town was in ruins.
Wandering figures stumbled through the streets, soot-covered and bleeding. Bodies littered the ground, lifeless. The homes closest to the square were charred husks, still smoldering.
The inn—once warm and welcoming—stood as nothing more than a blackened skeleton. Its innkeeper was nowhere to be found.
High above, a weather vane creaked in the wind. A squirrel’s lifeless body was impaled upon it, turning ever so slowly.
At the windmill, the rotund baker—her familiar bucket helm still dented, her trusty rolling pin strapped to her side—was bound to one of the turning arms. Her broken form moved with each slow, merciless rotation.
In the square, a pile of bodies. The blacksmith badger. The one-eyed fox.
And kneeling before them, weeping, was Veln.
“I’m sorry,” the gnome sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m a coward.”
Kalo knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shaking shoulder.
It was too much.
The people they had grown to love—gone.
Grimthorn Hollow, a shell.
Throughout the day, they dug.
Lukan and Kalo worked side by side, their hands blistered and bleeding, but they felt nothing.
They were too numb.
The hobgoblin murmured words of peace as he wrapped the fallen in shrouds. They buried them along the boundary wall, marking each grave with quiet reverence.
Kalo searched for Ferrick’s body, but the inn had become a crematorium. There was nothing left.
Instead, he found an unbroken bottle. With trembling hands, he poured its contents into an empty grave.
Then, he wept.
Days later, in the mill, they made a vow.
The grain was their witness.
They swore retribution.
But Veln only lowered his head. “I’m too much of a coward,” he whispered.
The hobgoblin turned to him, his voice steady. “There is no blame here, friend. I know your regret. I, too, shied away instead of helping. But I’m here now. That’s what matters.”
Reaching into his coat, he retrieved two things.
First, a heart-shaped stone. He pressed it into Veln’s trembling hand. “This charm will give you strength when you need it most.”
Then, a spiked mace. “And this… let this be your vengeance.”
Veln stared at the weapon, his breath shallow. Then, something shifted in his eyes. His hands clenched around the handle. He nodded, jaw set.
After Veln left, Kalo turned to the hobgoblin. “I’ve never seen such a stone before.”
The hobgoblin winked.
“Neither have I. But sometimes… all a person needs is to believe.”
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
