Chapter 19 - The Gnomes Revenge
The Travelers arrived at Grimthorn Hollow under a sky choked with the last remnants of smoke. Their wagons halted in eerie silence, the once-bustling town now a graveyard of charred beams and shattered homes. The wind carried the scent of death, mingling with the crisp bite of approaching winter.
The caravan leader, Nessy, dismounted with a welcoming smile. “Winter is near,” she said, glancing at the skeletal remains of the Hollow. “We had thought to take advantage of the town’s trade, but now... perhaps the town needs us instead.”
The Travelers made camp, their fires casting warm, flickering light over the wreckage. They fed the wounded, filled the night with music, and, most importantly, began to rebuild Grimthorn Hollow with the broken townsfolk.
Days passed, and groups were organized to help with construction, tend to the injured, and keep watch. The townsfolk had spied ferrets watching along the boundary wall—were they planning another attack? Everyone was nervous.
Kalo and Lukan worked tirelessly alongside the beavers and squirrels, reinforcing the town’s defenses. Kalo oversaw the sharpening of wooden palisades, his sword never far from reach. Lukan led scouting parties beyond the ruined gate, searching for signs of another raid. Sprig, the ever-watchful asp, slithered between wagons and through the undergrowth, keeping his own quiet patrol. Meanwhile, the hobgoblin—whose name few knew, but whose strength none doubted—hauled beams and stones as if they weighed nothing, his gruff silence a comfort in the face of the town’s despair.
Above it all, the magical broom hovered high in the sky, its silent flight keeping a continual watch on the land below. It circled the town ceaselessly, a lone sentinel against the encroaching dark.
Through it all, Nessy did her best to keep spirits from sinking into despair, but fear clung to the town like a ghost. She organized feasts in the evenings, pushing for laughter, for song, for something to chase away the darkness. But the people were slow to recover, their trust in safety shattered like the town’s walls.
Yet, beneath the surface, something deeper brewed.
The Departure
By day, Veln labored beside the others, salvaging wood and metal, steadying damaged structures, and repairing the wells. He spoke of his past as a scholar and mechanist of the Gnomes of Ingeniare, a once-great society of engineers and inventors. His fingers moved with the precision of a master craftsman.
By night, however, he became more secretive. He took long walks along the outskirts of the camp, whispering with Snegar the old koopling and a handful of Travelers Nessy trusted most. Tools vanished from the wagons. Certain materials—scrap metal, thick coils of wire, heavy planks—disappeared without explanation.
Above, the magical broom adjusted its flight, tracking the movements of Veln and his conspirators. If anyone had been watching the skies, they would have seen its faint silhouette against the stars, dipping low whenever the gnome ventured too far from camp.
Then, one evening, he was gone.
He and a small band of Travelers—including Snegar—departed without a word to Kalo, Lukan, Nessy, or the townsfolk. They took the old road to Darkmoor Plateau, vanishing into the wild heath without a trace.
The Letter
Kalo and Lukan sat near the central fire, speaking in hushed tones about the future of the Hollow, when Nessy approached. She carried a folded parchment, her face unreadable.
“This is from Veln,” she said.
Kalo took it, frowning. As he read, his blood ran cold.
Kalo, By the time you read this, I will be gone. I have lived in shame since the night I ran. Cowardice has clung to my shadow, whispering of my failure. No more. Tonight, I go to make amends. Tonight, I go to ensure that Grimthorn Hollow—our Hollow—never again falls prey to those beasts. Should I not return, know that I did what was necessary. Know that, for once, I stood tall. Your friend, Veln
Kalo shot to his feet. “Where is he?”
“They took the old road to the plateau.”
Lukan cursed. “Damn fool—if he’s gone alone, he’ll be butchered.”
Nessy clenched her jaw, her usual warmth replaced by steel. “Fooools, they head straight for death.”
Above them, the magical broom turned in the night sky, its route shifting as it followed the urgency below.
The Ambush at Darkmoor Plateau
The wind howled over the plateau, carrying the scent of distant rain and blood yet to be spilled. Veln and his Travelers had worked quickly, setting their trap in the moonlit clearing.
The wagons stood in a tight circle, appearing to be a makeshift camp. A fire flickered at its center, sending long shadows dancing over the worn earth. To any passing eye, it seemed like a group of weary Gypsies had settled in for the night, cloaked figures huddled close, their heads nodding in tired conversation. But the truth was far deadlier—those figures were nothing but scarecrows, dressed in travel-worn cloaks, stuffed with straw and propped up with care.
The only real figure among them was Snegar, the old koopling, who sat cross-legged on a supply crate, lazily plucking a tune from his lute. His weathered fingers danced across the strings, playing the part of an oblivious fool.
High above, the magical broom circled silently, an unseen sentinel scanning the land below.
Not far off, deeper in the woods, another koopling raced through the thick underbrush. Kelo the Evoker pushed his small frame to its limits, lungs burning as he sprinted toward the plateau. His mind screamed with urgency. What had Veln done? Had he truly gone through with this suicidal mission? If Kelo didn’t reach him in time, there might be nothing left to save.
The enemy came as expected.
Weasels and ferrets, their dark fur blending into the night, moved like ghosts through the heath, their daggers catching the moonlight. They fanned out, eyes glinting with hunger. They had struck at Grimthorn Hollow with brutal efficiency, and now, they would do the same here.
Dena, a sleek assassin draped in dark leathers, approached the old koopling first. She moved with practiced silence, her garrote flashing between her fingers. With a swift motion, she looped the wire around Snegar’s throat—
Only for her hands to tighten around nothing.
The figure crumpled instantly, the stuffing spilling from the fake body.
Dena had barely a moment to register her mistake before a voice chuckled behind her.
“Ye should’ve checked the company, lass.”
Snegar grinned, standing from his perch.
Then the night erupted.
The Trap Springs
A deafening clang split the air as shutters slammed open on the largest wagon. Inside, Veln stood at the controls of his masterpiece.
The trap had been more than just an illusion of a camp.
Within the reinforced wagon, Veln and his conspirators had assembled a monstrosity of gears, wood, and steel—a crank-driven, twenty-barrel arbalest, an infernal war machine designed for one purpose: extermination.
Veln’s hands locked onto the pedals, his small legs driving them forward.
The crank turned.
The gears groaned.
The machine screamed.
A storm of iron-tipped bolts spewed forth, cutting through the night like a thousand angry hornets. The first wave of ferrets was caught completely exposed, their ambush turned into a massacre.
Snegar’s lute swung in a wicked arc, smashing into Dena’s face with a crack! The assassin staggered, her garrote slipping from her fingers as she stumbled backward.
Dena’s wide eyes barely had time to register the arbalest in front of her before the bolts tore through her, shredding leather, fur, and flesh. She hit the ground in pieces.
The weasels scrambled, some dropping to their bellies, others trying to flee. But the broom had been watching.
It swooped lower, its keen magical senses tracking the fleeing survivors. It darted above them, giving away their positions before Kalo struck from the shadows.
The Battle Rages
At the edge of the clearing, Kelo the Evoker burst from the underbrush. He raised a hand, muttering words of power. Green fire leaped from his fingers, streaking toward an oncoming ferret—who barely had time to shriek before the spell engulfed him.
Kalo summoned the broom it flew into his hand melting into the heatherblade. He moved like a wraith, weaving between the enemy, his blade finding flesh with terrifying precision.
Snegar was forced back as Kroth, a towering brute of a ferret, charged forward, his twin blades cutting arcs in the air.
The old koopling wasn’t fast enough.
Kroth’s sword found his gut.
Snegar stumbled, his broken lute slipping from his grasp. Blood bubbled at his lips as he reached for Kalo, gripping the prince’s sleeve.
“My... Prince,” he whispered.
Then, he fell.
Kalo barely had time to grieve. His blade snapped up in a blur, driving into Kroth’s stomach. He wrenched the weapon upward, splitting the ferret in two.
But the battle wasn’t over yet.
The Assassin's Strike
As the ferrets and weasels fell and the last few tried to flee, Teth, the sneakiest of the ferrets, had already moved in the darkness. Unlike his brutish kin, he was clever, and he had seen the war machine for what it was—a threat that had to be silenced.
He slithered through the shadows, unseen by the broom’s gaze, his crossbow drawn.
Then—
Whip!
The bolt slammed into Veln’s side. The gnome crumpled, falling hard against the wagon’s floor, blood spilling from the wound.
Teth grinned, moving in to finish the job.
He climbed the wagon with practiced ease, stepping over gears and cranks, his dagger gleaming as he loomed over Veln’s weakened form.
But the gnome was only pretending.
With a sudden burst of movement, Veln swung his mace.
The iron head crashed into Teth’s jaw, sending the ferret staggering back. Stars burst in his vision.
Veln didn’t stop.
A second strike cracked against his ribs. A third caved in his snout. Teth barely had time to yelp before Veln’s fury took over.
“I’m not afraid anymore!” Veln roared, bringing the mace down again. And again. And again.
By the time he was finished, Teth was unrecognizable.
The Aftermath
The battle was won, but the cost was high.
The plateau was a graveyard, soaked in blood, littered with the bodies of ferrets, weasels and the gallen old kooplings. The scent of burning flesh and oiled steel lingered in the air.
Kalo stood among the dead, his sword dripping red, his grip tightening on the hilt.
Veln, still clutching his bleeding side, turned to him.
“The job is not done,” the gnome muttered.
Somewhere in the night, the Drow had escaped.
But not for long.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 20 - Souls to Rest
Lukan stepped cautiously into the clearing, his eyes scanning the devastation before him. Sprig Kalos asp coiled loosely on his shoulder, its flickering tongue testing the air, while Windlecrag, the hobgoblin, strode beside him, his heavy boots crunching through the underbrush. Kalo had rushed ahead, and now knelt beside a small, still figure, his hands trembling as he pulled a thin veil over the body.
The scene was one of utter ruin. Arbalest bolts were buried deep in the surrounding trees, their iron tips gleaming dully in the firelight. The bodies of night creatures lay where they had fallen, twisted and broken. Ferrets and weasels—twisted mockeries of their once-natural forms—had been skewered mid-charge, their sharp teeth still bared in death. Some still twitched, as if their bodies hadn’t quite realized they had lost the fight. But none of this was what shocked Lukan and Windlecrag the most.
It was the small figure at the center of it all.
Veln, the little gnome, sat against a wagon’s wheel, his eyes hollow, his hands shaking. The multi-barreled arbalest atop one of the caravans still smoked, its gears and petals slick with gore. The shuttered windows behind it were open, as if the caravan itself had somehow taken part in the massacre.
Kalo wiped his eyes and adjusted the veil over Snegar, the old koopling. "He was family," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "He didn't deserve this."
Veln let out a breath, staring at the dirt. "None of them did."
Lukan knelt beside him, watching the gnome’s shaking fingers. "Veln... What happened?"
The gnome let out a bitter laugh. "They came out of nowhere. The creatures, the shadows—controlled by something worse. The Drow, I think. He drove them forward like hounds, sent them to tear us apart." He gestured weakly to the wreckage. "I climbed into the caravan, took control of the arbalest. I just fired, and fired, and kept firing... until there was nothing left to fire at."
Windlecrag nodded grimly, surveying the battlefield. "You saved what you could. But now, we must deal with the dead."
The hobgoblin stepped forward, his sharp features unreadable as he surveyed the twisted bodies of the night creatures. "All dead deserve a burial," he said, "but these... these are tainted by the Drow." He turned to the few remaining travelers. "To bury them would be to stain the wild heath."
Lukan frowned. "Then what do we do?"
Windlecrag raised a hand, a red glow forming at the tip of his finger. "We burn them."
With a flick, a small ember leapt from his hand, landing atop the pile of corpses. At first, nothing happened—then, with a sudden whoosh, the bodies ignited, a pillar of flame rising into the night. Smoke curled upward, thick and acrid, carrying with it the last traces of whatever dark magic had twisted the creatures in life. The fire roared, consuming flesh and fur alike, until only ash remained.
The hobgoblin watched the flames impassively. "It is better this way."
Kalo turned to the survivors. "You should leave Darkmoore Plateau. Take the caravans, take Snegar's body back to town. The Drow is still out there. We’ll deal with him."
A murmur of agreement passed through the weary travelers. Soon, the caravan train was moving, winding its way down the old road, disappearing into the night. Lukan, Kalo, Sprig, and Windlecrag remained behind, watching until the last lantern lights faded.
Then, without a word, they turned toward the darkness, toward the path ahead.
Above them, Kalo's broom drifted high through the wispy clouds, scouting the way forward.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
