Chapter 4: A Messenger Arrives
The heath stretched out to the horizon, a vivid mash of swaying heather, wildflowers, and green haze that danced in the breeze like old spirits at play. In the heart of it all, a lonely hill rose gently from the land, and at its crown stood a giant — an ancient oak tree, gnarled and watchful, with branches that whispered to the wind.
Beneath the roots of the hill, carved lovingly into the earth and supported by beams of seasoned ash, was the burrow-home of Evoker Kalo, the koopling.
Where the hill sloped gently downward, an arched wooden door welcomed travelers. Two round windows blinked like thoughtful eyes, and a narrow stair led to a cozy cobbled courtyard. Smoke drifted lazily from a crooked chimney tucked into the side of the hill, trailing off in curls as if the earth itself sighed in contentment.
Beyond the steps, a tidy vegetable patch sat brimming with strange herbs and twisted tubers, protected from wind and rabbits by tiny carved totems. The land was quiet but alive, shaped by years of careful magic.
Inside, the home was a warm tangle of lived-in charm. The root hall smelled of toasted nuts and breakfast porridge. One door led to a round sitting room with a low hearth and a chair molded to his back from years of stories and stews. Another opened to a narrow library where books sat crammed like gossiping neighbors, and the light from the window caught floating dust like old secrets.
Down a short hallway was a bedroom cluttered with trinkets and old relics — shells that hummed when held to the ear, jars of light that had forgotten to fade, a cracked compass that only spun when trouble was near. And hidden behind a curtain of moss-beads, a stair spiraled into a cool, dry cellar where deeper magic slumbered.
Sprig, his green asp, hung lazily from a rafter in the kitchen, tongue flicking now and then, dreaming whatever serpents dream. Outside, his enchanted broom, stitched with firegrass bristles and elderbird feathers, swept the cobbles on its own, humming to itself in faint magical murmurs.
The wind shifted.
A raven — dark as the hollows between stars — glided in from the north. It circled once over the old oak, then alighted on one of its broad, ancient limbs beside a silver chime that tinkled in greeting.
The bird paused, blinking, then swooped down in a spiral past the broom, past the herb pots, and through the open round window where Kalo stood sipping a steaming cup of mushroom broth.
He blinked in surprise, stepping back just as the raven landed on the sill with uncanny grace.
“Well,” Kalo said, raising a brow. “My avian friend. You’re far from home. And carrying news, if I’m not mistaken?”
The raven cocked its head, then dipped a claw. Tied to its leg was a weather-worn scroll, bound with red twine. Kalo took it gently, the warmth leaving his hand as his fingers brushed the bird’s claws.
He untied it, unfurled it, and read — his eyes growing still as the broth cooled in his other hand.
To Evoker Kalo and Lukan Otterpaw,
Friends —
There’s trouble in Grimthorn Hollow. The old lantern has turned red again. A wagon was overturned. Crops destroyed. Straw scattered into the wilds. And Mudtoe and Sneazel… gone.
You came to us once before — sixteen years gone now — and we have not forgotten. The Hollow needs you again.
By root and stone, we trust you still watch the winds.
Yours in hope, —Veln Underbarrel, Master Gnome of Grimthorn Hollow
Kalo stood silent for a long moment.
Sprig shifted slightly in the rafters above, sensing the change in the room’s air. The broom slowed, pausing mid-sweep. Outside, the wind picked up.
Kalo rolled the letter slowly and set it on the table. Then he drank the last of his broth in one gulp, sighed, and gave the raven a nod.
“I suppose we’re off again, eh?”
From deeper in the burrow came the soft splash of a spring-fed basin, and a second voice, slow and calm, echoed down the hall.
“Trouble?”
Kalo called back, “Lukan. It’s time.”
And the raven, mission fulfilled, lifted once more into the sky — heading home on the rising wind, leaving the old oak behind.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 5: The First Night’s Watch
The sun slipped beyond the heathered rim of the horizon, casting Grimthorn Hollow into a dusk that seemed to settle deeper than usual, like a hush before a storm. Lanterns were lit. Doors locked. And the first night watch began.
At the northern edge of town, beside the old stone bridge and the great turning wheel of the flour mill, one of the Fletcher moles stood with unusual resolve. He wore a wooden bucket on his head—two narrow slits carved for eyes—and carried a giant flour-packing spoon slung over his shoulder like a halberd. The spoon had been polished smooth by years of labor, but tonight it gleamed with defiance.
He did not blink. He did not budge. He would not let the Hollow fall on his watch.
At the southern edge, where the stone wall bowed slightly toward the wild fields, Burdock the Badger stood sentinel. He was broad, old, and silent as a cairn, armored only in a rusted guard’s helmet from days long past and his thick, grizzled hide. A war axe rested in his paws — a relic from a life before taverns and slow strolls to market.
He watched the heath in silence, where far off in the distance, the fork-lantern flickered green like an eye struggling to stay open.
The wind shifted.
Something moved out there.
Later, they would describe the night as unsettled. As wrong. Shapes moved in the barley — too low for hares, too fast for foxes. Laughter echoed without source. Not quite childlike. Not quite beastly. A cackling that rolled across the grass like dry seeds in a pan.
But still, nothing crossed the threshold.
Nothing yet.
At the heart of town, the Thorn & Thistle Tavern gave off its final warmth for the evening. From within, candlelight flickered behind the drawn shutters. A red fox staggered through the doorway, still talking.
“All I’m saying,” the fox slurred, tail swishing with tipsy energy, “is that you can’t rule out economic collapse. That’s the real danger.”
Behind him stood Mr. Merrit, the inn’s sharply dressed marten keeper. He offered a gracious bow, his smile polite and practiced.
“Indeed,” he said with a wink. “Come back soon. The discourse has been illuminating.”
The door closed behind the fox with a soft click, and Merrit slid the bolt into place.
The tavern sighed into stillness.
Mr. Merrit turned from the door, his expression changing — the smile less warm now, more curious. He walked in silence across the floorboards, past stools and empty tankards, through the quiet air thick with pipe smoke and herbs. No lamps were lit. He didn’t need them.
His eyes shimmered faint violet, and he walked without falter.
Rather than climb the stair to his private rooms, he moved to the back wall near the hearth, where a tall wine rack stood. With a deft flick of his paw, he pushed two knots in the wood. A click, a shift, and a panel slid inward, revealing a narrow stone stair descending into the dark.
He entered, and the passage sealed behind him.
Below the tavern, carved into the bedrock beneath Grimthorn Hollow, was a secret chamber.
The ceiling was low. The walls were stone and ancient timber, thick with the scent of root and damp earth. On shelves sat oddities: preserved eyes in crystal vials, coils of paper tied with brass thread, a nest made of braided silver wire. But none of these drew the eye like the pedestal.
At the room’s center stood a broad stone pedestal carved with ringed spirals. Resting atop it was a crystal bowl, cut from dark obsidian, yet smooth and water-clear at the rim. Within it swirled a violet liquid light, neither fully water nor flame. It shimmered in slow, cosmic eddies — and at its center, dim and pulsing, something that looked almost like a sliver of Merrit’s own reflection.
He walked past it.
He did not look into it yet.
Instead, he turned toward the back wall, where two figures stood frozen in the shifting glow. Mudtoe and Sneazel, the previous weasel proprietors of the Thorn & Thistle, were caught forever mid-gesture. Sneazel with one hand raised as if in objection, Mudtoe with his mouth slightly open in the middle of a final word. Their fur was pale in the violet light. Time had stopped for them here.
Mr. Merrit stepped up to them, folding his paws behind his back.
“Eight years,” he said softly. “And not a day aged. Remarkable.”
He circled them once, thoughtfully.
“You know, I really did hope you’d settle in. Thought perhaps the tavern would keep you. But you were greedy. And careless. And now…” He gestured vaguely at their frozen forms.
He sighed, not with sadness, but with nostalgia.
“I do miss our talks,” he said. “You were the only ones who ever understood the taste of true risk.”
He gave them a small bow, then turned to the crystal bowl, his face tightening with focus.
He peered into its depths.
Images floated there — the town, lit by green lantern-glow. The fields, swaying in a wind that moved against the weather. A scarecrow, torn and moving, flickering between moments. A raven in flight. A hill beneath an oak. A face. His own? Not quite. Not yet.
The bowl pulsed once with light. Past. Present. Future. Self. Other.
He breathed in the glow. It felt like old rain, memory, and forgotten songs.
Then he turned, the violet light brushing his fur.
“Soon,” he whispered. “It begins again.”
The light within the bowl dimmed.
The chamber faded to quiet.
And behind him, the hidden panel slid shut, returning the tavern to stillness — just another closed door in a quiet Hollow night.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
