Chapter 10: Whispers in the Heather
The hills rolled behind them now, but their breath still rose with effort. Little Red scrambled up the last of the dry ridge, clinging to root and rock, panting but grinning. “Is it always this muddy and heroic?” he asked, clutching his satchel like it was full of treasure.
“Not always muddy,” said Lukan Otterpaw, wiping grit from his fur. “But often heroic.”
They had crossed the Gap of Gorse — a narrow winding trail where brambles tugged at their boots and something in the air always felt… too still. Beyond it, the land dipped into soft hills and heather-thick fields, a place of quiet and moonlit stones.
They camped on the shoulder of a shallow glade, beneath a leaning oak that hummed when the wind passed through its limbs. It was peaceful for once — or peaceful enough. Kalo cooked wild roots and boiled mushrooms while Lukan sharpened his spear and Red tried to throw his daggers into a log (and missed).
Later, Red crept closer to the fire, watching as Kalo the Evoker sat cross-legged on his blanket, his old spellbook open across his knees. Glyphs shimmered faintly on the page, golden threads that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
“What’s that symbol?” Red asked, squinting.
“The Rune of Return,” Kalo said softly. “One of the old koopling marks. It binds a thing to its bearer. And it listens.”
Red blinked. “Can it talk?”
“It talks by what it does,” Kalo said. “Magic’s not a pet trick. It has its own tide, and its own cost.”
Lukan snorted. “And he’s paid plenty.”
Red nodded, then whispered, “Can I learn?”
Kalo looked up. His eyes met Red’s, serious beneath his blue cap. “Maybe. One day. But for now — listen more than you speak. Magic is always listening back.”
They had planned to rise late the next morning, to let Red sleep and re-tie their packs for the proper road east.
But the night had other ideas.
It began with the whistle of movement. Not wind — not the breeze through leaves — but something heavier, many-footed. Crunching grass. Breaking twigs.
Kalo’s eyes opened first. He gave no sound, only touched Lukan’s shoulder. The otter was awake instantly. Red stirred, already clutching one of his daggers.
They crawled from their blankets and crept low through the underbrush, staying behind a fallen stone wall. Beyond the gully, down in the heather, they saw them:
A procession.
Small creatures. Ferrets, stoats, skunks, shrews, rats — all moving not as wild things, but as a group, organized and silent. They carried small bundles and wore bits of tattered cloth. Some dragged sacks. A few had lanterns that glowed with unnatural hues — red, blue, even sickly violet.
They made no sound, but every so often one would look up — sharp-eyed, scanning the night. They were headed east, toward Grimthorn Hollow.
Red leaned close to whisper, but Kalo held up a hand.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small golden charm, shaped like a broken spiral. A koopling rune, etched with age and marked with teeth.
He held it in his paw and murmured three words, ancient and low.
There was a rustle of wind, and from the shadows under their cloaks, a hum began — distant, climbing, bright. Kalo’s broom came, summoned from wherever it had been. It hovered beside him like a bird of dry reeds and magic.
He whispered to it: “Follow them. Stay unseen. Return when you know where they go.”
The broom bobbed once, then lifted into the air and soared after the group of creatures, vanishing into the treetops.
Lukan frowned. “They moved like a warband. That wasn’t migration.”
Kalo nodded. “Something dark stirs. And they aren’t just marching — they’re being called.”
Red looked to the east. “To the town?”
“Yes,” said Kalo. “To Grimthorn Hollow. And we’re already behind.”
They made camp again, but no one slept much. One of them always kept watch. Red tried — failed — then tried again. Kalo sat with his book closed but eyes wide open. Lukan kept his paw on his spear all night.
They decided on a new rule: they would only travel by day now. The woods belonged to other things by night.
Morning rose heavy with mist. They packed in silence and left the crooked stones and leaning oak behind.
The race had begun.
And Grimthorn Hollow was waiting.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 11: The Gloaming Truth
Midday came soft and golden over Grimthorn Hollow, casting long shadows across tilled fields and creaking mill blades. But Veln, the gnome, walked with a storm beneath his breast.
His boots kicked through the bristlegrass and loam as he made his way down the path toward the lantern post at the old fork — where the light had begun to pulse, strangely, between green and red. Like a heartbeat confused.
He paused there, one hand resting on the post. The paint was faded, the wood old. But the lantern’s glow… it was not right. It changed colors not with the wind or the time of day, but seemingly… with intent. With watching.
Veln narrowed his eyes.
The wind blew gently toward the fields — to the place where Bofkin and Flopkin had been found, bruised and broken, lying unconscious among crushed stalks and straw. Veln had helped nurse them. He’d seen the brand on their backs with his own eyes, though he dared not speak of it aloud. And the change in them — the dullness in their eyes, the way they moved like marionettes dreaming of strings — it haunted him.
He turned toward the fields.
And somewhere, not far off, the Drow watched.
From behind a shutter, from the second-story window of the Thorn & Thistle, Mr. Merrit’s faintly glowing violet eyes narrowed as he peered through the crack. A low hum vibrated in his throat — satisfaction.
“Ah… curious little gnome. You never could leave a puzzle unsolved.”
Merrit turned back into the shadows, descending the stairs, already plotting how to keep the townsfolk docile. Grimthorn Hollow was so easily distracted — a loose roof here, a misplaced parcel there, an old family grudge rekindled. He would make his polite little visits, with his apron and teapot, stirring nerves while appearing only concerned.
A whisper here, a suggestion there. It was almost too easy.
And as dusk began to fall, Merrit strolled gently back toward the tavern, the lanterns of the town flickering to life behind him. He passed beneath them slowly, deliberately. Each lamp he walked under flared violet for a breath… then burned back to a gentle orange in his wake.
Those who noticed said nothing.
The streets began to empty. Doors clicked shut. Curtains twitched.
He reached the Thorn & Thistle. Entered. Locked the door behind him.
That Same Evening...
Veln, returning from the fork, muttered to himself.
“None of it makes sense. The colors… the twins… even the lantern flame — it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.”
Then he stopped.
There, at the bridge near the edge of town — where the mill wheel spun slow and steady — stood a scarecrow.
It had not been there before. Not this close to the village.
A lolling sack head. A crooked neck. A sickle in one straw hand, rusted and ancient.
“Where are the guards?” Veln whispered aloud. The bridge was supposed to be watched, especially after the last attack.
He remembered now — Merrit had suggested the guards investigate the fields tonight. "Isn’t it the fields where the scarecrows come from?" he had said with a smile. Oh gods.
The scarecrow moved.
With a shriek of stuffed joints, it lurched forward. The sickle swung wide and low.
Veln turned and ran.
Through the streets. Past the bakery. Past shuttered homes. The scarecrow galloped after him in grotesque silence.
Finally — the tavern.
He pounded on the back door, heart hammering.
“OPEN! OPEN THE DAMNED DOOR!”
A pause. Then the latch clicked.
The door swung open into empty silence.
Veln stumbled inside, bolting it behind him. His chest heaved. The tavern was dark. No guests. No fire. Just a low violet glow seeping from beneath the door behind the bar.
He knew that door.
He had once owned this place, long ago, when it was just a sleepy hilltown inn. That hidden room had been for wine storage… before it became something else.
“Merrit?” he called. “They’re here. The scarecrows — they’re inside the town—!”
From the violet light, a voice answered, calm and cold.
“Come, Veln. I’ve been waiting.”
Cautiously, the gnome stepped forward. Past the bar. Toward the soft glow that pulsed now like a heartbeat from another world.
He pushed open the hidden panel.
Inside, the air was thick with magic and dust. Violet liquid shimmered in a crystal bowl, perched atop its pedestal, reflecting ghostly shadows across the stone walls. Two weasels, limp and upright, hovered in the air — suspended in some timeless state. Their eyes were open. Empty.
And at the center of it all sat Mr. Merrit, now without his apron, without his warm smile — but instead robed in ancient thread, his fur pale as bone, face stretched long and strange. The Drow.
He sat on a stool, quietly stitching the head of a scarecrow, his claws deftly moving needle and twine.
Veln’s mouth opened. No words came.
“You should not have come,” the Drow said without looking up. “But I’m glad you did.”
Veln stepped back, but the panel behind him slid shut. The violet bowl flared.
“You took everything from me,” the Drow said softly, voice echoing as if from the bottom of a well. “My kin. My followers. My Hollow. Long ago — You that horrid hobgoblin the koopling and his friend. And now... now I have it back.”
“Merrit,” Veln whispered, “this isn’t you. You’ve let it in — something old. Something wrong.”
The Drow stood, his face fully visible now. The disguise was gone — only the ancient, cruel thing beneath remained.
“You still call me that?” he asked with a crooked smile. “I have waited for this moment for soooooo long, Veln. Since the moment you defied me. Since the moment you stole my children of the night.”
His hands raised. The bowl pulsed.
“And now... we are complete.”
The last thing heard from inside the tavern was a gnome’s scream, sharp and short, muffled as the hidden wall sealed once more.
Outside, the wind shifted.
And in the distance, the lantern at the fork flickered red.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
