The fire in the spider’s den hissed and spat, consuming the silken horrors within. The acrid smoke mingled with the damp, earthy smell of the plains, a testament to their victory.
They were battered, poisoned, and weary to the bone, but they were alive. And in their possession was a pouch of the coveted Fangberries. Their bargain with the alchemist could soon be fulfilled.
The journey back to Bokken’s hut was long and uneventful. They followed the path they had charted, a now familiar track through the whispering woods and across the open plains. The wilderness had tested them, throwing its fanged and clawed monstrosities in their path, but for now, it seemed content to let them pass in peace. They traveled through the long day and made camp as dusk painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and sullen orange. The night passed under a cold, relentless rain that soaked them through and chilled their spirits, but no creatures emerged from the darkness to trouble their watch.
They arrived at Bokken‘s hut late the next evening, muddy and exhausted. The alchemist emerged as they approached, his shrewd eyes immediately falling on the pouch of Fangberries Gassi held out.
“Ah,” he grunted, a sound that might have been approval. “You are more capable than you look.”
He took the berries without another word and disappeared into his hut. A few moments later, he returned with a slab of freshly cooked venison and a few loaves of crusty bread. “You’ve earned your supper.”
As they ate, the rich, savory meat a welcome change from their stale rations, Gassi broached the subject of their deal. “The recipe,” he prodded gently.
Bokken nodded. “A deal is a deal.” He offered Gassi a choice of his formulae, a rare generosity. “For your trouble, you may purchase one of my recipes at a discount. Twenty-five percent off.”
The offer was tempting, but after a quick inventory of their coin, they opted for a more immediate reward. “Three of your strongest healing potions,” Gassi said. He had his own elixirs, but Bokken‘s brews were crafted with a skill and potency that Gassi‘s fleeting creations could not yet match. The alchemist agreed, and the trade was made.
They spent the night in the relative comfort of their wagon, parked near Bokken’s hut. The next morning, Zogg, ever the diligent student of the arcane, spent the pre-dawn hours by the light of a flickering lantern, painstakingly transcribing a new spell, Illusory Glamer, from one of his scrolls into his spellbook.
Another day of hard travel brought them back to the familiar, if ramshackle, safety of Oleg‘s Trading Post. They were greeted like returning heroes. Svetlana, her eyes bright with unshed tears, took the news of her unrecovered ring with a sad resignation, but Oleg, his face beaming, led them to the stables. Their four horses, captured from the bandits days before, were now officially theirs—a reward from the grateful outpost owners.
“We have no use for so many beasts,” Oleg said, “and you have more need of them than we.”
The next morning, armed with new information gleaned from Bokken‘s rambling tales of the Greenbelt’s dangers, they set out once more. Their target this time was an old, abandoned fort that lay deep within the Narlmarches, a place rumored to be another bandit hideout.
The journey took them the better part of a day and a half. They followed the winding course of the Skunk River, the landscape growing steadily more rugged and wild. It was late afternoon when they finally saw it: a dilapidated wooden fortress perched on a low hill, its walls sagging, its gatehouse little more than a pile of splintered timbers. It looked as though it had been abandoned for a generation.
Zogg cast Detect Magic as they approached, but the air was still, empty of any arcane resonance. They entered the fort cautiously, weapons drawn, but found only decay. The wind moaned through the broken walls, and the silence was deep and profound. It was not a place of battle, but one of slow, inevitable decline. They had been sent on a fool’s errand.
“Well,” Aurelio said, lowering his shield, “it is at least a dry place to spend the night.”
They made camp in the ruins of the main barracks, the stone hearth still functional. As the others settled in, Zogg, with a grim determination, took on the role of camp cook. The result was a culinary disaster of such epic proportions that the memory of Gassi’s burnt offerings seemed like a gourmet feast in comparison. The ‘stew,’ a gray, lumpy concoction made from some questionable ingredients he’d foraged, tasted of despair and old socks. One by one, the party members made their excuses and opted for trail rations. Even Zogg, after a single tentative spoonful, quietly scraped the contents of his bowl into the fire.
The night was long and miserable. Zogg spent most of it outside, clutching his stomach, a victim of his own cooking.
The next day, chastened and hungry, they decided to follow the Shrike River south. A rumor they had picked up in Nettle’s Crossing spoke of a ghost haunting a ruined bridge along the river’s course. It was a flimsy lead, but it was all they had.
They found the waterfall first, a thundering cascade of white water that plunged fifty feet into a churning gorge below. The view was breathtaking, but it was also an impassable barrier. After a brief and ridiculous discussion about climbing down with the horses—a feat even Aurelio’s considerable strength could not manage—they resigned themselves to a long detour.
It was evening again when they finally came upon the bridge, or what was left of it. The stone pylons stood like broken teeth on either side of the river, but the wooden span was long gone. All that remained was a single, thick rope strung across the chasm, and a faded sign that read: “Nettle’s Crossing. 5 Coppers. Ring Bell for Service.”
A small, tarnished brass bell hung from a post, a rope dangling from its clapper. Gassi, his eyes alight with a familiar, mischievous glint, strode forward and gave the rope a firm pull.
The sound of the bell, clear and sharp in the quiet air, had an immediate effect. Aurelio, Zogg, and Maven all caught a flicker of movement in the churning water below. They braced themselves, their hands flying to their weapons. It was a false alarm—a leaping salmon—but the tension did not dissipate.
Gassi rang the bell again.
This time, the river itself seemed to answer. From the depths, a figure began to rise. A humanoid shape, its flesh sloughing off in gray, waterlogged sheets, its eyes empty, dead sockets. A zombie, clutching a rusted trident, began to wade toward them, its movements slow but inexorably steady.
As it drew closer, a hoarse, gurgling sound rose from its throat—a wet, rattling noise like stones tumbling underwater. To Aurelio, Zogg, Maven, and even Gassi, it was just the hideous sound of a drowning man trying to breathe. There were no words, only fluid-filled gasps.
But Nym flinched. The sound hit him differently. The static in his head—the same frequency that the faceless man used—suddenly cleared, translating the gurgles into a voice as cold and sharp as winter ice.
You… are not… my tormentors.
Nym stepped forward, his eyes wide, his hand trembling on his cane. “He’s speaking,” he whispered to the others.
“Speaking?” Maven asked, gripping her axe tighter. “It sounds like he’s choking on mud.”
Nym ignored her, his gaze locked on the dead thing. He repeated the words echoing in his skull. “He says… we are not his tormentors.”
The zombie raised a hand, pointing a rotting finger downstream. The wet rasping continued, unintelligible to the rest, but clear as a bell to the gnome.
“He wants a trade,” Nym translated, his voice hollow as the ghost’s intent washed over him. “He says… ‘Bring me the Stag Lord’s body. Throw him into the river. Let me look upon his face in death.’” Nym swallowed hard, the spectral voice chilling him to the bone. “He adds… ‘Or join me instead.’”
Nym looked at Gassi, nodding slowly. This was Nettle, the ferryman of the stories, bound to this place by a thirst for vengeance.
“It’s a deal,” Gassi said brightly, holding out his hand to shake.
Nym groaned and pulled the alchemist’s hand back. “Gassi, he’s a zombie. And he’s standing in a river. Let’s not.”
Leaving the undead ferryman to his eternal vigil, they turned away from the river. As they did, Gassi suddenly stopped, his head cocked as if listening to a distant sound. His eyes went wide.
“Humanoids,” he whispered, a strange excitement in his voice. “Down by the river. Not more than ten of them. They are smaller than men, speaking in a tongue I do not know. A mix of Common and… something else. Something like the hiss of a serpent.”
Kobolds. The party exchanged uneasy glances. The night was growing darker, and the Greenbelt, it seemed, was not yet finished with them.
“Kobolds,” Gassi whispered, his eyes gleaming with scholarly curiosity. “Small, reptilian humanoids. They speak a dialect of Draconic. They are not inherently evil, but they have… a different social structure. The concept of ‘mine’ and ‘thine’ can be flexible.”
“So they’re thieves,” Zogg grunted.
“Opportunists,” Nym corrected gently. “They might know something of the Stag Lord. It seems a poor use of an opportunity to simply let them walk away.”
The others exchanged weary glances, but Gassi‘s logic, as twisted as it often was, held a certain appeal. They were adrift without a clear heading, and any port in this storm was worth investigating. As the small figures began to move off into the gloom, Gassi started after them. The rest of the party fell in behind, a reluctant procession of steel and leather trailing the eccentric alchemist.
The kobolds were not trying to be quiet. The party could hear their chattering voices and the careless snap of twigs under their feet. They were moving with a purpose, away from the river and towards a rocky escarpment that loomed out of the darkness. As the kobolds rounded a bend and disappeared from sight, Gassi cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Hello!” he called out, his voice echoing strangely in the Draconic tongue. “Wait! We wish to talk!”
There was no reply. The chattering stopped. The silence that fell was sudden and complete.
Nym let out a sharp, piercing whistle. Still nothing. “This feels like a trap,” he hissed, his hand resting on the hilt of his whip-sword. “Be ready.”
Gassi muttered an incantation, and a globe of soft light bloomed in the air, drifting forward to illuminate the path where the kobolds had vanished. The light revealed a narrow opening in the rock face—a cave. Lying on the ground just outside the entrance was a crudely painted wooden sign. Near it sat a large, hastily constructed cage.
Aurelio moved forward cautiously to inspect the sign, the others fanning out behind him. Before he could reach it, a voice barked from the darkness of the cave. “Wait! Wait! I want to talk!”
A figure emerged, stepping into the edge of Nym‘s magical light. It was a kobold, but unlike any they had encountered in tales or textbooks. Its scales were the color of polished obsidian, and it moved with a swaggering confidence that belied its small stature. It held a loaded crossbow leveled loosely in their direction.
Gassi, taking a step forward, addressed it in Draconic. “Is it easier if we speak this language?” he asked, his tone that of a scholar addressing a fascinating new specimen.
The black-scaled kobold looked offended. “I speak Common just fine,” it snapped, its voice a high, reedy bark. “Better than you, maybe.” He gestured with his crossbow towards the cage. “Stay away from my prisoner.”
Looking past him, the party could now see something stirring within the cage. A small, pathetic creature, even smaller than the kobold, with gray, wrinkled skin and large, fearful eyes. It was a Mite, one of the downtrodden races of the deep places. It whimpered and tried to make itself smaller.
“Let the Mite go,” Maven said, her voice a low growl. She took a half-step forward, her presence alone a palpable threat.
The kobold, who introduced himself as Nakpik, did not flinch. “This ‘Mite’ and its filthy tribe stole the sacred totem of the Blackscales! It is our most holy possession. I am here to get it back.” He looked them over, his reptilian eyes narrowed. “Are you with the Mites? Or will you help us?”
Nym’s mind raced. An opportunity. “We are on a quest of our own,” he said, stepping forward. “We seek the one they call the Stag Lord. If you can help us find him, perhaps we can help you find your statue.”
Nakpik considered this. “The Stag Lord is of no concern to the Blackscales. My chief… he will speak with you. He is inside. Follow.”
The party exchanged wary looks. Walking into a cave full of aggressive kobolds seemed like a poor life choice, especially given their recent luck. But Aurelio, ever the diplomat, gave a weary nod. “We will speak with your chief. Lead the way, Nakpik.”
The kobold turned and disappeared into the darkness. The party followed, descending into the close, musty air of the earth. The passage was a tight, winding tunnel, clearly not made for creatures of their size. Aurelio and Maven, both clad in bulky armor, had to squeeze through, their pauldrons scraping against the rough-hewn stone. Aurelio, moving clumsily in the narrow space, stumbled and bumped into another kobold guard posted in the shadows.
The creature yelped and cursed at him in fluent, angry Common. “Watch it, tall-folk! Clumsy oaf!”
They were led into a larger, cavernous chamber. The air here was thick with the smell of smoke and unwashed bodies. As Nym and Gassi brought their light sources forward, the walls came into view.
They were covered in crude, vibrant paintings, rendered in charcoal and what looked disturbingly like dried blood. The images depicted a host of kobolds bowing down before a monstrous, lizard-like devil, its fanged maw open in a silent scream.
They were not in a simple cave. They had walked into a temple.
It was the last thing they saw before their guide, Nakpik, stopped and turned to face them. His own crossbow was now flanked by a dozen more, all aimed directly at their hearts, held by the silent, waiting Blackscale tribe.