Inventory:
- Gold: 0
- Items: Robe, Flint and Tinder, Vials, Glass Mirror.
- Magic Items: Scythe, Soul Mirror, Soul Gem, Protection Charm, Spellbook, Gold Triangle Binding Cap
- Base materials: Vials of Blood, Pouches of Bonemeal, *Various Aether-Infused Plants, Sack of Soil.
- Special Items: Vial of green dust and blood
- Main Components:
- Assorted Kobold Components
- Cat Eyes
- Flattened Tin
- Glass Bulbs
- Human Faces
- Human Hearts
- Human Hands
- Spider Silk
- Sprite Dust
- Various Slivers of Metal
===
Spells:
Cantrips:
- Create Fire (Arcane)
- Decaying Tendrils (Blood)
- Siphon Soul (Blood)
- Spectral Hand (Blood + Arcane)
- True Sight (Blood + Arcane)
Prepared:
- Aether Harvest (Arcane)
- Main Component: Slivers of Metal.
- Animate Object (Arcane)
- Main Component: Sprite Dust.
- Chains of Erabos (Blood+Arcane)
- Main Component: Chains+Severed Hands
- Force Darts (Arcane)
- Main Component: Glass Bulbs.
- Levitate Object (Arcane)
- Main Component: Flattened Tin.
- Message (Arcane)
- Main Component: Two Mirrors+A Silver Wire
- Mirror Image (Arcane)
- Main Component: Glass Mirror+Three Faces.
- Portal (Arcane)
- Main Component: Polished Iron Ingot.
- Raise Thrall (Blood)
- Main Component: Equivalent Mortal’s Heart
- Sleep (Blood)
- Main Component: Spider Silk
===
Undead Servants: 10 Greenfolk Thralls (Timmins, George, Lana), 9 Intact Townsfolk Corpses
===
Time Until Election: 1 Day, 6 Hours, 30 Minutes
===
Time Until Nightfire Arrival: 19-33 Hours
===
The sun retreated to the advancing night, the barest pink and red gracing the fields. With the change, the path of weeds I had burned away had already replenished itself, and what were once just green dots in the forest was now an army of beasts creeping forth.
“Deer won’t have much to chew, but them wolves will appreciate gnawing on you,” Green Thumb said.
I ignored his jest while I finished the last Molly’s blood transference. Thanks to Lysa and Fern’s concoction of juice and other materials, the hunter remained in a stabilized state despite the intrusive nature of draining pints of corrupted blood from her. Though, Green Thumb informed me that it was not the drink that was as key to the process, as it was the patch of weeds. They had some influence over her survival that I marginally understood. Regardless, the green ichor had nearly been expunged, and I was thankful for it. This had been the longest part of the restoration, but soon would become the hardest step of enacting the druidic ritual. Should I falter in the ritual process, Molly would be lost.
The last bits of light faded away, the army of wolves, deer, squirrels, birds, rabbits, snakes, and all sorts of insects crept forward.
My wall of thralls would provide some protection once the Nightfire horde attacked, but their numbers would easily overwhelm us. I had a few tricks though, which I thought might help.
I siphoned the last bit of the corrupted blood from Molly’s wound, the gunk splattering across the vines, which shuddered in response. The patch of weeds deflated partially, though still pulsed in rhythm with Molly’s breathing.
“Ok,” Green Thumb said, “ritual time. Ready?”
I shook out my arms, the bones rattling with the motion. “Quite.”
“Break off a portion of vine, this will serve as your focus for the ritual.”
I did as he said. The barbs on the weed scraped my skeletal hands, but injured me naught. The slice was about the length of my hand. It wiggled as I held it, like the head of a worm cut off. I let it wrap around my hand.
“What is next?” I asked.
At this point, the sun was gone and full night was upon us.
The army of animals cantered forward, the birds flitting into the air.
“One moment,” I said. I cast Mirror Image, creating three illusory copies of myself that appeared on the outside of my thrall wall. I set them forward toward the horde, then let out a volley of Force Darts. My mirror Images raised their arms as well and fired their own mimic spell. Dozens of energy bolts whisked into the horde of beast, felling some, completely passing through others like the illusions they were.
However, the animals predictably seemed to not know which was which, and scattered to avoid additional volleys. The beauty of my mirror images was that I could loop their faux casting. The night lit up with the exploding light of many fake energy bolts, which served their intended purpose of keeping the beasts a bay for a time. For how long that would work, it was hard to say, but I took what I could.
“What next?” I asked the druid soul strapped to my chest.
“Hold out the weed and utter in fey speech the phrase, Gol tre shul nah.”
I did as told. The words were odd to me, but upon repeating him, the weed focus on my hand sizzled. In a brief moment, the plant shriveled into a dry brown material, not too dissimilar to a snake’s shedded skin. The druid focus had been made.
“Masterfully done,” Green Thumb said. “That came more naturally that it would to a typical novice.”
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I didn’t have time to take this fawning. “Master Druid. . .”
“Hmph. Fine then, place the focus on the wound and say, Bret tol gol tre tol.”
I started to place my hand there as told, but then one of my mirror images burst into fizzled aether. A wolf had bit through it, and now turned to face my other images.
I thrust out my free hand and cast Chains of Erabos. Ethereal chains cracked through the weeds out there and lashed around the wolf, constricting it to the plants.
Another moment of pause bought, I pressed the druidic focus to the wound and uttered the phrase.
Pockets of green illumination formed across Molly’s leg, hands, neck, and head—and I could assume many other places beneath her clothing.
Green Thumb said, “The ritual has begun. Don’t break contact with the wound until we’re done, or else each of those fused spores will explode. Don’t change your tone much either, understand?”
Wonderful. I kept my hand pressed there and repeated the phrase again, “Bret tol gol tre tol.”
The spore pockets glowed again. I would have to repeat the phrasing for a prolonged period of an hour to fulfill the ritual.
That’s when the other two mirror images burst apart. The beast horde ceased their scattering, and charged or swooped toward my position.
“Bret tol gol tre tol,” I said, and then immediately cast Create Fire in a path between the animals and my position. “Bret tol gol tre tol.” Then I summoned another trio of images. “Bret tol gol tre tol.” I followed up with another barrage of Force Darts and repeated my charade from previous, this time aiming for the birds that divided for my position. A handful of blackbirds with green eyes swooped past my darts and were a moment’s passing from striking me.
I commanded my thralls to lean backward, shielding me as their head and necks formed an enclosed barrier. The birds crashed into the wall and began pecking at my thrall’s eyes and throats.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.” I repeated, and then fired off Decaying Tendrils, which snaked around small gaps between my thrall wall. The tendrils jabbed through several birds. Their bodies plopped to the Nightfire floor.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
Then I unleashed another volume of the spell, all the while my thralls swiped at the flying pests I had yet to deal with.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
I wanted very much to scream the phrase, but I could not, I had to maintain a relatively even tone while delivering the ritual. This was, of course, becoming increasingly difficult as the infected wild life was becoming increasingly determined to kill me.
My fire died away.
My mind raced.
My images were dashed away.
Dozens of enraged beasts charged for me.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
Force Darts.
A vanguard of rabbits and squirrels exploded.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
Chains of Erabos.
Another wolf was brought down and suffocated. The army was a body’s length away from my wall.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
Create Fire.
The beasts scattered away—but a couple of deer leapt through.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
Portal.
I summoned the opening directing in front of the thrall wall. The two deer disappeared within. There was a shriek from the sky as they reappeared from an opening I’d created a good deal above the brook. They plummeted into the rocky waters with a sickening crunch.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.” My words were steady, but my focus was on too many things, I—
Another murder of birds swooped from the left and eviscerated one of my thralls, breaking through its head, and dropping him down.
Levitate Object. The corpse froze a mere inch above Molly’s body, which would have disrupted the ritual most certainly.
Such efforts I was going through for this woman I’d met once, whose most emotional value I knew only from the affections of Oon. A single life amongst hundreds. Yes, this attempted ritual would be key in training my ability to carry out the final ritual deeper into the forest, but was it so necessary to sacrifice all these resources?
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
I supposed, in the simplest terms, it was to me. I had to succeed here. I had to, for what else good was I to allow my promises to crumble? What trust could the good people of Maplebrook put in me if I could not save a single hunter under my charge? No, I would not give up, and these beasts would not undo me!
I waved the floating thrall out into the field of weeds and ordered my thralls to gather what dead birds they could and place them around me.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
I cast Aether Harvest to slice open the tiny breasts of half of the birds and ordered one thrall to start tossing their hearts into my satchel—still dripping red.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
A wolf lunged onto one of my thralls, its massive jaw ripping the undead’s head clean off.
I unleashed Decaying Tendrils on the monster, ripping it apart. The body rolled onto the defeated thrall.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
The heart-harvesting thrall plopped the last tiny organ into my satchel. Then I began picking up one bird after another and casting Raise Thrall. Each bird twitched and stirred back to life in my hand—er, unlife—before I tossed them into the air to pursue the Nightfire birds.
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
“Bret tol gol tre tol.”
***
Junior drowned himself in a deep swig of dwarvish black ale. The alcohol was bitter-tough going down, but it did the blessed job of wiping out his thoughts, which was mighty fine. This was his third stein, and the bloody stunt-of-a-man behind the counter was giving him the meanest judgey-eyes that any dwarf might give to an honest patron. . . ever.
“H-hey!” Junior burped, hardly able to keep his eyes open. “What-er you lookin’ at? Hmph-hic?”
The hairy dwarf didn’t respond, he just shook his head and turned to start wiping down Junior’s empty steins.
Junior snorted and spat a wad of phlegm onto the counter top.
The dwarf scowled something fierce.
“Whoops, my-hic bad.” Junior proceeded to wipe it up with his tunic’s sleeve.
The bartender rolled his eyes and went back to work.
Junior slumped on the countertop, his mind buzzing. He smiled, certain he was nearly at his goal of passing out—when another human climbed into the stool next to him.
“One pint, please,” the man said. He had a stubbly beard and his hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore a large messenger’s satchel, which looked to be empty. He glanced at Junior and nodded. “Evening, ser.”
Ser? Junior looked down at the sigil on his chest of the Old Guard, which he served in when he was in his youth. “Ah,” he muttered. “I’m a knight! Heh, heh. . .”
The messenger nodded, and took to sipping from his drink.
Junior got mighty curious. “Hey. . . Where are you from? I see you?”
He didn’t look at Junior as he spoke. “Maplebrook. You?”
Junior’s eyes widened. “You don’t say! Lot’s of folk-hic, comin’ from there.”
“Yes, well. Recent events being what they are.”
Junior reversed his eye position into a narrow squint. “And what’s that?”
“Hmm? You don’t know?” The messenger finally offered Junior his eyes. “Haven’t you heard? Refugees have been pouring up this way for days now.”
Refugees. . . “Ah! Yesh. . . I seen them. Don’t talk to them. . . dirty folk. Needy. You know the type.”
“Right. . .” The messenger took his pint, placed down a coin, and stood from the bar.
“Hey, wait.” Junior grabbed the man’s arm, which he didn’t seem pleased about. “Hic-shorry. . . I just got to ask. What’s the mayor doing down there? Musht be drekin’ up, huh?”
The messenger tugged back his arm. “If you call being killed, dreking up, sure.” Then he left for another room in the bar.
“Killed?” Junior muttered. “. . .Papa?”