4 The Bad Apples - part two

A Fire Against the Dark

They made their camp a safe distance away, where the oppressive sweetness of the orchard gave way to the damp, earthy smell of the wider wood. Gwendolyne, with the quiet competence of one used to building things, directed the setup while Molly, glad for a simple task, went to fetch water from a nearby stream. Rodger and Shadwell ventured into the gloom to forage for firewood.

They returned with a meager haul.

"The wood here is strange," Shadwell remarked, dropping a few twisted, damp-looking branches near the fire pit. "It's all green, or half-rotten. Won't burn for long." It was true; everything in Dolmenwood seemed reluctant to yield its resources easily. Luckily, Shadwell, ever the prepared smuggler, unstrapped a tight bundle of dry, seasoned timber from his own pack. "Good for a few hours, at least," he grunted.

With the fire crackling, casting dancing shadows that seemed to deepen the surrounding darkness, Rodger took charge of the meal. He worked with a surprising deftness, adding a pinch of wild herbs he’d gathered to the bland rations. Soon, the simple meal was transformed into something warm and savory, a small comfort against the chilling memory of their encounter.

They ate in silence, the unspoken fear a palpable presence among them. Molly, seeing the grim faces around the fire, made an attempt to lift their spirits. She tried to recount an old, uplifting tale of a clever maiden outwitting a dull-witted giant. But her voice was thin, and when she got to the part where the maiden faced the towering foe, her words faltered, her nervousness making the parallel to their own impossible situation painfully awkward. The story trailed off into an uncomfortable quiet.

Shadwell broke the tension. He produced a small clay pipe and a pouch of Barley Blend. He carefully packed the bowl and lit it with a twig from the fire, the fragrant smoke curling into the night air. "It aids in digestion," he remarked, though the simple pleasure he took in the act was clear. The gesture was a small return to normalcy, a quiet defiance that settled the mood more than Molly’s story ever could have.

One by one, they retreated to their bedrolls, huddling close to the sputtering fire, its warmth a fragile shield against the autumn cold of the wood.

They awoke before the dawn, well-rested but to a world painted in shades of grey. A steady, autumnal drizzle fell from a low sky, clinging to their cloaks and chilling them to the bone. They broke their fast with the last of the rations and cups of hot tea that Rodger had prepared, the steam mingling with their anxious breaths. The time for talk was over. Now was the time for preparation.

Rodger knelt on the damp earth, his head bowed. He whispered a quiet prayer, his fingers tracing the lines of his holy symbol. The words were a plea for strength and protection, and the air around him seemed to hum as he prepared his faith, settling on the lesser healing magic of the Breath of St. Lillibeth—a small hope against the wounds he knew were coming.

Across the fire, Molly sat with her heavy spellbook, Oliphan's Folio, resting on her knees. She protected its precious pages from the rain with her cloak, her finger tracing the arcane script. She mouthed the complex somatic words, her mind focusing, pulling the threads of magic from the air and weaving them into the intricate defensive patterns of a Shield of Force.

Armored in fragile faith and fledgling magic, the Company of the Scarred and the Seeking Heart doused their fire. They stood, and with a shared, unspoken understanding, began the long walk back through the drizzle toward the cidery, a grim and anxious anticipation settling in their hearts.

Pitchforks and Providence

The walk back to the Titheland Cidery was a somber procession. The persistent drizzle seemed to mirror the party’s own anxious spirits, dampening everything but the cold fire of resolve in their bellies. As they emerged from the trees, the scene was just as they had left it: the smoldering apple pyres, the sullen grey smoke, and the dejected workers moving like ghosts in the mist.

At the sight of them, however, a change occurred. The listless movements ceased. Rakes and shovels were lowered. One by one, the workers turned, their faces a mixture of raw hope and profound dread. Goodman Pummle hurried forward, his eyes searching theirs for any sign of good news.

"Well?" he demanded, his voice strained. "Did you find the source of the curse?"

The four adventurers exchanged a heavy glance. It was Rodger who spoke first, his voice lacking its usual fire. "We did. But it is... it is not a simple curse that can be broken. It is not the work of common witches." He faltered, the memory of the Demozels' otherworldly power robbing him of his certainty.

Molly picked up the thread, though her own voice was thin. "There are two... beings. In the orchard. Sisters. They are the cause. They are fey... ancient, and powerful beyond..." She trailed off, unable to adequately describe the cosmic horror of Olive's smile or Hazel's casual indifference. The hope in the workers' eyes began to curdle back into despair as the party's hesitation spoke volumes.

Seeing the mood falter, Gwendolyne stepped into the center of the gathering. She took a deep breath, pushing down her own fear and letting her conviction rise.

"What my friends say is true," she began, her voice clear and strong, cutting through the drizzle. "We went into the wood and we met the source of your sorrow. And we were afraid." She looked around, meeting the eyes of the terrified workers, validating their fear instead of dismissing it. "They are powerful. They see your lives as a sport, your terror as a delicacy, and your deaths as a kindness. They believe you are helpless. They believe you will break. And they are counting on you to do nothing."

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "Molly is right. We could go to Castle Brackenwold. We could petition the Duke for knights. And perhaps, in a month, or a season, or a year, they might arrive. But this is your home. This is your orchard, bought with the sweat of your fathers and their fathers before them. The evil in those woods feasts upon your despair tonight. We cannot fight them alone. We are only four."

Her voice rose, ringing with the unshakeable certainty of her faith. "But we will not abandon you. We will stand with you. We will offer our magic, our steel, and our faith as a shield. All we ask is that you find the courage to stand with us. To pick up your axes, your scythes, your pitchforks, and fight for the dawn!"

A stunned silence followed her speech. The workers looked at each other, their faces a war between ingrained terror and a newly kindled spark of defiance. Just as the fear seemed ready to win, Shadwell, who had been watching silently, stepped forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't preach. He spoke in a low, gravelly tone, heavy with the weight of memory.

"I've seen their kind before," he said, his gaze sweeping over the small crowd. "Different faces, same story. They feed on you being too scared to fight back. They count on it." He spat on the ground. "The one thing they never expect... is for you to aim a pitchfork at their throat."

That was it. That was the final push. The raw, angry truth in his words did what no promise of glory could.

A low growl rumbled in Gorm’s chest. The big foreman, his face a mask of shame and anger, hefted his wood axe. "I'll not die on my knees," he snarled.

Brida, the silent woman, gave a single, sharp nod, her hand gripping her rake like a spear. Meg and Wilf, huddled together, looked at each other and nodded, choosing a terrifying chance over a certain, miserable fate. Pummle himself, his face pale, straightened his shoulders and gave a shaky nod of assent. In the end, three other seasonal hands found their courage.

A militia of eight, including Pummle. A paltry force against an ancient power.

And yet, as Shadwell looked at the small, determined group, he let out a quiet sigh, not of triumph, but of profound relief. It wasn't an army. But it might just be enough.

Gamemaster Notes

Gemini: "Historically, a commercial cidery of this size would have a core staff of 5-10 people, but would hire an additional 10-20+ seasonal workers during the harvest."

Gamemaster: "With your information on a historical cidery with seasonal help, I decided a maximum of 24 workers could be available. I rolled Charisma checks for all party members to influence the crowd. They all succeeded. I then rolled a d6 for each success to determine how many workers were inspired enough to join the militia. The rolls were 4, 2, 1, and 1, for a total of 8 recruits! I decided to attribute the high results (the 4 and 2) to Gwendolyne's rousing speech and Shadwell's grimly effective final push, and the two 1s to Molly's nervous appeal and Rodger's more hesitant contribution."

The Forging of a Desperate Hope

The morning after their grim decision was a flurry of hushed, purposeful activity. The eight recruits, their faces pale but set with determination, gathered around the adventurers in the damp courtyard of the cidery. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and the lingering smoke from the apple pyres, a constant reminder of what they were fighting for.

"Listen up," Gwendolyne said, her voice cutting through the morning quiet. She stood before them, not as a cleric offering a blessing, but as a reluctant general outlining a brutal necessity. "This is going to be an extremely dangerous fight. They are ancient and powerful. Our best chance—our only chance—is to rush them, to close the distance before they can react."

Molly, clutching her spellbook, nodded in fervent agreement. "Gwen is right. These fey are almost certainly spellcasters of a terrifying order. We have to keep them locked in close combat. If we give them room to weave their magic, they will tear us apart from a distance."

"Then we need to get the first strike," Shadwell added, his hunter's mind already mapping out the encounter. "Maybe we can find a way to surprise them, to ensure we attack one of them before she even knows we're there."

"But what do we do if the second one comes to the aid of the first?" Rodger asked, voicing the fear on everyone's mind. "They are within hearing distance of each other."

"If they are both spellcasters, that will be incredibly difficult for us," Molly admitted, her brow furrowed. "We should focus all our strength on one until she is no longer a threat. But... depending on the circumstances, a few of us might have to break off and attack the second one, just to keep her busy."

"We'll just have to do our best," Gwendolyne concluded, her expression grim.

It was then that Odo, the cantankerous old cooper, spoke up, his usual cynicism replaced by a flicker of ancestral knowledge. "The old lore says that fairies can't abide cold iron," he grumbled. "We can at least arm everyone with that, can't we?"

"That's a good idea," Gwendolyne said, seizing on the practical wisdom. "A very good idea."

And so their day was spent not in training, but in smithing. Under Shadwell's practical guidance, they transformed the cidery into a makeshift armoury. Gorm's heavy forge hammer rang out as he flattened barrel hoops, sharpening them on a grinding wheel. Brida and Meg worked together, prying old, heavy nails from discarded timbers and driving them through thick wooden staves to create vicious-looking clubs. Pitchforks were sharpened, fire pokers were tested for their balance, and lengths of heavy chain were cut and weighted. The air filled with the rasp of metal on stone and the grunts of hard labor, each sound forging a small piece of hope.

As they worked, another of the farmers, a young man named Wilf, remembered something. "Old man Hemlock, down the lane," he said nervously. "His wife always complained he spent too much on bear traps for the woods."

Shadwell’s eyes lit up. "Get them," he commanded. "Maybe we can put those, and a few of those iron spikes, on the path between Hazel's clearing and Olive's grove. Hide them well in the dark." A cruel smile touched his lips. "It might slow Olive down a bit."

As evening approached, their plan was set. Their arsenal was a collection of crude, ugly, but pure iron implements of death. They would prepare through the day, rest as they could, and then, under the cover of darkness, they would follow the pigs one last time, not as observers, but as hunters, ready to ambush Demozel Hazel and tear the root of this nightmare from the earth. 

The Scent of Iron

That night, a grim determination settled over the small militia. The crude, cold iron weapons felt heavy and clumsy in their hands, poor implements against an ancient magic, but they were all they had. The bear traps had been laid with a hunter’s cunning on the path connecting the two groves, each spike a prayer to a god of chance. As the moon climbed, they followed the silent procession of pigs one last time, their hearts a frantic drum against the quiet of the woods.

In the clearing, the scene was just as before. The cold, silvery fairy-light, the circle of entranced pigs, and the imposing figure of Demozel Hazel. This time, however, there was a new tension in the air. Shadwell melted into the shadows near the path to Olive's grove, a sling held ready in his hand, its pouch heavy with iron bearings. The rest of the party, flanked by the nervous but resolute farmers, stepped into the clearing.

Hazel looked up, her philosophical lecture cut short. A flicker of extreme annoyance crossed her features. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

“We’ve come to discuss ‘mortality’ with you,” Gwendolyne replied, her voice ringing with a cold clarity that belied the terror in her heart.

The air grew thick, palpable with menace. A slight look of puzzlement crossed Hazel’s face. She could sense the danger, the scent of iron and mortal resolve, but the sheer audacity of the idea that these mice would dare to rise up against the cat had not yet dawned on her.

That was their only chance.

“Now!” Gwendolyne roared, and they charged.

The militia surged forward, a desperate wave of farmers and adventurers trying to overwhelm the fey with sheer momentum. But Hazel’s senses were preternaturally sharp; the element of surprise was lost the moment they stepped into her light. As they rushed in, she raised her hands, a low chanting hiss escaping her lips. A thick, chilling fog began to emanate from her palms.

They reached her just as the spell was taking form, a chaotic flurry of attacks aimed at preventing its completion. Gwendolyne’s shortsword sliced through the air, missing by a hair's breadth. Rodger’s staff and Molly’s frantic dagger strike met only shadow. Three of the farmers swung their makeshift weapons with all their might, but Hazel moved with an unnatural grace, their blows finding nothing. In the space of a heartbeat, their initial, furious assault had failed. With a final, triumphant word, Hazel unleashed her magic. A dense, swirling cloud of fog exploded outwards in a twenty-foot radius, obscuring her completely from sight. From within the mist came a piercing shriek, a summons that echoed through the entire orchard: “Olive!”

The militia now surrounded by the fog cloud. They swung blindly into the mist, their weapons clanging uselessly against the ground or slicing through empty air. They could see nothing, but from within the fog, Hazel could see them all. A staff lashed out, aimed for Gwendolyne. The cleric flinched back, and the weapon glanced off her shoulder plate, leaving a smear of brilliant, paralyzing ice where it struck. At the edge of the clearing, Shadwell heard it—the faint sound of a new incantation beginning in the distance. Olive was coming.

Knowing they were exposed, the militia retreated, pulling back from the disorienting fog. All but Gwendolyne. The heavy plates of her armor slowed her retreat as she guarded the others, her shield held high. Hazel lunged again from the mist, but luck or providence was with the cleric, who took an intuitive step aside, the icy staff whistling past her ear.

Shadwell, his senses straining in the darkness, heard a new sound: the rustle of leaves, moving too fast, too purposefully. Was Olive invisible? Or had she become the wind itself? His question was answered by a sharp, metallic SNAP! followed by a high, pained shriek that was decidedly not human. Elf blood, dark in the moonlight, sprayed from an empty spot on the path. One of the bear traps had found its mark.

“There!” Shadwell yelled. He aimed not at a person, but at the sound, at the space just above the sprung trap. He drew back his sling, took a breath, and released. The iron bearing flew true, and a sickening crunch echoed through the clearing. He had, by some miracle, hit her right between the eyes. “She is here! In the trap! Take her, quick!”

From the darkness, the wounded Demozel Olive rose into view, her face a mask of rage and pain. She locked her gaze on Shadwell and her lips moved, weaving a spell of beguilement. Shadwell’s eyes went glassy, his posture changing in an instant. The hunter was gone, replaced by a puppet whose strings had just been seized. “Protect me!” Olive screamed, and Shadwell moved to stand between her and the charging militia.

The sight of her friend enthralled, of this hopeless situation, broke something in Gwendolyne. With a cry of pure rage, she rushed past Shadwell, who swung his club at her half-heartedly and missed. She brought her sword down on the struggling Olive, a solid, satisfying blow. The rest followed her lead, a torrent of desperate hope. Molly’s cold iron barrel hoop, sharpened to a dagger, found a weakness in Olive’s side. Rodger’s staff struck a glancing but solid hit. And then Goodman Pummle, his face a mask of terror and fury, swung his heavy wood-splitting axe with all the force he could muster, bringing it down in a final, decisive arc.

As Olive fell, the light in her eyes extinguished, the enchantment on Shadwell shattered. He stumbled, shaking his head as if waking from a dream.

From within the fog, Demozel Hazel saw it all. The ancient composure on her face shattered, replaced by a raw, disbelieving horror. The sight of her sister, her only companion, slain by these fragile, insignificant mortals, broke her spirit. With a wail that was equal parts grief and terror, she fled, the fog dissipating behind her as she vanished into the deep woods.

For a moment, there was only stunned silence, the sound of heavy breathing in the now-quiet clearing. Then, a single, shaky cheer went up from one of the farmers. It was answered by another, and another, until the entire, unlikely militia erupted in a chorus of triumphant, disbelieving shouts. They had won.

3 The Bad Apples - part one

9th of Reedwyme

The King’s Road was a ribbon of grey dust laid over a grey-green world. For three days, the Company of the Scarred and the Seeking Heart had walked it, the grim purpose of their quest settling upon them like the dreary, cloud-pocked sky. The memory of Master Elsbeth’s tower and the chilling words in her journals was a cold stone in Gwendolyne’s gut, a weight she carried for them all.

Then, the world changed.

A scent, rich and sweet, cut through the damp, earthy air. It was the smell of apples, so potent it felt like a memory of a brighter, healthier time. The road to the west continued to Castle Brackenwold. A well-kept dirt road branched from their own path to the south, marked by a weather-beaten sign: "CIDERY ROAD - Home of the Famed and Esteemed Thitheland Cider."

Shadwell Lank, ever the pragmatist, slowed his pace. "Now that," he said, his gravelly voice a low rumble, "is a sight for sore eyes and a balm for a dry throat." 

Molly Addercapper, however, tilted her head, her expression one of intense focus. The plague-scars that marred her skin seemed to deepen as she tasted the air. "It's sweet," she murmured, "but there's something else. Something... cloying. Like flowers left to rot in the vase."

Before anyone else could comment, they saw him: a man trudging up the dirt path from the valley, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His clothes were the simple garb of a farmhand, and his face was a mask of dejection.

Gwendolyne, whose faith compelled her to offer solace to the suffering, stepped forward. "A good day to you, friend," she said, her voice kind. "You come from the orchard?"

The man looked up, his eyes weary. "Aye. Though there's little 'good' about it. You're travelers. Take my advice and stay on the King's Road. The apples… the apples are cursed."

Rodger Fraggleton, whose prominent scar seemed to darken whenever heresy was near, took a step closer. "Cursed? That is a strong word, my son."

"It's the only word for it," the farmhand lamented, his hands twisting into white-knuckled knots. "They look perfect. Red, shiny, crisp. But the venom isn't in the bite, it's in the sleep that follows. You eat one, and when you lay your head down that night, you're taking a terrible chance. Some... they say they have the sweetest dreams, and they pass on with a peaceful smile, gone by morning. The others? They live. But they spend the dark hours screaming, lost in such nightmares that they wake up hollowed out. We're calling it the 'Hush-Blight,' for the silence that follows."

The word 'blight' struck a chord in the party. For Molly and Gwendolyne, it was the very essence of their quest. This wasn't the Grey Blight they knew, with its slow, creeping decay, but it was a sickness of the land all the same. A magical wound upon the world, waiting to be understood.

"Who is responsible?" Rodger’s voice was hard, his hand instinctively finding the wooden holy symbol at his belt. His belief that witches and dark cults served the will of the Nag-Lord was an iron-clad certainty.

The farmhand flinched, leaning in so close the party could smell the fear on his breath. "Goodman Pummle is a good man of the Church," he whispered, his voice trembling. "But the orchard is old land... ancient land. There are things that happen at night." He swallowed hard, his eyes wide with remembered terror. "There's a witch in the north field. On moonless nights, she calls the beasts to her. I've seen it! The pigs... the whole sounder... they just stop their rooting and shuffling and trot right to her, silent as ghosts. They circle 'round her, and she... she speaks to them in a tongue that ain't right. The air gets cold, and they just stand there, listening, like they're in a trance. It's an unholy congregation! This isn't a natural sickness. It's witch-work, I tell you."

Rodger’s eyes burned with a zealous fire. This was no longer a detour; it was a divine challenge.

Shadwell, who had been listening quietly, weighed the man’s words like coins. He cared little for curses or cults, but he understood desperation. "And this Goodman Pummle?" he asked. "What's he doing about it?"

"Praying!" the farmhand scoffed, then his shoulders sagged again. "And weeping. His whole livelihood is turning to mush and malaise on the branch. He's at his wit's end. He’d give his last copper to anyone who could lift this curse."

With a final, weary nod, the man trudged past them and continued down the grey road, leaving the four companions in a charged silence, the sweet, sickly scent of the orchard swirling around them.

Rodger broke it first, his voice resonating with conviction. "We cannot ignore this. A pagan sickness festers here, a stone's throw from the King's Road. It is our duty to confront it!"

"It's more than duty, Rodger," Molly added, a sharp, analytical gleam in her eyes. "It's an opportunity. The Grey Blight is a tide, too vast to hold in one’s hands. This… this is a puddle. A contained phenomenon. If I can understand the magic at work here, it might give us the key to understanding the greater plague."

Shadwell stroked his chin, looking down the inviting green of the Cidery Road. "And he's a desperate man with coin," he stated plainly. "The mission ahead is long and will require resources. A grateful orchard owner is a powerful ally. This is the practical move."

All eyes turned to Gwendolyne. She looked from the dreary, endless King’s Road to the vibrant, yet corrupted, valley. The farmhand’s words echoed in her mind. A blight. A curse. A suffering flock. Her path had been set by the discovery in that dark tower, a duty to the fallen and the living. This was not a distraction from that path. It was a part of it.

"We go," she said, her voice clear and firm. "We go to Pummle's Orchard."

Leaving the King's Road behind, the Company of the Scarred and the Seeking Heart turned as one and took their first steps down the Cidery Road.

The Cidery Road descended into the valley, and for two miles, the adventurers were guided by two conflicting senses. From the distance rose a steady column of smoke, not the dark, oily plume of a burning building, but a pale grey pillar against the sky. Accompanying it was a sweet, apple-scented odour that grew stronger with every step—a smell that should have promised harvest and happiness, but now felt cloying and funereal.

The road ended abruptly at a large, two-storey cidery built of dark stone and thick, heavy timber. Before the building stood the source of the smoke: several massive, smoldering piles of apples, hissing as their skins blackened and split in the heat. Tending to these fruity pyres were a handful of workers, their movements slow and mechanical, their faces etched with the listless, hollow-eyed look of absolute dejection. Nearby, several pens held a number of pigs, who seemed to be the only ones profiting from the disaster as they fed on scraps of discarded apples.

Shadwell gave a low whistle. "What a waste," he muttered, thinking of the coin such a harvest would normally fetch. Rodger, however, saw the smoke as a desperate act of purification, a grim echo of a funeral rite.

Gwendolyne, her heart aching at the sight of such despair, approached one of the workers—an older woman with soot on her cheeks, who barely looked up from her long-handled rake.

"Sister," Gwendolyne said gently. "The farmhand we met on the road told us of a blight. Is this its consequence?"

The woman paused, leaning heavily on her tool. "The Hush-Blight," she rasped, her voice rough from the smoke. "This is our only answer to it." She gestured to the burning fruit with her rake. "We're trying to purge the trees of the sickness. Last year… last year we made the cider. The first batch of the Titheland." She shuddered, the memory raw. "Most of us workers who sampled it were wracked by screaming nightmares. But the lucky ones…" Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "A few enjoyed pleasant dreams, smiling as they slept, before dying quietly at dawn."

The confirmation of the horror sent a chill through the party. Before they could ask more, a stout man with a soot-stained apron and frantic eyes emerged from the cidery. He was shouting at the workers to stoke the fires higher before he spotted the four adventurers, his tirade halting abruptly. He took in their travel-worn gear, their weapons, and the determined set of their jaws.

"You're not from around here," he stated, his tone shifting from anger to a sliver of desperate hope. "I am Goodman Pummle, master of this gods-forsaken place." He waved a dismissive hand at the smoldering apples. 

He looked from Gwendolyne’s holy symbol to Molly’s analytical gaze, from Rodger's righteous fury to Shadwell's calculating watchfulness. He saw not idle travelers, but a solution.

"My workers are broken, and my crop is poison," Pummle said, his voice low and intense. "I am out of options. But you… you look like you can do more than just pray or burn things." He locked eyes with Gwendolyne. "I will offer a reward of 1,000gp to anyone who can discover the cause of this blight... and eliminate it for good."

After accepting Goodman Pummle’s desperate offer, the party conferred. The raw terror in the workers' eyes was a more potent motivator than gold, but they had little to go on. Gwendolyne recalled the hushed, fearful words of the farmhand they had met on the King's Road, his tale of a witch and an unholy congregation of beasts. They decided to start there, gently questioning the cidery workers as they prepared to leave for the night.

Most were too consumed by exhaustion and dread to offer anything new, merely shaking their heads and muttering about the curse. One woman, however, hesitated as she gathered her shawl. "It's the pigs," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Everyone leaves. The place goes quiet. But I... I forgot my tinderbox one night and had to come back. I saw them." She stared into the darkening orchard. "The pigs. They were walking away from their pens, all together, heading into the trees. No one's ever dared to follow them. No one but that young fool Finn who fled last week."

The party exchanged a look. It was the confirmation they needed. Their path was clear, not through the front door of the cidery, but by shadowing its strangest inhabitants. They found a secluded spot among the trees, a place where they could watch the pens unseen. As the last worker trudged away and a profound silence fell over the Titheland Cidery, they settled in to wait, their vigil focused on the pigs who held the key to this dark mystery.

“By the saints…” Rodger whispered, his hand gripping the scarred wooden staff he carried.

“I’ll track them,” Shadwell said, his voice tight. “Stay close. No noise.”

He moved like a shadow into the trees, the others following, their hearts pounding a nervous rhythm against their ribs. The journey was unnerving. The pigs moved with a purpose that felt utterly alien, navigating the rows of blighted trees without hesitation. The air grew cold, and Molly felt the hairs on her arms stand up, recognizing the thrum of potent magic—a deep, resonant power far beyond the frantic, corrupted energy she had sensed in Master Elsbeth’s tower. This was older, cleaner, and very dangerous.

Shadwell held up a hand, stopping them at the edge of a wide clearing. The space before them glittered, bathed in a cold, silvery luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. It was a light that didn't illuminate so much as outline things in sharp, impossible detail. In the center of this eerie stage stood a tall, plump elf-woman with long, silver hair, wearing a necklace of pigs' teeth and an upright, commanding posture. Around her, the pigs had gathered in a perfect, silent circle, their heads cocked as if listening to a sermon.

Her voice, when she spoke, was precise and forceful, each word a perfectly enunciated stone dropped into the silent clearing. “The categorical imperative of the sty, you see, is rooted in the immediacy of the trough,” she was explaining, pointing a long, elegant finger at a particularly large sow. “It is a pure existence, unburdened by the dread of what is to come or the regret of what has been. A state of sublime, philosophical peace.”

The party watched, frozen between awe and a creeping dread. This was the ‘witch’ the farmhand had seen. As if sensing their presence, the woman, clearly a fairy of some kind, snapped her head towards them, her eyes fixing on them not with surprise, but with the cool, appraising gaze of a collector who has just noticed a new set of insects scuttling at the edge of her display.

“Interlopers,” she stated, her tone one of mild annoyance. “You bring with you the frantic stench of purpose. It disrupts the tranquility.”

Gwendolyne found her voice first, stepping cautiously into the fairy-light. “We have come about the blight on the apples. We were told you were the cause.”

“‘Blight’ is such a dreary, mortal word,” the fairy said, turning her profile to them, admiring one of the pigs. “I merely added a seasoning. A touch of artistry. The scent of nightmares on a brisk night is a rare and fleeting perfume.”

“It is a perfume that has killed men,” Rodger bit out, his knuckles white on his staff.

The fey's full attention fell upon them, her head tilting with a look of genuine, if clinical, surprise. "Deaths?" she asked, the word sounding foreign and strange on her tongue. "Has it come to that? How exceptionally fragile your mortal vessels must be."

She gave a delicate, dismissive shrug. "I am Demozel Hazel, I am here with my younger sister Demozel Olive. We were once ladies-in-waiting to the Lady of Spring Unending, but we find ourselves at liberty now, and one must seek diversion. We took up residence here last summer to do just that." She gestured to the orchard. "I admit, I instilled the apples with a certain magical horror—a delightful spice. But I am merely the connoisseur of the nightmare's scent. The final disposition of the vessel is hardly my concern. Mortals die, after all. Why one would bother to object to the timing is quite beyond me."

She sighed, a sound of profound boredom mixed with genuine curiosity. "That is... puzzling. I merely draw out the nightmares that already exist within them. It is a scent I find mesmerizing, their terror, but the visions are of their own making. How can these creatures be so lost in thought, so bound by imagined futures and regretted pasts, that it causes them such exquisite pain?"

She paused, her gaze turning distant. "I prefer the pigs. They simply are. No future or past to agonize over, only the serene immediacy of the moment." Her eyes then narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing her features. "The final sleep, you say, death?", her mouth grimaces in disgust at that last word, "I have no part in that. But my sister, Olive... she has always had a tiresome obsession with you mortals. She loves you all so dearly." A small, cold smile touched her lips. "She believes your existence is one of never-ending suffering, and she is always so very eager to help end it."

With a dismissive flick of her wrist, she pointed towards a darker part of the wood. "If someone is adding a 'conclusion' to my 'art,' it is likely her. You will find her in the grove to the west. Perhaps you can ask her. Now, leave us. The sow and I were approaching a breakthrough on the nature of existential mud."With a shared, fearful glance, the party backed away, leaving the unholy congregation behind. The path to the west was dark, the air growing thick with the cloying, sickly-sweet smell of decay. They found the grove, and within it, a scene of such quiet horror that it threatened to stop their hearts.

There, reclining serenely on a great, mounded bed of fallen, rotting apples, was another elf-woman. She was tall and slender, with short, golden curls that framed a face of beatific charm. It was her smile that was the most terrifying thing they had ever seen—it was warm, kindly, and utterly without mercy. And on her head, she wore a coronet fashioned from yellowed human teeth.

She was not alone. At her feet lay a farmhand, one of Pummle's workers, his eyes wide with a silent, waking terror, his body paralyzed in death. Demozel Olive was humming a soft tune, her slender fingers gently holding an apple, tracing patterns with it above his body. She looked up as the party entered the grove, her smile widening.

“Oh, tsk, tsk,” she said, her voice full of a terrible, gentle pity. “More poor, tired dears. Look at you, burdened by all that walking, and thinking, and feeling. You look so very weary.” She gestured to the dead man at her feet. “I was just helping this one find his rest. It is my chief desire, you know. To put you humans out of your misery and into a nice, dark grave.

It was not a threat; it was a sincere and generous offer, delivered with a warmth that was a thousand times more terrifying than any snarl. A wave of pure, cold dread washed over the party, rooting them to the spot. It was a dizzying, sickening realization—the kind that makes the world tilt on its axis. The hairs on their necks and arms stood erect, not from a simple chill, but from an ancient, predatory aura that radiated from Olive like heat from a furnace. This was a being with no regard for the concepts of good and evil, a creature to whom mortal morality was as meaningless as the fleeting patterns of dust in a sunbeam. In that moment, they understood their place. They were not adventurers confronting a monster; they were mice frozen in the placid, patient gaze of a cat who plays with its food not from malice, but simply because it can.

Shadwell was the first to react, his smuggler’s instinct for survival screaming. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Gwendolyne took the cue, her mind racing.

“We… we thank you for your kindness, Demozel,” Gwendolyne managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “But we were sent by your sister. We must return to her with a message.”

Olive tutted again, a sound of gentle disappointment. “Oh, very well. But do hurry back when you’re done. The earth is so patient, and there is room for all of you.”

They backed away slowly, their feet making no sound on the damp earth. They did not turn their backs until the grove was out of sight, and then they fled, running with a desperate, silent speed back through the orchard until they collapsed behind the cidery, hearts hammering, the image of Olive’s smile and her crown of teeth burned into their minds.

“We have to leave,” Shadwell gasped, wiping sweat from his brow. “Pummle can keep his gold. We can’t fight them.”

“He is right,” Molly whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “The power they wield… it is fundamental. We are nothing to them.”

Rodger was pale, his certainty shattered. “This is an evil our prayers cannot reach.”

Gwendolyne’s mind was a whirlwind. They were prey. The knowledge was a suffocating weight, pressing the air from their lungs as they stumbled back through the darkened trees, the image of Olive’s kindly, murderous smile seared into their minds. They collapsed in the shadows behind the cidery, a small island of shared terror in the oppressive silence of the orchard.

“We have to leave,” Molly whispered, her voice trembling. “Now. Before they decide they’re bored.”

They sat in dejected silence for a long moment, the thousand-gold-piece reward feeling like a fool’s bounty on their own heads. Then, Shadwell, who had been staring grimly into the darkness, spoke, his voice a low gravelly rumble.

"They're only two of 'em, right?"

"What are you suggesting, Shadwell?" Gwendolyne asked, her own voice strained.

“Well,” he continued, a flicker of his usual bravado returning, though his tone was laced with uncertainty. “They’re powerful, maybe undying… but given enough swords, even their bodies break, right?”

Rodger looked up, his brow furrowed in thought. "Yes, you're right," he said slowly, latching onto the sliver of hope. "The stories say the fey-folk don't die of old age, but their physical forms can be destroyed. They can be killed. But enough swords? Pitchforks, you mean?"

A grim smile touched Shadwell’s lips. "You get my drift."

"You want to convince a handful of terrified farmers to rise up against those things?" Molly interjected, her voice sharp with disbelief. "They're a force of nature! People will die. Some of those people will almost certainly be us." She stared at Shadwell, her eyes pleading. "Why risk it?"

Shadwell kicked at a loose stone, his gaze fixed on the ground. "Hmpf..." He hesitated, the sound a mix of a scoff and a sigh. "Something in their plight... in Pummle and his workers... it reminds me of something." He looked up, his eyes dark with a memory he rarely revisited. "Rising up against cruel and pointless power oppressing good people. That feeling of powerlessness… I… I…” He stopped himself abruptly, his face tightening as if he had already said far too much. He turned away, leaving the unspoken words to hang in the cold night air, a reason far more potent than any amount of gold.

The silence that followed Shadwell's admission was heavy and profound, filled with the unspoken weight of his past. The raw emotion, so rarely shown by the pragmatic smuggler, had shifted something in the air. The terror remained, a cold knot in their stomachs, but it was no longer the paralytic dread of prey. It had been sharpened into the grim resolve of the cornered and the defiant.

It was Gwendolyne who finally broke the stillness, her voice low but clear in the night. "Alright." She looked at each of them in turn, her gaze lingering on Shadwell's hardened face. "We do this. If we are all in." It wasn't a command, but a question that hung in the cold air, waiting for consent.

Rodger, his own faith battered but not broken, gave a firm, decisive nod. Molly, though her face was pale and her eyes still wide with fear, nodded as well, a flicker of trust in her friends overriding her terror. Shadwell simply met Gwendolyne's gaze, his expression answer enough.

Seeing she had them, Gwendolyne continued, the leader in her taking charge. "We will camp near the King's Road tonight, away from this place. When the workers return at dawn, we will tell them what we have seen, and we will offer to stand with them against these… things." She turned to Shadwell. "How many do you think we would need?"

A grim but hopeful look passed over his face. "Honestly? I don't know. But I would feel slightly more comfortable with at least eight or so armed with more than just courage."

"Very well," Gwendolyne replied. "We will try to raise a militia. But the decision to fight must be their own."

"We could always ask for help in Castle Brackenwold," Molly interjected, the idea tumbling out in a nervous rush. "Maybe knights could be sent to rid the orchard of this evil." She let out a short, awkward laugh that held no humor. "Good cider must be a worthy reward for a quest like that, don't you think?"

Her attempt to lighten the mood only underscored their shared fear.

"We'll sleep on it," Gwendolyne said, her tone gentle but firm, bringing the debate to a close. "For now, let's get out of here and set up camp."

2 the Company of the Scarred and the Seeking Heart

Following her grim discovery in Master Elsbeth's blighted tower near Greyhill, Gwendolyne Weavilman (Cleric) did not immediately rush into the forbidding wilds of Dolmenwood. Her Lawful nature, tempered by a carpenter's practicality, urged caution and preparation. She bore the heavy burden of Elsbeth's journals, their chilling revelations about the Grey Blight, and the unholy pact gnawing at her soul. The truth that Dolmenwood, that ancient, fey-haunted wood, was not merely unaffected but might be the source of their suffering, was almost unbearable.

Gwendolyne returned, to her blighted home village, a slightly larger settlement, Oakhaven-by-the-Wold, which, while scarred by the blight, still maintained a fragile semblance of order. Here, the Pluritine Church still held some sway, though its authority felt distant, its pronouncements from far-off Londinium often slow to reach the ailing hinterlands.

It was in Oakhaven's makeshift infirmary, ministering to the sick (many of whom bore the same insidious pockmarks as Gwendolyne herself), that she found Rodger Fraggleton (Friar). Rodger, with his gruff, yet earnest demeanour and "meticulously oiled hair" that seemed at odds with his "hessian rags," was a local oddity, a wainwright by trade who had taken up the friar's cowl after the blight claimed his own family and left its subtle "prominent scar" on his face. He shared Gwendolyne's fervent belief that "Witches serve the Nag-Lord" and saw the blight as a manifestation of that very evil.

Gwendolyne, recognizing a kindred spirit of faith and shared suffering, confided in him, speaking of the journals and the unspeakable pact. Rodger, already consumed by a desire to cleanse his blighted homeland and perhaps find a new secret underground lair where the pure might escape the decay, needed no further convincing. His Lawful conviction burned fiercely. If the Nag-Lord's influence was spreading from Dolmenwood, then it was the Church's sacred duty to meet it, even if Londinium seemed too preoccupied with matters of court and creed to grasp the true peril in the wild marches. Together, their shared devotion to the Pluritine faith and their personal vendetta against the blight's unseen master forged an immediate, unbreakable bond.

Gwendolyne’s connection to Molly Addercapper (Magician) was one of deeper, more familial tragedy. Molly, a cattle farmer whose family and herds had been decimated by the Grey Blight, was Gwendolyne’s sister-in-law – her late brother’s wife. Molly, too, was pocked with plague-scars, a stark visual testament to the shared agony. While Gwendolyne sought divine intervention and cleansing, Molly, with her keen intellect and magical aptitude, believed the solution lay in understanding the arcane currents behind the blight. She felt a burning need to wield magic powerful enough to prevent such devastation ever again.

When Gwendolyne presented Elsbeth's journals, Molly devoured them, not just for the clues they held, but for the dark knowledge of the pact itself. The idea of an unaffected Dolmenwood, a source of both corruption and potential salvation, ignited a fierce determination in Molly. She would join Gwendolyne not just for family, but for the mastery she craved, to turn the very tools of the blight against its unseen master. Their grief, though channeled differently, became a powerful, unifying force.

The final, crucial member of their desperate company was Shadwell Lank (Hunter). Shadwell was a familiar, if somewhat shadowy, figure in Oakhaven-by-the-Wold and other peripheral settlements. As a smuggler, he frequented the taverns and quiet corners, trading in rare furs, illicit goods, and, more recently, grim news from the blighted lands. He was known for his uncanny ability to stalk and track in the wilderness – skills invaluable to anyone contemplating a journey into the wild. He’d never dared venture into Dolmenwood itself, the fey tales and strange disappearances acting as a natural deterrent, but he knew the approaches to its borders better than anyone. Although he was deeply afraid of it he longed for nothing more than to explore Fairy, pulled by some morbid curiosity.

Gwendolyne and Rodger, knowing they needed a guide whose knowledge of the wild was absolute, approached Shadwell. Molly, meanwhile, likely saw the practical benefit of a skilled woodsman over any moral purity. Shadwell, ever the Neutral opportunist, was intrigued. The blight had disrupted his usual trade routes, and the desperate flight of people meant dwindling opportunities. A journey into Dolmenwood, dangerous as it was, promised access to untouched resources, rare trophies, and a chance to venture into fairy. The promise of payment, even a share of any discoveries, would have sweetened the deal. More than that, the utter chaos of the outside world, ravaged by the blight, might have made the dangers of Dolmenwood seem a more appealing, even logical, choice.

Thus, the Company of the Scarred and the Seeking Heart was formed: a cleric seeking divine answers, a friar yearning for purification, a magician striving for arcane mastery, and a hunter seeking new avenues of exploration. All bound by the Grey Blight’s cruel touch, and all turning their gazes towards the strange, unblighted forests of Dolmenwood, and the distant, foreboding silhouette of Castle Brackenwold.

1 Prologue: The Grey Scar and the Silent Tower

The wind carried the scent of ash and a cold, damp decay that clung to the very fabric of the world beyond Dolmenwood. For months, the Grey Blight had been an insidious stain, spreading from village to town, leaving behind a trail of pockmarked faces, withered limbs, and the silent, unblinking eyes of the dead. Homes stood empty, fields lay fallow, and the once-bustling roads were now routes for desperate, coughing refugees, or worse, for no one at all.

Gwendolyne Weavilman, a carpenter by trade but a cleric by the unyielding strength of her faith in the Pluritine Church, walked those desolate roads. Her own village had suffered, though mercifully, her own plague-scars were less severe than many she’d seen. It was her duty, she believed, to bring what solace she could, to perform the rites for the fallen, and to seek answers from a silent, seemingly indifferent heaven. Rumours, desperate whispers rather than firm facts, had pointed to a remote, crumbling tower nestled in the blighted hills known only as Greyhill. A recluse, a scholar named Master Elsbeth, was said to dwell there, her mind long lost to dark obsession.

Gwendolyne had followed the trail of an ill-fated crusade – a band of champions, brave souls who, like her, sought to root out the source of the blight. She found them, not in triumph, but in stillness. The tower, a jagged tooth against the bruised sky, seemed to exhale the very cold of death. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic tang of dried blood and the acrid stench of volatile magic.

The champions lay scattered, their forms stiff, some still grasping their rusted weapons. Each bore the unmistakable pockmarks of the blight, a final, ironic victory for the very evil they had sought to vanquish. They had won the battle, it seemed, but lost the war within their own flesh. Her heart heavy, Gwendolyne knelt, offering a silent prayer, her plain wooden holy symbol clutched tight. She knew the faces of some, their stories of courage and sacrifice etched into the grim reality of the moment.

Then, she saw her. Master Elsbeth. The sorceress was slumped against a shattered plinth, her face a mask of final, furious despair, her fingers still clawing at something clutched to her chest. It was a stack of leather-bound volumes, her journals.

Driven by a terrible premonition, and ignoring the lingering corruption that seemed to seep from the very stones, Gwendolyne carefully prised them from Elsbeth's lifeless grip. The script within was erratic, at first academic and precise, then descending into a scrawl of madness. She skimmed the pages, her eyes widening with each chilling revelation:

Elsbeth had sought power, yes, but not for its own sake. She yearned to command nature, to prevent the very diseases that now consumed the land. But in her hubris, she had answered a whisper from beyond the Veil, a cold, alien presence that hailed from the deepest, most ancient parts of Dolmenwood. A pact had been made, not with a daemon, but with something far older, something that promised control over the threads of life and death.

The Grey Blight, the journals revealed with terrifying clarity, was not the purpose of the pact, but merely its corrupt effluvium. It was the residue, the chaotic spill-over from a far grander, more sinister ritual that the entity within Dolmenwood was attempting to enact. Elsbeth had been a mere conduit, a foolish instrument. The final, near-unintelligible entries spoke of Dolmenwood itself as a focal point, a place where the entity’s power resonated, and where, most chillingly, the blight could not take root. Its vibrant, fey-infused essence seemingly repelled the corruption that flowed from its own borders.

Obscure references, cryptic maps of ancient, forgotten sites within the Wood—places of strange power, old fey crossings, and forgotten druidic circles—were scrawled amongst the mad ramblings. These were the channels, the gateways through which the blight had been inadvertently unleashed upon the outside world.

Gwendolyne emerged from the tower, the journals clutched tightly, the weight of their revelation heavier than any lumber she had ever hewn. The Grey Blight was not a random curse; it was a consequence, a symptom of a deeper, alien working within the heart of Dolmenwood. The unblighted Wood, once merely a distant, mythical place, now stood as a horrifying enigma, the source of their world’s suffering.

She knew then what she must do. The champions had defeated the puppet, but the master remained. The plague would continue to rage outside, perhaps forever, unless the source within Dolmenwood was confronted. Her duty to the Pluritine Church, to her stricken people, and to the memory of the fallen demanded it. But she couldn't go alone. She would need others touched by the blight, or by its consequences, others desperate enough to brave the dark heart of the Fungal Wood. For only there, it seemed, could they find the answers, and perhaps, the desperate hope for a cure.