Chapter Nineteen: Husked.

26th Mirtul, Year of Three Ships Sailing (1492 D.R.), shortly after sunset

The half-hearted rainfall has stopped. But there is a damp heaviness to the air. I wrinkle my nose: the sweetness of the blossoming orchards is now pressing in on all sides with cloying over-ripeness. The night is not fresh. Tatters of mist reach out and flit briefly around our ankles before pulling back to join foggy pools gathering in the dips of the road.

Beltin and Gallop lead us towards the field where the Halfling encountered a moving scarecrow. Sister murmurs a word: her deep voice turns it into a bass rumble in the dark. There is a whispered response of many tiny feet skittering down from her form onto the soggy ground. As dozens of mice stream down off Sister, they begin to flicker, whiskers sparking. Eyes wide in delight, I realize that the Firbolg has enchanted the little animals to glow warmly in the dimness. They are like a scurrying and shifting patchwork of fairy lights, illuminating the road before us. 

“Hairy fairy lights, hairy fairy lights” spools through my restless brain. The nonsensical words chime stubbornly in my mind, in time to the squelching tread of Sister and the humid exhalations of the dog trotting next to us.

“What a useful trick!” I turn to my companion, determined to distract myself from my idiotic rhyming. “I am glad that you are here with us.”

“This is my first mission.” Sister replies solemnly. “Have you been on many? Have you had many adventures?”

“It has been several years…I have been, first in training, and then in service to my People for a long time. As a protector and guardian of our home. Yes, I suppose so.” I shrug.

Haltingly, stumbling a little amongst many memories, I start to tell Sister of my work in the Aerie. I focus on cheerful and ludicrous stories, intended to lift Sister’s heart. It suddenly dawns on me that I do not know how old the Firbolg is. Only that this is her first mission. Perhaps she is frightened.

Sister does not let me speak uninterrupted for long. Clearly inspired to return story for story, she launches into a tale of her own. About a raccoon that once became trapped in the Shrines’ privy. Her humor is as matter-of-fact as the rest of her speech and she reaches the end of her story with more quiet satisfaction than mirth. I smile at her encouragingly and, with fresh animation, she turns to Vaikner to regale him with details of her experience of being bitten by a pixie.

Sighing, I stare into the shifting yellow mist as it pools in ditches and furrows around us. Once again –  I fear that I do this all too often but my longing is difficult to deny – once again, I permit my heart to briefly escape home. Sister’s droll tales, while delivered with none of his flare and sparkle, remind me of one of my dearest friends amongst the Wardens. I miss Gáire very much. Although, I recall ruefully, the first time we met, I found him rather exasperating.

“You will not impress him with your sword skills, you know. Seeing you shine only makes Altiir wish ever more fervently that you were not here at all.” An amused voice interrupts my brooding.

The bathing hall at the Warden barracks is an excellent place for brooding. Usually. Warm and fragrant with steam, quiet but for the occasional trickle and splash of water, soothing…

Oh, there are busy times, certainly. When groups of Avariel, returning from training or guard duties, turn hearty in their enjoyment of ablutions. Then there are teasing calls and laughter and singing. But I am not – that is, these are not the times that I choose for cleansing reflection. On this occasion however, I had started out in friendly company. Altiir and I had completed sword drills and were bathing and changing before meal time. Flushed lavender, from the heat as much as from the triumph of my exertions, I had spoken merrily of our improving skills. I exuberantly looked forward to the time when we would be sent out of the Aerie on patrol. Altiir had said little. Sluicing water over his hair, turning bright sunlit hues into warmer, darker gold, he rinsed himself hurriedly, dressed, and strode out of the bathing hall. I had remained behind, musing miserably over my closest friend’s growing surliness of late. Until the sardonic voice broke into my thoughts.

“You do not know what you are talking of, Gáire.” I reply with dignity. “And…what do you mean, my sword skills will not impress him?”

The Avariel who comes forward out of one of the bathing alcoves is tall and slender. Straight brown hair is wet, plastered to his bare shoulders. His face is pleasing to look at, with sharp-edged cheek bones and a mouth formed for laughter. His eyes are the same deep grey as his feathers. Droplets of water bead on his sleek wings, which he holds low and relaxed. He smells of sunflowers and juniper.

“Oh, my eager young Elemental.” He chuckles obnoxiously. “You can show off all the fancy foot-work in Faerun. But it is still just that. Foot-work. As in, on the ground.”

“I am not an Elemental. I am Air Genasi. I mean, I am a Warden of the Avariel! In training. And I am exactly as old as you are, Gáire. Also, Altiir has never minded my not flying before! Much.” I scowl. “What do you know of it, anyway?”

“Oh, let me see? What do I know of loving one who stubbornly and annoyingly refuses to love me back?”  Gáire mocks. “I would say that I know plenty about that.”

“The Twins?” I tilt my head, suddenly sympathetic.

“The Twins.” He confirms with an exaggerated sigh. 

“I can speak to Cela on your behalf, if you wish.” I offer. “That is, if she is the sister that you seek pleasure with. She talks to me. Nil prefers to use me for target practice.”

“Sweet, sweet Elodie!” Gáire exclaims. “You, with your blade-sharp wit, have sliced straight through to the heart of the problem! Which Twin to mate with? And why must that painful decision be made at all? When they are both so immensely alluring…”

He sighs and falls into dreamy silence. But not for long.

“No, that choice is beyond my power. I am cursed to feel equal adoration for each sister!” He exclaims. “But, when I suggest the perfectly reasonable solution that we three nest together, that they both enjoy endless bliss with me, I am spurned. Painfully. And with bruises.”

I think about Cela and Nil. Avariel twins are a precious and rare gift. One granted infrequently enough that I know no other such pair of sisters. I find it endlessly fascinating that, while they are as mirrors to each other, both shining with the beauty of the Goddess that is their namesake, they are so very different in their thoughts and behavior. Distracted by my musings, it takes longer than it should for Gáire’s shocking words to sink in.

“Oh! Oh, but Gáire, this cannot be!” I protest. “Of course, in the normal way of things, you would be free to nest with whomsoever you wish. With whomsoever wishes to be with you. But they are sisters! You must see that this is wrong! It is forbidden.”

“Yes.” He sighs even more painfully. “I am well aware of these cruel restrictions on my freedom. And so I must waste away in unhappy frustration. Cursed by Hanali Celanil to long for both Cela and Nil – that is a rather amusing way to summarize it, is it not? I like that. Anyway, I am doomed to unmated loneliness. And, therefore, find myself with time and energy to spare to pity you. And your clumsy and misguided fumbling to win your love, Altiir.”

I frown at him. The silence stretches out and, ferociously battling with equal parts shame and deep suspicion, I am in no hurry to break it. Gáire, mirth suddenly shining out from his grey eyes, cannot keep quiet.

“Alright, fine.” He snorts. “None of that was true. It was just such a delicious sight – your offended little face! I jest, of course. I am not cursed. I am happily occupied, as are all of us Avariel who leave fledglinghood behind, in fully enjoying every freedom available to me. With anyone who is agreeable. I follow Altiir’s example, in fact. Joining with his glorious golden form as he seeks to celebrate our Lady’s gift in every way that he…”

Gáire suddenly stops. He looks intently at me and his features are set in an odd expression that I have not seen on his face before. It is only later, when I know him better, that I look back to recognize the uneasy commingling of embarrassment and reluctant sympathy that marked that moment for him. 

Hair curling in protectively, I bite my lip.

“Indeed, it is a happy time for all.” I say levelly. “I am glad for you. Glad that you have not been subjected to Hanali Celanil’s curse. It appears then, that neither of us are interested in love. This is as it should be. For Wardens. But it is a strange thing to jest about. I suppose that I should not be surprised, however. Given what they say…”

It is my turn to trail off awkwardly.

“And what is it that they say, dear Elodie?” Gáire asks.

“Well, I have heard it said that you have turned your back on our Lady of the Wind and Skies! That you fancy yourself a follower of Erevan Ilesere!” The words tumble out, even as I wince to offer such an insult to a fellow Warden-in-training.

Gáire simply looks at me, a tiny bitter smile poisoning his lips.

“But, of course, it is very strange.” I continue heedlessly. “And difficult to understand. I mean, I do not know you very well, Gáire. But, from what I have observed, you actually laugh less than any of the others. You are, indeed, more…closed-off within yourself. More oddly bitter and cruel in your remarks.”

I force myself to stop speaking before I give him cause to see me as an enemy. He is to be my comrade. We will share the sacred duty of keeping our People safe. I cannot make him hate me! 

Glancing at Gáire nervously, I see that his expression has not changed. He is still looking at me, saying nothing. My curls flick out, anxious.

“It is difficult to be different here.” I whisper. “But, if you…if you truly feel yourself drawn to another of the Seldarine, if you spurn the Lady…well, at least it not need be obvious to all. At least you have wings. I mean, you look the same as any other Avariel!”

His eyes burn into mine. I do not know why, but his twisted little smile makes me want to weep.

“You could have everything that…that you want! You have only to act like everyone else! You can conceal those parts of yourself that are troublesome. You need only pretend…” I cannot continue; with each word I feel myself choking.

Rigid with a strange shame, I am shaking my head even as I finish speaking. He is no longer smiling.

“I can help you with Altiir, you know.” He offers quietly.

“Why in the Lady’s skies would you do that?” I ask.

“The same reason that I am talking to you now, Elodie.” Gáire’s smile is back, tremulous but no longer sickly. “Do you know that you giggle?”

I straighten to my full height, wrapping my towelling-cloth around me like armor and tossing my head.

“I beg your pardon?” I question frostily. “I do no such thing.”

“Well, you did. Once. Do you remember the first time that we met?” He dismisses my irritation with a graceful shrug.

“No. No, I fear that I do not.” I am immediately contrite at this lapse in good manners. “I did not spend much time with the other fledglings, you see. My Mama feared for me, being Wingless. She kept me mostly with her, in our Lady’s library. I am sorry, but I do not remember meeting you until we started our Warden training.”

“Well, I remember you. I remember all of your family. The first time that I saw you all was during High Harvestide. When the warmth of the sun had filled our orchards with sweetness and all were out gathering fruit. I remember how your father spoke you to you. And to your mother. He must have told you many fine jests. Because you chuckled and giggled. Louder and louder. You sang- you shrieked out – in laughter. And you did not care who was about to hear you. And what they may have thought of your mirth.” Gáire’s eyes are intent upon my face once again.

“Those were delightful times.” I bow my head, hair falling limply about my shoulders. “My Papa is not here now. He is not often at the Aerie. But we are always happy, always laughing, when he is.”

“Your family is different.” He says thoughtfully. “You are different. I like that. I like the joy in you.  It gives me hope.”

I stare at him, unable to think of anything to say in response to that remarkable statement. I do not fully understand him but, from that day on, I am find that Gáire and I have become friends. We train together often. I firmly reject every one of his butterfly-brained schemes to convince Altiir to mate with me. These range from secreting a Frost Giant into the Aerie and having me rescue Altiir from this ancient enemy, thus earning his passionate adoration, to maliciously seeding Altiir’s morning porridge with crushed ice-prickle powder to make his feathers itch. This last plot was devised after Altiir started spending increasing amounts of time with Cela and, to this day, I remain unclear on how it was meant to bring my old friend and myself closer together. Gáire’s plans were often quite complicated.

Early on in our friendship he would occasionally be seized by an odd fury. Thin face shadowed by distress, sweet mouth thinned into the scornful grimace I had come to dread, he would talk of freedom and what it truly meant. He would lament the very same history of proud struggle that I had been taught to revere; say strange things about how the suffering and the stubbornness and the grim courage of our People had led to isolation from the world. And stagnation. And…and to our helpless vulnerability to manipulation. He even cast doubt on the abilities of our wise Elders to lead us! He never went as far as questioning the blessed preference that Aerdrie Faenya showed to our People. But his words were unsettling. They skittered through my thoughts like a restless shadow. Threatening to dim the pure lucent light of our Crystalline City. Of our beautiful Nest.

Gáire seemed to see how uncomfortable he made me. As time went on, he spoke this way less often. And we spent our days together in untroubled harmony. And joy. There were times when, with just the two of us present, Gáire would forget his sardonic remarks and crooked smiles and simply laugh with me. 

And, when the fledgling Wardens were deemed worthy to take our turn guarding the Aerie, to venture out on our inaugural patrol, I felt only the smallest sadness, easily hidden, when Tillenia partnered me with Gáire for our very first mission. I looked only once, and briefly, to see Altiir leaving the Nest without me. And then I turned all my attention to my task.

Our night passed in clarity and exquisite focus. The chill silence of the glacier wrapped its shadow around us. The air smelled of snow. Any fatigue was kept at bay by the great honor and responsibility of knowing that we, Gáire and I, were charged with guarding the safety of the Nest. We were diligent in our patrol; he up above, in the starred-velvet sky, and me below, watching the moon sparkle on frost. We encountered no one. Faced down no threats. Still, when sunrise came, splashing liquid flame over the icy peaks, I was trembling with exhausted pride.

Gáire, in a gift of companionship that moved me with its kindness, left the skies when our patrol ended. He settled down on a rocky outcrop to watch the sunrise with me. We sat quietly, facing east. The glow of a new day moved over us and towards the Aerie, its towers soaring at our backs. High above, the Snow Eagles flew in graceful formation, dancing to greet the golden-purple rays. Gáire swept his wing around me, sheltering us close against the cold. Sighing contentedly, I leaned my head against his shoulder.

“It is so different, seeing them from down here.” He said slowly. “Normally I would be amongst them. Feeling the new day bring fresh life to my wings. They…they are beautiful.”

“Yes. There is much that is lovely, down here.” I nodded earnestly.

I soaked in the moment, buoyed by Gáire’s closeness. The assurance of his steadfast friendship brought me comfort. The knowledge that, sitting here as dawn illuminated our glorious City, we were its sworn guardians, made me dizzy with pride.

“Gáire.” I took a deep breath. “I have found something.”

He shifted, feathers tickling my back.

“In the library. It’s a story. A story of the Seldarine. And of their Tears.” I continued solemnly. “I think that it may be what I was looking for. A way to save our Home. To stop the encroachment of the cold and keep the Aerie safe. But it would take great sacrifice. It would be very dangerous. And it would mean leaving home.”

Gáire turned to face me, a hungry light in his eyes.

“You have found a way…leaving this place?” His wing tightened in around my shoulder and he took both of my hands eagerly in his. “My friend, tell me everything.”

“It was here. Just along this bit of field.” Beltin’s voice trembles out.

Startled back into the dim present, I murmur a brief but fervent prayer to my Lady. I hope that Gáire is safe on his journey. And that he finds not only his Tear, but his heart’s laughter. 

With another sigh, I look to Beltin. He shuffles his feet nervously in place, the wavering light of his torch fading into the avid gloom that surrounds us. The smells here are muddy; vegetal lushness overlaid with strong notes of fungus, manure, and decay. We have stopped next to a low stone wall that surrounds a large field. Moisture slicks the surfaces of the rock. Mushrooms peek from crevices in the ancient stonework. Most are the leathery brown of fallen leaves or the pale wrinkled pink of a hand submerged too long under water. Several are more unusual. They are shaped like parasols and give off a wan blue glow. 

Past the wall, long tidy rows of winter wheat stretch into the mist. Just visible at the far corner of the field is a towering stone and wood structure. Its windows are barely discernible as blacker voids within the darkness. Beltin shudders slightly as he stares out at the wheat field.

“This is where I saw the creature,” he mumbles. “The field belongs to our family but we are leasing it to the Sweetwaters. They’re cultivating it this season. The mill house yonder is not in use. Has not been these past four years.”

He runs his hand across the back of his neck, fidgeting with his collar as if it constrains his breath. Squaring his shoulders and clucking to Gallop, he turns back towards his home.

I step closer to the dog, trying to catch Beltin’s nervously darting gaze. Did Blossom not say that her husband’s death, the family’s heartbreak, occurred four years ago?

“Why is the mill house out of use?” I question. “Did it fall into disrepair?” 

“No, as far as I am aware, it is in fine repair.” Beltin replies hoarsely. 

His shoulders tense and then slump. 

“It is just that, four years ago, my father was killed in an accident there. We were putting in a new mill stone and it fell on him and crushed him. Mother and I cannot see using the place now. Poppy visits sometimes. To feel a little closer to her father, I suppose.” 

His sigh mingles with the rustling of the wheat.

“Oh.” I breathe, stepping back.

This is a place of bitter memories. And now, of a new fear. I understand Beltin’s distress and say nothing more. I watch the Halfling and his canine companion disappear into the mist, heading swiftly for the comfort of home.

Eliana finds the entry gap in the wall and we start picking our way through rows of glistening leaves. There is less mud here than on the road but the ground still feels spongy underfoot. I see streaks of mold plaited through the wheat heads, as if it developed along with the swelling grains. I grimace as the increasingly musty atmosphere weaves its damp tendrils into my air.

“It is disconcerting to hear that Poppy visits the site of her father’s accident.” Vaikner whispers, eyes a red gleam in the darkness. “This is an unwholesome place for a little girl.”

“Poor little thing. To lose her Papa in such a manner.” I look a the mill house looming ahead.

“Agreed.” Eliana says tersely. “I think we should head that way for a look, don’t you?”

In silent agreement, we start forward once again. There is a rippling disturbance in the air, a puff of lavender fragrance, and Fukurou swoops off Vaikner’s shoulder. He soars above us, lost in the night.

We are mid-way across the field when Vaikner gives a little hiss.

“Wait please! Fukurou sees a tall figure ahead. It is standing still but it is in the path that we are walking now.” He explains. “Presumably a scarecrow guards this field.”

“Well, scarecrows are what we are here to find.” Eliana replies quietly. “Even if the field that this one is watching over does not seem very…healthy.”

We continue down the row of mold-corrupted crops. The wispy mist that was only ankle-deep in the road now clots into yellow-gray fog. It pools around us like dirty dish water, swirling and thickening rapidly without warning. My senses are dampened by the filthy cloud. With sudden alarm, I realize that I can no longer see around me. Let alone across the field to the building beyond.

“Hold!” Vaikner’s whisper stops our stealthy progress. “Fukurou no longer sees the figure that was ahead of us. Beware – there is now movement to our side. And ahead!” 

His warning is cut off as he coughs. There is a sudden gust of fungal stench. We are under attack! An enormous misshapen figure erupts from the fog. Taller and lumpier even than Sister, it lurches towards us with a horrid metallic grinding and squealing. It appears to be some kind of farming automaton but it too is corrupted – covered in mold and lichenous growths just like the crops around it. The only clean part of the attacker is its heavy scythe. It swings the sharp blade, slicing shreds of mist out of the dank air. I leap and twirl as I respond to its juddering onslaught. 

Two more creatures shamble out of cover! These are less bulky, shaped more like tall thin Humans. At least, I think that I see suits of Human clothing, flapping wetly over rigid frames. Just as with the first attacker, details are difficult to make out under slime stains, squirming fungal tendrils, and sickly glowing spongiform tumors. The smell is nauseating. I gag as the rot seeps into every breath I take. Then I draw Quen and Vess, frowning. These new attackers are faster than the scythe-wielding monster. And they are moving, all spindly limbs and squelching rotten garments, towards my friends!  

Vaikner was close to the first Scarecrow as it attacked. It reaches him well before I can. He staggers and I can tell that he is hurt. But not how badly. Eli is staring, frozen, at the second of the creatures. The horror transforming her face chills me. My limbs grow heavy with dread. 

The automaton-monster takes advantage of my inattention, swinging a fist like a ragged tree stump in my direction. As if watching myself from a distance, I see my body rock back. Blow after blow strikes me as the large monster batters his way past me, advancing on my companions. Dazed, I feel only slight stinging and stickiness as blood oozes from my wounds.

Then, a wave of a different warmth envelops me. Not the fever-sick damp of the putrid field but a cozy closeness. Like being wrapped in a soft blanket. I smell mice. Many mice. Still, compared to the rank air surrounding me, it is most welcome. Along with these sensations, my growing weakness vanishes. The numb beginnings of pain recede as my wounds are knitted closed. 

“Si…Sister?” I take a steadying breath as she nods gravely. “Thank you!”

I bound towards the Scarecrows, still watching the Firbolg. Her expression is one of intense concentration. And she now shifts her gaze to my companions. With relief I see the sick panic drain from Eliana’s features. Wrenching her mind away from whatever inner horror she was facing, she swiftly puts some distance between herself and the fungus-ridden creatures. And readies her bow. A large grey shape moves with her, taking up position between Eliana and our attackers. I feel an instant of confusion – has Gallop returned to help us?

“We’ve got this! We can do this, Elie!” Loud squeaks of encouragement ring out. 

Shaking my head in amused wonder, I realize that Eliana’s Pip has somehow expanded to massive and militant proportions. He fearlessly harries our enemies and, for a moment, I believe that the fight has turned in our favor. Then my eager hope is choked out as I feel a slithery pressure around my legs. Looking down in furious revulsion, I see numerous vines questing out of the ground and wrapping themselves around my lower body. They pulsate with the same sickly light as the spongy growths covering the Scarecrows. Their slimy strength makes me gasp as they constrict my legs, seeking to bind me in place!

I stifle my first and futile instinct to kick wildly at the vines. Instead, I breathe in deeply, closing my eyes. I search for my Lady within and about me. I know that she is always there. I can sense Her blessed gifts stir and I coax that power into awareness. And action. I concentrate, dreamily and unhurriedly, as I picture a cool fresh wind. I envision this invigorating gust of air wafting out from my amulet and airily repulsing the encroaching vines that are scrambling. towards me… 

My hair crackles with energy for a brief moment. I open my eyes, shocked to feel rapidly receding but still searing heat. And to see the smoking circle of ashy vines now crumbling to dust around me. I have never been granted this use of my Lady’s gift before!

My triumphant smile flickers out as I realize that, nearby, Vaikner is trapped by vines just I was. And that Eliana and Pip cannot, even in all their valor, stand alone against three mold monstrosities. As well as repel vines that writhe furiously out of the rotten earth itself. 

“Go! Fall back to the mill house!” Eliana shouts. “We’ll hole up there!”

This seems a wise idea. I glance around to ensure that Sister and Vaikner have heard Eliana’s call. To my relief, Vaikner has also found a way to elude the clutches of the vines. I watch, spellbound, as he uses his Art. With a flare of green from his staff, the Drow disappears from his writhing captors’ trap! And then appears again, safe and now much closer to the shadowy mill house! 

Eliana and Pip are also retreating through the fields. But I do not see Sister! I pivot through a rapid circle, looking desperately at the clearing of disturbed ground and ruined vegetation that we have created during our strife with the Scarecrows. I still cannot see her but –  I swallow through a suddenly dry throat – I notice that I am now surrounded by all three of the creatures of the corrupt field. Still, if I engage with them, this will surely give my companions time to escape! I calm my snapping hair and breathe deeply as I prepare to commune with Aerdrie Faenya. To once again release Her gifts in divine flame. 

Before that stirring power can rise to a gale, an immense force thrusts me to one side of the clearing. I wince and raise my swords to return the attack.

“I am sorry. This will feel a little strange.” Sister’s doleful voice sounds out nearby.

I realize that the Firbolg, moving faster than I thought possible, rushed to my side and proceeded to scoop me out of the circle of monsters!  Hoisting me to the battle’s side lines as if I were no heavier than one of her kid goats! Following closely behind my flailing form, Sister now grabs me again, tossing me unceremoniously up into the air above her back. Her body shivers momentarily, disturbing the fog into uncannily shifting patterns. Then Sister…flickers out. I yelp, startled to be hurtling into a patch of now-empty air towards the weed ravaged ground below. I start to twist, trying to adjust my fall to ensure a more controlled landing. Just then, with another flicker, a shaggy-coated horse appears beneath me. The breath is knocked out of me as I land on Sister-horse’s back with a thud. I feel her muscles bunching against my thighs. She springs forward into a gallop. My next exhale comes out as an excited yell. 

I am riding a horse! I have never ridden a horse before! I give another joyous whoop. Sister surges forward, exhilarated.  We have almost made it out of reach of the grasping creatures when I feel Sister shudder. A heavy blow strikes her hindquarters and her steps stutter unevenly for a few moments. She manages to regain her balance and bravely keeps on running. Trembling, sickened, I gently stroke her neck, trying to soothe her in her pain. Her pace does not slow again until we are at the mill house door. I slip off her back, ground squelching beneath my feet. Sister waits just long enough for me to slide down and, with a stomp and snort, resumes her Firbolg form. She is breathing in harsh pants and she smells like blood. She strides directly to a heavy wooden door, wrenching it open and ushering us inside. I am impressed with her courage. She does not seem badly hurt but, having witnessed her grim stoicism, I fear that she will not show me even a devastating injury. I stay close to her as we take in our new surroundings.

We are on the ground floor of a tower-like structure. The air in here is as foul as that outside and the stone walls are weeping a sour milky fluid. The floor is covered with vines that heave and writhe. The coalesce briefly into nightmarish forms before collapsing again. I slash at probing tendrils and they part wetly on my blades. Eliana and Sister turn to the door, shoving it closed with a creak. Faces fixed and grim, they continue their work, blocking the entryway with pieces of wood and stone. It does not take long before the improvised barricade is trembling under the blows of the mold monsters that have followed us to the mill house.

“Come up here! This floor at least is clear!” Vaikner’s voice drifts down to us from the second level of the tower.

 There is a grunt, followed by a series of squelching thuds.

We run up splintering wooden stairs and find ourselves on the second level of the mill house. There are fewer vines here. But at least one cluster of grasping plant-life has reached up from below. It must have attacked Vaikner! He lies, senseless, on the slimy floor as vines quest up and over his body. 

Sister surges forward. She tears the foul plant off the Drow, then stumbles as the pain of her wound starts to overwhelm her. I sink to my knees next to my injured friends, reaching to lay my hands on the unconscious Vaikner’s face. Allowing My Lady’s healing grace to pass through me and into him, I then turn to Sister and do my best to heal her wounds.

Granted some of Aerdrie Faenya’s strength, we rise and watch as Eliana runs up the stairs to the third level of the tower. Vaikner limps over to a balcony, deciding to use this as an observation point that also affords him cover from immediate threats. I hesitate, already turning towards the stairway to follow Eliana, but hearing sudden labored breaths from Sister. Whipping around, concerned that her wound was more grievous than I realized, I see that Sister stands with her usual sturdy stoicism. But her breath huffs through widely flaring nostrils as her eyes meet mine. Her gaze holds none of the placid gentleness that I have been used to from our new friend. Instead, unseeing implacable rage meets my shocked stare. She roars wildly and turns, pounding and ripping at the writhing plants all around us. Pulping the vines with her fists and shredding the moldy fragments into a dripping mess. 

“This is not right! None of this is right!” Nearly incoherent cries accompany her frantic destruction of our unnatural surroundings.

I look up the staircase. Eliana is out of sight but I can still hear her footsteps high above us. Then she is shouting something and there are other, stranger, voices joining with hers. I cannot make out much over Sister’s rampage.

Looking down the stairs I realize that the twisting vines below have joined into a cohesive form. A ghastly mass with multiple rotting gourd heads and gaping mouths is rising up from the ground floor towards us. 

I cannot bear to watch Sister break herself against the mildewed stone walls or become engulfed by the reeking vines. Our only chance is to stay together and stay focused. 

“Sister! Please stop, Sister! Look at me!” I plead, to no obvious effect.

I resort to gentle-speech, as to a fledgling in distress. And try to distract her attention in the only manner that comes into my anxious mind in that moment:

“Sister, can you tell me more about your goats and the cheese you make? And how you plan to combine your new project of harvesting honey with your wonderful dairy creations?” 

Thank the Lady, it works! The wild light flickers out of Sister’s eyes and her breathing slows.

“This is no time or place to talk cheese-making.” She says, deeply disgruntled.

I do not care how grumpy Sister sounds. At least she answered me! And her violent, indiscriminate battering of living plant and dead stone is interrupted. 

Strangely, everything around us echoes her stillness. The pulsating vines that were clambering up the walls now slither down in coils, disintegrating damply into moldy slime. The twisted form of the plant monster below has also collapsed in on itself. The relentless thumping of the Scarecrows outside, trying to break their way through the mill house door, has ceased. 

The eerie silence is broken by Eliana’s voice, calling us upstairs to see what she has discovered. Vaikner runs up to the staircase. I continue to mutter soothingly to Sister as we follow more slowly behind him.

Fresh horror awaits on the third level: the remains of the largest of the monstrosities that I have seen here tonight. A massive and chaotic cluster of plants and gourds, it too lies quiescent. The only sign of movement is an occasional burp-like splat as one part of decaying plant tissue sinks moistly into another.

“What is that?! What in Faerun is that thing?” I hear Vaikner’s startled cry.

He has moved ahead, joining Eliana at the very top of the tower.

“It is a corn husk doll. Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” Eliana speaks in the deadened tones of deep shock and revulsion. 

“It was speaking before I shot it. And, when it got stuck with the arrow, everything else around here collapsed too. I think it was controlling all of this…this contagion.” She finishes unsteadily.

“Why do you struggle against my embrace? All I want is for the world to be wrapped in my love. My Children are everywhere. In the ground. Drifting through the air. Caressing your skin. Even in your stomachs and in your EYES…” I trip on a splintered stair as these words ooze down towards us.

A third voice has drowned out the speech of my companions. And, perhaps, a fourth? The unsettling message seem to come from two mouths, mingling and passing from one voice to another seamlessly. The first voice is grotesquely flute-like: an innocent little girl breathing menace. It deepens and distorts into the second voice. This one belonging to an older woman. It is growling in choking, wet tones. As if the speaker was forcing threats out past thick clots of filth. 

My hair tightens painfully along my scalp and I shudder. There are scraping and shuffling noises from above, and then Vaikner and Eliana appear. They are grim faced and move with un-concealed urgency.

“What was that? What is up there?” I ask hoarsely.

“Let’s go down to the lower floor,” Eliana pants out, looking anxiously over at Sister’s quietly growling form. 

Vaikner is already clattering down the next staircase.

“We need to decide what to do with this place. Come on.” Eliana continues, wiping nervously at her eyes.

We follow Vaikner to the second level of the tower. I pause, letting out an involuntary gasp of relief The gentlest of breezes has found its way through the open windows. The air is just a little more fresh than before. My friends stop too. We huddle amongst the still vines, checking and rechecking for any twitch of returning life. 

“Alright. Seems safe enough.” Eliana has rubbed her eyelids raw and red. “We need to talk.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope that you enjoyed the Trio’s (and Sister’s!) encounter with malignantly animated agriculture. As well as Elodie’s brief escape to her idyllic past. Spore much more to come! 😉

For Gáire:

Punchline, Nick Lutsko.

Please also visit my playlist on Spotify. I will be populating this with all of our campaign tunes as we adventure onwards: