Library Story - First Words

Jane paused before the doors. 

They were grand and old, worn smooth by a century of wind and rain. Large, solid columns framed them, towering like tree trunks over entering scholars. Elaborately carved stone engravings embellished the facade. Scroll-carrying angels glided high above, and armoured soldiers stood beside the doors, eyes dark and scrutinizing. Carved vines and flowers wreathed the stonework, and high above three words were chiselled with as much strength and precision as if God himself had hewn them.

“Scientiam, Veritatis, Honorem,”

Jane read aloud. Latin. She knew not what the words meant, but even with her poor pronunciation she felt their power.

With a shrug Jane stepped inside. She tried not to notice the accusing eyes of the stone guards as she passed, forcing her thoughts to the task ahead.

She pushed through another door, and was inside.

The inside of the library did not reflect the outside. The air was hot. Dim fluorescent lights lit a large, flat room filled with bookstacks. Laminate tables and high-quality plastic office chairs dotted the empty spaces in between bookshelves, and a few students studied in the corners, earbuds dangling from the sides of their heads. Posters containing literary quotes lined a plain, white wall. It was as, if not less, impressive than some of the local libraries Jane had started with in Chicago.

An Ode to Stapler

The stapler stares with sharp, shiny eyes
As treacherous as a traitor's lies
It gives my thumb a mighty surprise
A "pop!" followed by my frantic cries.

It smiles hungrily at my wounds
The blood of my thumb is its' treasured boon
It yearns for the blood of a thousand more fingers
And oh! Why must this pain in my poor thumb linger?

I beg ye, mighty lords of Staples, sell this fiendish thing no more!

New Story | First Draft - Chapter One

Arthur sighed. It had been a long day. He had risen in the wee hours of the morning and proceeded to muck out the stables, feed the barn animals, plow the fields, milk the cows, collect eggs, watch the lazy flock of sheep, and sweep the dust from the porches. Now he sat on a hard wooden chair, resting his weary limbs and hoping that Master Hawthorne didn’t have any more tasks for him.

As if reading his mind, in walked his master, a portly, balding man with grey hair and a large, beefy moustache.

“Is the work all finished, lad?” Asked the master cheerfully. He was always cheerful, no matter the hour.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur answered, shoulders tensing as he waited for the master’s response.

“Good, lad, good.” Said the Master. “Well, if you’re not too busy, I’ve one more thing ye can do for me.” Arthur crumpled. I was so close!

“What is it, Master?” Responded Arthur wearily, rousing himself from his chair and tottering to his feet, his weary legs complaining.

“I’ve some supplies that need collecting before the Gods’ day. We’re running low on hay, and Erik Dondarrian has eight kegs of wine waiting for me. I’d go myself, but heavens know with this back of mine- just take Ernie and the cart into town, and bring it all back.”

“Alright, sir.” Said Arthur, groaning inside. Like hell you would.

Master Hawthorne rummaged in the pockets of his tattered woolen cloak for several seconds before removing a large iron key.

“Take this with you, and keep it safe. It’ll unlock Erik’s wine cellar, he gave me this key himself, and don’t you lose it. Eight kegs, remember- no more, no less. And you’ll find the hay in Reginold Burgess’s barn. Just ask around for it, the townsfolk will give you directions.”

Arthur nodded, taking it all in.

“Alright! any questions, m’boy?”

“I don’t think so, sir.” Arthur answered wearily.

“Well, then, off you go! Oh, and Arthur-”

Master Hawthorne adopted a sly, knowing look and began to rummage in his pocket again. He removed a small bronze coin from one pocket and twirled it in his thick fingers with surprising grace.

“-you go ahead and get yourself a little something while you're in town. There’s a wonderful little pastry shop, just a little ways down the street from the winehouse. That’s just a suggestion, though. Our secret.” He winked good-naturedly and patted Arthur on the shoulder, and Arthur smiled, despite himself.

"Thank you, Master!" Said Arthur. "I'll be right on my way!"

A Bath In Lethe

It was a cold Autumn night. In a small, ordinary office in the University of Belton, Sparks flew from Professor Gastoffe’s fingers, quickly accompanied by bursts of flame. A wind blew, sending his papers flying. A ring of seven dim candles sitting in the center of the room flared up suddenly, forcing Gastoffe to shield himself from the heat.

The fire accumulated, suspended in midair above the candles, until it was a single swirling inferno of dark flames. Molten rock and lava began to drip from the fiery vortex, but it did not simply pool on the cold stone- it stacked until it had solidified into a slender, handsome humanoid with wings of shadow and rotten fangs of bone. A demon.

“God protect me,” Gastoffe muttered.

The demon’s amber eyes opened.

“Good evening, Gastoffe.” the monster said, its voice strangely smooth.

Gastoffe gulped, his body shaking.

“Be silent, fiend.” He said, his voice quivering. “I am your master. You obey me now.” And if Gastoffe had performed the ritual correctly, he would have been right.

The creature chuckled and nodded its head.

“As you wish. But you must tell me, first, what it is you seek- for all who play with fire are looking for something.”

“I want to forget.” Gastoffe told the demon. “I need to.” He paused. “Please, monster...”

The demon chuckled again, and licked its lips.

“Are you sure of this, my friend? Some things cannot be undone…”  

Gastoffe’s lip twitched. Perhaps he could still turn back…

“Yes.” He said before he could stop himself. “I’m certain.”

He had to forget- the guilt, the sirens, the screams, the sound of a gun popping like balloons. If he didn’t do something, Gastoffe knew he would go mad.

Before he could react, the demon snapped its fingers, and he was somewhere else.

The Professor opened his eyes and looked around. The world was red. He was on a winding path beneath an enormous cavern covered in hanging, jagged rocks. He knew that the red light came from somewhere, but he could not put his finger on it.

“Walk with me,” Said the demon’s silky voice at his shoulder. He turned, and sure enough there the fiend stood.

Gastoffe began down the path. After a time he came to a rotting stone bridge. A wind howled beneath it as he crossed.

An eerie feeling seized Gastoffe. Something in him decided to look beneath the bridge. Dread pooled in his stomach as he approached the edge. He knew that something horrible was waiting beneath.

A stretched, emaciated man hung from thorny chains attached to the bottom of the bridge. His body was thin and gaunt, and his bones stood out beneath his skin. The man moaned feebly.

“This man’s best friend married the woman he loved, and for that he murdered him.” explained the demon. “Here he will suffer for eternity, ever reminded of his crime.”

“How terrible…” Gastoffe muttered with horror.

“We are in Hell. What would you expect?” The demon said with an incredulous chuckle.

They continued along the narrow road.

Gastoffe’s mind wandered. Before long it stumbled upon the subject he ever strove to forget- the shooting.

It had been a warm evening in Summer, and classes were just ending at the University of Belton. Professor Gastoffe had been preparing to leave for the night, when someone knocked on his door.

He swung it open. Before him stood Jason, a pupil in Gastoffe’s literary history class. Jason was a struggling student. His grades were low, and he was shy and reserved, with a touch of, well, weirdness that was hard to ignore. To Gastoffe’s frustration, it was clear that the other students didn’t ignore it at all. He had heard numerous times that Jason was constantly bullied and shunned.

Gastoffe went out of his way to be kind to the boy, and Jason had grown to trust him. He frequently sought help in his studies, which is why it was no surprise to Gastoffe to find him outside of his door tonight.

“Jason! How good to see you. What is it?” Gastoffe asked amiably.

“Nothin’ much.” Jason mumbled. Something was wrong tonight. Jason’s demeanor was dark- and ashamed.

“I just thought I ought to let you know, Professor- well, you’ve- you’ve been good to me. And I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. All I’m trying to say is, please, stay home tomorrow. Don’t come in to teach.”

Abruptly, Jason turned away and rushed back down the hall.

“Jason- Jason, wait! What?”

But Jason was gone.

The voice of the demon brought Gastoffe back to the present.

“We are here.”
Before them lay a wide grey river. Its waters were thick and sluggish and dirty.

“This is the river Lethe.” Explained the demon calmly. “This is where you will forget.”

They stared at the dark water for a solemn moment.

The demon turned to Gastoffe.

“One bath in the river will wash it all away.” It told him.

“All of it?”

“Each and every memory.”

As if possessed, Gastoffe began shuffling towards the waters edge. Now that his relief was imminent, he found himself more anxious about his past choices and regrets, not less.

“I didn’t think Jason would do it…” Gastoffe told himself meekly as he approached the river. He scoffed.

“Liar.”

He moved closer.

“I shouldn’t have been a coward. I should have done something, anything. I never should have stayed home from school and left my fellow students and teachers to be murdered.”

He was almost to the edge of the river. He stopped for one final moment.

“Thirty people, dead, because of me. I can’t live with that. I am not strong enough.”

He sighed. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Then he let himself fall into the river.

Immediately his mind began to loosen. A weight lifted from his heart as The Professor fell into a deep, dark sleep.

The man awoke in his apartment, unsure of where he was or why. He had been having the strangest dream, but he remembered nothing of it… how uncanny. In fact, he remembered nothing at all.

The man stood and opened a window to let in some air. Perhaps it would help him think. What is my name? The man wondered, but it was like there was a thick fog in his mind that concealed what he should have known. Overwhelmed, he sat down again and began to massage his temples.

Somewhere in the night, carried on the wind, he heard a cold, infernal laugh of triumph, accompanied by a single whisper of the night:

“I warned you once, my friend. Some things cannot be undone…”

The End

D&D 5E - Fey Gnome Race!

Good Evening, everyone! With this post, I thought I'd try something new! I bring to you neither fiction nor prose, but my very own home brew Dungeons and Dragons Fifth Edition Fey Gnome race!

I've been playing Dungeons & Dragons for about four years now, and I've only recently worked up the courage to begin "home brewing" my own content. My first foray into this new world is for a Fifth Edition (5E) campaign I will be starting soon. I love the lore and story of D&D Fourth edition (4E), and so I've decided to modify the races that need it to recapture the feeling and personality of 4E while fitting the rules of 5E. So far I've made changes to several races, but in my opinion the best changes I've made is to the Gnome.

You see, although there are some reasons to like it, the Gnome has always bugged me a little bit in Fifth Edition. The Forest Gnome seems to take many of its ideas from traditional Germanic mythologies and folk tales, like those collected by the Brothers' Grimm. There are some elements of the folklore dwarf, and some of the folklore elf. That's the part I like... a race that seems dedicated to representing that part of mythology. But still, it doesn't feel quite right. It doesn't capture that magic and mysteriousness so present in 4E. And then there's the Rock Gnome.

I'll admit, the Rock Gnome does have its place. Gnomes are often portrayed as a steampunk race. Which I think is kind of cool, if that's the kind of game you're playing. But in a mythic or epic fantasy setting, I think the Rock Gnome detracts from the atmosphere. It adds that steampunk, tinker-y feel, which I do like, but that genre just doesn't usually fit the kinds of fairy stories I like to tell.

In addition, while the Forest Gnome maintains its own unique flair, the Rock Gnome really begins to overlap with the Dwarf. They're both short, they both have beards, and they both like creating things with metal. Combine that with both races' tendencies to live underground, and the similarities begin to feel a little uncomfortable.

Which is why I think that the Fourth Edition Gnome was perfect. It took the unique parts of the Gnome race and added to them, giving the Gnomes a fey origin and an stealthy, mischievous, illusion-y theme. The idea of a race literally hiding to survive in the Feywild was very inspiring to me, and I think it matched the feel of the Eladrin (4E's unique, fey interpretation of High Elves) while contrasting well with the Dwarf and the Halfling. For my latest Fifth Edition game, I wanted something that captured that fey, magical feel... something the Rock Gnomes definitely don't have, and something that the Forest Gnomes in 5E just don't quite bring either.

As you'll see, I've turned the Gnome into a single race without any subraces. The ability scores of the default 5E Gnome bug me, so I gave those a little more flexibility. Within this race is a little bit of 4E, a little bit of 5E, and a little bit of me!

So without further ado, here is the complete D&D 5E Fey Gnome race!

Few can claim to have ever seen a gnome. Those who can remember a short, quiet person who seemed to blend into the crowd, almost as if by habit. But those who pay attention also likely noticed a slight, mischievous smile upon the gnome's face, and a youthful twinkle in their eye... right before they slipped away. 

Most Gnomes would not call themselves people of the spotlight. Gnomes are a race of the Feywild, a perilous place of nature, beauty and danger. The Gnomes have learned over millennia to hide to survive, and thus their settlements are nearly impossible to find. They make their homes in abandoned forest glades, digging burrows in hills, trees, giant mushrooms, and more. They use powerful illusions to protect their lands from the scrutiny of evil fey and other races. 

This shyness extends into other aspects of a Gnome's life, as well. Most Gnomes never draw more than a little bit of attention to themselves when they're around other races, and they go out of their way to avoid stepping on toes. When they are comfortable, though, many Gnomes are actually very social. They are natural conversationalists, enjoying more than anything the news and small talk of a tavern's common room. Some exceptionally charismatic Gnomes who prefer the lively life to the quiet ways of their race might even become entertainers or bards.

Gnomes and Elves are known to trade frequently, and thus the two races are very friendly with one another. In fact, Gnomes are one of the only races that the Elves actually trust- enough to allow them to make their villages within Elvish borders!

When it comes to a fight, Gnomes are already long gone before one can even start! Unlike an Orc or a Goliath, as soon as Gnomes sense danger they make themselves scarce. On the rare occasion that a Gnome doesn't react to brewing conflict quickly enough, they will still immediately take flight and disappear, magically or otherwise. If given the choice to fight or flee, all Gnomes prefer the latter. Similarly, Gnome adventurers rarely use blunt force- instead, they usually prefer to use their wits, their magic, and their stealth to solve problems. Leave the clobbering to the Fighter!

Below are the statistics for a Gnome adventurer.

Ability Score Increase. +2 Int, +1 Dex or Cha

Age. Gnomes mature at the same rate humans do, and most are expected to settle down into an adult life by around age 40. They can live 350 to almost 500 years.

Alignment. Life is dangerous for small folk in the Feywild. Gnomes are usually good, but the gnomish attitudes of staying out of the spotlight and self preservation lend themselves to neutrality. Additionally, a chaotic alignment is not uncommon in those gnomes with an extra mischievous personality.

Size. Gnomes are between 3 and 4 feet tall and average about 40 pounds. Your size is small.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 25 feet.

Darkvision. Lives lived in the deep forests of the Feywild have given you superior vision in dark and dim conditions. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can’t discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.

Fey Cunning. You have advantage on saving throws and skill checks against Illusions.

Woodland Survivor. You have proficiency in the stealth skill.

Natural Illusionist. You know the minor illusion cantrip. Either Charisma or Intelligence is your spellcasting ability for it, depending on which ability score is higher.

Speak with Small Beasts. Through sounds and gestures, you can communicate simple ideas with Small or smaller beasts. Gnomes love animals and often keep squirrels, badgers, rabbits, moles, woodpeckers, and other creatures as beloved pets.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and Elvish.

Enjoy!

-The Chestnut Himself

The Witch and the Son

There were once three young children, two boys and a girl, who lived with their mother and father in a house in the city. But it came to pass that the father left the mother for a younger woman, and the mother and her children were forced out of their home.

Taking what measly coin the husband had left her, the mother set out in search of a new home. All of the nearby houses were far too expensive, though, and she was forced to look elsewhere.

The day came on to evening. Soon the family came to where no other houses were, and the mother despaired, for she knew that their luck had run out, and they would have to spend the night in the cold and the weather. But just as she knelt to the ground, beginning to cry, she saw in the distance the shape of a hut. Mustering what little hope she had left, the mother led her brood to the small house.

She rapped on the door thrice. It swung open to reveal a fat, ugly woman with a hooked nose and a crooked, toothy leer.

“Please, kind lady, I and my children are poor and without house. Would you be so kind as to let us shelter here for the night?” Said the mother.

“Of course, my dear, of course!” Said the woman. “Pray come in.”

She led them into her house, and had them sit upon comfortable chairs.

“Wait here, I will get you all some tea and cookies. They are my best recipe, and they are right from the oven!”

As they waited the mother leaned over to her three children and whispered to them:

“Listen to me, children. The woman who hosts us is a stranger, and I do not know that I trust her. Never fully trust such a one, nor accept gifts of advice from them, until you have grown to know them. You may eat her cookies and drink her tea, but take nothing else from her.”

The woman returned, laden with mugs of tea and trays of cookies. They were baked just right, so that they were crumbly and sweet. The children soon forgot their woes, but the mother remained wary of the strange woman.

The woman began to ask the mother questions. What were her favorite recipes? What did she garden? How was her sewing? The mother was quickly put at ease. The stranger was quite friendly, and the mother had soon quite forgotten her fears as well.

Night fell and the old crone led the mother and her four children to a small, comfortable bedroom with a window. The bed was very soft, and one by one the children fell asleep. The mother was awake for some time, but eventually she too succumbed.

The youngest child awoke to a tapping noise on the window. Moonlight streamed into the room, but it was blocked by the large head of the old crone. She smiled and beckoned to the little girl, holding aloft a pretty silver necklace. The little girl quietly slipped from her bed and made for the door. Soon she was outside.

The crone loomed above her, and suddenly the child was frightened.

“Why are we outside?” Asked the little girl.

“Why, so that I can give you this pretty little gift!” Said the crone, grinning toothlessly. “I crafted it just for you! Let it be our secret, child.” She winked, and for the first time the girl noticed that the woman’s eyes glowed yellow.

And yet she forgot the command of her mother, and she took the pretty necklace, and wore it. And that night as she slept the necklace tightened and strangled the girl until she died.

The next child awoke to tapping on the window. There, like his sister, he saw the old crone smiling and beckoning to him. But he remembered his mother’s warning, and stayed still. Then the old crone held to the moonlight an awesome wooden sword, and the little boy could not resist his curiosity to touch the plaything. And thus he left the side of his sister who had just died, and went outside.

There the crone was waiting.

“Why have you called me?” The little boy asked cautiously.

“Why, so that I can give you this pretty little gift!” Answered the crone, grinning her toothless grin. “I crafted it just for you! Let it be our secret, child.”

She winked, and the boy noticed that her eyes were an unnatural shade of yellow. But in his excitement for the sword, he paid it no heed. Thus he took the sword and went back to his room, where he fell back to sleep.

But as he slept the enchanted, evil wooden sword became of a cold iron of the shadows, and it lifted into the air all on its own, and fell upon the boy’s chest, spearing his heart. Thus the boy died silently.

The third and eldest child now awoke to the tapping of the window. He sat up in his bed, never noticing his strangled sister or his stabbed brother. At the window was the crone, beckoning to the boy to come outside.

But the eldest child was the wisest of the three, and he remembered clearly the words of his mother. He sat and looked upon crone, and in that instant he saw her malice, and her cruelty, and her evil. And then he was frightened, and he awoke his mother.

When she was roused from her sleep the mother asked her son what was wrong. It was then, as he pointed to the window, that she noticed her two dead children.

The mother screamed and looked to where her son pointed. Then she saw the crone, and a great, hateful sadness filled her. For she knew that she had been blinded by the crone’s kind words and her hospitality, when she was really a vile witch. In her rage she left the house and went to face the crone, but when came upon the cold night air the witch was nowhere to be found.

But as the eldest child sat huddled, crying and hugging his knees, the witch appeared out of thin air before the bed. She crept to the boy’s side, singing a wicked rhyme:

Little bird, little bird, in a crow’s nest,

What shall I do with the dirty little pest?

Pluck out its eyes and steal its sight?

Or take its legs and rob it of its flight?

P’raps crush it slow and let it squeal all night!

But as the crone laughed and plotted these horrid things, a sudden courage came into the boy’s heart. He seized the witch’s wicked sword from his poor brother, and drove it into her chest. Then he took his poor sister’s necklace and deftly fastened it around the witch’s neck. And thus the witch died, killed by her own fell instruments and the wit of a clever boy.

The mother died soon after of grief, but the boy grew into a fine man. He became a master swordsman, and fought evils from coast to coast before marrying the princess and becoming King of the land. He lived happily ever after.

The End.

The Hunter - Part Two

Kendrin slept soundly. The beds at the Dancing Frog Inn were not exceptional, just a sack stuffed with feathers, but compared to his recent accommodations in the cold, harsh wilds, his small room felt like a King’s chambers.

When he woke he meditated for an hour before going downstairs for food. He chose a table in the corner. It was the instinct of a man like him to have solid walls at his back at all times. He watched people come and go. Eventually a portly man in an apron walked to his table, holding a platter with bread and cheese.

“Sorry about the wait, sir.” He said fearfully. “We have quite a few more customers than usual today.”

Kendrin looked around. There were five other people in the tavern. He sighed.

“It is quite alright. Would you get me a bit of port, though, if it isn’t too much trouble?”

The man nodded and walked away.

“They’ve had a change of staff,” Kendrin murmured to himself.

The hunter picked away at his bread and cheese and considered his next steps. He had spent quite enough time in this quaint little village, almost a year, and it was time to move on. But where to go? That was the question.

Slowly more guests trickled downstairs. The server came with his port. Kendrin ate, drank, and thought, but his mind kept wandering. He finished the food and pushed his plate back. It scraped harshly on the uneven wood. A serving girl came and took it away.

Abruptly the door swung open. Eight men walked into the tavern. They wore heavy winter gear over red, militaristic uniforms. Their cheeks were red from the cold and they breathed heavily, gulping the warm air of the fire. They would have walked like soldiers had they not been so tired.  They were clearly foreigners. The first man walked to the counter and checked into the inn in between gasps. Kendrin glanced around the tavern. All of the guests looked rather uncomfortable at the sight of these newcomers. Visitors were rare in Ferryworth.

The men walked upstairs to their rooms. Kendrin sipped his port absently. They returned a few minutes later, got food, and sat down at a large central table. The men talked in hushed whispers, glancing at each person in the tavern in turn. Finally their eyes settled on Kendrin. He held their stare until they looked away.

These men were looking for something, Kendrin could tell. They did not belong in the North, and the hunter sensed that they were unused to this land.

‘They must be adventurers,’ He thought. ‘But how did they find a way through the mountains?’ He silently resolved to investigate.

The men whispered a few more hushed words, glancing repeatedly at Kendrin. After a moment the man that had led the party in stood and walked to Kendrin’s table. He sat down at a chair opposite him. He was young but balding, and he wore a fuzzy brown mustache on his lip.

“How d’you do?” The man asked politely, extending a hand. Kendrin did not shake it.

“Fine enough.” He responded shortly.

Taken aback, the man continued. “I am Captain Vance Rogers of the thirtieth Atarian brigade. My men and I have been commissioned to map the province of Northland for our country, and we have come a long way to be here.” Kendrin nodded.

“Ataria has mapped the lands surrounding your village, of course, but my men have a greater prize in mind- the Dreadwood.”

Kendrin raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Three things, Captain Rogers- first, this is not my village. Second, not just anybody ventures into the Dreadwood and leaves alive. Especially not Southerners like yourselves. And thirdly, if you wanted any hope of surviving even half a day in that forest, you would need a guide.”

“For which we would pay much.” Finished Captain Rogers.

Kendrin raised his eyebrows. How curious. “Indeed?” He said. “Why me, Captain?”

“We need a guide quickly. We plan to begin our journey at sunrise. The locals here have told us to find the bountyman, said he’s our best bet. You look like him.”

Kendrin chuckled. He had no liking for these military men, but this job was an interesting prospect.

“You guess well, Captain.” He said. “I have spent a bit of time in the shallower parts of the forest, which is more than anyone else can say. How much are you offering?” He took a swig of his port.

“Five hundred gold, upon completion of the job.” The Captain stated.

“Make that one thousand.”

The Captain was silent for a moment. “Let me discuss it with my men,” He said, and returned to his table. Kendrin tightened his bowstring while he waited.

After several minutes the Captain returned.

“You have a deal.” He said.

“Very well.” Replied the bountyman, standing up. He extended his hand. “My name is Kendrin.”

The Captain paused, and then shook it.

Kendrin walked to the stairs. “Meet me here at daybreak,” He said. “And don’t be late.”

. . .

The sun was well on its way into the sky when Captain Rogers came downstairs, followed by his soldiers. They were fully dressed for exploration. Kendrin sat at his table, a smile on his face. “Slept in, did we?” He said. The Captain did not respond.

Kendrin stood. His bow was strapped to his back. A quiver stocked full of arrows accompanied it, and three silver arrows were strapped to his chest, if he needed them. His swords hung in gleaming scabbards at his sides.

“Are you checked out, bountyman?” Rogers asked. Kendrin nodded.

The soldiers checked out and met Kendrin at the door. “I’m excited!” Captain Rogers said, obviously attempting to lift his soldiers morale. “It’s a good day for adventure!” He clapped one of his men on the back. Kendrin rolled his eyes as they set off down the road.

The party hiked silently behind Kendrin as he led them along trails and up hills. Soon they were shivering in the cold air. Further still they went.

As they neared their destination, Kendrin spoke. “Prepare yourselves, gentlemen. All manner of monster inhabits the Dreadwood. I have encountered wolfmen, babas, and trolls. I even killed a wendigo on the edge of the forest just last night.” Rogers nodded, impressed.

“If the rumors of hunters better than I are true, however, there are far deadlier things in the forest. I have even heard myths of mad Fey lords that inhabit these woods, great Fae-Tar kings driven into the north by their grief and madness. The sickness of their minds has spread among those trees and tainted them. It is a place of dark whim, where little is as you expect. Even soldiers like yourselves may find your minds slipping in such twilight places.”

“But certain things may make you safer while you are in the Dreadwood’s clutch. Never trust strangers more than you must. Take note of anything out of the ordinary, no matter how subtle. Live off of your rations for as long as you can- much of the food in the forest is poisoned. And most importantly, be quiet. Do not laugh or cry, and speak as quietly as you are able. If I signal, you all must make no noise. It could be a matter of life or death.” The soldiers nodded gravely.

“If you become lost or are separated from us, stay where you are. You will have no chance of survival if you start moving. Trust me on this.”

One of Rogers men shivered. “This makes that mountain pass we took to get here sound like nothing, don’t it boys?” The soldiers tittered nervously.

“Trust me, if any of you are afraid, you’d best turn around now.” Kendrin said. “This forest is an evil place. It feeds on fear- the more there is, the more dangerous. Only courage will get you through this place. Anything less will reward us all with death.”

Rogers sighed. “You do paint a bleak picture, bountyman. But I will go on. My country asks it of me, and so I must.” He turned to his men. “If any of you would turn back, say so now. I don’t want anyone compromising our safety.”

No hands were raised.

“My men are of tough stock.” Said Rogers. “Continue, bountyman.”

Finally the men crested a ridge to see a wall of trees several hundred yards away. As the party approached, a single dark path in the trees became clear.

“Intimidating place,” Captain Rogers remarked. “Is that where we start?”

“That is a good question with a strange answer.” Kendrin told him, with fear in his voice. “For the Dreadwood is a strange, deadly place. I can tell you with absolute certainty that this opening was not here last afternoon.” He sighed. “In fact, there has never been a path through the Dreadwood. This is a bad sign. By all accounts, trails do not appear unless the Dreadwood wants you to enter it, and that means that we are being watched. By what, I do not no. Perhaps the wood’s malevolence itself. No, I propose we stay off the trail. Its mere existence proves to me that it would be dangerous to tread. Better to remain off the path and unseen than on it and hunted.”

Kendrin took a deep breath. “That is all I have to say. Now, let us begin.”

. . .

The men approached the trail. As they got closer a black fear settled in their hearts, and the trees seemed to creak in anticipation, inviting them into the shadows.

Kendrin had not been jesting when he said he feared that they were being watched. He felt it in his bones, like only a honed highborne ranger might. Something evil and powerful had taken an interest in the adventurers, and Kendrin was wary. But he could not identify a source for this fear, so he had to be content with his instincts.

He chose a spot some sixty feet off of the path, where the trees were still thin. He and the men looked back once at the beautiful, crystal white mountains and stepped away into the shadows. The trees were dark, and soon the men began reaching for torches and lanterns.

“Stop!” Hissed Kendrin. “Do you want to kill us all? Put them away, fools.” The scathed men quickly stowed their lights. Kendrin reached into his pack and removed an eerie, ornately gothic lantern forged in the design of spikes and thorns.

“This is called a Ghostwise Lantern.” He informed them. “It was difficult to procure, but it is a valuable item. Only those I choose can see its light. When I will it-” Purple fire sprang up inside the lantern. “-it ignites.”

The party walked in silence for several hours. Soon they started to hear eerie noises in the wood, strange cawings and howls of madness. “Be on your guard,” Kendrin said simply.

“Get down!” The hunter whispered suddenly and dropped to a crouch. The soldiers clumsily followed suit. “There,” He said, pointing. There seemed to be a dim green light ahead.

The men followed Kendrin as he slowly approached the light. As they neared it, they saw that it was just a lantern hanging from a bracket on a tree. Its green light danced unevenly, illuminating the message scratched on the tree underneath.

Welcome to my dreams

“What devilry is this?” Exclaimed Captain Rogers loudly.

“Quiet, man!” Hissed Kendrin angrily. “We must now be especially careful. We have been openly challenged, and now we must be ready for anything.

Captain Rogers continued on, following the bountyman further into the trees. He grew sleepy, although they must not have marched for more than several hours. He watched his toes as and pondered his strange guide. The bountyman was an intimidating man, fierce and cold. Yet Rogers sensed that he was good. He had always been told that he was a good judge of character.

Rogers looked up, and a shudder ran down his spine. He was alone. Where had his men gone? Where was their guide? He stopped, blood curdling at the eerie silence that followed. He looked around, peering into the trees. There was no one.

Rogers began to walk again, speeding up his pace. As he did so he heard a strange sound in the trees, terrifying and cold. Yes, someone was laughing. How curious. Who would laugh in a place like this? Despite himself, however, a small chuckle escaped him. It was followed by another, and then a larger guffaw. Whatever the joke, it really was quite funny. Rogers doubled over as he walked, consumed by mirth. He howled, oh how it was hilarious! Tears streamed down his face and slobber dripped from his jaws.

Rogers looked up again and his laughter instantly began to die. Before him was himself, hunched over, on his knees howling in mirth. His closed eyes were darkly ringed and his hair had fallen out in clumps. His fingernails were long, dirty and ragged. His teeth were rotting and brown.

The thing opened eyes. They were filled with a green madness that tore at Rogers’s soul.

“Find my heart, captain!” Said the monstrous thing. “I’ve Looked and looked, and it just isn’t to be seen!” As it cackled madly, the thing tore at its chest, and to Rogers’ horror it dug its fingers inside its breast. With a tug its chest was open. It’s sickly white lungs rose and fell as it breathed heavily, and tubes reached down through its body to its stomach. Worms riddled into its guts. But Rogers could see no heart.

The Captain screamed and screamed until he could no longer.