Hall of the Dryad Queen

Chapter Ten of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

I rose early for prayer and discovered Myron already awake and mumbling over his arcane business. He had stoked up a small hearth inside the tower chamber that previously belonged to the wolf, Sir Bartimaeus. The fire took the chill off the morning air. The sky had not been lit for more than an hour when Ivan called from his perch on the watch, “Behold! A mighty host approaches from the wood.”

The Trooping Host

We all scrambled to the gatehouse to peer out through the slits and windows. From under the canopy of darkness that is the Dim Forest, we perceived a trooping host, self-illuminated by dim fairy light, as if many fireflies had converged among the trees. In a short space of time, a striding giant emerged into the clearing in the form of a stout and leafy tree but of such a type I had never seen. Look! This tree was not only strange of bark and leaf, but it did stride upon great roots as a man walks upon his feet, and it did move a pair of its mighty limbs as a man swings his arms at his side, and it wore a face with eyes and mouth and a round knot of a nose.

Ivan the woodsman who, stood at my side, exclaimed, “It’s a treeman! I never thought to see the stuff of children’s tales!”

Riding astride her strange steed, perched in the leafy crown like a proud bird upon her nest, sat the dryad queen, Nyssa herself, resplendent, wreathed in flowers and draped in ivy. An entourage of young dryads, forest nymphs, elves, sprites, and faerie folk trailed behind.

Still held tight in Nyssa’s thrawl, I ordered the gate opened. Now everyone was up and about. We rushed down the gatehouse, lifted the bolt, and flung open the doors without a moment’s thought or hesitation. I hastened out to meet her. Myron tarried only long enough to speak a spell that changed his countenance to something more becoming, then hurried out to meet the queen too, sniffing and whining, fawning and groveling, “My lady, my lady.” All of us came out onto the lawn to welcome the strange host. The treeman ceased his forward stride and, it seemed to me, his glittering eyes looked upon us with suspicion.

As Myron had been left otherwise speechless and trembling by Nyssa’s majestic presence, I collected my own wits and found my tongue. “My lady, we have done thy bidding and prevailed,” I declared with solemn bow. “But a bitter price we have paid.”

From upon her perch she smiled on me, the corners of her mouth lifting only slightly. The great walking tree lowered her to the ground. So gracefully she moved that she seemed to glide toward us across the snow. Myron and I scraped and groveled, and all her fairy court curtsied and bowed before their lady.

“A bitter price,” she repeated my words thoughtfully, motioning toward the toppled Roanwood which leaned yet against the broken tower. “A bitter price,” she said again before adding, “But so sweet a prize.” She bent low and kissed me atop my head, and Myron also, “Ehlonna has heard my prayers. This day I welcome you my guests into my hall, and you shall sup at my table.”

Inside the Witch Tree

She took Cirilli by the hand and bade the rest of us follow after, one and all, through the tower’s gates. By the pale fairy light and the early morning glow of the winter sun, we beheld a shimmering portal opening passage into the trunk of the Witch Tree, though we had not seen the entrance before. Through this magical portal we stepped inside the tree and followed Nyssa into her vast wooden halls where fairy folk already busied themselves dressing the queen’s banqueting table.

Magnificent living ceilings arched high above our heads. The light of a dozen candelabras dispelled every shadow. Walls of polished oak surrounded us, but so spacious were those halls that the mind reeled to understand how all this vastness might be contained within a single tree. A magnificent spiraling staircase rose at the center of the hall, climbing high into the boughs where Nyssa’s chambers looked out on the forest’s canopy. The same stairs also descended into the roots, where her servants led us to private chambers, all carved out within the living wood. A magical stream flowed in those deep roots, filling clear pools. “Bathe yourselves and be healed,” the servants said, “These waters flow from the Pool of the Dawn.” The cold water refreshed weary bones and washed fatigue from our bodies. Moreover, our wounds, every scrape, gash, puncture, and cut, closed in the healing water, and the flesh was made whole. We each one emerged from the water feeling strong and hale, as if goat kids fresh washed for the Growfest Games in Hochoch.

The hours spent in Nyssa’s home passed dreamlike, for we had all fallen beneath her enchantment and the magic of those halls. We scarcely even understood how strange the things round about us should have seemed; under the enchantment, everything appeared quite ordinary and as it should be.

After I had washed and dressed in my clothing, somehow freshly laundered, the servants summoned us to the queen’s banqueting hall. We reclined on soft cushions around a low oaken table that rose from the living wood. Slender Nyssa presided at the head of the table, reclining with us clad in a flowing gown of willow leaves, her tumbling auburn hair lazily sweeping in motion like leafy branches waving in gentle wind. We ate wild berries, sweetened apples, roasted mushrooms, nuts, and seedcakes until we had set aside all desire for food and could eat no more. These delicacies we washed down with bowls of cold water freshly drawn from the stream that flowed through the roots, and in that sweet water we tasted the fresh springs of creation.

Nyssa’s Tale

The nymph maids cleared away the platters. Then Nyssa fixed her burning eyes upon us and spoke. “I am the daughter of the Forest of the Night Everlasting, eldest of the woodland dryad folk, queen of the trees, and a loyal vassal to Queen Lhiannon who rules from the Caves of Twilight Resplendent. I serve Ehlonna, who planted my acorn in this place, many centuries past, and so I have grown from that seed, an oak among the roans and fuinoiras. Many lifetimes of men have past since the goodly folk of the forest built a tower around me to protect me from the axes of woodmen, orc, and goblin alike. When the Baron of Collinae took possession of the Dimwood two years past, he also took possession of my tower and kidnapped me for his bed. I prayed to Ehlonna, and at length she heard my prayers, and sent you, my saviors and my heroes. Please tell me the tale of all that befell you since you left the Baron’s hall two nights past and how you liberated me from the lumberjacks.”

I commenced to narrate the tale as best I might, suffering Myron’s constant interruptions, indignant sniffs, unnecessary corrections, and abrasive contradictions. Despite Myron’s help, I told the tale of unlucky William, our futile first attempts to make siege, the felling of the Roanwood Tree, the pitched battle with the goblins, the fight with the werewolf captain, and the hard fight with the trolls which ultimately cost us the life of Sir Merciful. When my telling of the tale was at last complete, I asked, “My Lady, will you also favor us and let us know how things did fare for you in that dreadful place where we left you caged? What has become of the Lord Baron?”

Her eyes flared up with terrible light, and she took up her tale eagerly. Her voice rose in fever and tenor and fearsome tone. “When I first felt the axe blows biting at me, I feared the worst, supposing that you had failed my task. With each blow I shuddered; each bite of the axe cut me to the bone, and I felt the sap begin to leave me, but when the wicked blows abruptly ceased, I understood that you had prevailed by the power of Ehlonna. I set to my happy work at once. I leapt upon the wolf where he slept soundly in his den. My fingers locked about his nape, and I squeezed with the unbending strength of oaken bones to crush his cursed howling throat. All the while he snapped and growled and writhed, changing form from beast to man and back again as we pitched about the room. Despite his claws and fangs and all his twisting, I would not release my grasp. Still, he proved to be the stronger of us. He made to throw me into the fire like a log upon the hearth, yet still I held on tightly, and released him not, dragging him with me into the flames. The hearth fire roared up about us under my enchantment, engulfing us together, and only then with both of us enflamed did I release the dog. He sprang out all ablaze, yelping and blazing, leaping madly through his hall, spreading the flames all about, kindling fire wherever he did land. All that while, I, a blazing torch, a firebrand and a flame, pursued him from chamber to chamber, up flights and down flights, until all the timbers blazed around us, and we two stood and battled beneath the open sky atop the square tower while the whole hall burned away beneath us. The flames singed away the wolf’s hair from his body, and my fair skin turned to blackened bark and burning coal. I would have put an end to him then had the werewolf not leapt from the tower’s height and fled into the forest, baying most wretchedly in the night, loping blindly toward the safety of the Goblin Trees. All his pack of wolves followed on his heels, howling in the night. So he escaped my grasp at the last.”

As these words she spoke, we saw each scene she described most vividly play out before our eyes as if we too were present to witness each moment of the struggle. When her tale ended so abruptly, the vision dissipated. Silence hung heavy in the air, for each one of us was holding in the breath as if in anticipation of more, nor did we have words to say. Still transfixed by the drama of the story, Cirilli spoke up at last and asked, “And how then did you escape that flaming pyre?”

Nyssa gently laughed, “Old oak wood burns slowly, my child.” No longer did her voice sound so fearsome as it had whilst she had narrated her tale, and we all found our breath and sighed with relief.

An Eldritch Curse

The conversation returned to the subject of lycanthropy. “My Lady,” Ivan asked gravely, “What can be done for the people of Roanwood Village. Can you provide wolfsbane for us? Luna wanes, and the days until it waxes full again are few.”

“Too few,” she said. She gestured to the table, and we beheld that, even as we spoke, her nymphmaids laid out long, dried sprigs of wolfsbane before us. “Here is the herb you seek. But it will prove insufficient for your need. Unless the baron be slain, this malady remains. For he has made a pact with some rising darkness, and he fancies himself to be lord of all the forest. In this was his unholy alliance with the Rushmoore Witch, that she should be Queen of the Marshes, and he the King over the Dimwood, and by their alliance, they would use charm and spell to lure subjects into their service.”

“Yes,” said Myron, putting the pieces together at last. “And that is why he needed to entrap you, the rightful queen.”

“I am queen only of trees,” Nyssa laughed, “Not a ruler over men, elves, or other folk that dwell beneath the boughs.”

“What of me, My Lady?” Bruin asked pensively. “Have I too fallen beneath the werewolf curse?”

Nyssa smiled on Bruin with compassion and uttered a gentle blessing over him, “You should be a bear and not a wolf.” Bruin seemed relieved at these words, and he nodded in gratitude.

“But please my lady,” I asked. “How did this cursed malady come upon the Roanwood Village?”

She turned her gaze upon me and replied, “That same vile husband of mine spread it among the folk of the village by means of a powerful eldritch curse he laid upon them and upon all those villages of men that dwell within his barony. Such a curse cannot be broken now until he be slain, and he must be slain at once, for time draws short. He will now gather his strength at the Goblin Trees, and when Luna is full, the forest will be filled with the howling of his wolves. They shall surely return to this place in great numbers, cut me down, and burn me limb and trunk. He desires the whole forest for himself, and, already, many unseelie wicked-hearted trees serve him.”

Head of the Wolf

Now Sir Belvenore, who had also fallen deeply beneath her enchantment, piped up in alarm, “What is to be done, My Lady?”

“Take up for me one more chivalrous quest, my brave heroes; return to me, with the head of the wolf, and you shall know my grate.”

Bedazzled by her beauty, Myron replied on our behalf, “We accept this quest, glad of heart to fulfill our service to thee.” All agreed at once, as did I before inquiring, “How then shall we find the Goblin Trees?”

Then spoke Ivan, “Surely, I might guide us there by old paths, but my heart urges me return to Roanwood Village to alleviate this suffering as I may. I will go as far as the road, and then I must turn back toward my own home.”

Cirilli spoke, addressing her words to me, “And with your permission Father, I return to Roanwood also, to render what help I might.”

Nyssa scowled and shook her head; her auburn locks rustled like leaves shaken in a sudden gust. “Nay woodsman, nay. You shall not return that way. You shall lead your companions to the Goblin Trees, and then bear my message to the elven folk, and call them to my aid.”

Ivan agreed to the geas at once.

Turning to Cirilli, the queen said gently, “Nor shall you turn back child. Rather, you may stay here in my halls, where I will school you in the ways of leaf and branch, or, if you prefer, go with your master to the Goblin Trees. For there is no herb or balm strong enough to soothe the wounds of Roanwood Village until the head of the baron has been severed from its shoulders.” 

Cirilli replied reluctantly, “My heart bids me stay in these fine halls, but duty calls me to my master’s side.”

Nyssa’s Gifts

In the morning the queen hastened us on our quest, but first she invoked the woodland powers for blessings and many prayers and fey charms for our success. Moreover, she bestowed fabulous gifts of magical property which might aid us in our quest to behead her hated husband of late. To Myron she gave a magical ring of disguise with which he might make himself appear in any guise he would choose, and, I might hope, one less frightening than that which nature bestowed upon him from birth. To my spiritual daughter, Cirilli, she gave a horn which, if sounded, summons an animal or woodland beast to one’s aid, such as a powerful druid might possess.

From her armory she bade our three warriors select what weapons they would, one each according to his choosing. When Sir Belvenore spied the small collection of fine arms and violent instruments, he said with amazement, “What need does a queen of trees have for such a collection of sword, spear, quiver, and bow?”

Nyssa explained, “These are ancient arms once born by sylvan and faerie lords when we strove against the Master of the Spider Throne. Each one has a tale to tell.”

Belvenore and Bruin chose for themselves short elvish blades, etched with runes, cunningly enchanted. Ivan chose a marvelous quiver of arrows, of which Nyssa said, “You have chosen best of all, woodsman, for upon this quiver rests the blessing of my mother, the Lady Ehlonna.”

I passed my gaze over what remained, but none of those implements seemed appropriate to a man of the cloth. Nyssa turned to me. Bending at the waste to meet my gaze, she stretched out one graceful limb and opened her ivy laden hand. Upon her palm rested a gift most curious—an acorn quite ordinary by appearance but endowed with wondrous virtue. “In time of great need, plant it in the soil, and my servant shall sprout forth.”

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Artwork: Nyssa, Queen of the Dryads ChatGPT4 + DALL-E