Category: Gran March

Children of the Wood

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Chapter Sixteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

The dim morning found me waking lost in the enormous folds of my cloak and bed roll which had grown inexplicably larger in the night. How strange! My tunic now draped loosely over my shoulders and twisted about me, and my trousers too had become several sizes large. With a head still full of sleep, I puzzled over the mystery until I heard a child’s voice near at hand asking, “What deviltry now?”

A Straight Read

I wriggled myself free of the enormous cloak to behold the dim lit shape of a boy, a human child of ten years or so, swagged in a grown man’s undercoat and waving his arms about. The unfilled loose ends of his sleeves flapped comically back and forth. His ragged breath steamed in the morning air. The commotion roused the others from their bedrolls. A redheaded child rose from the place where Ivan had laid down the night before. A mishappen gangly boy with misshapen face came around clumsily tripping over the dragging hem of his philosopher’s robe, now several sizes too large for him. A wide-eyed girl yet untouched by the first blush of womanhood slipped from Cirilli’s place beside the fire and giggled at the sight of the rest of us, “Look! We are children!” Only big old Bruin and William the goblin seemed unaffected by the enchantment.

“Tut, tut!” I exclaimed. The squeak of my hobniz child’s voice surprised me. “There’s bound to be some explanation.”

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The Dawn Pool

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Chapter Fifteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

While the wood remained lightless and black except the coals of Ivan’s meager fire we rose from where we camped down—happily not chained in unseelie dungeons to pay for our trespass. The violent wind of the night had travelled on into other lands but left behind its train of cold dragged down from the icy north. Ivan added sticks to the fire with the last of the drywood. So we hunched about those little flames, glad of what warmth they offered. My limbs felt stiff from chill; fingers and toes burned with the cold. In such manner I shivered through morning devotions.

“I am cold, and I am thirsty,” Myron mumbled. His mummy scarves, once more wrapped around his misshapen face, made his words difficult to discern, but I caught the ensuing taunt clear enough, “Speak to your gods, hobniz priest; work a miracle, and bring up a spring of water.” He crooked a finger at me.

I cleared my throat. “Tut, tut. Father Yoseffo, an elderly priest in Hochcoch, exercised such a gift, but my Lady has never yet granted such to me. I have not yet attained it,” I admitted. Myron dismissed my candor with a skeptical sniff.

“Breakfast or no, let’s do press on quickly,” Cirilli urged.

“The quicker we leave dark seelie wood, the better I like it,” Sir Belvenore agreed. The knight was already strapping on his heavy armor. “I’ve no love for any of this miserable wood, least of all this dreadful place.”

In short time, we had the weary horses saddled and mounted. Ivan led us along slowly lest we wander from the path and become lost in the Old Weald.  In his left hand he held the reigns of his steed, and in his right, he held aloft a burning brand. The torchlight sent shadows playing among the trees to either side of the narrow road. Gnarled faces of knot, nob, and bark, long frowning in the darkness, now glowered at us from the broad trunks of venerable ash and oak. All the woods stood silent about as we passed. None of us dared speak a word aloud in the morning darkness.

The Dawn Pool

At length the cold and silent darkness softened to the grey halflight of Dimwood morning, and I discerned that, somewhere high above the thick overshading canopy the morning sun now looked down on the old eldritch forest. Presently, the air felt less bitter, and the breath of the horses no longer steamed. What’s more, the morning songs of birds, nesting high above us, made gladsome sound. All the wood seemed less oppressive, the darkness less heavy, and the air tasted sweeter. A mile or so further and we saw a sight strange to our eyes—a bright light that we scarcely recognized: a gleaming shaft of sunlight penetrating to the forest floor. We marveled at the shimmering column of golden light in astonishment. William blinked and squinted and declared, “I never!”

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Covert of the Old Weald

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Chapter Fourteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

“Lords! My lords!” William fell to his knees, bowing and scraping before us, still trembling for the fright of the battle. “I swear by head and hide to serve thee, for I owe thee my debt of featly. But for thee, those captains would have flayed me! The ogre would crush me! The troll would tear off my arms and legs. Those bears—their claws—and that terrible eagle too! I am your servant, William, by my life!”  

“Swear to it against your own name! Swear by the ugly names of all your ugly jebli gods,” Myron menaced. “May hobgoblins ravage you, may bears maul you, may an ogre tread upon your torn corpse, may a roc carry your carcass away to feed its young, and may a troll grind his teeth on your bones if you prove false to us or do us any harm. Swear it now!”

Utterly in awe of our powers, the terrified goblin agreed to those stern oaths and swore them against his own head. Yet for all that show of fealty, none of us felt any need to unbind his wrists or grant him leave to go about as he would.

Wounds and Weals

Cirilli and I exhausted all our strength attending to Ivan, leaving Belvenore and Bruin without divine touch for their own wounds. In addition to Ivan’s sores, we had the matter of the woodsman’s horse. The troll’s great claw had raked the flesh and lamed the animal’s leg. The Backluni charger’s eyes lolled about, wild with pain. The animal staggered and stumbled, whinnying most pitifully. None could approach it to unsaddle it or remove the packs it bore. It seemed a kindness to release the poor beast from its pains, but Cirilli would not countenance it.

“Listen child. Is it meet for us to let the beast suffer?” Belvenore insisted. “Let me do the thing. She will scarcely feel the touch of my blade.”

Then rose Cirilli from Ivan’s side, drew near to the injured animal, whispered in her twitching ear, and calmed the poor beast. “She says she will suffer me to attend to her wound,” Cirilli explained. To my astonishment, the horse submitted to let her wash and bandage the torn leg.

“So she speaks horse now?” Bruin asked.

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Battle for Realbridge

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Chapter Thirteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Fireseek 27 of the common reckoning 575. I rose early, reluctant to leave the relative warmth of cloak and fur. The morning had a cold bite, and my breath steamed in the air. Despite the chill, I rose refreshed by the night. Pleasant dreams, no doubt inspired by the sacred stones, had washed away the previous day’s traumas. I communed with the divine as the dawning light broke into a magnificent sunrise over Gran March. Taking full advantage of the sacred stone upon which I stood, I beseeched my Lady of Changing Seasons and all the true gods of right and good that they might grant us success in our quest. Nor did I neglect strange Ehlonna of the forest who had summoned us hither and into the sanctuary of her favored folk.

We made a cold and numb-fingered breakfast atop Table Rock, loaded the horses, and began the descent down the western slopes back into the forest. Ivan’s charger, a native to the woodlands, carried him at the head of our troop. Sir Belvenore’s proud cavalry horse came next, followed by Sir Merciful’s which now bore young Cirilli in the unfortunate knight’s stead. My sturdy pony trotted after these, with William tethered to the horn of its saddle, plodding alongside us. Myron’s unruly mare snorted and bucked behind us, and last of all came Bruin’s stout warhorse under its heavy burden. William ran alongside as long as he could, but when his little legs tired, he consented to riding with Ivan. Now Myron rode up close beside them and took advantage of the opportunity to learn the goblin tongue. He passed the miles inquiring about the goblin word for this and for that. William happily obliged and proved to be a most capable tutor.

Realstream

Our descent to the Realstream took us on a steep plunge back under the forest canopy. We again found ourselves cloaked beneath the shadows, plodding along a well-trodden but narrow twisting pathway.All around us, the trunks stood like a sprawling colonnade, each pillar separated from the next only by the darkness of the Dim.

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Nothing but the Truth

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Chapter Twelve of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Myron’s mare protested in terror, sidestepping, then stomping its hooves, but the illusionist maintained his seat in the saddle. Gripping the mare’s flanks between his knees, he dropped both the reigns and the flaming torch he had been carrying. He raised his hands and, with a few words of incantation, discharged a potent spell. A rainbow of colored light leapt from his hands and up into the dim canopy of the path behind us. Two of the giant spiders dropped to the path like chestnuts dropping from the tree in my garden back in Hochoch.

“They will pursue us no further,” Myron said confidently. He dismounted to retrieve his still-burning torch, clambered back onto the mare, and wheeled her about. We galloped after him, leaving the fanged menaces behind us.

After that, I looked on the spellcaster with new admiration, but Bruin scolded him, “If you had that trick up your sleeve this whole time, why didn’t you play it sooner?”

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The Lumberjacks

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Chapter Nine of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

“Help me prepare fire,” Myron commanded. Even I know that trolls must be burned in fire or their wounds will heal themselves. Once severed, a troll’s limbs might reattach while the beast fights on. Myron, Cirilli, and I searched the tower chambers for flammables, oil, grease, pitch, wax, and fat while our four warriors descended by a wooden ladder to the ground level of tower and out into the court to smite those lumberjacks.  

The Two Trolls

To either side of the Witch Tree stood the trolls, chained there by some heavy enchantment. If you have never seen a troll, count yourself blessed and favored of the gods. These long-limbed gangly horrors stand a man and a half tall and more. They would stand even taller if ever they righted their posture to stand up straight. They prefer to amble along hunchbacked and arched of spine with their long and carrot-shaped noses pointed toward the ground. The flexible nose twitches and bends, this way and that, as the troll sniffs out prey. A troll’s nauseating green and grey mottled flesh is oily, slippery, and reeks like urine. Nevertheless, the skin is tough like hardened leather, like the bark of a tree, and trolls typically need no armor or clothing, or if they do wear anything at all, only skins and rags and ornaments of bone in the most primitive of manner. They are long and sinewy creatures, always appearing emaciated and famished and without any fat on their visible bones, and indeed, their appetites are insatiable. The clawed hands on the ends of their long swinging arms are their most formidable weapon. Although the troll appears spindly of limb as it totters about on long lanky legs, it is strong as a giant. Its raking clawed hands can tear a man asunder as easily as one might open a loaf of bread. Atop the troll’s angular skull grows a mass of dark writhing bristles resembling hair. For a mouth, the troll has a gnashing maw armed with sharp flesh-stripping teeth set just above its jutting chin. Most unnerving of all, black and lifeless eyes set deep in the troll’s skull glare out with a dull animal malice. The blank eyes give the troll a terrifying aspect despite the ridiculous protruding nose. I have heard that a troll might have two, three, or more heads, but I have seen only single-skulled specimens.  

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A Battle before Breakfast

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Chapter Eight of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Before first light, Cirilli and I conducted our devotions and invoked the power of our lady. Moreover, Cirilli said, “We should turn our prayers to Ehlonna in whose woods we wander and who has summoned us hither.” I shrugged off the suggestion. Cirilli raised her invocation to the fey Lady of the Wood. I left her to her reverie.

As the morning light filtered through the boughs, Ivan pointed out a path of prints in the snow circling around our camp. “Last night’s werewolf came from the tower and returned to it,” he said. Now we were perplexed. As yet, we had no better plan for assault. Ivan suggested, “If perhaps we can draw them out to pursue us …”

Myron drew our attention to something that none of us had previously noticed. Outside the tower, not more than fifty feet from its stone walls stood one lone Roan, swaying slightly as if in the wind.

“That tree was not there when we arrived yesterday,” Belvenore said. “That tree was not there even a few moments ago.”

“An illusion,” I suggested, but Myron insisted that our eyes were seeing the truth.

“If you observe, you can see that the tree is moving,” Cirilli stated. “The trees are laying siege for us.”

So it was. As we watched, we discerned the distance between the Roanwood and the tower closing. The tree slowly advanced, leaving a trail of freshly turned earth behind it. The goblins took note of the approaching Roanwood too, and they launched flaming arrows from the tower top, trying to set the menacing besieger ablaze.

Sir Belvenore exclaimed, “By Cuthbert and Heironeous! The gods are fighting for us! Now woodcutter, take your axe and drop that tree on yonder tower and let it serve us as our siege ramp.”

Cirilli objected and called it a sacrilege, but Ivan, who also revered Ehlonna, saw no moral difficulty in dropping a Roanwood tree, whether it moved about or not. We had not yet even eaten breakfast and the warriors were donning arms, armor, helm, and gear. Ivan set to the task of felling the tree while Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful shielded him from the goblin’s darts. Ivan’s axe unbalanced its immense weight. The Roanwood began to lean and groan. A few more blows and it tottered, staggered, then made a crashing fall broken by the tower’s battlements. It crushed goblins as it struck and tossed others to the ground. There it remained, leaning up against the tower, as neat a siege ramp as you could ask. The blow caused some collapse to the structure. Dislodged stones rained to the ground.

Sir Belvenore, Merciful, and Bruin immediately began to ascend the trunk, threading their way around the boughs and branches. Ivan assisted with his axe, cutting a path for their ascent. They made slow progress in their cumbersome armor, and at one point, Sir Merciful slipped to the ground. Uninjured by the fall, he clambered back on the leaning trunk, crawling on hands and knees, scrambling behind his colleagues in arms. I followed more cautiously. It took me a few tries to get up onto the great trunk, and, even after I had done so, I made only small progress up the tree not without losing my footing once. No broken bones. Cirilli helped me up, and we made the ascent together. Myron followed last and slowest.

The crown of the Roanwood rested on the battlements, making for a tangled confusion of branch, leaf, and broken stone. The fighting men pushed through the thick mass of foliage, emerging into a volley of goblin darts. Less than a dozen goblin guards remained atop to defend the battlements. They wore the sort of leather and chain armor favored by the goblinfolk, and they carried long knives, short swords, and bows.

Bruin thrust his spear into the first in the midst of the leafy obstruction. Arrows bounced off his armor and shield, but more than one punctured their way to find flesh and draw blood. By then we were all caught up in combat, swinging madly and blindly, netted in the crown of the Roanwood tree. Belvenore found one with the end of his sword. I came behind with my sickle and finished the wounded guard.

“More coming,” Bruin shouted. Free of the entangling brush, he ran his spear through another defender. The force of the thrust sent the goblin flailing over the edge of the tower, Bruin’s spear still impaling him. Sir Merciful clambered out of the tangle and rushed the last defender on the ring of the tower, thrusting him backwards and into the open center of the tower. I peered down to the ground at the center of the tower ring. I saw his broken body lying in a courtyard below. At the center of the court stood Nyssa’s oak, rising up the height of the tower, it’s crown spreading out above our heads. Even as I peered down, two great trolls with axes shamble out into the courtyard.

“Trolls below!” I shouted.

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Witch Tree Tower

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Chapter Seven of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

We travelled not some far way into the darkness of the wood that dim lit morning before Ivan indicated we ought to leave off from the road. His keen eyes followed the track of the goblin messenger. Ivan dismounted and examined the prints and trail markings before assuring us, “Our path leaves the main trail here and begins to climb this rise.”

Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful huffed and objected. “Well known that one who leaves the road never finds his way out of the forest,” Sir Merciful shook his helmeted head.

“There’s no fear of that,” Ivan assured us. “So long as I am with you, we will not lose ourselves in this wood, even if we do lose the way.”

Cirilli spoke like an oracle, “The forest will direct our path. Pay attention to the trees. They direct us now to Nyssa’s oak.” Something about the way she spoke troubled me more than the words themselves. It was not the way a proper daughter of our Lady of Changing Seasons said things. I gave her a disapproving scowl, but she turned her head, pretending not to notice my displeasure.

Belvenore and Merciful wanted to stay with the trail, but none of us said we would stay with them. They feared becoming hopelessly lost in the forest without Ivan’s assistance even if they remained on the road. Moreover, their oaths to their lord bound them to protect us and guide us as they could.

Ivan turned his attention back to studying the prints. After some few minutes of peering about in the near darkness he concluded, “This path is well-trodden. I see many goblin prints, coming and going, and also the marks of hooves. And here are the prints of a great dog … nay, not a dog, but a wolf, methinks.”

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The Chops of the Beast

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Chapter Five of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

The Chops of the Beast

We washed and changed out of our travelling clothes before coming to the baron’s table, eager to see if his larder matched his expensive taste in furnishing. He did not disappoint. We ate such a feast as one might hope at the table of a nobleman, far better than one might hope to find in the remote vales of the Dim Forest. A small army of servants busied themselves serving us fresh hot bread from the oven, golden-crusted but soft and airy on the inside, a fine vegetable soup with savory broth, a whole roasted boar, sizzling hot from the spit, and wine and ale to slake the thirst of Wenta.

Among those seated with us at table sat several knights of the Watch. Some of these personally knew Sir Belvenore and had ridden with his father in years now past. The lord baron himself, we learned, had in times afore, served beside Commandant Petros on the field of battle. The baroness sat to the right side of the baron, and despite myself, I often caught myself gazing fixedly on her. Her glance met mine on more than one occasion, and I sensed a fearsome soul behind her burning eyes. Her eyes spoke to me of wild untamed places, uncleared spaces and fading lands where fairy folk dwell, far away from fields and gardens where plows furrow the soil and sewers cast seed.

The Tale of Orlane

Having satisfied desire for food and drink, attention turned to business. The baron inquired after our affairs. I stood to my feet and bowed in the courtly fashion before speaking: “I have come to you, Lord Wulurich, by the command of our Most Resolute Magnitude Commandant Petros Gwalchen of the Gran March, who has bid me relate my tale and present these documents, recently obtained from the lair of a foul naga witch, deep in swampy Rushmoor.”

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Wolfsbane

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Chapter Four of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Wolfsbane

The morning light dawned on a scene of horror. Blood splattered the walls and washed the floors of many cottages. The afflicted resumed their human forms with no memory of the terrors of the night. More than a dozen villagers were dead, some slain by the wolves, some slain as wolves. Others came wandering into the town, naked and confused, unable to say why they awoke to find themselves alone and unclothed out in the woods.

Myron is never above sarcasm or gloating, “So what is your diagnosis master priest? What do you think? Is it merely the winter fever?”

I spent most of the day dressing wounds and invoking the gods for healing. Both Bruin and Mercifcul nursed ugly bleeding wounds. Cirilli and I treated their torn flesh. We exchanged knowing glances. At the next full moon, both men might be howling to one another.

Myron scolded Bruin, “Use your head instead of your brawn next time. What are we going to do with a werewolf your size? How are we supposed to deal with you this time?”

Bruin smiled sheepishly and explained, “I didn’t think I would get bitten.”

The afflicted were again restrained before sunset lest the affliction remain upon them under the waning moon. At sunset we burned the dead according to the custom of the villagers, and I entrusted their souls to hands of the gods.

As Luna rose, we stocked the bonfires and prepared to face the beasts again, but all remained quiet in the village. I fell into bed at midnight, utterly exhausted. I slept until late into the following morning, my sleep beset by nightmares the entire time.

The Investigation and the Mission

When I awoke, the others were already up and finished with breakfast. Cirilli sat with the daughter of Micksallicks, speaking to her about herbs and cures and how to dress her wounds. The girl showed absolutely no symptoms. If not for the torn flesh and rope burns on her wrists and ankles, I would not have believed it possible that this fair girl might be the same as that snarling, twisting creature from the previous night.

Myron took me aside, out of the girl’s earshot, and said to me, “Today, priest, we will get to the bottom of this insanity.” He proposed visiting every cottage in the village and taking inventory. I saw sense in this plan and agreed to accompany him. He put on his best face, so to speak, and we made the rounds. At each cottage we asked a series of questions, cross-examining and double-checking as best we could, and we took careful note of the answers. Was anyone here afflicted? Did anyone shift into wolfen shape? When did symptoms first manifest? Was anyone bitten? Does the afflicted possess any memory of the incident? Does the afflicted remember being bitten by a wolf or dog in the past? The investigation put me in remembrance of the diligent work we did in Orlane to solve the riddle of the naga witch’s enchantment.

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