Tag: Under the Goblin Trees

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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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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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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Web of Shadows

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Chapter Eleven of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Snow fell again, heavier than the days before, as we bade our farewells and made our way again under the darkening canopy of the Dim Forest. Ivan, ever wary, rode ahead upon his fine charger, followed in order by Sir Belvenore, I riding upon Crilli’s pony, and she upon Sir Merciful’s steed. Myron still sat upon his unruly mare, and, last of all, came Bruin the Bear upon his stout warhorse.

Ivan led us deeper yet into the forest, under the heavy ceiling of winter’s withered fuinoria leaves, but soon he found the path he sought. He called it “the road,” but this road was fit not for cart or wagon. It was scarcely more than a worn path that snaked and wound through the darkness with many other possible routes branching off here and there and disappearing into the dim. No straight way seemed possible, and without an able guide such as our woodsman, one might quickly lose the road and wander hopelessly lost in that twisting maze of shadows though endless colonnade of enormous trunks. Many deadfalls hampered our way, again and again, forcing us to weave away from the trail and back, and I often feared we might turn about entirely in the darkness. Our way slowly climbed in elevation as we ascended forest’s spine up the Taura Ridge. From time to time I seemed to see dark forms lurking near the trail and eyes of unknown creatures staring from the shadows.

This deep into the forest, no flake of snow fell upon the ground, for the overshadowing canopy held it all aloft, forming over our heads a soggy dripping blanket which blocked out even more of the sunlight, leaving us ever in a perpetual dusk by day and a deep starless blackness by night as Nerull would have it. Thick silence muffled all the wood round about. As if the silence forbade interruption, none of us spoke a word to one another. Only the steady plod of the horses hooves upon the soil made sound. Despite the cold, dark, miserable nights, we kept our flickering campfire small and dim, both for caution and of a necessity, for dry wood consenting to burn proved scarce, and the smoke hung about us, choking the air.

A Cry for Help

So we travelled in this manner for a day and a night and half a day again, or so we believed from the turn of dusky half-light to absolute pitch blackness and back again. Then came a sound on that second day: a thin voice hallooing for help.

“Many wicked things dwell in these dark places,” Ivan warned. “Some ghost or devil calls out to us to lead us into his trap.”

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Hall of the Dryad Queen

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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.”

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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 Dryad

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Chapter Six of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

The Dryad

I latched the door of my bedchamber behind me and opened my psalter, praying fervently to the Lady of Ever-Changing Seasons for protection through the night. I laid down, still fearful. As drowsiness closed my eyes, a soft knock at my door startled me to full consciousness. I got up and lifted the latch cautiously. Cirilli entered with a candle, and Myron trailed behind her.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“You need to hear what she has to tell,” Myron said.

Clandestine Converse

Cirilli sat herself down on the edge of my bed and began her tale. “Last night, after the household had fallen quiet, I spoke with the baroness. She stealthily sent word to me by the hand of her maidservant, inviting me to meet her atop the tower. I went as she requested, and in the privacy of the night air, she told me her tale. I have spent much of the day today in her company as well. No elf-lady nor one of olven blood, but rather, she is a nobleborn of the forest, queen of oaks, stolen away from her great tree which grows not far from this place. She is no willing wife to the baron, either. He has brought her here by force, and he keeps her imprisoned at his side in this house. She dares not flee nor resist, for he holds her life in his hands. The false-hearted baron has made a hostage of the great oak to which her soul is tethered, and he has left strong axmen to guard it, ever ready to strike. They keep the blades of their axes sharp, and they are prepared to drop the tree if she should resist the lord baron or flee from this place. And here is the treacherous design he has devised. Each day, he sends a certain messenger to the axmen who dwell within a tower that rings about her sacred tree. The messenger instructs the axmen to let the tree stand for another day. If on any day this messenger should fail to arrive at the tower by the designated time, the axmen have been instructed to fell that mighty oak, and she will perish from the earth.”

“A horrid arrangement,” I muttered.

“Yes,” Cirilli agreed. “But there is more to the story. The lord baron is not as he seems, nor is he a loyal nobleman of the March, but he himself is a lord of werewolves. Not only he, but all the men and women of the house as well. Except the lady Nyssa’s maidservant, who is herself a nymphmaid from the forest, all the servants and court are under the curse. From the lowest washerwoman to the noblest knight, they are vile werewolves within, and they are all under the control of Baron Wulurich. Moreover, the lord baron is the very one who set that same curse upon the village Roanwood, and he alone can lift the curse. All these matters I learned from the solemn-eyed baroness, the lady Nyssa, who is most cruelly imprisoned here against her will.” Tears of empathy moistened Cirilli’s eyes, and she choked upon a stifled sob.

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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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