The dim pastels of dawn trickled like honey across the swamp, shimmering in the sparse patches of the stagnant water yet to be claimed by the green. It flowed into the village, eddying around new construction and empty shelters. Pooling atop a grassy gnoll, it filled divots of dark loam left bare by Bushwhacker’s roots. Regions that would usually have been abuzz with early risers and the dungeon’s friendly greetings instead sat as silent as the first, soft snows of winter. Frozen beneath the glassy sheets of time, the fragile peace shattered as a bulky Leshy charged through the village.
Scout trundled along with two ‘offerings’ over his good shoulder, and the lightest one tucked under the elbow of his smaller limb. Jumping over a thick root, he landed in a small clearing where dozens of his kin diligently practiced throwing javelins at swinging targets. He stood nearly two heads taller than the rest as he waded through the crowd, headed westward with his load. Scout didn’t understand it, but whatever the mother had done to regrow his arm seemed to have had some unexpected consequences. Not that he was complaining; even Chief Rindguard had to look up at him now!
Pushing through, he continued West until he reached the wall of woven roots and branches that marked the furthest edge of the dungeon these days. It was certainly worrisome, if they lost any more ground, the mist would be INSIDE the walls… Finally reaching his destination, Scout dumped the load of offerings at the core’s feet.
“Thank you, Scout.” The avatar of the core looked genuinely appreciative, if somewhat distracted. “Hopefully these will give me enough.” The crimson-haired punk crouched down to grasp the carved boar tusk, and place her hand against one of the two mangroves she had carefully unwoven from ‘the wall’. He marveled as the mother seemed to pull the very substance out of the carving, and through arcane mysteries so ancient even Bushwhacker didn’t understand them, the shimmering spirit pushed that magic into the tree.
Scout only understood what was happening, when the smallest roots curled into a kind of lopsided face, with sockets filled by shimmering lights like chartreuse stars. Lifting his arms into the air, he gyrated and swayed.
“It’s a miracle, mother! Such beautiful magic!” The core gave a tired chuckle.
“Yeah, Woohoo!” she said as she mimicked his pose and put her arms in the air, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. The asymmetric behemoth of a tree looked back and forth between them as she took a brief respite. It looked at Scout’s slowly regrowing arm, then up at its own twisted trunk, and made a happy rustle. Then she picked up another offering and looked to the next mangrove.
“I got this, Scout. Can you tell Bushwhacker to take whatever supplies they’ve gathered from the front line over to Gourdo?” she asked with a tone of resigned exhaustion, pointing towards the beleaguered line of barricades. Scout wondered why the mother never called Chief Rindguard by his name but chose to forgo a verbal response she wouldn’t really understand anyway. Instead, he just nodded and put two thumbs into the air. With a small wave at the new Mangrove, he ran westward.
—
Bushwhacker pulled at the woven rope around her waist, dragging the heavy bark sled behind her. It was laden with stones, bones, and scraps of nutria pelt, leaving a furrow in her wake.
“No no, like this.” The soft, raspy voice belonged to the sage elder of the western village. Rindguard took the chunk of glittering stone out of a younger leshy’s hands. Lining up another stone, he expertly struck the quartzite, knapping off a sharp flake before handing it back. When she replicated his method satisfactorily, the former chieftain’s gourd opened up in a broad smile.
“Very good! Well done… umm…”
“Blitzkrieg!” the younger Leshy chirped. Rindguard shook his head, sighing. Bushwhacker noticed he did that a lot when members of her grove introduced themselves. It was beginning to irk her.
“Gifts from the core!” She susurrated, branches jostling.
“Wonderful! We’ll take the bones right here for handles, but the hairy giant will need those skins.” Rindguard’s gourd twisted into a dour expression, as it always did when he regarded the dwarf. She wasn’t sure why that was, but supposed ‘hairy giant’ was a step up from ‘the fleshy’, so she chose to leave it be. Dumping the bones off the sled, she picked up the rope and trudged onward.
Dagny sat in the dirt, utterly unphased by the dark shadows of the surrounding grove. All around them were scraped pelts on tanning frames, and countless little leather breastplates, grieves, and shields. Their stubbly face split into a broad grin at the sight of her.
“ ‘Ello!” they boomed. She only waved in response, offering up the furry skins. The huge dwarf picked up the slimy pelts without so much as a twinge of squeamishness and set them aside to be scraped and tanned. Then they leaned back and grabbed a heavy coil of rope, as thick as Bushwhacker’s wrist, and handed it to her.
“Here’s that string that Sabatoo…Sabotee… Here’s what Sabo wanted,” they stammered. Grinning, she made the sign of approval, looping it over her shoulder and turning to deliver the parcel.
—
Logan sat cross-legged on the ground inside the wooden dome The Manglegrove had created for them. It wasn’t the homiest location, but with cultists to the west and enemies in search of himself or Dagny to the east, he had agreed that this was the safest place for them. Marla knelt beside him, diligently counting up and organizing their supplies while he worked on his secret weapon.
The aged tome before him lay open to a page depicting the slug-like being he believed to be behind most of The Manglegrove’s troubles. An aberrant parasite known as Moit of Shub-Niggurath. On their own, they weren’t too much harder to handle than any giant slug. But once enough of them infested a host, they could become a more serious problem. What’s worse, the book even alluded to further derivations that could be spawned by these pests if they were allowed time to breed as they willed. The text before him claimed that significant burns could kill off an infested host, but their biggest weakness was cold. In fact, causing frostbite over the back of a recently infested host’s neck was one of the only ways known to actually kill the thing and save the host. So given that most of his new allies were made of wood, that had seemed like the best option.
Cursing under his breath at the oafish fumbling that the thick leather gloves he wore were causing, he held a frosted phial in one hand, and a customized arrowhead in the other. He’d already spilled a few drops of the blue liquid onto himself today and he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. This is likely the only reason he didn’t notice the Leshy approaching him, as well as how he managed not to scream and drop the bloody phial in surprise.
“FECK ME RAW!!” he gasped, barely managing to put the stopper into the glass. One of the little barbarians was tapping on his knee, and he had to fight back the instinct to kick it and grab for his knives.
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“Papa!!” his daughter said, aghast.
“Sorry… Erm… Yes? How might I help you, Mister…” he trailed off. Did Leshies have gender? Hel, did they have names? The question was quickly answered as the shrub scratched in the dirt, forcing Logan to pull out his lucky coin to see it. Written in the mud beside his book were some half-legible runes.
NED AROZ. LIK THOSE. PLIZ.
Logan was still scratching his head in confusion when he felt another tap on his knee and the feral little plant pointed urgently at the arrowhead in his hand.
“These? No. These were expensive. Besides, they’re far too big for you lot to use.” The shrub clasped its hands in a pleading gesture.
“Can you even shoot an arrow?” The plant nodded again and pointed.
“I don’t have many of these. How about I give you a normal one, ey?” The crossed arms and shaking head marked an obvious rejection, before returning to pointing at the arrow in his hand.
“Hel’s hound, you don’t give up, do you? Fine, I’ll give you one.” The shrub held up five fingers.
“Two.”
Four
“Three and you bugger off and let me work!” The shrub nodded enthusiastically. In a mildly petty move, Logan unceremoniously dumped three empty arrows into the Leshy’s arms, smirking as it struggled to carry shafts that were longer than it was tall. Another of the plants bounded in, carrying a little coil of oiled twine, greeting the arrow holder and then grasping one end of the load to team lift it out of the hut. Logan shook his head. Leshies. Of all the things out here that he could have anticipated working alongside, that had not been one of them.
The little blighters were usually an absolute nightmare to deal with. Lizardfolk may be strange and aggressive, but they could still be bartered and reasoned with if one was careful. If a Lizardfolk killed you, you knew they had a reason for it. If you made it obvious that you weren’t easy prey, they’d likely look elsewhere. Leshies? They were only a foot tall but by the time you noticed one, there were probably twenty more, and the bloodthirsty little demons didn’t seem to fear anything.
“I think they’re cute!” Marla said brightly. Logan only shivered.
—
Saboteur groaned as he and Bushwhacker dropped the heavy wooden logs onto the ground near his work clearing. The Core had taken to calling it the ‘La-bow-rah-tow-ry’ but that was too long and complicated for his liking. Bushwhacker stretched out her leaves, breathing deep after the exertion.
“What are… you working on… out here, anyway?” she panted, holding out the huge coil of heavy rope. Saboteur took it with a nod of thanks, catching his wind before he spoke.
“A weapon. Do you remember the strange bent sticks the Core tried to show us?”
“With the strings? You think that was supposed to be a weapon?” She chuckled at the idea. “Those things were a waste of time. Useless.”
“Perhaps not. I couldn’t figure them out either until I remembered something about those giants.” Saboteur preened, motioning for Bushwhacker to follow.
“Are you going to share your thoughts, or do you plan to keep me in the dark so that you can delight in … feeling …smart …” Her sentence trailed off as they passed under the stilted roots of a mangrove. There, six other Leshies busily hammered away at a gigantic mechanism of wood and leather. It was nearly four times as wide as any of them were tall. Saboteur held up the rope victoriously and the others all cheered. He tossed it to his crew, who began the laborious task of slowly bending the wood enough to allow the rope to loop around each end. With a smug expression, he turned towards Bushwhacker and nodded to the machine.
“That… you harnessed the weapon of the giants?!” she exclaimed.
“Assuming that rope works, yes.” Three Leshies fought with all their might to stretch the rope taut and loop the end over the grooved wood. When the loop finally slid home, the crew jumped backward to a safe range and waited. A tense few moments passed before the root-cove housing the weapon exploded into cries of victory and ecstatic dancing. Saboteur thrust his hands outward, rustling as bombastically as his foliage would allow.
“BEHOLD! THE POWER OF THE GIANTS, AT OUR FINGERTIPS!!” This time even Bushwhacker joined in cheers, a sight that set Saboteur's leaves aflutter.
“This is incredible! But how will you move it?” She asked. The workers all grinned at each other as Saboteur replied.
“That part is being taken care of as we speak. For now, we’re going to need that westerner… Basketweaver?” Saboteur did his best to keep the disdain from his voice.
“Weavebriar? What for?”
“He seems the most likely to know how to fuel those giant spears. If you see him, please let him know Scout would like to speak to him about that.”
“Scout? Why not you?” she asked, curiously.
“Let’s just say that this machine isn’t the only relic of the giants. Scout’s rangers are looking for the other one now, and we think the westerner is the best suited to helping us control it.” Bushwhacker nodded excitedly.
“Alright! I know where he is, I’ll fetch him!” Bushwhacker dashed back into the clearing and then eastward, out of sight. He waited till she had left before speaking to the others.
“Any word from Harrier on the status of ‘The Beast’?”
“She sent a messenger a little while ago,” a younger Leshy named Strafe spoke up. “She thinks it can be ready in time, but needs to mount the device in order to continue training.”
“Grab the hook-spears and make sure the tow lines are tied SECURELY this time. We don’t need another escape…”
—
Scout bounded eastward, hauling a bundle of atlatls to distribute to the troops. Spotting Bushwhacker headed the same way, he cut across the roots to close the distance.
“Hey!” he crackled, getting her attention. When she looked over to him, he rustled out his question as they ran. “You headed to Giermund’s Pond?”
Bushwhacker, breathing heavily, only nodded. Scout pulled out half a dozen of the spear throwers. “Can you pass these out there?”
“Sure. Weavebriar should be there now, as well. Where should I send him to meet you?” Scout’s reply was cut short by the trilling of multiple whistles to the north.
“That way!” Scout shouted over the din, leaning left and curving his path toward the direction of his rangers. Ducking through brush and briar, he followed the sounds of the whistles until they reached a familiar cypress. Tracker flagged him down, her long willowy branches waving excitedly. Her squad stood in a loose semicircle around a filthy, mud-caked bottle. Inside lay a swirling orange fluid. Scout positively beamed with pride.
“Good work!” he commended as he inspected it to be sure, then nodded to himself. They had finally found it. He just hoped Saboteur and Harrier could do their parts.
—
Bushwhacker leaped the shallow stream that brought her back to the island of her birth. He should have been watching the ritual, but even from the corners of his vision, Weavebriar would know that glorious crown of leaves anywhere. He waved her over, urgently.
“Hurry!!” he shuffled. Bushwhacker’s eyes went wide. He knew she’d been worried that her duties would keep her away and she’d miss the fruition of their efforts. Her timing was practically fate. She staggered the last few steps as the dancers came to a crescendo, with fresh bodies seamlessly switching out for exhausted performers even now. Weavebriar grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the ring. There, at the center of it all, lay the mound of skewered bugs and the hulking flytrap.
“Spirits!” Weavebriar chanted nervously. “The offerings have been made! Vitality has been given back to the soil!” He held his staff now above his head. “From death, comes new life! The guardians of your groves require a warrior!” He grasped the staff in both hands swaying emphatically. “ARISE! WARRIOR OF THE GROVE! FIERCEST AMONG THE LESHIES!”
Bushwhacker watched in awed fascination as a magic she had only ever seen the Core perform took shape at the hands of one of her own kind. The flytrap surged upward, the soil rippling as roots pulled free. It bulged, larger than Rindguard. Larger than Scout! The group of participants all stepped back as the green skin of the thing twisted itself into a bipedal form. A massive, green, fanged maw rested between its shoulders. Terrifyingly, each arm ended in another, slightly smaller mouth. The hulking warrior knelt down and began to gorge, all three mouths chomping loudly onto the brittle carapaces of the roaches they had collected there.
When it finished, the newest Leshy of the grove stood up to its full height. The carnivorous titan towered over them all, twice the height and three times the width of any other adult Leshy. This was the future, he knew. The end of their terrified nights of fighting through exhaustion without the vital energy of the sun. Unlike the Leaf-Leshy or the Gourd-Leshy, as long the Flytrap-Leshy had MEAT, they could move just fine. Even at night. It stood there, looking at all of them curiously for a moment before Weavebriar spoke again.
“Welcome, brother. What do we call you?” This would be an important moment. Two groves had worked together to make this happen. He had no way to know which it would align itself most closely with. It spoke in a wet, baritone voice that dripped with literal venom.
“Call me… Siege.” Bushwhacker grinned happily at him.
“Alright, Siege. Why don’t you follow me? Something tells me mother is going to LOVE you.”
Weavebriar trailed along behind them. He hoped this worked. One warrior wouldn’t win them the war. But if the Dungeon could use its power to sprout more of them, then this could mark the turning of the tides. He just had to hope that was the case.