The report from the adventurers they’d hired to investigate the northern forests had returned.
To the Council of the Clansmen of Basaran,
Way up north, beyond the outlying towns of Rykensvik, lies a forest previously undocumented by local cartographers. The area has been for years mostly grasslands with sparse patches of trees. As if overnight and likely by magical means, a thick, lush old wood oak forest has sprung up around Mirror Lake. At the heart of this forest is mega-flora. A massive oak tree stands at its center with a canopy stretching across a hundred yards. An unusual coalition of creatures inhabits it, all the non-human variety. We have contacted the residents of this forest. There is a thunder mage slime, a snowy owl-kin, a centaur, a wolf-kin or werewolf, and controlling all of this is a giant sentient oak treant whose name is “Oakengrove”.
Legends tell of a similar creature by the same name. However, our research mentioned that Oakengrove was a ceremonial tree that burnt down a couple hundred years ago. However, I also have a word of warning. Oakengrove is a creature of immense arcane power and is not afraid of using it. When our best mage used a detection spell to gauge his magical prowess, Oakengrove’s aura overwhelmed her.
He also gave us a warning. He wishes to be left alone and that no outsider trespass upon his forest.
Roderick Franco Helsmouth
Green Thorn Warband
Castias set down the note on the oval wooden table. The lamia adjusted himself atop his coiled tail. “I find it hard to believe that the deity of Florism has not just manifested but chose to live in isolation from his own worshippers.”
Sitting beside him was a large, white, burly, large-bearded human man with long locks of black hair. “I’m more concerned that we have something that goes by the name of a deity and has enough magical presence to upset your stomach simply by awakening. We could very well have the second coming.”
Across the table was a scrawnier red-head man in a dark blue and green plaid kilt and tan shirt. “High King, if this entity wants to be left alone, I say it’s best that we do so.”
Beside him was a slightly older male with scraggly brown hair and a scar on his right cheek. “Kane, we’re talking about the return of our god. Would you not want to see the very deity that created the Basar people?”
Kane shrugged. “You know me, Theo. I believe in man-made steel. Steel wins wars, tills fields, Religion doesn’t.”
Theodore let out a sigh. “More garden space for me then.”
“Druid Hranji,” Oswald turned to the lamia. “Would it be too much of a hassle for you to visit this treant as an envoy of the Basar Clans and as the Druid of the Florist Faith?”
“I suppose not,” Castias hesitantly responded. “It’ll take at least a month if not longer to get there.”
“So be it. Safe travels.” Oswald wished him aloud.
“Back to the important matters at hand,” interjected another council member. “Rykensvik is showing weariness in dealing with the Arkinics and Solists. The Empires need to be brought to the table.”
“I’m well aware of the situation Gilli,” Oswald raised his hand. “Theodore Malus, where are your fleets?”
“Awaiting orders. Docked on an island just southeast.” Theodore replied.
“Marlyn, Ornsson, and Harringold rally your men and board them. We’re going to hit the Arkinics where it hurts.”
The Green Thorn Warband, a name coined by Dmahdi, was the official unofficial name of Roderick’s group of sellswords and mercenaries. They’d gathered enough coin to have a permanent residence within the town of Gelwood and, in a way, almost successfully chased out the international “Adventurer’s Guild”. Most of the time, when it came to matters that the town guard deemed “Not their responsibility,” Roderick’s group picked up the slack.
The Adventurer’s Guild was a multinational independent organization focused on handling monsters, nuisances, otherworldly encounters, and other tasks. Despite the overall success of the organization and the communities it safeguarded, there had been a decline in the number of adventurers, sellswords, and bounty hunters in recent years, with a third retiring and the rest perishing on quests. The spike in mission fatalities forced the Adventurer’s Guild to withdraw from its less profitable territories. Gelwood was one of those branch closures.
The Green Thorn Warband was not an organization, it was simply a name behind the group of individuals that replaced the Adventurer’s Guild when the town needed it. Roderick charged little for most quests, as clearing out pests and other odd jobs was often easy enough to do solo. As long as it covered meals and lodging, with some extra, it was good. The group had bought themselves a “guildhall” of sorts. It was an old, unoccupied house that the town was desperately trying to sell off to some poor schmuck. Two years ago, the property was almost worth demolishing and replacing. Today, the four-bedroom, one kitchen and now walled-in yard, was worth nearly as much as the high-end residences on the opposite side of town.
The basement was the inglorious junk drawer of the whole house, and Roderick was performing the annual reorganizing project. Wooden boxes filled with random junk accumulated from various quests, old armor pieces, old weapons, and other knick-knacks. To venture to the dwarven continent and deal with gnolls, Roderick was looking for any old gear that could be useful. It was also an excuse for him to escape the ensuing argument on the floor above him.
Sedel and Finnegan argued rather regularly, often about pointless things. However, it would always get heated, and it was almost, without fail, first thing in the morning. They both fell silent, however, when Dmahdi came through the front door with a concerned and confused look.
Roshka peered from around the corner. “Dmahdi? What’s with the look?”
“The forest is back,” Dmahdi said hesitantly.
“What?!” they all said in unison.
Dmahdi opened the door, revealing a massive twenty-foot-long red-scaled male lamia at their doorstep. He bowed his head and his long ginger locks fell in front of his face. He wore a long white and red cotton tunic with a thick leather kidney belt. “Pardon the interruption, I am Castias Hranji, Druid of Florism.”
Behind him, the weather had gotten worse. It was dark gray and cold. The rain will be falling soon.
He straightened out his posture and asked, “May I come in?”
Roshka motioned for him to come in, although in doing so, made the entryway very cramped. “You said you were the druid of Florism?”
Castias nodded. “I am.”
Sedel sighed and placed a hand on Dmahdi’s shoulder, “Florism is not the forest, it’s a religion about the natural order. It just sounds like it.”
There was a delayed but very big, wide-eyed realization from the Orc. “Oooooh, that makes sense. I heard forestism and thought Oakengrove sent someone after us.”
Sedel walked over to the basement door. “Let me go collect Roderick.” She opened the door and yelled down, “Roderick! Get the fuck up here!” Then she slammed the door, turned back around with a wide smirk, “he’ll be up in a minute.”
“Anyhow,” Roshka switched gears back to the unexpected guest. “What brings you here, Druid Hranji?”
“I come seeking a guide to this treant called Oakengrove. I received Roderick’s letter and made haste to find you all.” Castias explained.
Roderick came up the stairs and closed the door behind him, rubbing his head. “Sedel, for the love of all that is holy, please don’t do that. I knocked a stack of crates over and got beaned by Dmahdi’s old gauntlets.”
Sedel shrugged, “oops.”
Roderick then caught sight of the giant lamia and was surprised. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“Castias Hranji, Druid of Florism. I came here because of your letter to the Council.” The lamia clasped his hands together. “I need a guide to Oakengrove’s forest, as it is imperative that I speak with him. You all have been there before and, therefore, are the best ones to take me there.”
“Woah, woah, hold your horses there, pal.” Roderick waved his hands out in front of him. “We already promised ourselves to this next job, which is taking us abroad to the Dwarven Kingdom. And,” he said with an extra heavy emphasis on the word. “We wiped our hands clean of this when I sent the council the letter and got the payment.”
“How does having your trip abroad subsidized sound?” Castias smiled with determination.
Roderick paused. “What do you mean by that?”
“A boat is hired, crewed, and paid for by me, a month’s worth of provisions will also be bought on my tab.” Castias pulled his backpack off and flipped open the flap into the main compartment, withdrawing a large burlap coin purse. “In here are twelve hundred platinum coins which should cover all your necessities.”
Roderick sucked in his lips and slowly rocked his head, thinking about it. “If I may have a moment with my group to discuss this,” he said, motioning for them to follow him into a side room.
The group followed him into one of the side rooms and closed the door.
“Twelve Hundred fucking plat. We could sail on a luxury sailing ship with that kind of money,” Roderick said, tapping his chin.
“You saw those creatures, Ricky,” Sedel protested. “That slime alone could end us all with a single spell, much less what that treant could do with even less effort.”
“Yes, I know, I know. Just imagine. Twelve hundred plat, though.” Roderick’s eyes were glistening.
Dmahdi crossed her arms. “I do not trust snake man out there. Something is wrong.”
Roshka nodded. “He is the Druid, no doubts about it. However, I must agree, from what I know of Basar legends, assuming this is the same entity, Oakengrove was burned by his own worshippers for reasons unknown. If we bring a Florist, even the head of the faith, to Oakengrove directly, there is a chance he may lash out.”
Finnegan held up an orange paw. “What if we just take him to the edges and then leave him there?”
Roshka quickly glanced at Finnegan. “Are you mad, Finny? You don’t just leave a notable figurehead all alone in the woods.”
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Roderick pointed towards Finnegan. “Actually, he has a point. This snake man traveled all the way here alone, by the looks of it. This could be a conman or one of the many highwaymen clans we’ve fucked with.”
“Roderick,” Roshka shook his head. “The Basar Lamia are too few in numbers and most of them are so damnably arrogant, they’d never stoop that low. They’d sooner starve to death than take a handout. They quite literally have a culture dedicated to pride and appearances.”
“All in favor of taking the Druid to the Treant’s forest, raise your hand.” Roderick started up the vote, anyway.
Roshka and Finnegan raised their paws.
“All against?”
Sedel and Dmahdi raised their hands.
“Fucking figures…” Roderick let out a very heavy sigh. “Hells be damned,” he said, pulling a gold coin from his bag. “Heads, yes, tails, no.”
Roderick flicked the coin into the air, causing it to spin about on its lateral axis. It hit the wooden floor at an angle and bounced several feet, flipping again and again with each impact. It settled just a few feet from the door and Roderick walked over to it. “Heads.”
Reluctantly, Sedel and Dmahdi both nodded their heads in acknowledgment. The group then stepped out of their private meeting room and Roderick walked up to the red-scaled lamia. “The Green Thorn Warband will take you to Oakengrove’s Forest.”
The forest that Oakengrove called home had grown immensely since the warband had last been there. It had been two months. Flowering and berry bushes, ferns, thorn bushes, and ground ivy lined the edges of the treeline. The entire forest looked like it had been there for centuries. Many of the oak trees were multiple feet thick, with massive bushy canopies. Birch, ash, and fruit trees were in the mix, adding a visual spice to the forest’s appearance. Discarded crab apples, pears, and leaves, most of which had critter bites in them, covered the ground.
They’d arrived late into the afternoon, the pocket sundial they’d brought with them marked it just before five hours past midday. They set up tents and placed a small campfire at the center of camp, using wood scrap and ground litter found in the area, as they refused to run foul of Oakengrove.
Castias stood at the foot of the forest, staring into the dark enclave. “Beyond the haven of Anslo, lays a beast, a monster, a fallen god.”
Sedel overheard part of his mumblings as she was walking by. Hearing the words ‘fallen god’ caught her attention, and she followed him. The lamia, against Roderick’s judgment, slithered into the forest, undeterred. Sedel kept a safe distance between her and the druid, following him into the shadowy depths of the forest.
The home tree had some new adornments since she’d last seen it. At its base was a large forge-like area with tanning racks, armor stands, and a large coal-fired forge. Up on the branches were squarish structures with window frames, likely rooms for the residents. However, there was a lot more than she thought there would be. She counted seven rooms from where she was. The canopy got thicker the further up and likely obscured more dwelling areas.
Castias slithered out into the clearing, eyeing his flanks suspiciously. However, he didn’t slide up to the front door, but went around the back where there was an open-face mini-forge built and idling vacantly.
Sedel stayed within the treeline, watching. For several minutes, the forest was eerily silent and Castias hadn’t reappeared from behind the giant tree. Her grip on the staff tightened, and she gritted her teeth, “What is he up to?” She mumbled to herself.
Suddenly, there was a wood-like, chittering noise behind her, and slowly, she turned to look at it.
Standing before her, although short in stature, was a dune ant clad in heavy layered plate armor. Brown antennae whisked through the air and yellow bug eyes seemingly stared at her despite being pupil-less. The shade muted the brown carapace, overshadowed by the bright orange metal plates and yellow clothes. The bug held a Khopesh in its right hand and a large carapace half shell as a makeshift shield. It wasn’t actively threatening in its scarily stealthy stance, but its presence unnerved Sedel.
Sedel slowly rose and fully turned to face the creature, leaving her staff on the ground and her hands raised. “Are you with Oakengrove?”
The insect chattered its mandibles and sheathed its Khopesh into a bracket on the inside of the shield. Much to Sedel’s surprise, a jittery female voice came from the insectoid. “Simadger,” the bug held out a clawed hand.
“Sedel,” the wood elf responded. “How are you that quiet in that heavy plate armor?”
Simadger appeared to be grinning. “Practice and some pine sap to keep the plates sealed together.”
Sedel nodded, impressed. She leaned over and picked up her staff, throwing another look towards the giant tree. “Is Oakengrove home?”
Simadger stepped up to the tree line. “He is away today, gone to visit a village just east of here. I saw that you’ve brought a red-scaled friend.”
Sedel awkwardly chuckled. “Not a friend, so to speak, but a druid.”
Simadger walked towards the giant tree. “I will speak with him. Go back to your party and go home. These forests are off-limits to outsiders.”
Simadger didn’t have to tell Sedel twice. Without even saying goodbye, she turned away from the tree and sprinted back to camp.
Castias was rummaging through the forge. “He’s a deity. Why is he playing with earthly materials? Perhaps it’s an imposter?” The forge was cold and the water bucket was empty, but the coals were dry. It hadn’t been used for several days. Resting upright in barrels were a collection of tools, fishing spears, javelins, and wood axes. He picked up a fishing spear and examined it. The spear displayed excellent craftsmanship, with no apparent defects in either the wood grain or the metalworking. Oakengrove had a master smith serving him or he himself was a master smith.
Simadger leaned against the kiln, quietly watching the lamia’s fascination with Frida’s crafts. As minutes passed, however, she became bored and made herself known, forcibly clanging her carapace shield against the stone kiln. “Ahem.”
With a nasty snap, Castias jolted and faced the dune ant. “Who are you?”
Simadger began walking towards him, no weapon drawn, but casually visible in its holster. “I am Simadger, a servant to Oakengrove. Why are you snooping around like some common thief?”
Castias took offense to the brown dune ant’s egregious assumption and took no effort to hide it. “How rude. I am Castias Hranji, Druid of Florism. And for your knowledge, I am not snooping around like some thug. I am taking time to appreciate the crafts.”
Simadger would’ve rolled her eyes if she could. She knew damn well that the snake was lying right between the gap in his fangs. “If you seek an audience with the master himself, then knock. Should he catch you ogling Frida’s work, he’d treat you like nothing more than a petty thief. What self-respecting religious leader goes straight to someone else’s possessions, if not to line his own pockets?”
Castias snarled and flared his jaw, snapping venomous fangs into place. “Watch your tongue, worker. I will not be accosted by some—”
The term ‘worker’ pissed off the dune ant. Before the snake could even finish his sentence, Simadger drew her Khopesh and hastily pressed it to his throat. “I may be a dune ant, perhaps a lesser being by your self-righteous standings, but know this, serpent, all mortals bleed red.”
Quickly, the red-scaled lamia thrust his palm upwards, knocking the Khopesh aside, and began casting a spell. A few arcane words, and a fist-sized ball of flame ejected from his other hand. The fireball hit the dune ant at center mass and staggered her. The snake coiled his tail and propelled himself forward, fist out front and connected with the shield, knocking the ant onto her gaster.
Castias had the advantage, if only briefly. Simadger got back up and readied herself, inviting the arrogant snake to try again.
Castias cast another spell, now given time to fully incant. From his hands, green mist swirled around his fingers, and thorny vines ensnared the ant’s legs.
Simadger clicked her mandibles rapidly and pointed her Khopesh at him. From the forest itself, a buzzing noise rapidly grew louder and louder, as swarms of bees and wasps formed a cloud of stinging death and barreled straight for the snake. He couldn’t truly defend against a thousand insect-strong swarm of stingers and bites. The bees and wasps formed a cloud of stinging death and barreled straight for the snake, stinging and inflaming his body and face, obscuring his vision.
He groaned and threw out his arms, creating a thick cloud of smoke, suffocating the insect swarm quickly.
Simadger cut at the vines that held her in place and took a few steps back, trying to draw him out.
A spear came from within the smoke cloud and impaled the insectoid’s shield, cracking and rendering it worthless. She gripped the Khopesh tighter and readied herself for another attack. However, a second attack never came, and the smoke dissipated.
The snake was visible and weirdly ensnared in a similar vine trap. However, the vines in question comprised poison ivy and thorns. Then came a very heavy chuckle. “Well done, Simadger.” Walking up beside her was the behemoth of a treant himself. “Explain to me what happened.”
Simadger dropped her Khopesh and took a seat on the ground. “I encountered our elven friend, the one who had visited us the other month, and she informed me that this lamia had come to see you. However, I found him snooping around and found my presence to be repulsive. The rest is obvious.”
Oakengrove nodded. “Head inside and rest up. Have Frida fix that shield. I’ll take care of this one.”
Simadger got up and, with urgency, made her way inside.
Oakengrove dropped the vine spell and walked up to the snake menacingly. “Give me one reason.”
Castias’ eyes darted around, looking for an escape. “I came looking for you when that ant accused me of petty thievery. I was not aware they were a servant of yours, for which I must apologize.”
Oakengrove pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Who are you?”
“Castias Hranji, Druid of Florism. Are you truly Oakengrove?”
“The one and only. So what is it you wanted to meet with me about?”
Castias pulled out a weirdly shaped artifact from his satchel. It was small, roughly an arm’s length, with a metallic bladed chain wrapped around a thin but long metal protrusion. The hand guard fully encased part of the item and he lifted it threateningly. “I’ve come to ensure that Florism does not fall to the hands of a dead god.”
The treant raised a finger. “You, a religious leader, want to kill me? What have I done?”
The chain on the artifact revved up and spun along the track made by the metallic protrusion. It was no sword of traditional design and it made a racket of a noise of metal grinding. “You came back…” The lamia lunged forward and plunged the whirring metal artifact into Oakengrove’s wooden side. With a click of a button on the handle, the whirring metal chain slung itself faster, chewing up the wood that made Oakengrove’s flesh and spat it out into a mist of sawdust.
Oakengrove had a very dangerous realization. The artifact was a chainsaw, a very portable and functioning chainsaw. He lept off to the side and gathered himself, casting several short protective spells on himself. “I simply wish to be left alone, but if my presence is a threat, then let me show just how dangerous I am.”
Castias lunged again, but the chainsaw bounced off of Oakengrove. The snake then pushed his other hand forward and from it, a plume of bright orange flame licked Oakengrove’s abdomen. As the spell died off, the treant’s front was half charred and blackish.
Oakengrove’s eyes turned red with rage and, with his right fist, plunged Castias’ face into the dirt below him. Then he lifted a foot to stomp down, only to land on the chainsaw instead. The chains carved a path through his heel and into his leg, shredding the core into a pulp. He pulled back his leg and kicked off the weapon.
Castias hissed violently and threw out a hand, chucking a fireball at the treant. “Burn heretic.” The fireball exploded against the treant’s chest, engulfing him in the fire for a moment, but left behind minor damage.
“Cheap party trick.” Oakengrove spat back. In the grip of his hand grew a very long thorny vine that draped across the ground. He drew back and snapped the vine whip at the snake. With a thunderous crack, the vine wrapped around Castias and dug its six-inch thorns into his flesh. He yanked on it, pulled the snake in and dislodged the vine, leaving behind the thorns. With his other hand moved in to punch and struck him across the face, again knocking him into the dirt.
From down below, Castias swung his tail and coiled around the treant’s legs. With a hard yank, he pulled himself up and into Oakengrove’s face. He spat poison from his fangs into his eyes. Oakengrove was unaffected by the poison spray and let out a hearty chuckle.
He grabbed the snake by the throat and threw himself forward, pinning the snake beneath his hulking wooden body. He wound up another punch and aimed straight, shattering the lamia’s nose and causing immense bleeding.
The snake tried to break free but couldn’t, resorting to summoning an ice crystal into his hand and plunging it into the treant’s neck. The shard broke through the tough bark skin and, with some extra power, doubled its size, splintering a good chunk of Oakengrove’s neck.
Spontaneously appearing on his shoulder was a small mushroom creature. Ghostly white in appearance with an adorably tiny cap, it seemed to smile through a flex in the cap. Blueish light emitted from its hands and the gaping wound left behind by the ice crystal was no more.
Oakengrove felt a wave of rejuvenation come over him, like a chilly breeze down the neck. He pulled back his head and slammed it forward, caving in the lamia’s skull. The serpent’s grip loosened as the body fell limp.
The treant stood up and pulled himself out of the coiled crimson tail. He dusted off his hands and cracked a gnarly grin. “I’m a heretic, eh? Hardly, ya fucking peasant.” His gaze then turned to the tiny mushroom on his left shoulder. “I appreciate the healing there, little one. Where’d you learn to do that?”
The enoki mushroom pointed towards the moon, barely visible in the bright blue sky.
The autumn season brought forth the bright coloring of reds and oranges amongst the tree leaves, signaling the time for harvest. The Basar council had gathered again for its weekly meeting.
“Has anyone received word from Castias Hranji?” High King Oswald asked the other clan chieftains.
Theodore Malus shook his head. “I haven’t. I can send a runner to Rykensvik to see if perhaps he’s been staying there.”
Kane shook his head. “Doubtful. Something must’ve gone awry. I told him it was a bad idea to go without escort, even if he hired that Green Thorn Warband.”
Oswald placed a hand upon his beard. “For now, we confined the Solists to their continent. I want a search party to head up north and find that snake.”