The stables of Krandaelyn had set aside a simple wooden cart plated in metal for the group. There were no horses or beasts of burden to carry the boxy vehicle, but four runes carved onto the hub of the wheels allowed the wagon to move on its own when commanded. Runes such as these were known to be very valuable in magic-adjacent communities.

Wendigoth must have really wanted them out.

“I hope you plan on accompanying us,” Frank said, offering a hand to help Circe into the cart. “It has been a nice change of pace to have another spell caster in our ranks.”

She took his hand and sat opposite him, “It has been more entertaining than watching travelers from the tree line, I suppose.”

Flynn and Arsa were watching the church. They could see through the windows where people were praying and going about their daily tasks. Flynn’s constant bouncing up and down was irritating, but Arsa said nothing about it.

“You don’t actually think the Barons will do anything to them, do you?” the half-elf asked.

Arsa looked at the ground but said nothing. He hoisted himself up to the cart without looking at Flynn.

Acadian was sharpening his dagger at the front when he noticed Gostor was gone. He glanced around quickly, looking for the dwarf, but found nothing. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were glowing a dark red. The rest of his vision had lost all color, save for dirty footprints in the cobblestone that led out of the city gate, lit with the same color as Acadian’s eyes.

After ensuring the others were safely sat in the cart, he commanded the wheels to turn. Instantly, the carriage lurched forward and tumbled out of Krandaelyn.

Acadian used his hand to guide the vehicle in the direction of Gostor’s footprints, leading them northward.

It was not long before the moderately paced cart caught up with Gostor, who was running on all fours along the trade route.

“Coulda at least said bye,” Acadian scolded from the cart.

Gostor snorted and shook his head like a horse, “Must find witch.” Acadian noticed the dwarf’s eyes glowing orange and understood the magic he was using.

“Well, git on up here. We’ll find her faster on wheels than… whatever the hell you’re doin’ down there.”

With Gostor leading the way up at the front, they spent the day traveling along the main road. They passed the Danheim Forest and traveled beyond the abandoned town of Konne. By sunset, the helpful speed of the enchanted cart brought them to the woods nestled just before the Dalneau Mountains.

The forest, known locally as Woodrand’s Growth, was thick with dark-leafed trees and thorned thickets. The soil blackened underfoot as the shadows from the canopy enveloped the group. Quickly, the golden colors of sunset disappeared as they were left to the nightly visage of the Growth.

The darkness was broken only by the occasional stream of fleeting sunlight or the flicker of a firefly. As they traveled deeper into the woods, Acadian was forced to slow their speed to avoid maneuvering off the flattened earth. Frank crawled closer to the front as his tattoos began to light a bright white. A small globe of pure light formed in his hand and held itself aloft, freely floating before the cart.

He returned to his seat across from Circe and reclined across the backrest.

“Looks like we’re a real party of adventurers now, huh?” he said.

Acadian turned in his seat to face everyone, “Seems to be the case, I reckon. Listen here, if we’re gonna be workin’ together - all of us - we need to set some ground rules.”

They all sat up straight to listen. Even Gostor seemed to be paying attention.

“Rule number one,” he started. “We ain’t leavin’ anyone behind. We go into things together, we come out together. Number two. We gotta be on the same page. Our stories gotta be straight - can’t have another screw-up like what happened back in Krandaelyn.

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Number three. We share what we get. Everythin’ is split evenly, nobody’s comin’ away with more than the other. Number four, last one. We tell one another the truth. No hidin’ stuff or keepin’ secrets. Ya hear me? Any objections?”

They all nodded in agreement. Flynn’s head hung low, knowing he had already broken most of the rules. An apology pushed at the back of his throat, but Arsa’s dry mouth opened before he could say anything.

“I have a confession,” he said. “But I need everyone to keep an open mind.” They all watched him, the glowing orb casting dramatic shadows across the far side of his face.

He pulled his bag around and sat it on his lap. With shaky hands, he unlatched the satchel and reached inside. He lifted out the egg, its amethyst texture shimmering against the globe.

Flynn and Frank looked confused, while Circe’s mouth hung slightly agape. Acadian had gone completely still.

“Where…” he whispered, his eyes twitching.

Arsa pulled the egg closer to his chest.

“In the Danheim. At the statue when Gostor ran off. I couldn’t leave it there.”

The cart stopped.

“Yes,” Acadian stood. “You could have left it there. Or killed it. Or told us about it so I could kill it.” He pulled out his dagger from its sheath.

Arsa stood and moved away from him as Circe rose and grabbed Acadian’s arm, raised and ready to ruin the beast. Frank stood in front of Arsa, defending him from the rage that was quickly overtaking the elder elf.

Flynn was shaking his head, still surprised and confused.

“What is it?” he asked.

Acadian was pushing Circe off him, but her grip was relentless, “It’s an amethyst dragon. A monster that’ll kill us all when it hatches.”

Arsa had gotten off the cart, “No. Remember what I told you. Please, Acadian. Dragons are not predestined to hurt people. Give them no reason to kill and they won’t. How else should they respond when this is what we meet them with?”

Acadian stilled. The fear and pleading in Arsa’s eyes gave him pause. He recognized the terrified expression. It was the same look of terror that contorted many of the faces in the town of Elkstaaid. The burnt and scarred faces of those whose final moments were set before the maw of a dragon.

He dropped his dagger into the bed of the wagon. He looked between the rest of his party, all staring at him, breathless. Slowly, he sat back down, facing away from them all. There was a long pause before Arsa approached the cart again.

“When it hurts you - when it hurts any of us - I will kill it.”

~

The moonlight barely cut through the leaves of the trees, the darkness of the forest growing more suffocating by the hour. This deep into the woods, even the fireflies seemed to scatter to the wind. The only sounds were that of distant owls or the ghostly whistle of wind between bone-like branches.

Gostor was becoming tired from the day-long use of energy to track the fleeting traces of the witch. What had once been the bright amber trail of magic was fleeting into a faint string that lingered by the damp earthen forest floor.

Circe felt as calm as she always did in the forest. Each leaf that flittered to the ground, each rock that buried itself in the mud, every inch of moss that clung to the bark of a tree - she knew them all. She hadn’t always felt this connection, but when she had awoken, so too did the voices of nature. It was this voice that caught her pointed ear as a twig snapped several feet behind them.

Gazing out into the darkness, her eyes could only cut through so much of the shadows. Even still, the quiet snip snip of what sounded like scissors reached her from behind a tree.

“Stop the cart,” she commanded. Acadian hesitated but stopped when she demanded it again.

Snip snip.

Arsa heard it this time. He readied an arrow and stood behind Circe.

“Show yourself,” Circe shouted.

The sound of metal scraping continued, like the sharp hiss of a blade against stone. From behind the tree, a humanoid figure stepped slowly through the shadows. As it came close to the radiating light of Frank’s magic, its twisted form became clearer. The thing was draped in a grotesque coat of damp leather, stitched together with some sort of thick cord. Where its hands should have been, long blades extended in a curved arc, dark, clotted blood staining the steel.

Upon its head was a hat stitched from the same leather, the brim of which covered its face. From under the hat, matted black hair fell untamely on its shoulders. As it tilted its head up to meet the party, a mouthless jaw of dead, pale skin greeted them.

Arsa aimed an arrow at the creature as he shouted, “Stay back. Don’t come any closer…” His voice trailed off as his words were disregarded.

The creature stepped further into the light, revealing itself in more macabre detail. With Frank’s light glistening off the blood seams of the coat, it became clear the creature was not wearing a jacket of leather.

It was a suit of skin.