After a brief farewell, ALyks trots off towards the Mossholm rail station, ready to begin the winding voyage through the hills and forests, then into the mountains and tunnels, through valley and slope till he reaches lofty Hasloc. You watch him go, then set off yourself in the direction of the glade he pointed out to you. While you find the satyrs you were meant to spend the next several years with, it turns out that there had been some sort of misunderstanding, and they are completely unable to find work or space for you there.
They do, however, promise to find
some sort of glade for you to spend time and and inbibe the wonders of the forest in before you inherit your estate. As they day wears on, and you are sent on ever more complex routes to smaller and darker glades and clearings, you begin to doubt that they had really prepared any place for you at all. After a final and rather obtuse series of directions, however, you arrive at a modest and secluded glade, which nonetheless obviously has plenty of space and tree-work to be done. The satyr greeting you, Havier, seems a little odd, and you can't quite recognise the type of obviously cogniscent great-tree at the centre of the glade, apparently called Harold, though you don't ask, not wishing to seem rude. You doubt that
they'd seen any of the not insubstantial fee for your keeping, and feel that the conditions of your stay had likely not been explained very clearly, but resolve to illuminate them in the morning.
Havier chats to you a little about how your day was, though when questioned, he seems a little simple, telling you that the glade's owner was actually Harold, and as was evident from the piles of unswept leaves, tortous branches and random foliage nearby, had no or little idea what work you would really be doing. Harold says little throughout the whole encounter, startling you once towards the end of the evening, by sniffing deeply and remarking, "He'll do."
After a brief spell of forestry, you sleep on the hard earth floor, resolving to make a leaf-bed in the morning, as the soil had been drained of moisture, as if by some sort of unusually tenacious parasite. However, by the time the moon is high in the sky, you hear a creaking sound nearby, waking you up. It seems to be Harold, moving his branches. You see that for some reason, Havier had not extinguished the torch before you settled down for the night, and with a heightening sense of dread, that your hands had been bound with a sticky, unrecognisable kind of sap, and you are completely unable to move them. Havier is standing over you, pawing at the ground excitedly. When they notice that you're awake, the creaking intensifies as Harold seems to work himself up into a fury, while the satyr forces you upright, grabbing the now-hardened ball of sap round your hands, and frogmarches you towards Harold's gaping mouth.
Desperately, you tried to strike out at the satyr, muttering cantrips that you forget halfway though, and striking at his stomach ineffectively with your arms. The gaping tree-mouth of what is now obviously an evil and parasitic being draws closer and closer, till you can smell the hypnotic fumes it had obviously used to force Havier to do its will.
"Yes, yes, be good now, don't struggle," he mutters, "soon you will join with him, won't need to go far from home, will be protected and nurtured and loved by
him"
While Harold continues to drool sap and breathe fumes, his branches whipping round in a frenzy as he senses another victim to chemically bind to him, you desperately try to incant spells and curses that will get you out of this mess, though you are unused to casting without your hands. Just as Havier stumbles over one of Harold's thrashing roots and loosens his grip, you remember a military spell your mother warned you never to use in Mossholm, and thrusting your hands towards the sky, you force letters etched faintly onto a corner of your mind out through pure, terrified instinct.
A single bolt of lightening falls from a cloudless sky, crossing you harmlessly, splitting to send Havier flying burning across the glade and simultaneously scar and ignite Harold with flashes of incandescent energy. You retch from the force of the spell and stumble away, your own clothes a little charred, unnoticed, as the tree-creature's shrill screams rend the night, and a flaming Havier mindlessly rushes to its aid, ignoring the flames already curling round his body.
Birds erupt from the branches of nearby trees, and you stumble out of the open into denser bush, gaining speed and running past bleary-eyed satyrs, rapacious brambles, over brooks and under bridges, hiding from the angry hordes of forest citizens yelling, "fire," and, "find the fire-starter," pouring in from every direction. After a long and fear-wracked night, you wake up under a bush late in the morning, not far from Mossholm central glade. After washing with dew and stream-water, you walk over to one of the less-thronged but interesting parts, wondering what to do now. Looks like you left even sooner than you expected, gaining a ball of sap rather than social skills. You could go to the central glade, perhaps, or Mossholm Rail station, or even try your luck at picking up a valuable or useful tome in a submerged library on the Mossholm outskirts.
Author
Topic: (ISG) Cathlan - Dungeons (Read 11934 times)