Chapter 15: Poachers¶
Steam rose from bubbling pools at the source of the Skunk River, and the distinctive reek of rotten eggs hung heavy in the humid air. The hot springs would have made for a pleasant rest—warm water despite the chill of late Pharast, swirling mists that caught the afternoon light in pale ribbons. A fine place to soak aching muscles and wash away the road's grime.
If not for the frogs.
Six giant amphibians basked in the murky shallows, each the size of a large dog, their distended throats pulsing with territorial croaks. They had marked this place as their own, and the arrival of interlopers stirred them from languid stillness to aggressive attention.
Rust never saw the tongue that caught him.
One moment the goblin oracle stood at the water's edge, assessing the springs. The next, something slick and impossibly strong wrapped around his midsection and yanked him into the shallows. He found himself face-to-face with a frog whose mouth could have swallowed him whole, its bulbous eyes reflecting his own terrified expression.
The fight began badly and escalated from there.
Perry's crossbow sang first. He'd already marked the creature holding Rust as patient, watchful—the most dangerous of the pack. His bolt punched through warty hide, drawing a pained bellow that nevertheless failed to loosen the frog's grip. When he attempted to unnerve another with harsh words in the lizardfolk tongue, the creature merely croaked in confusion. Frogs, as it turned out, did not speak Iruxi.
Elroy moved with the certainty of long practice. He intercepted a lunging strike meant for Dravyn, taking the impact on his shield and retaliating with a blade that carved cleanly through amphibian flesh. The bang of steel on wood drew the creature's attention as surely as a dinner bell, exactly as he intended. His challenge rang across the steaming pools.
The frogs answered with a flurry of attacks—snapping jaws and lashing tongues seeking purchase on armor and exposed flesh. Most found only air. Elroy's shield turned what would have connected, and the creatures' coordination faltered against disciplined defense.
Then Dravyn raised his staff, and the springs became an inferno.
Three rays of arcane fire lanced from his fingertips. The first went wide, scorching stone and sending steam billowing. But the second and third found their marks—one frog recoiled with scorched hide while another took the full force of the blast, its croak becoming a death rattle as fire consumed it from within.
Still held in the tongue's coils, Rust channeled what power he could muster. A burst of pure sound erupted from his position, reverberating through the water and into the flesh of nearby amphibians. The creature holding him shuddered. Two others thrashed as the resonance rattled through them.
Grotdor's contribution proved decisive. He shaped fire between his palms—a tiny construct of living flame that took the form of a bird and launched itself through the clustered frogs. It passed through them like a blade through paper, and two more collapsed in its wake, their croaks silenced forever. A follow-up blast of raw elemental fury left a third teetering on the edge of death.
The surviving frogs fought with the desperation of cornered animals. One clamped its jaws around Elroy's arm, applying crushing pressure that would have shattered bone in a lesser warrior. The guardian merely set his jaw and drove his blade into the creature's eye.
Another ignored Elroy's taunting calls entirely, fixating instead on Dravyn. It caught the wizard in its tongue and began dragging him toward deeper water, where drowning would finish what teeth had started.
Grotdor rocketed across the battlefield on a jet of flame, ignoring the difficult terrain as fire carried him into flanking position. From the shallows, he unleashed another blast that seared the kidnapping frog's flank.
Perry's final assessment came to him with crystalline clarity—the angle of the creature's extended tongue, the way it twisted to drag Dravyn under, the precise moment its mouth gaped for breath. His bolt flew true, entering through the open maw and punching into what passed for a brain.
The frog collapsed. Its coils went slack. Dravyn pulled himself from the shallows, sodden and disheveled but alive.
Rust waded over to Elroy through the corpse-strewn water, eyeing the bite marks on the guardian's arm with professional concern.
The goblin's voice carried the particular edge of someone who'd narrowly avoided becoming a meal. Those frogs had been larger than him. He'd felt the thing's throat muscles working, preparing to swallow.
Elroy assured him he'd tried to intercede, but there had been too much happening at once. Six enemies, five allies, steam and water and chaos.
The hot springs themselves proved pleasant enough afterward, despite the lingering smell of sulfur and the floating corpses. Perry discovered a pair of fine boots waterlogged on a small island—gray leather with curious metallic fixtures along the toe. When Grotdor pressed the heel, a blade kicked out from the front. The kineticist claimed them immediately.
The deadfall came upon them as evening shadows lengthened through the trees.
A small clearing held recently cut logs that had collapsed into a rough pile. Two vultures circled overhead, wings spread wide in threat displays, warning the approaching travelers away from something beneath the timber.
Elroy wondered aloud if anyone spoke vulture. They did not.
Grotdor had another idea.
Rather than simply scaring the carrion birds away, he extended fire from his hands like great wings—streamers of flame that mimicked the vultures' own displays but with considerably more theatrical effect. He added an acrobatic dance, leaping and spinning, his "wings" trailing fire that wrote ephemeral patterns in the air.
The vultures recognized they were outmatched. These fire-winged interlopers were not worth fighting over scraps. They departed with indignant croaks.
Beneath the fallen logs lay a human man—crushed, several days dead, his body pinned when a partially-constructed trap had collapsed upon him. A trapper, by the look of his gear. Flies crawled across what remained of his face.
Dravyn examined the scene with particular attention, and his exceptional observation revealed what others might have missed. The deadfall's ropes had been deliberately cut—this was no accident. More telling still, a tiny sharp tooth had snagged in one of the severed lines.
Perry identified it immediately: a fairy dragon's tooth. The evidence painted a clear picture. Something small and clever had triggered the trap while the poacher was setting it, delivering what the fey likely considered just punishment.
The dead man was Breeg Orlivanch, a trapper known for cruelly hiding his snares to catch unwary travelers as well as animals. His cold iron hatchet lay within arm's reach of his outstretched fingers. Three cured beaver pelts spoke to his trade. Materials for more traps filled his pack.
They stripped what was useful and left the rest for the vultures.
The ambush came as they examined Breeg's remains.
A voice rang out from atop a nearby hill—brash, confident, touched with the swagger of a man who believed he held all advantages.
The speaker identified the party as the guardians of the Greenbelt. He'd heard about what they'd done at the bandit camp. What they'd done at the gold mine. The Stag Lord had placed quite a bounty on their heads, and these six intended to collect.
The demand was simple: drop everything. Every coin, every weapon. Submit, and perhaps they'd be allowed to live.
Elroy's response carried the weight of absolute conviction. They were the new management around here. One of the bandits might even have a chance to join their venture—after they'd dealt with the Stag Lord.
The bandit leader scoffed. The Stag Lord would turn them into mincemeat.
One of his companions chimed in with less certainty, questioning whether the six of them weren't supposed to be the ones doing the mincemeat-making.
The leader told him to shut up.
Elroy pushed forward through the difficult terrain, shield raised against the arrow that immediately sought him. It glanced harmlessly off steel. He moved as close as possible to the apparent leader and issued a challenge that echoed across the hillside, banging his sword against his shield until the very trees seemed to shake.
The pretentious bandit tried to shove him back. He rolled so poorly that he tripped over his own feet and fell prone at Elroy's boots.
Rust commanded Dog to hold position, then sent needles of cold iron singing through the air. They missed, the distance too great for precision.
Then Dravyn raised his staff, and the hillside became a crematorium.
Three rays of fire lanced across the evening air. The first struck a sarcastic-looking bandit square in the chest and critical energy exploded outward—the man was incinerated instantly, reduced to ash before he could scream. The second caught a manic, twitchy bandit trying to nock an arrow, and fire consumed him from the inside out. The third struck a quieter bandit who'd hung back from the posturing, and he died before his expression could shift from uncertainty to fear.
Three bandits. One casting. Ash drifted on the wind.
The surviving three stared in horror at what remained of their companions.
One of them found his voice, cracking and desperate. He told Dravyn to cut it out. Warned him. Reminded him who they worked for.
His attempt at intimidation fell flat, his voice breaking on the Stag Lord's name.
Perry's careful assessments yielded poor results—his normal precision failed him in the chaos. He abandoned calculation for instinct and simply aimed at one of the remaining bandits, putting a bolt through the man's shoulder. A second shot went wide.
Grotdor rocketed up the hillside on a jet of flame, landing beside Elroy and the prone bandit. He stomped down with fire-infused fury, and the leader's clothing ignited. The man screamed, rolling, trying to extinguish flames that clung like living things.
Elroy's first swing went wide. He called upon every reserve of fortune he possessed, and his blade came down with devastating force. The burning bandit's body launched through the air as steel met flesh with catastrophic results.
The guardian stepped over the corpse and moved toward the next target, issuing yet another challenge. His tone suggested he regretted that the deceased hadn't met employee standards.
Rust directed Dog forward. The wolf's jaws snapped at a bandit's leg but found only cloth. Rust followed with cold iron needles that found their mark with excessive precision—the bandit collapsed with a choked gasp, his body riddled.
Perry and Grotdor finished the last survivor in short order. What the bandits had expected to be an easy shakedown had become a massacre—three burned to cinders in a single devastating casting, the rest cut down before the second exchange of blows concluded.
They made camp near the deadfall site, choosing ground high enough to escape the forest's dampness. The vultures could have their meal in peace now that the party had moved on.
Perry helped establish the campsite, then turned his attention to more refined pursuits. His cooking lore suggested new possibilities, and by the time full dark had fallen, he'd worked out the preparation for shepherd's pie—a hearty meal that would enhance rest and healing through pure comfort.
Rust found a serviceable spot and gathered ingredients from the surrounding forest. Grotdor attempted to camouflage their position but succeeded only in making the campsite marginally more obvious.
The night passed without incident. Morning came with drizzling rain—the persistent, annoying kind that soaked through cloaks and settled into boots. They pressed on regardless.
The ancient stone road had been partially reclaimed by forest, roots cracking through flagstones that had witnessed centuries of travelers. Following it toward a swimming hole marked on their maps, Perry and Grotdor both noticed something glinting on the path ahead.
A gold coin lay conspicuously in the middle of the trail.
Perry raised his hand immediately, halting the column. Strange place for a gold coin.
Elroy raised his shield. Dravyn traced runes along the guardian's blade, enhancing it with arcane might for whatever might come.
The coin bore no familiar mintage. Instead of Aldori markings, it displayed an octopus design—curled tentacles radiating from a central body.
Perry recognized them immediately: Dark River Gold. Items of mysterious origin, often discovered by fishermen. They were considered bad omens. Tsunamis, fires, and other disasters tended to follow their appearance.
More coins appeared ahead—two, then three, leading toward the swimming hole like a glittering trail.
As Elroy bent to examine the first coin, a wet, flatulent sound erupted from his direction. The unmistakable smell of sulfur and rotten eggs wafted through the air.
Perry wrinkled his nose and asked if the guardian was alright. Something about the rations, perhaps?
The sound hadn't come from Elroy, of course. It was a prank—a very fey sort of prank.
Perry focused his keen halfling senses, specifically looking for the tricksters responsible. His perception had caught something earlier—two small nests high in a nearby tangle of trees, made of sticks and brambles but decorated with artistic filigree, shiny stones, braided flowers, and small bits of cloth. Clearly the homes of intelligent creatures.
He announced the presence of fey nearby. Probably the pranksters they'd been hearing about. This must be where they actually lived.
His understanding of trickster spirits suggested they could be befriended with gifts—candy, liquor, shiny bits of jewelry.
He placed a bottle of herbal liquor and some copper pieces at the base of the tree. Dravyn used a cantrip to float the offering up toward the nests.
A voice responded with considerable enthusiasm.
Now that was what it was talking about! Finally, somebody with good brains on their shoulders!
Two ephemeral creatures revealed themselves.
The first was Perlivash—a faerie dragon about the size of a house cat with shimmering butterfly-like wings, an impish grin, and notably, a missing tooth.
The second was Tyg-Titter-Tut—a grig with the upper body of a waifish humanoid and the lower body of a cricket. A piece of straw hung from the side of his mouth.
Perlivash took an appreciative sip of the herbal liquor and declared it excellent stuff. Keep that coming and maybe they had something going here.
Elroy mentioned they'd seen the fey's handiwork at the poacher's deadfall. Good prank, that.
Tyg's response was blunt: Breeg had been a terrible person. It was acceptable to hunt—that was the law of nature. But being cruel about it? Fall on your own logs, then.
The fey proved forthcoming with valuable intelligence.
They despised the Stag Lord and his poachers. The bandit leader kept an owlbear at his fort—one they'd gotten addicted to alcohol. An owlbear with a hangover would tear intruders limb from limb.
They knew the password to enter the fort, and shared it freely.
The Stag Lord himself was a terrible drunk, vulnerable to anyone clever enough to exploit the weakness.
When Elroy mentioned the party's plan to poison the Stag Lord's booze, Perlivash grew excited. They could even make it smell good and glow enticingly to ensure the target drank it!
The fey offered to help when the party assaulted the fort—not in direct combat, but with distractions and pranks at opportune moments.
Rust practically glowed with enthusiasm. Goblins and fey shared certain affinities. He agreed that they did enjoy a little chaos.
Tyg observed that the world was better with just a touch of the unexpected around. He promised to meet them at the Stag Lord's fort.
Perlivash also mentioned a dwarf to the northwest—Harrim, he was called. Worshipped Groetus, the god of the end times. He was stuck in a bear trap and had been for about a day and a half. Seemed ready to die. Just resigned himself to it. But he probably could use some food and water.
The party returned Perlivash's missing tooth—the one that had snagged in Breeg's trap ropes. The faerie dragon was delighted, though he couldn't exactly put it back in his mouth. Elroy suggested making it into a necklace.
Some members of the party collected the Dark River Gold coins. Others declined to touch the bad-luck tokens.
The final unexplored hex of the Greenbelt proved to be Breeg's hunting ground—dozens of cleverly hidden bear traps seeded throughout the forest floor. Dead elk and boar corpses lay covered in flies, caught in snares their killer would never return to check.
Through the rainy fog came distant cursing. A voice calling for help, then falling silent, then calling again.
Ahead, in a small glade, sat Harrim—a dour, bald, heavily bearded dwarf with his leg clamped in steel jaws.
Grotdor moved forward to help.
The sound of the trap—a sharp, metallic bite—came before the pain registered. Steel jaws snapped around the kineticist's leg, dropping him to his knees as blood welled through the punctures.
He was not the only one caught.
Dravyn examined the situation and offered questionable advice about amputation—half-joking, mostly useless.
Grotdor declined emphatically.
Rust channeled healing warmth into the wounded kineticist, then moved toward Harrim—and stepped directly into another trap. Steel clamped around both of his legs, the impact driving him to the ground with considerable damage.
The goblin observed that this was the end of his actions. He'd thought about the traps just as soon as he'd started moving, but by then it was too late.
Harrim looked at his would-be rescuers with something between gratitude and disappointment. He'd been hoping to starve to death, he said. They'd bungled that up.
Then the assassin vine struck.
Perry's exceptional perception caught the creeping tendrils just as they began their approach—a writhing mass of vegetation that had been lurking in the foliage, waiting for prey to become helpless. His warning came barely in time.
The vine surged forward, grasping foliage spreading in a wide radius that turned the forest floor into clutching, pulling difficult terrain. Those who started their movements within its reach found themselves slowed, impeded, fighting for every step.
Perry moved with precise efficiency. He disabled the trap holding Grotdor, freeing the kineticist with quick work of his tools. He located the remaining hidden traps and marked them for the others. He sent a bolt into the assassin vine that drew sap like blood.
Elroy forced open the trap holding Rust through sheer strength, metal screaming as it bent. He raised his shield and issued a challenge that the vine—mindless though it was—seemed to acknowledge.
Grotdor reached Harrim and picked the lock on his trap with surprising delicacy.
The freed dwarf seemed almost disappointed.
The vine lashed at Elroy, heavy tendrils striking with crushing force. Some blows landed despite the shield, and the guardian found himself caught in constrictive coils that tightened with every breath.
Dravyn pushed the creature back with an invisible force, buying space. Rust's healing emanation restored strength to wounded allies—though unfortunately, the vine's position at the edge of the effect meant it too benefited slightly.
The battle devolved into attrition. Fire exploited the plant's weakness to flame. Slashing steel carved through vegetable matter that bled green. But the vine refused to die, its coils tightening around Elroy until movement seemed impossible.
The guardian fought back despite his restrictions. His first swing went wide—the vine's grip interfered with his arms, threw off his balance. Fortune intervened, and his blade bit deep, exploiting the creature's vulnerability to slashing damage.
Still it held.
He swung again, and fate delivered. Steel sheared through the main stalk as Elroy brought his blade down at the root. He continued the arc, slicing through what passed for the vine's abdomen. The creature shuddered, its coils going slack as life—or whatever passed for life in such things—fled.
Combat came to a close. The party stood amid scattered traps and a slain plant monster, rain dripping through the canopy, Harrim brushing dirt from his trousers with the air of a man who hadn't quite decided whether rescue was a gift or an inconvenience.
The dwarf looked up at them with eyes that seemed uncertain whether gratitude or disappointment was appropriate. His mouth opened to speak—
And there the day ended, poised on the edge of whatever the dour cleric of Groetus might say to those who had saved him from a death he'd been perfectly prepared to embrace.