15th of Elient of the year 1492
A Knock Below Eye Level
Rayek had grown used to the silence in the house, though he would not have admitted it aloud. It clung to the rafters and pooled in the corners, thick with the memory of companions who had once filled the space with noise, plans, and arguments. Now the rooms felt suspended, as if the walls themselves were waiting for someone to return and finish what had been started. The preserved body of the fallen paladin remained where it had been set aside “temporarily,” a word that had stretched longer than anyone intended. Rayek moved through his chores with a kind of stubborn steadiness, refusing to dwell too long on unfinished business. Waiting had become a rhythm, and he kept time with it.
The knock at the door was sharp enough to snap that rhythm clean in half. He opened it expecting a traveler, perhaps someone tall enough to cast a shadow across the threshold. Instead, there was nothing at eye level. A beat of confusion passed before he realized he had been looking too high. Standing just below his line of sight was someone barely two and a half feet tall, gazing up at him with open impatience. “No, wait—down here. Oh, hello. Hello. I am not a small child. I am grown. And yes, I’m green. I’m green because I’m a goblin. I am a goblin.” The declaration came with bright insistence, not defensive so much as preemptive. Rayek blinked, finally lowering his gaze properly and taking in the small, green figure who stood there with unshakable composure.
He looked her over, noting the neatness that contrasted sharply with the dust-softened gloom behind him. “And you have clean clothes on.” It was less accusation than observation. She responded without hesitation, as if this were a matter of record. “Yeah, I have I have clean clothes. My hair is clean and shiny, um.” There was pride in it, unembarrassed and matter-of-fact. The contrast between her careful presentation and the slightly neglected state of the house was impossible to ignore.
Inside, she stepped past him as though the invitation had already been implied. The kitchen drew her immediately. “Do you like a snack? I’ve got some.” The offer floated up casually, as if this were the most natural way to begin an alliance. Rayek’s answer came just as casually, tilted with dry humor. “Do you know how to cook like rocks? Huh?” The exchange did not resolve into tension; it settled instead into something oddly balanced. The silence in the house shifted, no longer stagnant but occupied, as though the valley itself had decided Rayek would not be left alone with his ghosts any longer.
Eggs, Stories, and the Shape of Trouble
Food came together quickly, because Knack did not seem built for idle conversation without doing something with her hands. The kitchen, moments ago stagnant and underused, sprang to life with the clatter of cookware and the smell of heat rising from iron. Whatever else could be said about her, she moved with precision. Ingredients were handled deliberately, surfaces assessed with quiet judgment, and soon the sharp scent of cooking eggs cut through the dusty stillness of the house. Rayek lingered nearby, leaning against the counter, watching as the room shifted from abandoned to occupied. The simple act of preparing breakfast forced the house into something resembling normalcy. Even the preserved paladin in the other room felt momentarily less oppressive beneath the scent of food.
Knack did not wait long before steering the conversation toward purpose. “Well, I’ve heard you and your group of friends are uh. Some real adventurers and. Listen, I want to get out of this stupid town.” The declaration came bluntly, edged with restless intent. Rayek stood across from her, steady and reserved, the quiet of the house still clinging to him. It was Knack who pressed the next point, her tone sharpening just slightly as she studied him. “And now that you’ve been left behind by your group of friends, you’re trying to unravel this all by yourself?” The question was probing rather than cruel, but it landed with weight. It acknowledged the obvious—he was alone in the house—and challenged what he intended to do about it.
Rayek did not bristle at the implication. He answered evenly, without defensiveness, his tone grounded more in obligation than pride. “Yeah, I was just going to go back and tell my uh friends what’s going on.” He did not mean the companions who had scattered from the house for their own business; he meant the Elk tribe who had sent him out in the first place. They had entrusted him with leaving the hills, seeing the valley for what it was becoming, and returning with word. What he had found in Red Larch and beyond was not rumor but confirmation—forces moving, factions stirring, and danger taking root in ways that could not be ignored. His intention was not to unravel anything alone, but to carry warning back to those who needed it most.
The reply carried practical weight rather than bravado. The others in town would return when their errands and training were done, but Rayek’s responsibility ran deeper than waiting in a borrowed house. He had been sent to learn, and learning required returning. The exchange between him and Knack did not escalate into argument. Instead, it clarified something important: both of them were standing at the edge of departure for reasons that were not idle. One wanted out. The other needed to go back.
Rayek spoke plainly about what he understood of the valley’s troubles. There was too much fire, too much wind, too much earth moving in ways it should not. It was not a single threat but a pattern of unrest spreading across the region. Knack listened while tending the pan, absorbing each piece of information with focused attention. At one point she muttered, half to herself, “Mask’s tears which salt the eggs oh.” The exclamation came as she adjusted her cooking, but it did not entirely hide the seriousness beneath it. When the talk turned toward the growing danger of flame in particular, she admitted, “I’m trying to figure out how to become immune to fire.” It was not said as a joke.
Rayek’s response carried that dry humor again, though it did not dismiss the concern. “Yeah, you follow my regiment; I just touch fire until it stops burning. It’s not; it hasn’t worked so far.” The comment drew a faint shift in the mood, not quite laughter but something adjacent to it. Beneath the humor, however, the intention had settled into place. Knack wanted out of town. Rayek needed to carry warnings north. The River Dessarin stood between them and whatever came next, and Knack’s “great, great, great uncle” might hold the key to crossing it. By the time the plates were set down, the plan had formed without ever being formally declared. Company would be better than solitude. North would be better than waiting.
16th of Elient of the year 1492
Knack did not leave the matter of the river to assumption. She sought out her uncle directly, raising the subject of the River Dessarin with the practical urgency of someone already halfway out the door. The crossing was not trivial, and she knew it. What followed was less a formal negotiation and more a sideways understanding, wrapped in familiar tension that only family could carry without raising their voices. There was mention that her grandmother “would be yelling at him if he let her out of his supervision,” a reminder that this was not merely a logistical concern but a familial one. The weight of expectation hung in the room, unspoken but present, hovering between duty and stubborn independence.
Yet there was also the loophole, offered almost absently. If she were to “sneak” out, then there would be little he could do about it. The phrasing carried just enough distance to serve as both warning and permission, a careful narrowing of responsibility. He did not forbid her outright. He did not formally equip her either. Instead, he “left” a pair of potions that might assist with the crossing, set aside in a way that suggested afterthought rather than endorsement. The gesture was quiet, deniable, and entirely deliberate.
When the conversation concluded, he wandered off without further interference, making no effort to block her path or monitor her movements too closely. There was no dramatic farewell, no stern command to remain within sight. The assistance had been placed where it could be found, and the boundaries of supervision had been technically upheld. Later, when Knack did in fact “sneak” off, she did so beneath that thin layer of plausible innocence. She took what had been left for her and did not look back.
With the arrangement settled, Knack rejoined Rayek, and together they left Red Larch behind. They traveled along the southern foothills of the Sumber Hills, the ridgeline rising unevenly to their right as they headed east toward the River Dessarin. The terrain shifted gradually from settled land to wilder stretches, the road thinning into rougher passage where stone and scrub pushed through the soil. Their direction was deliberate and unhurried. The river lay ahead, wide and certain, and they carried with them the quiet preparation that would make crossing it possible.
17th of Elient of the year 1492
The Night the Earth Turned
They were asleep when the ground decided it no longer wished to remain still. There had been no warning cry, no prowling shape circling the edge of camp. Instead, the earth beneath their tent convulsed upward as something massive forced its way through from below. Canvas snapped and poles shattered in an instant, collapsing inward as soil and debris rained down around them. Knack’s voice cut sharply through the confusion. “It dives into the ground. What goes.” The disbelief in her tone matched the impossible sight—whatever this was, it did not charge across the land. It arrived through it.
Bulette
The creature vanished again just as quickly, burrowing back beneath the surface with terrifying ease. “That is terrifying. That was, I did not feel good.” The understatement carried more weight than a scream would have. The tent was already beyond saving, torn apart in the initial eruption. They were exposed beneath the open sky, the soil beneath them no longer something to trust. There would be no outrunning a predator that treated the ground like water.
Knack moved without hesitation. Rather than remain where the earth could open again, she conjured a rope that lifted upward into the darkness, forming a hidden refuge suspended above the reach of the creature below. As she climbed, she muttered grimly, “Feel like dangling bait over a fish.” The comparison was apt. Once secure above the ground, she called down urgently, “Rayak! Get over here!” There was no time for debate. Rayek scrambled up after her, abandoning the shredded remains of their camp to the creature’s fury.
When they finally descended from their suspended refuge, the truth was unavoidable. There was nothing left that resembled a whole tent—only shredded canvas, snapped supports, and churned earth. Knack knelt in the dirt and attempted what she could, focusing her magic on the torn fabric in an effort to draw it back together. For a moment, the weave responded, edges knitting where she guided them. But the destruction was too extensive. The spell would mend a single break, a clean tear—but this was ruin layered upon ruin. The fabric had been ripped in too many places, the structure shattered beyond what a simple repair could restore.
Recognizing the limits of what she could salvage, she abandoned the effort without dramatics. The tent would not be resurrected. Instead, she gathered what lengths of intact material remained and set about creating something more practical. Using rope and surviving canvas, she fashioned a pair of hammocks and secured them high in the trees, well above the disturbed ground. If the earth wished to open again, it would have to reach for them.
18th of Elient of the year 1492
The River and the Privateers
By the time they reached the River Dessarin, the land had flattened into a wide, open stretch where the water commanded attention. The current moved with steady confidence, broad and unhurried, reflecting the pale sky in broken ribbons of light. It did not look hostile, but it did not look forgiving either. After the violence of the previous night, the river felt less like progress and more like a different kind of test. There was a fleeting hope that the water might serve as a barrier against what had hunted them in the dark, but that comfort did not last. The river was wide, yes—but not necessarily protective.
They lingered along the bank, watching the surface and listening to the distant rhythm of water against stone. It was then that movement on the horizon drew their attention—a rakish ship making its way upriver. The vessel cut through the current with practiced ease, its lines sharp, its posture confident. It did not drift or hesitate. It moved like something accustomed to command rather than request passage. Knack recognized it almost immediately, narrowing her gaze as she followed its approach. “Yeah, the uh, That’s a well-known privateer ship that has been working the River Dessarin for at least a year now.” Her tone carried familiarity, but not comfort.
Recognition deepened as they observed it more closely. “It is one of five pirate ships.” The river was not merely a natural boundary; it was a corridor controlled by those who understood its value. The ship’s presence shifted their crossing from a simple matter of distance into something strategic. Heavy weapons were mounted along its sides, angled outward over the water. Knack’s voice carried dry interest as she studied them. “I would like to take a look at those ballistae, but not from the receiving end.” The humor was thin, but deliberate.
The river stretched wide before them, and the privateer continued its steady approach. This was not a crossing to rush. Timing would matter. Visibility would matter. The River Dessarin did not promise protection from what hunted beneath the soil, and it certainly did not promise anonymity upon its surface.
19th of Elient of the year 1492
Tracks in the Morning
Morning did not arrive gently. After crossing the river and making what passed for camp, they expected at least a quiet stretch of travel. Instead, the earth offered signs that they were no longer alone. The tracks were not subtle—large impressions pressed into the soil, deliberate and recent. Rayek slowed, scanning the ground with careful attention. Knack noticed the shift in his posture before the explanation came. “And you’re following the trail?” The apology was brief, but the implication was clear: whatever had passed through here had done so while they rested.
The trail did not run straight. It wandered, vanished, then reappeared as if testing their commitment. Knack considered their options without bravado. “I mean, I could send Banu, and then he’s just a bat.” The suggestion carried practicality rather than theatrics. She clarified her advantage calmly. “He can communicate telepathically with me, but then also I can see through his eyes and ears.” The air felt tighter as the plan took shape. Sending something small and quiet ahead was better than walking blindly into someone else’s territory.
As they followed at a distance, Rayek considered what they might be walking toward. His knowledge of bugbears was practical rather than academic—there was no unified nation to account for, no grand hierarchy to predict. They existed in scattered tribes and rough settlements, their loyalties local and their methods shaped by small groups rather than formal armies. That lack of centralized structure made them harder to anticipate. Each band carried its own habits and leadership, and that meant caution rather than assumption.
When the scouting confirmed the presence of a camp, the details sharpened their concern. It was not a place of ease. There were no cookfires smoldering, no casual signs of rest or comfort. The camp was cold—no smoke rising, no warmth lingering. That absence spoke clearly. Whoever occupied it was not relaxing. They were either recently gone or deliberately disciplined. Either way, it suggested intent rather than carelessness.
Bugbear
That detail changed the tone entirely. No smoke. No warmth. No casual signs of comfort. The camp had been set with intention, not relaxation. What lay ahead was not careless. It was waiting.
A Tent Worth Bleeding For
The absurdity of it was obvious and yet undeniable—their objective was a tent. Not treasure, not vengeance, not glory. Shelter. After the bulette had torn theirs apart from below, the loss lingered more than either of them wanted to admit. The bugbears’ camp held what they needed, and that sharpened the tension into something focused. “Yeah, I want that tent. Yeah, it’s an eight-man tent.” The size alone made it worth the risk. It was not merely fabric and poles; it was space to sleep without clinging to branches or trusting the ground to stay solid.
Bugbear Bonecrush Mauler
They did not rush in blindly. Knack considered the order of engagement with cool practicality. “So, if we’re going to engage, at the very least, I can summon my eldritch cannon first and essentially put it on your shoulder.” The plan was simple—enter prepared, strike decisively, and avoid giving the bugbears time to reorganize. Rayek’s role was straightforward: close the distance and keep their attention. Knack would support from range, shifting position as needed. The goal was not to conquer a tribe; it was to solve a problem.
The fight itself was hard and close. The bugbears were not careless brutes; they were organized enough to hold formation and disciplined enough to make every swing count. Rayek absorbed the worst of it, steel flashing in tight arcs as he forced space where there was none. Knack’s blasts struck with concussive force, driving enemies back or finishing those already faltering. When it was over, the camp stood silent except for their breathing. There was no celebration. There was inventory.
“Okay, so we’ll just take the tent. I am curious about this knuckle bone totem. Might as well take it. Might as well take it.” They gathered what was practical first—arrows, coin, the jug of bone brew that promised a brief surge of strength and recovery. The totem, carved from knucklebones, drew a second glance before being packed away. “Who knows what they were doing. Whatever it was, they had our tent and we needed that.” The words were blunt and sufficient.
Once the essentials were secured and the rest left behind, the direction became clear again. “So, we’re still one day away from Summit Hall.”The reminder was practical. They were not finished traveling. The tent was reclaimed, but the valley was not done with them.
