Description:

  Kaylik has one desire, to create awesome magical shit. That requires gold, components, and levels. There's only one way to get those: Adventure. The level one Wizard has set out from the city and found himself in the small mountain town of Falcon's Hollow. A sickness has swept over the town and people are dying on a daily basis. The Steelborn, along with a few new potential friends, find themselves searching the deep forest for ingredients to be used in a last ditch effort to save what few lives they can.

  Molly has many desires. Highest among them, being treated like a person. While she feels bad for the infected children, the adults who blame her for their ailment can continue to choke up blood for all she cares. Searching the vale for ingredients for a cure was the last thing she expected to be doing. For her, the sickness didn't bring a slow death. It brought a person that would turn her world on its head.

  Notes: This story is getting filed under Fanfiction as it contains a lot of IP from Paizo Publishing. The main plot line starts with the module “Hollow's Last Hope”. I'm hoping to run the whole four Module series.

  AI Note: AI was used in the creation of this story.

  Voice Actors:

  Narrator: Jessica

  Kallik: Charlie

  Laurel: Lilly

  Jack: Callum

  Castilia:

  Info

  I will analyze the document to extract the context and personality traits of Kallik, Molly, and Tomlin. This may take a moment.

  Here is an analysis of the characters based on the extracted text from the document:

  

  
• Description: Kallik seems to be a character accustomed to structured environments, having grown up in a city with defensive walls. He observes his surroundings critically, noting disrepair and the condition of those around him, such as beggars and orphans. His perspective hints at an analytical nature and a sense of detachment.


  
• Personality Traits:


  


  
• Observant and detail-oriented.


  
• Potentially empathetic but reserved, given his reaction to the plight of those in the town.


  
• Practical, as suggested by his focus on navigation and the logistics of his journey.


  


  

  

  
• Description: Molly is portrayed as someone who desires dignity and respect, striving to be treated as a person rather than an outcast. She is not well-liked in Falcon’s Hollow, though her competence is acknowledged by some, such as Laurel, an herbalist.


  
• Personality Traits:


  


  
• Resilient, as she continues to strive despite being treated poorly.


  
• Practical and competent, earning her respect in specific circles.


  
• Sensitive to judgment and the way others perceive her.


  


  

  

  
• Description: Tomlin is introduced as a young man working within a monastic or disciplined setting. He appears dutiful, responding quickly to instructions but displays occasional defiance or skepticism, such as when he glances at Molly with a glare.


  
• Personality Traits:


  


  
• Dutiful and reliable, as seen when he quickly prepares for a journey.


  
• Stoic or reserved, often not responding verbally to others’ remarks.


  
• Possibly judgmental or cautious about others, particularly Molly.


  


  

  Let me know if you need further exploration or detailed insights into the story dynamics!

  Chapter 1 base text

  Chapter 1

  The Greenflow was primarily fed by ice melt from the mountains. It ran through the hollows from the southwest to the northeast, curving slightly more east before emptying into the Iron River—which made its meandering way to the Iron Bay and eventually out into the ocean.

  In the higher elevations, nestled between the Greenflow and the Darkmoon Vale, was a small lumber and trading town called Falcon’s Hollow. The town had a palisade wall of dark wooden logs, some of which seemed in a rather bleak state of disrepair. Kallik was used to having walls around his hometown—he’d been born and raised in the capital city of Kal-Drovak, where the surrounding walls were on average forty feet tall and ten feet thick, well-built by the same dwarves who constructed the Great Ziggurat. Compared to those, the palisade around Falcon’s Hollow looked like a fence that had given up trying. The security of the town clearly wasn’t a top priority.

  Case in point: the lone guard slumped in a single chair at the gate, snoring rather loudly with his neck bent at an angle Kallik was sure he’d regret upon waking. Once he passed through the gate, Kallik was assailed by the sounds, smells, and bustle of the town—or more specifically, the lack thereof. No vendors crowded the major streets. No criers called out the news. No beggars or orphans plodded around seeking alms.

  There were beggars and orphans, but they seemed to huddle in the alleys and against the walls, staring at Kallik as though he were some monstrous creature who’d invaded their home, rather than a potential merchant they might beg a few coins from. All in all, the small town felt deserted. The only sounds punctuating the still air were the occasional wet, wheezing coughs and the distant baying of hounds.

  To the northwest rose a higher area of the town, surrounded by its own palisade wall—this one in slightly better condition. It seemed to be the only place with buildings of over two stories. Beyond that, Kallik knew the river was somewhere to the east, and if he were to pass through town and head northwest, he’d find the lumber camps for which Falcon’s Hollow was supposedly famous. As it was mid-morning, it seemed likely that most of the lumber workers were already beyond the gates.

  As Kallik wandered deeper into the settlement, the rhythmic sound of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed in the distance to the east, giving the place at least some semblance of a working village. That was when Kallik found his first able-bodied, non-destitute, awake resident.

  “Excuse me?” Kallik said, getting the girl’s attention as she crossed from one side of the street to the other. She took one look at him—eyes traveling up and down his body before finally meeting his gaze—and then promptly turned around and hurried off in the opposite direction. Kallik frowned, watching her run off, disappointed that the only visible person had completely ignored him—or, worse, fled.

  At the crossroads—a part of town centered on a large oak tree where the road split between the southern gate he’d entered, the northern gate presumably leading to the lumber camps, a path up to the higher, walled-off section of town, and another road heading east toward the Greenflow—Kallik was rewarded with a line of people. Clearly, the eastern road was busier. Even beyond the line, he could see folks moving between buildings on their daily business.

  He checked each building as he headed east, looking for one called Roots and Remedies—an alchemist’s shop, whose summons was the reason he’d come to Falcon’s Hollow in the first place. He was about to ask one of the residents standing in line for directions when he realized the sign on the buildings clearly stated he’d arrived at his destination.

  Creeping ivy and full window boxes covered the facade of the rugged-looking, two-story shop bearing the faded aforementioned sign. The man at the front of the line was pounding on the door. He paused for a moment to hack up a few dry coughs into his fist before pounding on the door again and yelling out for the shopkeeper on the other side to open up.

  The next person in line looked considerably more ill. She barely moved, appearing lethargic, her face pale as she stared blankly at the back of the man pounding on the door. As sick as the woman looked, the child in her arms looked worse—a young girl of three or four. Her hair was thick and matted, her skin pale, her eyes unfocused, and dried blood spattered her face, primarily under her nose and mouth. As heart-wrenching as the sight of the girl—whose sole focus in life was clinging to her mother and breathing—was, that same scene was repeated multiple times down the line of about twenty townsfolk, each waiting their turn to pound on the closed door.

  Looking over the two-story building, Kallik backtracked a few shops until he found an alley. Counting the doors until he reached what he was fairly certain was the back of Roots and Remedies, he pounded on that door. From inside came muffled swearing, a couple of thumps from someone stumbling around, and then the sound of an interior lock being undone. The door swung open almost violently, revealing a tall, gaunt, dark-skinned woman gripping a brass-capped club raised high in a threatening manner. She yelled: “I swear to the gods, if you’re here to buy something, you’re going to need more than just—...”

  The woman halted mid-threat, club still raised. It was the eyes. It was always the eyes. As Kallik had ventured further from the larger cities, he’d found people responded to his eye color in a variety of ways. Many assumed he was a Fire Islander—likely the reason the previous woman he’d seen had turned and bolted. The denizens of the Fire Isles had long ago taken over the country of Ironhold. While city folk tended not to mind so much, the more remote the settlement, the fewer people were indifferent.

  The woman’s face cycled through several emotions, though the club remained aloft. Finally, she seemed to find her voice. “Who are you?”

  Kallik held up the piece of paper he’d discovered in the city of Berkhanstead. It claimed that Laurel, the proprietor of Roots and Remedies in Falcon’s Hollow, was seeking help to cure a plague of blackscour taint.

  The woman—likely Laurel—stared at the printed notice for a while before lowering her club. In a calmer, if still wary, tone, she asked,

  “And you are…?”

  Kallik lowered the paper and gave a slight smile. “I’m Kallik, acolyte of the Ritter Literati out of Kal-Drovak.”

  “Kal-Drovak?” The woman’s eyebrows rose. “There’s no way you could’ve come from Kal-Drovak. There’s no way my plea for help could’ve made it there.”

  Kallik shrugged. “I was in Berkhanstead when I found it.”

  The woman twisted her lips, evidently thinking, then asked the question Kallik expected. “A Fire Islander?”

  It was a common question. Kallik’s eyes were red like those of the Fire Isles, though he lacked the accent. He could imitate one if needed—after all, he’d grown up in the Embers—but he was not a Fire Islander. No, he was simply “steel-born.”

  “Humph. Fine. Get in.” The woman stepped out of the doorway, allowing him to enter. Kallik carefully threaded his spear through the doorway so as not to bump anything. If the smell wafting through the door to the outside had been pungent, the smell inside the room was nearly overpowering. He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth and tried not to choke on the thick air.

  The door was shut behind him and the lock thrown. It took a bit for Kallik’s eyes to adjust to the dark room, but when they did, he found exactly what he would have expected from the den of an herbalist—just on a scale two or three times larger. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling rafters; every shelf was loaded to a point of dangerously overflowing with various ingredients, equipment, and other bric-à-brac whose purpose Kallik couldn’t fathom. A cluttered table held all manner of cooking utensils and alchemy equipment. The severe woman returned to stirring a cauldron boiling over a flame on an iron stove, and the distant pounding on the front door could be heard through the entry to the next room—likely where the front desk was.

  Kallik attempted to lean his spear against the wall in the only spot he could find where it wouldn’t touch anything, then dropped his pack.

  “Can you magically cure disease?” Laurel practically barked at him.

  “No.” The woman shot him a look as though he was probably wasting her time. “I was hoping other people would have come to help. I’m not the only one who has showed up, right?”

  The twisted expression of frustration that crossed her face told him the answer.

  “I suppose I didn’t list a reward, because I don’t have one to give. Better question is, why did you think it was a good idea to come all the way out here?”

  Kallik shrugged. “I’m an acolyte of the Ritter Literati. It seemed like a good thing to do.”

  Laurel cocked an eyebrow at him. “What does attempting to help a town with a sickness—when you have no skills to deal with such a thing—have to do with being a librarian?”

  Kallik tried to hide a grimace. “Uh, more about going into the world and trying to do good while…gaining levels and skills.”

  “Humph,” Laurel huffed again. She motioned her chin toward his spear. “So what are you, a warrior?”

  “Level-one wizard,” Kallik responded.

  The woman paused a moment, the stirring of her bubbling cauldron seemingly forgotten as she looked Kallik over askance.

  “A wizard? You don’t look like a wizard.”

  It was a normal response. People usually pictured old men with thin frames hunched over a book when they thought of wizards. Kallik gave the woman a grin and held up a hand. “Level-one wizard, I promise.”

  “Fine. What do you know about making potions?”

  “I’ve had a few courses, but it’s not something I’ve mastered yet.”

  “Do you know what a quarter vial is?”

  Kallik acknowledged he did, and Laurel set him to collecting a tray full of small vials and a funnel as she pulled her cauldron off the heater. She gave a short yell at whoever was still banging on her front door before attempting to clear off a space on her worktable. Then, reigniting the conversation with a single question, she asked: “Do you know what Blackscour Taint is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Blackscour is a mushroom, a fungus that likes to grow in wet places,” Laurel explained. “Not necessarily native here, and it’s pretty much good for nothing. Bitter and sharp, it’s not really an issue unless you eat it or drink the water it lives in. Blackscour Taint is the disease you get when you do. Essentially, the fungus ends up in your stomach and crawls into your lungs, where it thrives in the warm, moist environment, slowly consuming you from the inside out. Your body tries to hack up the fungus, and then you slowly cough yourself to death.”

  Kallik grimaced as Laurel continued stirring the pot while adding a few extra salts.

  “I’ve tried everything,” she said. “Nothing’s curing it—not even what’s in my granny’s old tome, the one she got from a damned witch she supposedly traded her eyesight for. I found the well, so the spread is stopped. But anyone infected is basically already dying.”

  “So, without being a higher-level cleric or knowing a specific cure for this disease,” Kallik asked, uncorking small vials and preparing them to be filled, “there’s nothing I can actually do to help, is there?”

  “No,” Laurel said, pressing her lips together, then hesitating. “Well…maybe.”

  Kallik waited a few moments before the woman continued. “There’s a recipe in my granny’s old book—fairly certain it was written afterward by someone else. Honestly, it sounds like a whole lot of hooju to me. I have most of the ingredients, but I’m short three things, all of which might be able to… I don’t know. There’s some darkwood moss—which, according to my granny’s book, can be found on the oldest tree in the Vale. A pickled herb called rat’s tail, which I’ve never even heard of. And the final ingredient I need is an iron mushroom, which tends to grow in the mountains near iron veins. It’s a favorite among dwarves, but I don’t have any, and I don’t know where to get them. Again, the whole recipe sounds like hooey to me, but if you could find those things, I suppose it’s worth a shot.”

  “How much time do we have?” Kallik asked. It seemed like the most reasonable question, given he’d have to go search the forest or somewhere else for the ingredients.

  Laurel let out a humorless chortle. “There’s no time. People are already dying. At this point, we’re just trying to spare the gravedigger the extra work.”

  “Oh,” Kallik said. “I guess I should start looking then. Do you know where I should begin?”

  Laurel looked him in his red eyes as though trying to gauge his honesty. “Millen Roddale. He should be working at the Lumber Consortium camp. He’s the most experienced woodsman I know. If anyone knows where to find that stuff, it’s him. My guess is that rat’s tail, the pickled herb, might be at Uza’s hut—the witch. I don’t trust her, but I don’t think she’s as bad as most of these ingrates make her out to be.”

  Kallik nodded. “All right, I guess I’ll get going.”

  “No,” Laurel blurted.

  “No?” Kallik echoed.

  “No,” Laurel affirmed. “You’re not from around here. My guess is, you’ll just get lost wandering around, and the longer you stall, the more people die. Ten copper.”

  “Ten copper?” Kallik asked, confusion creeping into his voice and evident on his light-brown face.

  “Ten copper, and I can get you an introduction to someone who might be able to navigate the forest. I sure as hell can’t help with that, and I ain’t going,” Laurel said.

  “All right—ten copper,” Kallik agreed, beginning to fish out his coins. Making a small pile of copper and steel.

  Laurel took the money, ordered him to keep filling vials, and disappeared out the back door. She reappeared a couple of minutes later and inspected Kallik’s work. With a nod of satisfaction, she told him to wait there and continue filling as she made her way to the front room. There, she finally opened the front door and promptly launched into a heated argument with the man who had been beating on her entryway for the last thirty minutes or so.

  Kallik kept working until he ran out of vials. He waited for a lull in Laurel’s seemingly endless tirade against her own would-be customers. Between the woman’s attitude and the fact that she had sent a plea for help out of town, Kallik mentally placed her somewhere on the “caring old lady” spectrum—certainly not the sweet, gentle grandmother type, but more of the tough-love, harsh-words-yet-still-caring figure. She seemed to have no qualms about fleecing every copper from those townsfolk she deemed hypochondriacs while simultaneously doing everything she could for the genuinely ill.

  Unfortunately, there were a great many genuinely ill. The number of children clinging to their parents—who in turn pleaded with the herbalist to save them—was heartbreaking. By Laurel’s own words, anything Kallik might do to help would merely spare the gravedigger a bit of effort if he could find the ingredients in time... if they even existed in this area... if he could do it fast enough to be useful... and if the potion actually worked.

  It was a lot of “ifs.” For Kallik’s first act of goodwill in the wider world, this one was likely to have a sad ending either way. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a complete loss.

  Chapter 2 Base text

  Molly wasn’t particularly well-liked by the people of Falcon’s Hollow. It was one of the main reasons she lived outside the walls, on the far side of the Greenflow. In all honesty, she found people more concerning than animals. There were two exceptions to the people she avoided: Jack and Laurel.

  Jack was an old adventurer who had traveled enough and worked with enough people to avoid judging Molly by her appearance. Laurel was…well, Laurel. Molly wasn’t sure if Laurel actually liked anyone. The older, taciturn woman seemed to categorize people into two camps: those who were “useless” and those who were “competent.” Being an herbalist, Laurel had somehow placed Molly in the “competent” category. Still, it was surprising to be summoned. The errand boy Laurel had sent to fetch Molly hadn’t been too happy about entering anywhere near Molly’s little hovel, but he delivered his message and tore off.

  Why Molly needed a pack for a three-day hike, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps Laurel was leaving town—plausible, but not especially likely. In the years Molly had known the stern woman, she’d noted that Laurel utterly refused to wander the wilds.

  Having crossed the river and made it through the eastern section of town with only a few calls of “Mousy Molly” and “witch” and “hellspawn,” Molly slunk into the alleyways and rapped twice on Laurel’s door. She then tried to open it, expecting it to be locked. For once, it wasn’t. The pungent odor of countless drying herbs surrounded Molly—a thick miasma of potential remedies.

  Once the door was shut, she turned to greet the older woman, only to find that it was not Laurel but some strange man standing there, scrubbing one of the smaller cauldrons. Molly froze—perhaps not on the verge of panic, but feeling pretty close.

  The man, a fairly decent-looking fellow, tall with broad shoulders and a short mop of nearly black hair, wore what looked like a red-and-off-white surcoat. He turned his head toward her and gave a smile. Now Molly was definitely about to panic. The red eyes of a Fire Islander bored into her—knives that seemed to flay away her skin to look at the soul beneath. A Fire Islander inquisitor, perhaps? Someone who’d come to purge Falcon’s Hollow of its most “undesired” resident?

  Had Laurel betrayed her—summoned her here to meet someone who would…what? Execute her? Imprison her? The man’s genuinely warm smile horrifyingly contradicted his terrifying purpose, or so Molly feared. And then Molly heard Laurel’s voice.

  “Molly. This is Kallik, with the library. He needs a guide to the Vale.”

  Molly watched the man grimace at that introduction. He dried his hands on a towel before turning to her, hand extended. Molly’s eyes locked on the symbol on his chest. The surcoat buttoned to the side and offered plenty of room for the emblem of a white, open book within a flame. Did the Fire Islanders have to put flames on everything?

  Molly’s gaze dropped to his still-extended hand. Only then did she realize he’d been offering it for a while, and she’d been awkwardly staring at his chest instead of shaking.

  “Oh…sorry,” she squeaked, thrusting her considerably dirtier hand out to meet his.

  He didn’t clasp her wrist in a normal greeting, nor did he grab her fingers and lift them to gently kiss her hand like some nobleman in one of those romance novels Molly had stolen. Instead, he took her hand in his, firm but not crushing, and gave it a single solid shake before letting go. With that action, he spoke a phrase she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard outside of a story: “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Molly stared at the man. A moment ago, she had been considering fleeing, thinking him likely some Fire Islander inquisitor come to hunt down “demonic influences” in the world. Now her brain was floundering with the tiniest possibility that he might be her “prince charming” in some romantic story. Another thought crossed her mind—maybe it was Laurel’s reference to a library, or that he used words she’d only ever read in books, or that he wore the symbol of an open book on his chest, but Molly found herself thinking, This guy might have some books.

  Again, she realized she was staring. In fact, her hand was still extended in the same position it had been when he let go. She had to salvage the situation before her own awkwardness drove away the only person who’d ever greeted her kindly. Though, in Jack’s case, it was her fault that their first interaction had involved harsh words.

  Too quickly, she pulled her arm back to her chest, then did something she’d read about in countless stories: she tried pushing a strand of hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. It did not end well. Her dark brown hair was a frazzled mess, and she winced as she accidentally yanked out a few strands by the root.

  “Molly,” Laurel snapped as she poked her head in from the front. “He needs a guide to the Vale. You should be discussing pay.” Laurel jabbed a finger in Molly’s direction. “He needs you. Don’t go cheap.”

  “Uh…” Molly began, then stopped. It was just like Laurel to think of money at a time like this. To be fair, Laurel was always thinking about money.

  Fortunately, the man—who had gone back to tidying the area around Laurel’s washbasin—saved her. “As long as you can adequately guide me around this Vale, I see no reason I can’t pay you a gold per day.”

  Once again, Molly found herself staring. A full fucking gold per day? That was more than she’d made… well, more than she’d made in the last couple of months. In truth, she didn’t need much gold. Laurel would probably want her to bargain for more. Part of Molly wanted to refuse taking so much. In the end, she decided just to accept the offer—until she noticed he was looking slightly above her head.

  It took her a second to realize what had caught his attention. She’d felt something crawling up the back of her neck and nestling into her hair, but she was so used to her familiar’s presence that it hadn’t registered as unusual. Pointing upward, she said, “Oh, that’s Quarrel.”

  The man’s momentarily surprised look turned into a grin, then a chuckle, then a full-on gleeful laugh. Molly blushed. Yeah, she wasn’t great at naming things, and calling her squirrel, Quarrel might be extreme, but did he have to find it that funny? He actually seemed to give the squirrel a tiny nod before turning his gaze back to Molly and asking, “Well, is one gold enough for the two of you?”

  “Oh—er, yeah,” Molly stammered. A moment later, a party invite blinked into her peripheral vision. She accepted it, then stared at the prompt in fascination before dismissing it. She had never been invited to a party of this sort or any other.

  “Any idea where we can find other people?” the man asked. “Preferably someone with combat skills.”

  It took Molly a moment to realize he was speaking to her again. “No,” she blurted without thinking, then hurriedly amended, “I guess we could ask Jack. He knows a lot of people.”

  “All right, come on. Where do we find him?” The man, Kallik, said as he lifted his pack and swung it over his shoulder. Then he reached for his spear. A librarian who carried a spear? That was unexpected.

  “Uh, he’s by the crossroads. Can I, um… can I ask you a question?” Molly asked.

  Kallik gave her a smile that almost warmed her heart. “I’m not a Fire Islander, just a steelborn. Does that answer your question?”

  Molly’s eyes widened. Either he got that question a lot, or he was a mind reader. Instead of verbally answering, she just nodded her head rapidly, causing Quarrel to grip her hair more tightly.

  Kallik opened the door and gestured for her to go first. “Lead on,” he said, then turned toward the front of the shop and called out, “We’re heading out, Laurel!”

  “Hurry the fuck up!” came the sharp response from the taciturn old lady.

  Kallik chuckled as he exited the building.

  It felt strange walking down the alleyways with a giant looming over her. The top of Molly’s head didn’t even reach his shoulder, and she could practically feel his broad presence behind her like some sort of storm cloud. She tried not to look back—though she was sorely tempted—reminding herself that, for once, he was supposed to be following her. Still, it was extremely awkward.

  Not that Kallik was freakishly tall. He might have been a little taller than average, but his broad shoulders made him look bigger. Take away the red eyes and the fancy surcoat, and he would have fit in with the rest of Falcon’s Hollow just fine. Except he lacked the rundown, weary look that most folks wore. No, once they emerged from the alley, people would stare, and their gazes would end up on her. Kallik, for all his height and bulk, was still overshadowed by how short Molly was. She was perfectly proportioned, but she was about the size of a young teenager. Add in gray skin, horns, and a tail in a town that hated everything about gray skin, horns, and tails, and she stuck out like a sore thumb. Her general disheveled look probably didn’t help matters.

  Lost in these thoughts, she exited the alley and stepped into the main street. So focused on the large man behind her, she wasn’t paying attention to anything else. A shout of “Hey, Mousy!” brought her attention back just in time to see something brownish hurtling toward her. The light-brown object sailed through the air before she could even flinch.

  Oddly enough, a similarly hued hand reached out and snatched the object before it contacted her. Molly couldn’t decide which surprised her more—that she’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t noticed some kid was about to throw something at her, or that someone would bother intercepting the projectile.

  In the tangle of her own thoughts, Molly identified this as a pivotal moment in her life. She had just been saved. Not in any grand sense, but in a small, significant way. In one of her novels, this was where the two characters would stare into each other’s eyes, their bond slowly deepening while readers squealed over how many chapters remained before they finally kissed.

  Molly looked up at Kallik’s face so she could fulfill her part of staring deeply into his red eyes.

  Kallik was not looking at her.

  Part of Molly berated herself for being stupid, while another part of her watched Kallik’s expression transform from a confident smile to something not quite a frown. He stared at his hand, where yellowish and clear goo dripped down onto the ground near the shattered remains of an egg. The egg likely wouldn’t have hurt Molly—hells, it didn’t even look rotten.

  Kallik turned his head to the boy, who seemed just as shocked as Molly that anyone had intercepted the projectile. Then Kallik spoke, but not in the pleasant cadence Molly had come to associate with him. Instead, his words emerged in the harsh brogue of a Fire Islander:

  “You throw egg at me? Perhaps you will… burn!”

  That last word was laden with enough malice that Molly herself took a few steps back. The boy reacted similarly. He stumbled backward, fell on his rear, and dropped the basket of eggs he was carrying. He then scrambled away, leaving the basket on the ground, finally flipping over to bolt down the street.

  Molly turned her attention back to Kallik just in time to see his previously dark, menacing countenance break into a bemused chuckle. When his eyes settled on her again, he was smiling.

  “It’s crazy how scared you people are of Fire Islanders.”

  “Uh…?” Molly managed. Of course, this man wasn’t afraid of Fire Islanders. If Molly understood “steelborn” correctly, Kallik was half–Fire Islander: someone who carried the physical traits but none of the terrifying authority that came with belonging to the ruling class.

  Kallik pulled out a rag and wiped his hand. “Why’d he throw an egg at you?” he asked.

  “Because I’m…devil-blooded,” Molly said, as though it was obvious.

  Kallik’s brow furrowed. “You mean a tiefling?”

  “What’s a tiefling?” Molly asked, staring at the man who used words she had never heard before.

  “A person with demonic or infernal blood in them,” Kallik answered, as though the term was common knowledge.

  Molly just stared. She had no idea there was a single word to describe her that wasn’t devil-blooded, demon-blooded, demon-kin, hellspawn, or countless other derogatory epithets.

  “Oh,” was all she could say.

  “Why did he call you ‘Mousy?’” Kallik asked.

  Molly looked up at him again. The answer seemed obvious to her and presumably everyone else. Him not thinking she looked mousy was almost perplexing. Then again, “Mousy Molly” did roll off the tongue.

  “Um…because I’m small. And timid,” she admitted.

  Kallik studied her. This time, he did that thing where a man’s gaze roams from the top of a girl’s head to her feet and back again. Unfortunately for Molly, this was more about him evaluating how mousy she was than appreciating her charms. Life really sucked sometimes.

  The big man shrugged, then bade her to lead on. Once again, Molly was struck by the odd sensation of having a large person walking behind her as she tried not to scurry away. Mousy Molly, indeed.

  Finally, they reached Jack-a-Napes. The journey wasn’t far. Falcon’s Hollow wasn’t very large, but the oppressive feeling of having this large man behind her wasn’t something Molly enjoyed.

  Jack-a-Napes was a leaning ramshackle inn next to the town’s stables. Its faded sign depicted a stack of pancakes and key. Molly walked through the squeaky door and was greeted almost instantly.

  “Molly?” said a rotund red-faced human with a single wisp of bright red hair on his otherwise bald head.

  Molly dipped her head, and in a considerably less enthusiastic voice, replied, “Jack.”

  “Who’s your…friend?” The tone of Jack’s voice suggested he was misreading the situation. He seemed a bit surprised when Kallik moved around Molly, approached him, and held out a hand in greeting.

  “My name is Kallik. I’m an acolyte of the Ritter Literati out of Kal-Drovak.”

  Jack squinted at him for a moment, his gaze flicking between Kallik’s face, his hand, and the symbol on his surcoat. He cast a quick glance toward Molly, then finally took the proffered hand.

  “Jack. Just Jack. And this is my inn.” He shook Kallik’s hand, then added, “Been a while since I’ve seen anyone from the library.”

  Kallik seemed to grimace at the mention of the library. Both Molly and Jack noticed, but neither commented on it.

  “Will you be staying for lunch?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Kallik answered promptly. “Molly here is going to guide me through the Vale. We’re looking for ingredients to help with this plague, and I was hoping to hire a bit more combat-focused help for protection.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “I’m retired,” Jack said at once.

  Kallik tilted his head, clearly not understanding. “Okay…we came here to ask if you knew anyone who might be available.”

  “Oh, I see. That makes a bit more sense. Hmm.”

  The two men began discussing the guards that came with various caravans, caravans that currently weren’t in town and with the tight timeframe Kallik was working with, as well as how much he was willing to pay. Meanwhile, Molly slunk off toward a corner. Some of the patrons were eyeing her. They were also eyeing Kallik, but likely because of his fancy surcoat and the fact he was clearly not from Falcon’s Hollow. Without a direct view of his red eyes, most of their focus rested on “that evil, horrible, demon-blooded witch” they believed was poisoning their children, and so on. Nobody said anything. This was Jack’s territory, and Jack wouldn’t tolerate trouble.

  “You know the way to the Temple of Iomedae?”

  The question startled Molly. She’d been so focused on blending into the shadows that she hadn’t noticed Kallik and Jack finishing their conversation.

  “Sure,” she mumbled. She didn’t get another word out before walking out the door, doing her best not to appear as though she were running.

  Molly didn’t particularly like the Church of Iomedae. It felt a bit like a small malignant cancer on an otherwise healthy body. Or perhaps the opposite, a single spot of healthy flesh on an otherwise mangy beast. Neither analogy seemed exactly right. While the Goddess of Justice might genuinely seek justice, her local priestess was far more… human.

  Molly and Castilia did not see eye to eye, mostly, Molly believed, because Castilia assumed she was some sort of evil devilspawn who’d poisoned the well with Blackscour mushrooms. Molly had not done so, but if people kept accusing her anyway, maybe she’d consider it. She knew where to find Blackscour and knew where the wells were. Though she acknowledged it wouldn’t be fair to essentially kill the entire town for treating her poorly. There were more than a few people who might deserve it. Even the corrupt antagonists in some of her stolen books didn’t seem as vile as certain folks in this little mountain settlement.

  As the two approached the Temple of Iomedae, Molly considered what it said about her home that some of its population seemed worse than fictional villains. Nearing the temple’s steps, she slowed and let Kallik take the lead. She knew from experience that she wouldn’t burst into flames upon entering—as long as Castilia’s glare wasn’t enough to set someone ablaze—and, so far at least, it couldn’t.

  Chapter 3 base text

  The temple of Iomedae certainly wasn’t as grand as those in the larger cities. While its base was made of stone and raised a couple of steps off the ground, most of the structure was wooden. It wasn’t unattractive, though. It still had an aesthetically pleasing design. Multiple layers of trim and a uniquely sloped roof. In place of a large stained-glass window depicting the symbol of the temple’s patron deity, it featured a well-carved wooden sign. The vertical sword and sunburst emblem was painted on, and in all honesty, Kallik preferred the 3D carving to a flat stained-glass display. At least the building was well cared for.

  Stepping through a propped-open door, Kallik wasn’t surprised, though he realized he should have been, to find a large section of the interior partitioned off with sheets, behind which came the coughing and suffering of very sick people. A single man sat in a pew, wrapped in a thick blanket, turning to look toward Kallik and Molly. His eyes appeared distant, his face pale, and specks of red marred his lips. Slowly, he turned his head from the entryway to the partitioned area, then weakly called, “Priestess?”

  After a moment’s delay, a flap in the sectioned-off area opened, revealing a young woman wearing a white scapular emblazoned with the sword-and-sunburst sigil of Iomedae. She looked exhausted. Her hair disheveled, bags under her eyes, and flecks of red staining the otherwise pure white of her vestments. Kallik winced slightly at the thought that the people behind the curtains were literally coughing up their lungs.

  The priestess’s eyes first locked onto Molly, who was practically hiding behind Kallik. The woman’s already weary expression deepened into something close to a scowl. Then her gaze shifted to Kallik, focusing on the emblem on his chest. For a moment, her eyes widened with what could only be called hope. “Ritter…?” she began.

  Kallik shook his head as he stepped forward. “Only an acolyte.”

  The priestess’s face fell. Hopes dashed against reality as she realized Kallik wasn’t high enough in his order to be of real help. He stepped forward and extended a hand.

  “My name is Kallik, an acolyte of the Ritter Literati.”

  The woman took his hand and offered a polite response. “Castilia, cleric of the Goddess Iomedae.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kallik said. Castilia’s tension eased slightly, and she forced a smile. She was, in her own way, quite attractive. Brown hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin might have been as average as one could get, but the shape of her face and an underlying confidence that refused to hide behind those tired eyes lent her a certain radiance. Then her gaze drifted off to the side and down, and her expression fell once more as she focused on the person behind Kallik.

  “Why would the Ritter Literati send an acolyte?” she asked. “No offense, but we could use someone who can at least cast Remove Disease. That’s the bare minimum we need right now.”

  Kallik shook his head. “The Literati did not send me. I found a flyer in Berkhanstead, created by Laurel.”

  Castilia’s eyebrows rose. “Laurel? You mean that cranky, gold-hounding alchemist, err, herbalist, I guess? I didn’t think she actually cared about the people here.”

  “I’m uncertain Laurel is a gold-hound,” Kallik replied carefully. “She seems to be doing what she can for those who are truly ill. As far as I understand, she’s on her last desperate effort. Grasping at straws, you might say. I’ve been tasked with going into the Darkmoon Vale in search of certain ingredients for a concoction even Laurel believes might be nonsense. Again, just grasping at straws. I’ve hired Molly here as my guide.”

  Once more, Castilia frowned, her eyes dipping back toward the shorter woman who knew better than to speak. “Hmm. And why have you come here?” the priestess asked.

  “I was looking to hire someone more combat-focused to watch our backs,” Kallik explained. “A man named Jack suggested I come here. Said I should talk to you about your acolyte.”

  “Hmm, reasonable, I suppose, if only for the slim chance this might help. One moment.” Castilia turned her gaze toward the sectioned-off area and called for a man named Tomlin. A young man in a similar monastic scapular came out carrying rags.

  “This is Kallik, an acolyte of the Ritter Literati. He’s going on an expedition into the Vale, trying to find some ingredients that likely won’t, but might, help with the Blackscour Taint. If you’re willing to go, then fetch your gear,” Castilia instructed.

  Tomlin glanced between Castilia and Kallik for a moment, shot a brief glare at Molly, then gave Castilia a single nod.

  “Paying five silver a day,” Kallik added.

  Tomlin either didn’t hear or didn’t acknowledge it. Castilia turned her attention back to Kallik. “I do appreciate that, though the possibility of gaining experience is reason enough for him to go.”

  Kallik nodded. Castilia leaned to the side, arms folded, and glared at Molly for a moment. “Could you stand outside?”

  Kallik wanted to protest, but he sensed Castilia wanted to speak without the other girl present. As Molly left, Castilia tilted her head, indicating she wanted Kallik to follow. He obliged, and she led him to a side room. She left the door open so she could still watch the entry, but it afforded a degree of privacy. She turned to Kallik and bluntly stated, “Don’t trust that girl.”

  “Oh?” Kallik responded aloud, raising an eyebrow.

  “Unlike the natives, I don’t judge her for what she is. But Falcon’s Hollow is corrupt and harsh, and its people have molded her into the thing they fear.” Castilia sighed. “Molly’s a liar and a thief at best. At worst…well, it’s possible this Blackscour Taint came from someone bringing it in. Of course, I have no proof, but if I had to suspect anyone, it’d be her. I’m not saying she won’t be an adequate guide to the Vale. I’m just warning you not to trust her.”

  Kallik silently considered her words, then nodded. He could make his own judgment, but there was nothing illogical in the priestess’s warning. For now, he would assume Molly would do the job he was paying her for. Laurel seemed to trust Molly, but he decided not to mention that.

  “All right. Any other advice before I head into the Vale?” he asked.

  “Mm. I’d say avoid the witch’s hut, meaning Uza’s place,” Castilia said. “Reports are wildly mixed. She’s either an evil old hermit or a wise sage who likes her privacy. In either case, she tends to extract strange and often terrible prices for what she offers.”

  “That might not be avoidable,” Kallik admitted.

  “Then I suggest being careful,” Castilia replied.

  Tomlin emerged from a back room, pack in tow, armor on, and a bedroll over his shoulder.

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” Castilia said. “May Iomedae watch over you and guide you to success on this… mission.”

  Kallik found Molly sitting on the temple’s front step, head down and tail resting in her lap, the little tuft at the end twitching cat-like. “To the lumber camp, please?” he asked, causing Molly to nearly jump out of her skin. “Sorry.”

  Molly cast one quick glance at Tomlin before standing, then set off toward the northern gate. Thus, their journey began.

  “Just so we can get an idea of everyone’s abilities,” Kallik said, “I’m a level-one wizard…”

  “Uh, what? Wizard?” Tomlin asked with some surprise. Even Molly missed a step and turned to look Kallik over. Kallik himself chuckled. He rather enjoyed people’s reactions upon discovering that the broad-shouldered, tall, and well-built individual was a member of a class that typically conjured images of the exact opposite.

  “Yes,” he said. “Prepared spells for the day are: an unerring missile of magical force, a spread of flame, and the ability to alarm an area at night, mostly useful for camp. Beyond that, I know how to use this.” He lifted his spear off the ground as he spoke.

  “Level one… w-w, a warrior?” Tomlin stuttered. “I focus on a shield and m-m-m, a mace,” Tomlin clarified.

  There was a long pause as they continued down the road, before Molly realized Kallik was waiting for her to speak.

  “Oh,” she managed, keeping her head down and fiddling with her fingers. “Adept. Level one,” she said in a small voice, volunteering no further information.

  “Can you heal?” Kallik asked.

  “Uh…yeah.”

  “How many spells?” he pressed.

  “Um…two,” Molly replied, sounding unsure and steadfastly not looking back at the two men behind her. She could practically feel Tomlin’s glare, as well as the more analytical scrutiny of Kallik’s red gaze. Instead, she kept her head down and pressed on., She was, after all, the guide, and that was her job.

  Kallik watched the little tiefling girl in front of him. She was…well, cute in a mousy, disheveled sort of way. Her dark hair was a frazzled mess, made more literal by the squirrel perched atop her head and staring back at him. The girl seemed to want to vanish into herself, and her tail, with a little tuft of fur at the end, barely moved. The back of her left pant leg was torn, revealing skin nearly up to her knee. Her pack was small, but in proportion to her small stature.

  Yes, she was cute, but Castilia had been right: she was likely a liar. Kallik threw a slight glare at the squirrel, which returned it with beady-eyed indignation. Kallik, being a wizard in service to the Literati, recognized a familiar when he saw one. The squirrel wasn’t just a pet. It was possible for an Adept to have a familiar, but the odds were that Molly was lying about her station. If she could actually cast healing spells, though, she’d be worth her weight in gold—liar or not. For now, he’d keep his suspicions to himself.

  The Lumber Consortium’s logging camp cut a deep scar into the forest—a considerable swath of nothing but cut stumps and a thick carpet of sawdust and slash. Five buildings, built entirely of logs, stood scattered across a broad clearing in a rough, near-pentagram arrangement. Large carts and sleds trundled back and forth, hauling logs in various stages of processing, presumably toward more specialized facilities. The lumberjacks looked surly. Hardened as old sailors, but with thicker beards.

  “Excuse me, do you know where I can find Millen Roddale?” Kallik asked one burly lumberjack.

  The man only glared and kindly told him to “fuck off.”

  Undeterred, Kallik found another person, this time pulling out a gold coin.

  “Do you know where I can find Millen Roddale?”

  The man stared at the coin a moment before looking into Kallik’s red eyes, issuing a derisive huff, and returning to his work. Twice more, a whole gold was rejected. Concluding that his red eyes and presumed Fire Islander heritage were causing distrust, Kallik decided to play into that notion.

  He climbed atop a large stack of logs and cupped his hands around his mouth. In the best approximation of his mother’s accent, he shouted, “Attention, tree-cutter people! I am look for Millen Roddale. Bring him to me! I pay!”

  That statement certainly drew attention. Molly found herself hiding behind Tomlin, who didn’t seem thrilled by the lumberjacks’ general mood. Someone at the base of the log pile clamped a tool onto one of the lower logs and twisted, causing the entire stack to roll. Kallik let out a startled yelp as what had moments ago been his firm footing suddenly vanished.

  “Um…perhaps if…maybe w-w-we… Where’s the fore-m-man?” Tomlin asked. Someone pointed toward a log building, and once Tomlin was sure Kallik had broken nothing during his impromptu log-rolling test, he led him away. The three headed toward what looked like the camp’s office amid the lumberjacks’ glares.

  The office of one Jarlben Trookshavits, the lumber boss, wasn’t any more welcoming. His employees out front might as well have been snarling wolves. A large bear, angry coyotes, and a couple of oversized reptilian things seemed to glare from their mounts on Jarlben’s wall, giving the place an eerie vibe. Jarlben himself presented no kinder visage.

  “We need to talk to your woodsman, Millen Roddale,” Kallik began. “We’re trying—”

  The thick tap of a finger on the desk and a gruff voice demanding cut him off, “Five gold.”

  Kallik frowned. “We’re searching for ingredients in the forest to help with Blackscour Taint.”

  Another finger-tap on the desk. “Five gold.”

  Kallik glared; the man glared right back. In the end, Kallik parted with five more gold pieces, hoping this venture wouldn’t take too many days. Further delays would mean more deaths, and he wouldn’t have enough coin to pay his help. They were ordered to wait outside while a runner went to find Millen.

  Millen himself actually listened to what they needed and seemed relieved that there might be a cure. His niece had the disease. He was only too happy to draw them a map of all possible locations for their ingredients. With that settled, the trio finally set off into the Darkmoon Vale: the small tiefling adept up front, the normal-sized human warrior in the rear, and the broad-shouldered wizard in the middle. Kallik had a feeling this would go either very well…or very, very badly.

  Chapter 4 base text

  The forest was quiet but alive with possibilities. From his perch high in the sturdy branches of a blackwood tree, Grung Knifetongue licked his lips, the malformed cleft in his palate making the sound wet and faintly grotesque. Below, the cries of the fox echoed through the cool air, a sharp, pitiful wail that would draw any soft-hearted fool into the open. The adventurers had appeared minutes earlier, their chatter betraying their positions long before Grung caught sight of them through the dense leaves. His gray-skinned fingers twitched over the taut string of his shortbow.

  They were good prey. Not the usual scavengers or beasts—these ones carried gear. Real weapons. One of them, a stocky figure with a mace and shield, even wore some armor. Grung’s heart thudded in anticipation. That mace would fetch a good price, and their coin purses jingled faintly as they moved closer to the lake.

  The group paused at the edge of the grassy shore. The fox lay sprawled on its side, its bright orange fur matted with blood, hindquarters caught in the jagged iron maw of Grung’s trap. The largest of the three—a spear-wielding man with no armor to speak of—scanned the tree line, his oddly red eyes sharp. Grung held his breath, melting into the shadow of the branches, his nerves dancing on the edge of panic. Then, the smallest of the group, a dark-haired woman with a sickle hooked at her belt, darted forward. Her voice, soft and urgent, carried through the stillness.

  “It’s hurt badly,” she said, crouching beside the fox. Her hands hovered over its trembling body, uncertain. “Hold on. I've got you.”

  The man with the mace stepped forward, glancing back toward the trees. “Molly, we should keep g-g-g, Keep moving. This isn't—”

  “No,” Molly cut in, her voice snapping with impatience. “Just wait.”

  Grung’s lip curled. Foolish. So foolish. He fitted an arrow to his bowstring, his excitement tempered by caution. His black, beady eyes flicked between the spear-wielder and the armored one. The spearman would go down first. Without armor, he’d be easy to drop. Grung took aim, steadying his breath as Molly fussed over the fox, her back turned to him.

  The arrow flew, slicing through the air with a faint whistle. It struck the spearman high in the shoulder. He staggered back, a sharp cry escaping his lips as his spear clattered to the ground. Molly’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Kallik!” she shouted.

  Grung didn’t wait for her reaction. He nocked another arrow, already shifting his aim to the next target. The armored one—Tomlin, the spearman had called him—raised his shield, his face pale but determined. Grung grunted in frustration. Shields were a nuisance. Perhaps the razorcrows would distract him.

  Grung clicked his tongue sharply, a guttural command that sent the razorcrows into a frenzy. Their harsh cries sliced through the forest’s uneasy quiet as they descended, black-feathered shapes swooping low with claws outstretched toward the group. Grung didn’t care if they succeeded. They were a tool, nothing more. He fired again, the arrow glancing off Tomlin’s shield with a sharp thunk. The hobgoblin hissed through his teeth, his excitement giving way to irritation. They weren’t running yet.

  Below, the spearman pulled himself to his feet, blood streaming down his arm. Molly had drawn her sickle, her face set with near panic, while Tomlin batted at the razorcrows with his shield.

  Grung’s nerves frayed. They weren’t supposed to fight back like this. The spear-wielder, Kallik, suddenly straightened, his crimson eyes locking onto Grung with an intensity that froze the hobgoblin in place. Kallik raised his weapon, pointing the spear directly at Grung.

  Grung let out a scoffing laugh. “Point all you like, stick-man. Won’t stop this.”

  But the spear tip began to glow, a blinding white light gathering at its tip. Before Grung could process what was happening, the light shot forth, forming a spearhead-shaped projectile wreathed in ethereal white fire. The projectile streaked toward him with impossible precision.

  Grung yelped, instinctively dropping from his tree. The world tilted as he fell, his stomach lurching with the motion. Mid-fall, his beady eyes widened in horror as the blazing projectile twisted in the air, turning to follow him like a predator locked on its prey.

  He raised his arms in desperation to shield himself. The magical spear struck him square in the chest, burning through his crude leathers and slicing into his gray skin. Pain exploded through his ribs as he crashed into the ground below. The wound was not deep, but it hurt enough to make him flinch. His next shot went wild, the arrow flying uselessly into the trees as he hissed in agony. The pain coursing through his chest was too much, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine fear gripped him.

  Grung scrambled to his feet, the razorcrows still darting and clawing at the adventurers. They were a distraction, just enough to cover his retreat. Clutching his side, he turned and bolted deeper into the forest, his gray feet pounding against the underbrush. Branches slapped at his face and arms as he ran, but he didn’t dare stop or look back.

  The sounds of combat and shouts faded behind him as the shadows of the blackwood trees enveloped him. Grung gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving despite the searing pain in his chest. His prey had been more trouble than they were worth, and he cursed himself for underestimating them. But he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

  ***

  The razorcrows lay still, their black feathers scattered across the grass near Tomlin’s feet. He stood with his shield resting against his leg, his mace held loosely in one hand, surveying the forest’s edge. Red scratches lined his face and arms, but he seemed otherwise unbothered, though his cautious gaze darted through the trees.

  Molly, crouched a short distance away, was nearly oblivious to him and Kallik. Her attention fixed entirely on the fox caught in the trap. The creature trembled as she worked, her hands moving carefully to avoid jostling its wounded leg. Quarrel chirped nervously from his perch in her tangled hair, his tiny claws gripping tightly. She gave him a gentle nudge with one finger.

  “Hush, Quarrel,” she murmured under her breath, her tone soft and steady. “It’s all right. Just a bit longer.”

  The fox’s bright orange fur was matted with blood, and Molly’s fingers were slick as she worked to loosen the crude iron jaws of the trap. She knew the others were close by, felt their movements at the edges of her awareness, but she kept her focus on the animal. Its sharp, terrified eyes flicked to her every so often, and she murmured calming words, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Kallik approached from the forest’s edge, his steps heavy but deliberate. His hand rested on the arrow shaft lodged in his shoulder, the wooden shaft wobbling slightly with each step. He glanced at Tomlin, who was still scanning the tree line.

  “It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” Kallik said, his voice laced with mild curiosity. “Not deep, though. Should come out easy.”

  Tomlin’s eyes flicked to the arrow, then to Kallik’s face. “Y-you sure?” he asked.

  Kallik nodded, gripping the arrow’s base with one hand. “Yeah. Probably.”

  With a quick motion, he yanked the arrow free. His expression barely shifted, but his next breath came sharply. Blood welled up from the gash left behind, staining his tunic a darker red. He grimaced.

  “Hurts more now,” he admitted, holding a hand over the wound as if to stop the bleeding. His eyes met Tomlin’s briefly, but the smaller man’s attention had already returned to the forest.

  “B-bad idea,” Tomlin muttered. He adjusted his shield, his grip on the handle tightening. “H-he might still b-be out there.”

  Molly didn’t glance up, but she could hear the exchange clearly. Her jaw tightened as she carefully pried open the last hinge of the trap. With a faint metallic creak, the iron jaws released, and the fox flinched away. It limped a few feet, then collapsed onto the grass, its sides heaving with labored breaths.

  “Got it,” Molly said softly, brushing her bloodied hands on her pant legs. Quarrel chittered in relief, though he still refused to leave her hair. She reached toward the fox, her movements slow and deliberate, her voice calming. “Easy now. You’re okay. Let me see how bad it is.”

  Behind her, Kallik adjusted his grip on his spear, his sharp eyes flicking to the treetops and back. Tomlin stood as still as a statue, his shoulders tense.

  “If he’s smart,” Kallik said, his tone low, “he’s long gone.”

  Tomlin didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on the forest line. Molly barely registered their words. Her fingers moved gently over the fox’s injured leg, her expression softening despite the tension around her. She pressed her hand lightly to the worst of the wounds, her brow furrowing in concentration. No words passed her lips, no glow illuminated the scene, but the ragged flesh beneath her touch began to knit together. The fox let out a soft whimper but stilled, its breathing growing steadier.

  Tomlin’s sharp intake of breath broke the moment. “You…you used a h-h-healing spell? On a-an animal?”

  Molly blinked, turning her head slightly toward him, but her hand remained on the fox. “It needed help,” she said simply, her voice as cold and firm as she could force it to be.

  Tomlin’s face twisted in disbelief, his stuttered words rising with irritation. “A-a-a waste! K-Kallik is hurt. You should have…”

  Her eyes snapped to Kallik then, finally noticing the blood staining his tunic and the gash in his shoulder. She should have paid more attention. Kallik gave her a small smile, the corners of his mouth tilting upward despite the strain. “It’s fine. I think.”

  Molly hesitated, her hands still for a moment before she motioned for him to come closer. “Let me see,” she murmured, her voice soft but insistent.

  Kallik stepped forward, his movements careful. Molly reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she placed a hand over the wound. She was touching him. Well, she was touching his bloody surcoat. Her eyes darted to his face, watching for any reaction.

  Kallik’s expression remained neutral at first, but his brow furrowed slightly as a faint warmth spread through his shoulder. Molly’s lips pressed into a thin line as she concentrated.

  When she finally pulled her hand away, Kallik rolled his shoulder, testing the movement. His grin widened as he swung his arm in circles. “That’s amazing,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Molly.”

  Tomlin, standing a few paces away, scowled, his voice low and muttered. “A-all out of h-healing spells already… W-wonderful.”

  Molly glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable, but she said nothing. She hadn't used her two healing spells yet, that was something different. Kallik’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, his expression thoughtful. Did he suspect her of something. Of coarse the wizard would be able to recognize a hex over a spell. He didn't anything though.

  "Alright." Said Kallik. "Moving on. Molly?"

  Molly scooped the fox up into her arms and took lead into the forest.

  Chapter 5 base text

  The elder tree wasn't hard to find. Not with Quarrel's help. The dense forest fell away as the group stepped into the clearing, and for a moment, all they could do was stare. The massive darkwood tree towered above them, its colossal trunk anchoring it like a titan rooted in the earth. Its sprawling branches stretched skyward, an intricate cathedral of leaves and limbs, while its thick roots burrowed into the soil like serpents. The rich, almost black bark gleamed faintly in the fading light.

  “Oh wow,” Kallik said softly, his voice carrying the wonder Molly and presumably the others felt.

  They moved toward the tree almost in unison, their steps slow and reverent, eyes craning upward to take in the sheer immensity of it. A small crack sound under her boot caught Molly's attention enough for her to tear her gaze away the great forest elder. She glanced down, expecting a branch or dried leaves, but instead saw the slender, splintered ankle bone of a deer.

  Her brow furrowed as she crouched to inspect it. The fox in her arms squirming against the motion. Nearby, another crunch made her glance sideways. A skull, round and elongated, caught her eye. The telltale shape of a Darkmoon wolf’s jawbone sent a prickle of unease up her spine. She scanned the ground more closely now, her fingers brushing the detritus. Bones. So many bones.

  “There are…” Molly hesitated, her voice uneven. “There are bones everywhere.”

  Kallik and Tomlin finally tore their gazes away from the tree, looking down as if seeing the ground for the first time. The bones scattered across the floor formed a grim carpet beneath the tree’s massive roots. Molly swallowed hard, brushing her hands on her skirt as she rose. Leaving the Firefoot Fennec by her feet.

  Why so many? She wanted to ask, but the words didn't form.

  Tomlin turned slowly, his cautious gaze sweeping the clearing. He shifted his shield into position, the tension in his shoulders building. Molly’s unease deepened, her tail twitching nervously behind her.

  Tomlin’s attention lingered on the tree a moment longer before he turned, his lips parting to say something—but the words never came.

  A deafening hiss split the air as a serpentine form burst from the canopy above. Leaves and small branches rained down as the creature plunged toward them, its emerald scales glinting in the fading light. Its yellow eyes glowed with predatory intent, and its muscular, snake-like body twisted midair. Thick forearms tipped with sharp claws spread wide, grasping for prey. Before any of them could react, it slammed into Tomlin with the force of a boulder, sending him sprawling.

  Molly screamed, stumbling back as Quarrel erupted from her hair in a flurry of panicked chirps. Kallik whirled, his spear already in hand, his expression shifting from awe to alarm in an instant.

  The creature hissed, its claws raking against Tomlin’s armor as it coiled around him. Its forearms gripped him tightly, claws digging into the seams of his armor, as it began to drag him toward the tree. Its body lashed, striking the ground and scattering dirt and bones. Tomlin struggled beneath the beast’s weight, his shield wedged awkwardly between them as he grunted in pain. The creature's maw snapped inches from his face, its hot breath steaming against his skin, while its powerful limbs strained to haul him into the branches above.

  “Get it off!” Tomlin shouted, his voice ragged with fear and effort. His mace swung wildly, striking the wyrm’s side but failing to do much more than brush over its scales.

  Kallik moved first, his spear angled toward the beast. “Hold on!” he called, his voice steady despite the chaos. He lunged forward, the point of his weapon aiming for the wyrm’s exposed flank.

  Molly stood frozen for a heartbeat, her eyes wide as the scene unfolded. She didn’t like Tomlin, not at all, but she didn’t want to see him die either. Her gaze darted between the creature and the massive tree looming above, her indecision carving a hollow pit in her chest. Then, as the wyrm’s claws dug deeper and Tomlin’s muffled grunts grew weaker, she set her jaw.

  Taking a deep breath, she planted her feet and reached outward, into the dark, familiar other. Comfort and unease swirled together as she felt the pulse of life and death around her—the bones beneath her feet whispering of ends long past, and the tree towering before her radiating timeless vitality. Her hand twisted unnaturally, her fingers forming shapes no humanoid hand should. Words spilled from her lips, soft and alien and ancient, reverberating through the clearing like a distant echo.

  A sickly green and purple ray erupted from her outstretched finger, shooting across the clearing. Molly's heart sank as the ray missed its mark, disappearing into the branches of the massive tree behind the wyrm. The creature, undeterred, tightened its grip on Tomlin, its claws digging deeper as it dragged him closer to the tree's limbs. Molly cursed under her breath, her hands trembling as she stood on the ground unable to do anything useful.

  Kallik seized his last opportunity. His spear lashed forward, piercing the wyrm’s side with a brutal thrust. The creature screeched again, thrashing violently as it tried to pull away from the steel weapon.

  Molly watched helplessly as the wyrm hauled a struggling Tomlin higher into the tree’s massive branches, its powerful limbs pulling him effortlessly out of Kallik’s reach. Her heart raced, panic and frustration swirling in her chest as she tried to think of anything that could stop it. She clenched her fists, but before she could act again, Kallik stepped forward.

  He seemed unfazed, his focus sharp and unyielding. He leveled his spear, aiming carefully at the wyrm’s wounded side. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, the spear launched itself forward with impossible speed. The tip buried itself deep into the creature’s scales, driving straight into the previous wound. The wyrm let out a deafening screech, its grip faltering as it writhed in pain. Tomlin slipped free of its claws, falling several feet before landing heavily on the bone covered ground.

  The wyrm snarled, its instincts driving it to flee. The spear snapped back into Kallik’s waiting hand, his movements calm and deliberate. With a sharp gesture and a single word of power, he unleashed a white, arcane spearpoint that trailed ethereal fire. The projectile curved deftly around the thick limbs of the tree before striking the wyrm squarely in its side. The creature’s screech turned into a strangled hiss as it lost its grip entirely and plummeted from the canopy, crashing into the forest floor below.

  Kallik approached the fallen wyrm, his spear in hand. Its movements were weak and sluggish. With a practiced thrust, he ended the creature’s struggle swiftly. The forest fell eerily silent, save for the heavy breathing of the group.

  Molly stared at Kallik, her breath catching in her throat as she watched him calmly lower his weapon. For a fleeting moment, he reminded her of the heroes from one of her stolen romance novels—the noble warrior, brave and unfaltering, stepping out of legend to save the day. However instead of striding confidently toward her, he ran to check on Tomlin.

  “Do you have any more healing magic?” Kallik asked as he turned Tomlin onto his back. Blood seeped from the puncture wounds where the creature’s claws had burrowed into his flesh. His expression remained calm, though his voice carried a sense of urgency.

  “Um, yeah,” Molly said, her voice hesitant as she slowly approached Castilia’s acolyte. Part of her didn’t want to help him, but she knew she had no choice. She waved her hands in a practiced motion, mumbling the necessary words before placing her hand firmly on Tomlin’s chest.

  A soft glow emanated briefly from her touch, and the puncture wounds began to close. As she worked, Molly’s mind raced. Did Kallik understand what she was doing? Could he see through her careful gestures and words to the deeper truth? She didn’t understand it herself, not entirely. The power she wielded felt natural and yet alien, like instinct not knowledge.

  When the magic faded, Molly stepped back, her hands trembling slightly. Tomlin stirred, his eyes relaxing as he let out a low groan. He looked at her, then quickly away, muttering something under his breath. Molly wasn’t sure if it was a thank you or a complaint, and she didn’t much care.

  Kallik nodded at her, his expression steady. “Good work,” he said simply, before lending a hand to help Tomlin up. Molly let out a quiet sigh, relieved the moment had passed without further scrutiny. She was at least one spell over her Adept cover story.

  ***

  Molly crouched near the massive trunk of the elder darkwood tree, her fingers brushing lightly over the moss that clung to its dark surface. The patch was soft and spongy, its deep green color contrasting against the nearly black bark. Carefully, Molly peeled it away in clumps, placing each handful into the pouch. The task was simple and methodical, requiring none of her focus, which left her ears free to pick up on the low conversation behind her.

  Not too far away, Kallik and Tomlin worked to bury the skeletal remains of the three hunters who had met their grisly end in the limbs of the tree. Their tones were muted, but the quiet of the forest carried their words clearly.

  “How do we divide wa-wa-wa... Slpit the watches for tonight?” Tomlin asked, his voice practical but edged with tension.

  Kallik’s voice was calm, almost indifferent. “Three of us, so three watches works.”

  Tomlin hesitated. Molly edged around the tree just enough to catch the way his mouth twisted. “And her?” he asked, tilting his head in her direction. “You really think we can t-trust her to take a watch?”

  Molly stilled, her fingers tightening slightly on the handful of moss she had just collected.

  “No,” Tomlin continued before Kallik could answer. “She’s lying about her c-c... about her class, and probably more.”

  There was a pause. Then Kallik sighed. “She’s definitely lying, I do think Castilia was right about her.” he said, his voice steady but devoid of judgment. “But it doesn’t mean she’s dangerous. People lie for reasons.”

  “Castilia is always right,” Tomlin muttered. “I don’t know why y-y-you’d risk it.”

  “We’ll manage two watches,” Kallik said smoothly, changing the subject. “I have a spell that will alert me if anything comes too close. Don’t worry about it.”

  Tomlin grunted in reluctant agreement. Their conversation shifted, their voices lowering further as they spoke about other matters. Molly stayed where she was, kneeling in the dirt and moss, staring at the patch she had just harvested. Her chest felt tight, her breath uneven.

  She had expected distrust from Tomlin. That was nothing new. But hearing Kallik agree, even in his calm, detached way, stung more than she thought it would. She had lied to him, and maybe she deserved his doubt. Still, it hurt. And it was odd it hurt. Why should she care what he thinks?

  Forcing herself to move, Molly finished gathering the last of the moss and tied her pouch shut. She rose slowly, her face carefully blank, and approached the men as if she hadn’t heard a word.

  “Got the moss,” she said, her voice steady. “What now?”

  Kallik looked out from under the boughs of the giant trees at the darkening sky. "Is it safe to camp here? With a small fire."

  Molly looked up at the tree limbs above her. "A small one." "Then let’s set camp. You two collect firewood. I'll ward the area."

  "Who has first watch?" Molly asked, her tone casual, but her eyes flicked toward Kallik, trying to gauge his reaction. She wanted to know if he truly intended to trust her, even for something as simple as keeping watch.

  Kallik glanced at Tomlin. "Do you want first watch?"

  Tomlin nodded. "Y-yeah, I can take first."

  "Then I'll take second, until morning," Kallik replied easily. He adjusted his spear and looked back at Molly. "What about me?" Molly asked, her voice light but probing.

  Kallik met her gaze, his expression neutral. "You can watch with us if you want, or get some sleep. It's up to you."

  Molly nodded and turned to go collect firewood. Disappointed, but not surprised.

  ***

  Molly sat cross-legged near the edge of the firelight, her fingers running absently through the fox’s soft fur. The animal had relaxed in her lap, but Molly couldn’t find the same comfort. The warmth of the campfire flickered over her face, but it didn’t reach the cold dread curling in her stomach. She had been awake for a while now, stealing glances at Kallik as he kept watch, trying to piece together something to say—something to break the silence that wasn’t utterly meaningless.

  She fidgeted, adjusting her grip on the fox, but before she could speak, Kallik’s voice cut through the quiet.

  “Sorcerer, Wizard, Magus, Witch, and maybe Oracle.”

  Molly’s breath caught. The word “witch” struck her like a physical blow, her stomach twisting as though she had been caught doing something forbidden.

  “What?” she asked, forcing the word out as neutrally as she could manage.

  Kallik didn’t look at her, his eyes still scanning the dark treeline. “Ray of enfeeblement. A spell that saps the strength from its target. Too bad it missed.” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on his spear. “Also, an adept can get a familiar at level two.”

  Molly went still, her fingers halting against the fox’s fur. The realization hit her all at once—he was calling her out. He knew. He had seen through her carefully crafted deception, seen the truth hidden in the gaps of her lies. He knew Quarrel wasn’t just a pet, knew the spell she had cast during the fight with the wyrm wasn’t something an adept should be able to use.

  Her mind raced. Deny it? Change the subject? Laugh it off? Admit something, but not everything? Stay silent? The panic rising in her chest made each option feel impossible. The fire crackled, the fox gave a quiet sigh, and still, she said nothing.

  The pause stretched too long.

  Kallik finally turned his head slightly, his red eyes glinting in the firelight. “Healing,” Kallik continued, his tone still neutral. “Not impossible, but extremely rare for anyone other than Witch or Oracle.”

  Molly let out a slow breath, shifting just slightly, positioning herself so she could bolt into the woods if she needed to. She could run. That option was always there. But she hesitated, her mind racing between choices she wasn’t sure she had.

  Her eyes flicked toward Kallik, only to catch sight of Quarrel perched comfortably on his leg, chewing idly on something Kallik was feeding him. The damn traitor.

  She swallowed hard and remained silent.

  Kallik tilted his head, watching her carefully. “I’d guess witch,” he said finally. “Am I right?”

  Molly’s breath caught, her body tensing as if ready to spring. But then she caught the expression on his face. No anger. No accusation. Just curiosity, like he was trying to solve a puzzle rather than expose a fraud.

  She didn’t relax—couldn’t—but she hesitated, uncertain now what she should have feared more: his judgment or the fact that she didn’t know what it would be.

  Molly shifted just a bit more, ready to bolt if she had to. The firelight flickered, making Kallik’s expression harder to read, but his tone had remained so even, so matter-of-fact. That somehow made it worse.

  She swallowed and forced the word out. "Yes."

  Kallik just nodded to himself, as if confirming something obvious. Without another word, he plucked another morsel of food from his hand and passed it to Quarrel. The squirrel accepted it eagerly, beady black eyes flicking toward Molly as he chewed. He almost seemed to shrug.

  The damn traitor.

  Molly’s mind reeled, grasping for any kind of logic. He wasn’t reacting. No accusation, no anger, no hostility. Just—acceptance? That couldn’t be right. Before she could gather the words to ask, Kallik spoke again.

  "Why lie about your class?"

  Molly stared at him for a long moment, her fingers curling slightly in the fox’s fur. When she finally found her voice, it came out small but edged with bitterness. "Um, because everyone hates witches?"

  Kallik frowned, his head tilting slightly as he considered her words. "I’m sorry, other than a class, what does 'witch' mean out here?"

  Molly let out a sharp exhale, her shoulders tensing. "It means people who consort with demons and evil fey to torment people they don’t like. That’s what they think witches do. That’s what they think I do. They think I hex crops and poison wells and curse them with sickness when they glare at me for too long. Doesn’t matter if I’ve never done anything to them."

  Kallik listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable. When she finished, he nodded once, as if absorbing the explanation. "I understand why you would hide your class in that case."

  Molly barely had time to process his lack of judgment before he continued, shifting the conversation in the direction she had dreaded.

  "What is your patron entity?"

  Her heart skipped. Panic surged, tightening her throat, but she forced herself to answer honestly. Every time she had told the truth before, she had been called a liar. But Kallik didn’t seem like the others. "I don’t know."

  Kallik barely reacted, his tone still mild, but there was a flicker of something—concern, maybe—as he asked, "What does it want?"

  "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice a whisper.

  Kallik considered her for a moment before asking the next question, his voice steady. "Can you give up power if the cost is too high?"

  Molly froze. Completely. Her breath hitched, her muscles locking in place. Her expression twisted into something close to concern—no, fear. She had never considered that. Never thought she’d live long enough for it to matter. She had assumed she’d die at level one or two, that she’d never have enough power for it to be a problem.

  But now she wasn’t so sure. "I don't know."

  Kallik nodded, his expression thoughtful, but his next question caught Molly off guard. "Are you registered with the Order of the Silverwood?"

  "The what?" she asked, blinking in confusion.

  Kallik actually looked surprised. "The Order of the Silverwood. They oversee druids, witches, rangers, and a few others. It’s their job to make sure people with those classes are accounted for and not causing trouble. You’ve never heard of them?"

  Molly shook her head slowly. "No. I’ve never heard of them."

  The concept intrigued her. She had always assumed witches were loners, avoiding notice and keeping their magic hidden. But an entire organization that monitored them? It was almost impossible to imagine.

  Kallik seemed to consider this for a moment before asking another question. "Are there any druids or rangers in Falcon’s Hollow?"

  Molly thought for a second, frowning slightly. "I think there’s a ranger, but he’s gone most of the time. I don’t know much about him. I don’t think I’ve ever met him in person."

  Kallik nodded again, seemingly filing that information away. Molly shifted slightly, still mulling over the idea of the Order of the Silverwood, trying to figure out if it was something she should be worried about—or if it was something she might actually want to learn more about.

  There was silence for a long while. Molly had relaxed somewhat, her fingers running idly through the fox’s fur, though her thoughts still churned. Kallik remained where he was, methodically feeding Quarrel, his red eyes distant as the sky began to lighten with the first hints of dawn.

  “When this is over, I’ll need to head to Berkhanstead,” Kallik said, breaking the quiet. He didn’t look at her, his voice as steady as ever. “I’d like you to come with me. To register at the Order.”

  Molly’s head snapped toward him, her breath catching. Her stomach twisted in a confusing knot of excitement and fear. He wanted her to go with him? To a real city? To see this mysterious Order? The thought sent a thrill through her, but it was immediately dampened by anxiety. Would they even let her in? Would it mean putting herself at even greater risk?

  “Oh, okay,” she said quietly, the words slipping out before she had fully processed them. A part of her—one she tried to smother—wondered if a journey to the city together could be the start of the kind of story she had only read about. Probably not. But still…

  Chapter 6 Base Text

  Items:

  two crossbows, two short swords, a suit of hide armor, a masterwork shortbow, a signet ring with the image of a flaming hawk (worth 5 gp), 9 gp, 12 sp, and eight days’ worth of rations.