The Revenge of Rondhol
The Black Pits
Briars in Darkness
Part 1, The Figure
The rainfall has lessened substantially, to the point that it is now merely a light shower, meaning the figure can clearly make out the jungle it is approaching. It hasn’t far to go now, though it’s not clear that it will manage even this short distance.
Its grey chest heaves, as its breath comes in deep, ragged gasps. Its expression, twisted into a rictus of pain. Black blood mingles with living darkness as the figure continues its forward stagger, and though the writhing shadows which shroud its lower body conceal the true extent of its blood loss, the large gash upon its waist still bleeds profusely, despite its best efforts at compressing the wound.
Nonetheless, it presses on, and by some small miracle, reaches the tree-line without falling. Yet it does not stop at the outskirts to rest. It pushes itself further still, occasionally having to brace itself against the trunk of a tree for several seconds to keep from collapsing, but allowing itself no more of a break than that.
Eventually, its perseverance is rewarded, when it comes upon a great hollow in the ground, which descends at a sharp angle, creating a wide opening beneath the roots of several ancient trees. This opening leads down to a subterranean cavern, veiled in shadow. There are many such cavities in this jungle, which civilised academics and scholars theorise could indicate the presence of Ulgu infringing upon Ghur within the region; a good indication of the presence of one or more nearby realmgates, connecting the two lands.
Regardless of the truth or falsity of this belief, there are darker things which lurk in these depressions than even the worst denizens of Malerion’s realm. The figure knows this, yet strides down the steep incline without hesitation. In fact, as it closes the distance between itself and the cavern proper, it seems to stand taller, and the grimace drops from its visage, to be replaced with a look of cocky self-assurance, its apparently fatal injury appearing less of a concern to it with each step that it takes.
Down below the surface, the cavern is no less humid than the jungle overhead, yet an inexplicable chill permeates this place, lending it a damp, dank quality. The expansive space is lit only scarcely by bioluminescent mosses and fungi, which serve more to highlight the shadows than to actually illuminate anything. Yet the figure’s three-eyed gaze effortlessly pierces this gloom.
Its hand drops from the grievous wound on its side, which seems to no longer trouble the figure, as it strides confidently onwards. For all that being in this cavern bolsters its strength, it appears that this is not its final destination. It searches for something more.
It walks for several minutes before coming upon that something. From out of the darkness, a floating island drifts its way, the looming metalith dwarfing the puny figure beneath its immensity and dark grandeur. The figure ignores it entirely, its eyes fixed upon a point lower down, where the rock’s shadow is cast. A shadow of such deep and abiding blackness that not even this figure’s gaze can penetrate it.
Apparently unconcerned by the unknown, the figure strides into that abyssal blackness, and vanishes.
Only one entity was witness to this spectacle, and perhaps it considered interfering, snatching up this winged humanoid which intruded upon its domain. Or perhaps it did not. None in all the realms can even guess at the intricacies of its master’s schemes, so who can say what thoughts pass through the mind of this fragment of Him? It may be that this is all playing out exactly as He has planned.
The Eye blinks, and is gone.
Part 2, The Branchwych
She is only dimly aware of what is going on around her. She knows that she is walking, along with her sisters. The bittergrub lounges idly in the branches that sprout from her back, its head draped over her shoulder. With one hand, she absently pets it, the simple, rhythmic motion not demanding much thinking capacity to maintain, and somehow comforting her.
In her other hand, she carries the scythe, though “carries” is perhaps too strong a word. She drags it along, its blade carving a shallow furrow through the dirt in her wake. Occasionally, one of her sisters will take her by the arm or touch her shoulder, to gently move her to the left or right. She does not stop to ponder why.
Almost all of her brain power — if a woman made entirely of wood can be said to have a brain — is devoted to the mental task she has set herself. In their recent, tragic meeting, her predecessor had offered to free her from the scythe’s influence. That had not ended well, to put it mildly.
So she has resigned herself to her fate. Had she not been weak enough to accept that offer of help, then the cursed weapon she wields never would have forced her to strike her big sister. Of that, she is convinced. As such, she has decided not to run from her responsibility any longer.
As the current Briarbrood Branchwych, it is her duty to master this awful relic, for the sake of her sisters. So now all her focus is bent to that endeavour. She is delving deep into the sea of mysteries which it contains, drinking in all the knowledge it sends her way, and despite feeling as though she is drowning in information, she perseveres.
With each step she takes, she can sense its influence spreading further through her being, the magic of Life altering her in body, mind and soul. With each passing second, she strays further from becoming the Beast that Ghur wishes her to be.
Although she mourns her lost innocence — pining for that time when she was merely a simple dryad, revelling in uncomplicated savagery — now that she has made this choice, she knows that she will not back down; as the Life-curse afflicts her further, her love for her sisters only grows, and with it, her willingness to sacrifice herself to this awful weapon for their sakes.
All her life, she has been driven to hunt and kill, to honour Ghur by preying on and devouring wild beasts and civilised beings alike. Now, with her new, sickeningly warped perspective, such endeavours feel wasteful and unnecessary. It breaks her heart to think of all the sisters she has lost since this war began.
However, this newfound empathy cannot be entirely twisted to suit the enigmatic intents of the greenwood scythe. Such an emotional awakening only crushes her spirits all the more, her guilt for wounding her big sister growing in tandem with her burgeoning conscience. She loathes herself for what she has done almost as much as she despises the weapon for making her do it.
It’s not all bad, though. Her big sister was correct to describe the trade-off of bearing the scythe as exchanging the bliss of ignorance for the power of knowledge. Until now, she had not truly understood what that meant. She knew that she had been able to think more clearly since taking up the scythe, but it is only now that she has surrendered herself to the weapon’s will that she is beginning to comprehend its true potential. Magic.
She still cannot grasp what dark purpose the scythe has, why it does what it does, yet she now sees the benefits of carrying it. If it wants to change who she is, then so be it. To atone for her sin, she will cede her very identity if need be, to gain the strength she needs to protect what few sisters remain to her.
Part 3, The Nymph
The one-eyed nymph takes the branchwych by the arm and gently pulls her to one side, preventing her from colliding face-first with a tree. The branchwych does not resist, and in fact seems not to even notice the near miss.
The branch nymph exchanges a concerned look with one of her sister-nymphs, not for the first time. Ever since that encounter with the former matriarch — revealed to have somehow miraculously survived, only to then be driven off when the current matriarch was overcome by a fit of madness and struck her — the branchwych hasn’t been herself. She’d seemed distracted on the plains, but it was only after entering this jungle that the true extent of her malaise was revealed.
That the one who is supposed to be their leader is so dazed that she cannot even walk without supervision does not inspire confidence. In the past, the branchwych’s strength and wisdom were beyond doubt. Now, she is not so sure. Though her near-feral consciousness lacks the frame of reference to properly comprehend the concept of mental health, a part of her does feel that the matriarch has been pushed too far, and is now broken in some non-physical way.
She doesn’t wish to dwell on such depressing thoughts, though, so puts that tragic notion from her mind, clinging to a faint thread of hope that she is merely overthinking things; that with time, the branchwych will recover.
Even if that be the case, though, they may not have such time. For it is not long after entering the jungle that they come upon some sort of cavern entrance, leading down beneath the roots of a grove of trees. The gloom within is deep and foreboding, yet the branchwych takes no more notice of it than she has of anything else, and continues onwards, seemingly unaware of the danger she may be stepping into.
The nymph glances across at several of her nearby sisters, yet neither she nor they make any move to steer their matriarch away from the gaping pit. Making small course corrections to keep her from crashing into or tripping over various obstacles is one thing, but trying to entirely change the direction that the branchwych is headed feels like something else entirely. A line she must not cross. In order for her to retain any faith at all in her leader’s judgement, she has to believe that they are headed this way for a reason, and as a result, that it would be wrong to change course now.
And that means having to enter the dark, spooky cave.
Feeling dread well up within her, but overcoming the urge to scamper off, the one-eyed nymph slinks along beside her matriarch, as the Briarbrood Branchwych saunters dreamily down the slope, her glazed eyes staring vacantly ahead.
Part 4, The Eye
The Eye blinks. From afar, it surveys all.
Darkness means nothing before its esoteric gaze.
It spots a ragged band of forest folk.
The Eye blinks. Closer now, it inspects these intruders into its domain.
Many of them scuttle or scurry on all fours, more like beasts than the women they resemble.
Just one in their midst holds a weapon, dragging it along behind her, like a farmer tilling the soil. That, and her placid, dazed expression, suggest that she is no threat.
The intruders squint, struggling to see, their feeble eyes unable to penetrate the pervasive murk.
The small patches of moss and mushrooms which spill dim light into their immediate vicinities are by no means sufficient for these surface dwellers to find their way about.
The dryads paw at the ground, feeling their way forwards as much as seeing where they’re going.
The Eye blinks. Directly overhead, it looks down on those beneath it.
Its corona of shadowy tendrils writhe, eager for what comes next.
Before it can reach for any of the dryads, though, the dullard with the scythe stops in her tracks, cocking her head to one side, as if listening for something.
The Eye hesitates. It stills its quivering tentacles, remaining perfectly still.
The sylvaneth’s head snaps up to face its way. Still, she wears that faraway expression, as if not looking at the Eye, but through it.
In an almost sing-song tone, she mutters, “Grow and glow, flora, fungi. Accept this verdant blessing.”
The Eye sees things mortals cannot. It sees magic itself, for such is the domain of its master.
The Eye sees the pulse of vibrant energies radiate outwards, not from the spellcaster herself, but from the crescent blade that is the head of her scythe.
In an instant, that wave passes over all the nearby vegetation, and just as quickly, the plant and fungoid life bursts outwards, flourishing as never before.
Wilting mosses become thickets of grasses and ferns, as shrivelled mushrooms are transformed into towering toadstools, of a scale rarely seen outside Gloomspite enclaves. All are powerfully luminous, the flora and fungi losing their former, sickly hues, becoming instead an intensely bright, neon green.
Before the daemon can react, its robust limbs of shadow have been torn to tatters by that blinding light. Despite lacking a mouth, it nonetheless emits a piercing, keening shriek as its body is bathed in awful radiance.
The Eye blinks. Distant once more, and swaddled in darkness, it takes but a moment to reform its wreath of tendrils from the shadow-stuff that is all about.
Still, it cannot encroach upon the light of Life.
Those sylvaneth souls are safe from its hunger, for now.
So the Eye waits, and watches.
