Lazy and languid, the waters of the Lustrare river slipped through the forest, leaving their mark on the entire valley in some way. Beneath the trees, for example, the waters and the humid, yet cooler air that hovered over the river’s surface allowed for the growth of some rather interesting plants and fungal specimen.
It was the latter that drew a curious figure out into the woods. Shorter than a skink, but with a stockier build, it was draped in worn, threadbare robes. They may have been fine once, and the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy would occasionally tug a hint of purple out of the faded, mottled grey hues of the cloth. A tall staff, capped with a goat’s skull and adorned with tarnished medallions was gripped tightly in one of the figure’s hands. The other currently held a lovingly-polished brass pipe, possibly of dwarven make. Atop the figure’s green-skinned head was an odd sort of crown. Four curved horns – or possibly talons – set into a ring of some golden metal.
What could be seen of the figure was somewhat less than expected. Wrinkled green skin graced the body of what was obviously a grot. Beady red-toned eyes were set above a large, hooked nose. A broad jaw was framed by drooping, wrinkled jowls. Long, pointy ears were flattened a little and forced outwards by the weight of the horned crown atop his head.
Yet despite his dour, grumpy appearance, the grot seemed to be in an oddly happy mood as it trod slowly along the riverbank. He smiled often, showing off broken, yellowed, fang-like teeth common to all grots as the big, heavy, hobnail boots on his feet kept him safe from the thorns in the undergrowth. Anyone who happened to be listening in would hear his high-pitched, gruff voice casting out the words to an unusual song in an oddly child-like manner, pausing in-between verses to take a puff from his pipe and send a smoke-ring towards the canopy.
“Creamy chantrelle’s good fer stew, spotted redcap makes ya spew; striped nightwatch’s really great, it makes ya hallucinate!”
To anyone from outside the valley, this would have been an odd sight. To those who lived in the Lustrare River Valley, not so much. Such a sight was reasonably commonplace for them and had been for a few years now. Jyrrud “da Wizzgit,” as the Troggoths in the Eastern mountains called him, had appeared in the valley about half a decade ago. He’d emerged from somewhere in the mountains and staked out a claim to a small cave in a wooded glade.
Sylvaneth ignored him as he didn’t do anything to warrant their attention.
Skinks would talk to him on occasion, as he seemed to have a knack for herbal remedies and a knowledge of fungi that made even the most learned of the skink priests surprised.
Jyrrud avoided the Saurus, as the grot was never certain what the more aggressive Seraphon would do.
As for the humans living in the Lustrare Valley, to them, Jyrrud was the herbalist the skinks saw, but also a fortune-teller of some skill and renown. It was not uncommon for a traveller in the valley to see a lone human – or small group of them – returning from a trip to the grot’s home near the valley’s edge after asking him to cast the bones for them.
At least once a seven-day, the grot could be found tromping through the forest along the river’s edge, gathering mushrooms and herbs. Today was no different. Pouches about his waist held at least four kinds of fungus he’d gathered. Every now and then he’d pause his singing, stare intently at something hidden by the grass, and either go on his way or bend down to scoop some into another pouch.
He seemed to be oblivious to his surroundings as he worked. Neither bird nor beast, nor sounds from the river seemed to distract him from his task, but Jyrrud was more alert than he seemed to be. He’d heard the rumours going around, about individuals and groups vanishing suddenly while trekking through supposedly safe areas of the valley.
So when he came across a particularly unusual mushroom, he stopped for a moment and thought. This one was fairly large. Not as big as the ones commonly found in the Troggoth caverns, but bigger than his handspan at least. Likewise, while glowing mushrooms were fairly common in the deeper caverns, Jyrrud had rarely seen them above-ground before. Leaning on his staff, he frowned and took a long pull from the bowl of his pipe, then paused.
“Oi, bother,” he muttered, “run outta squigweed!”
Gripping the stem of his pipe between his teeth, he rummaged through his collection of pouches until he’d found his pouch of pipe-weed. On the outside, he was the picture of calm as he stuffed the bowl of his pipe full of the pungent blend. Inside though, his mind was running through the possibilities. Opening his mind to his surroundings, Jyrrud tested the weave about him, his frown growing deeper. He wasn’t the only magic-user in the area, and the other had a feel about it that the grot did not like. Similar magic infused the odd, glowing mushroom in front of him. Making up his mind, he pulled an odd pellet from another pouch and palmed it into the hand that held his staff. With pipe-stem back between his fangs, he drew on a tiny amount of magic to make a minuscule flame appear atop his index finger and then used that flame to light his pipe.
He turned slowly in place, looking around him. Jyrrud wondered when the birds had stopped chirping. That should have been a dead giveaway that something was wrong, and he’d missed it. Nothing seemed out of place, but the more he looked about him, the more the old shaman realized that he wasn’t alone.
“Okay,” he growled out irritably, “ya might as well come on out,” he stated bluntly. “I know yer dere, and I ‘ent stupid ’nuff ta touch whatever dis glowy shroom is.” His statement was met with silence for a time, the only sound an odd chittering noise off in the underbrush. “Well?” he called out again. “I ‘ent got all day!” Slowly some of the shadows separated themselves from the undergrowth and stepped out into the light. “Skevvin,” the grot stated, almost spitting out the word. “I should’a known dis was yer work.” He gestured to the mushroom with his pipe-stem. “Dat fing reeks of yer poison-magics.”
As he looked on, more and more of the twisted rat-men emerged from the brush and moved in to surround him. They were an odd mix of clans, from what he could tell. About half of them sported boils and wounds that oozed green like the mushroom. The others looked more like normal rat-warriors, most of them carrying hooked swords and knives. A few had barbed whips instead. Those weapons made the grot shudder inside. He’d been on the receiving end of one of them before and had no wish to repeat the experience.
Slowly the Skaven closed the noose about him, surrounding him in a sea of edged weapons. When they were about ten feet away, he slipped the pellet from where he’d hidden it in his hand and dropped it into the bowl of his pipe. Bringing the pipe to his mouth, he smirked at the rat-men.
“Twenny of ya? Well dat’s ‘ardly a fair fight!” Chuckling, he took a long drag on the stem. This caused the embers in the pipe’s bowl to heat up, which in turn ignited the pellet. Dense, purple-tinted smoke began to pour out of the pipe even as Jyrrud blew a purple-tinged smoke-ring towards the nearest of the Skaven. “Ye’ll have ta excuse me if’n I don’t wanna stick ’round!”
That billowing smoke soon filled the clearing about him, shrouding him from view! Flexing his thoughts, he drew on the weave and pulled on the local ley lines. He had to struggle to control them for a moment as one of the rat-men tried to wrest control away from him, but Jyrrud was an old hand at this sort of thing and easily batted away the skaven’s crude efforts. Focusing the power around him, he let his mind wander to another part of the forest before releasing the stored power.
When the smoke began to clear, the skaven stood alone in the clearing, cursing the loss of their quarry in their chittering language. Jyrrud, meanwhile, was several miles away, and increasing that gap as quickly as his feet would carry him.
“Skevvin in da forest?” he muttered, a tone of worry entering his voice, making it quiver a bit. “Dat’s not a good fing. I wonder if da lizards know ’bout dis?” Mulling the idea over and over in his head, he gave a curt nod. “Well, if dey don’t, I betta go tell dem.” Having made his decision, he turned his steps towards the nearest Seraphon village and picked up the pace.
Agh this is brilliant! Well done!