Session 33: Brambly Sax

The sun hung low in a sky heavy with the promise of trouble, bathing the fields of Baroldson’s farm in muted gold that did little to lift the party’s spirits. Beyond the crisp boundary where orderly wheat rows faded into wild boglands, the shadows shifted with unnatural life. Bhakris Edge gripped the hilt of his borrowed longsword tightly, steadying himself against the dread that crawled up his spine—a dread that came less from fear and more from the heavy sense of foreboding duty. At his side, Bartholemeow crouched, feline ears alert, whiskers twitching anxiously.

The bog had always been a place of whispers and shadows, but lately, those whispers had grown darker, the shadows deeper. Something foul had seeped out from the marshes, corrupting crops, halting mills, and now drawing these brave few to face whatever rot lurked within. They had already heard enough tales—of lost carts swallowed by the marsh, of creeping undead, and of a hag whose name mothers whispered as threats to unruly children.

Yet they pressed on, for courage was easier when shared. Pebblesong moved cautiously at the back, young eyes wide as she watched her friends advance, her heart a restless thrum of nerves and determination. Waer’dara, dark and elegant, scanned the bogland’s perimeter, her narrowed eyes seeking threats unseen by the others. Hat ambled forward, cheerfully oblivious to fear, humming softly under his breath as his fingers danced across the tiny mechanical cannon nestled in his palm. Thalmiir, ancient and imposing, marched at the front, a comforting shield of rage and muscle.

Then, as though called forth by their mere presence, the dead emerged.

They shambled forward without grace, empty eyes locked hungrily upon the living. Thalmiir’s voice roared defiantly, challenging the undead to meet his blade. With a word and a gesture, Pebblesong summoned a field of vicious brambles erupting from the marshy earth, a cruel lattice designed by nature herself. Zombies stumbled heedlessly forward, their flesh shredding with every step, heedless of the pain that might slow a living foe. Bhakris watched grimly, steeling his resolve as he hurled a javelin into the melee, seeing it strike true and slowing his quarry.

Hat’s grin widened as he fired bolts of crackling energy, propelling undead backward into the deadly embrace of Pebblesong’s thorns. Beside him, the tiny, cheerful cannon sputtered and spat, adding to the chaos. The party’s strategy unfolded naturally, each move complementing the others, weaving together their strength in a dance as deadly as it was effortless.

But the undead were relentless. Among the lesser zombies emerged a figure more cunning and articulate—clad in tattered clothing, shouting orders that fell on deaf ears. Bartholemeow’s keen eyes narrowed in concentration, and he whispered unsettling words into the bog air, conjuring illusions of flaming bees that swarmed the undead leader. Entrapped by imagined horrors, the ghast shrieked commands no follower would heed, panicked and flailing in its fiery torment.

Yet amidst their triumph rose sudden panic. “Kill the cat!” screamed the undead commander, and from the murk surged ghoulish creatures, swift and terrible, racing toward Bartholemeow with murderous intent. Claws raked and teeth sank into his feline form, pain jolting through Bartholemeow’s small body. He stumbled back, blood matting his fur, his concentration held desperately intact only by sheer will.

Bhakris surged forward, a bolt of righteous fury. With sword and smiting fire, he scattered the nearest ghoul to ashes, roaring his defiance and planting himself protectively between his wounded friend and the remaining foes. Thalmiir charged, a spiked battering ram of dwarven rage, his battleaxe cleaving foes with thunderous strikes.

Waer’dara watched, a dark gleam in her eyes. Murmuring softly in drow tongue, she transformed, limbs elongating, skin darkening to hardened chitin. Moments later, a giant spider leaped gracefully into the fray, her fangs piercing undead flesh with brutal precision. Even as one fell beneath her, another rose, defiant in death’s resilience.

It was a grotesque battle of attrition. Zombies fell, rose, stumbled, and crawled ever forward. Hat conjured pools of slippery grease atop Pebblesong’s brambles, creating a deadly and absurd gauntlet that tore the undead apart even as they struggled futilely to advance. Bhakris and Thalmiir’s blades sang a duet of destruction, and Pebblesong’s guiding bolts of radiant magic seared through foul flesh with purifying light.

The beleaguered undead leader, still consumed by imagined bees, fled screaming threats and warnings about masters and betrayal. Pebblesong’s bolt narrowly missed him, but Hat’s cannonball found its mark, silencing him forever with a sickening crunch.

The remaining undead soon crumbled beneath the relentless barrage. Finally, silence returned—punctuated only by the ragged breathing of the victorious. Thalmiir stood panting, eyes fierce and satisfied, while Pebblesong stared at the ruinous landscape she had conjured, a mixture of awe and quiet horror in her expression.

Bhakris knelt beside Bartholemeow, gently inspecting wounds that would heal, relieved despite the heavy weight of his own exhaustion. Hat scurried happily among fallen enemies, gleefully claiming spoils like a gem and a golden-threaded rope—odd tokens of an odder victory.

Yet, as quiet settled over the ruined field, unease crept back. Waer’dara, now returned to her elegant form, watched the deepening shadows. They had won the battle, but the bog stretched before them still—vast, treacherous, and shrouded in mysteries yet unsolved. They knew their fight was far from over; every shadow now seemed deeper, every rustle of marsh grasses a whispered threat.

As evening’s chill began to creep across the bogland, they steeled themselves. Together, united in purpose, they pressed onward into darkness, toward the secrets of the Black Root Bog and whatever truths—and horrors—it held for them next.