Session 36: Are You a Good Bog Hag or a Bad Bog Hag?

Under a sky bruised with the fading twilight, the bog stretched endlessly, its air thick with mist and decay. The adventurers moved in weary silence, their bodies heavy from battles and strange dreams that clung like cobwebs to their minds. The map they had acquired—a tattered, precious guide salvaged from the unfortunate dead—promised sanctuary and perhaps clarity. But for now, they walked through a land of gloom and restless undead, each step squelching through mud, each rustle a potential menace lurking behind gnarled trees and shadowed reeds.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with shades of blood and rust, the adventurers reached the landmark indicated on the map: a massive willow tree, its drooping branches whispering in the cool evening breeze. Its roots swelled from the boggy earth, forming a small, inviting island amidst the treacherous ground. Despite the eerie surroundings, it seemed an ideal place to rest.

“It seems…safe,” murmured Bhakris Edge, eyeing the tree with wary reverence. Even he, stoic and hardened by battles past, felt something unusual emanating from the willow—a presence both ancient and inscrutable.

“I do not trust such beauty in this wretched bog,” Thalmiir Brukur grumbled, casting a suspicious glance around. Yet his efforts to find a safer spot revealed nothing better; reluctantly, the old dwarf began to make preparations for camp beneath the willow’s watchful canopy.

Around them, the party moved with practiced efficiency, each setting their nightly rituals in motion. Waer’dara Dryaalo’ara wove a silken sanctuary for herself, her spidery form swift and graceful; Hat cheerfully crafted a hammock from fallen branches, humming tunes half-remembered from the Feywild. Bartholemeow struggled comically to find purchase in the branches, eventually settling, disgruntled, among the tree’s roots. Pebblesong, her curiosity forever childlike and relentless, shifted briefly into feline form, her eyes reflecting the stars above. As they settled, they each tried not to dwell too long on the dreams from the previous night—dreams of a shadowed figure, of promises and threats in an unseen fortress of stone.

But dreams have their own gravity, and soon enough they drew the adventurers back into their dark embrace. As the watchers exchanged shifts, Puppet—the peculiar construct belonging to Hat—alerted them to the presence of a mundane yet aggressive snake. A brief negotiation ensued, courtesy of Pebblesong’s gentle communication with the beast, swiftly ended by Hat’s overeager attempt at cooking. His charred failure became a small comedy of errors that lightened their weary hearts, if only briefly, before sleep claimed them.

Then came the dreams again, clearer, sharper: an ancient fortress rising forbiddingly, its ruined gate bearing an insignia tantalizingly close to recognition. The shadowed figure appeared once more, its voice rasping in their skulls. “You mistook my interest for an invitation. Perhaps the promise I sensed was mere bravado.”

Pain shot through Hat and Bartholemeow, sharp as lightning, wrenching them from rest but denying relief. Pebblesong and Thalmiir, though spared the pain, felt the figure’s intrusion like fingers probing the edges of their souls. Yet this nightmare shifted abruptly—a voice like fresh wind through leaves whispered comfortingly. A willow branch, luminous and beckoning, reached toward them through the oppressive gloom.

Each reached for it desperately, and their dreams dissolved. In the waking world, beneath the great willow, Bhakris and Waer’dara watched with growing unease as their companions rose trance-like and touched the ancient tree. Leaves seemed to sweep them away like whispers on the wind, their forms merging with the willow and vanishing into the night. Driven by duty and dread, Bhakris and Waer’dara finally followed, surrendering to the uncanny pull of the willow’s magic.

All found themselves reborn in a garden unlike any they’d known—a lush sanctuary teeming with vibrant, impossible colors. Strange plants flourished under soft, twilight skies; luminous spores danced lazily through the air, and fireflies blinked secretive messages amidst a sweet, intoxicating fragrance. They stood beneath a majestic birch tree whose leaves shone a surreal sapphire, softly raining around them.

“This place feels consecrated,” Bhakris observed, sensing divine grace permeating the very soil beneath their feet. Waer’dara could only stare in awe, her usual stoicism momentarily stripped away by the sheer beauty and mystery of their surroundings.

Drawn forward by curiosity and a newfound sense of calm, they approached a woven cottage nestled among blooms and vines. The dwelling seemed alive, breathing with gentle rhythm; as they neared, its door of vines parted softly, invitingly, revealing a woman both beautiful and fearsome—Aunt Sylgwyn, her skin a tapestry of bark and moss, eyes glowing softly.

“My welcome, young saplings,” she intoned, her voice carrying the warmth of earth after rain. “Forgive the irregularity of your arrival. Call me Aunt Sylgwyn—though others name me the hag of the bog. Come, rest. There is much we must speak of.”

Pebblesong’s fascination deepened at the sight of a magical pitcher plant, glowing softly with promise. Aunt Sylgwyn, sensing their exhaustion, encouraged them gently. “Drink, and you will find swift repose.”

Without fear or hesitation, trusting instinct born of communion with nature, Pebblesong dipped her fingers into the nectar, tasting sweetness—like a mother’s gentle lullaby, a hearthfire in deepest winter. Her friends followed suit, each tasting rest and relief in flavors uniquely comforting—ale from Thalmiir’s homeland, Feywild mint lingering upon Bartholemeow’s tongue, and for Hat, the imagined triumph of perfectly cooked snake steaks, finally perfected in dream.

As her companions drifted peacefully into slumber, Waer’dara stood respectfully apart, offering Aunt Sylgwyn the dignity and honor of a curtsy and pledging aid. Bhakris, ever vigilant, confronted the hag openly, expressing the fears of the villagers tormented by the undead.

Aunt Sylgwyn’s smile grew enigmatic. “Yes,” she whispered thoughtfully, eyes distant yet piercing. “There have been disturbances…ones I may choose to rectify in due time. Yes, young paladin, interesting times are upon us.”

In this tranquil yet disquieting haven, the adventurers lay secure, their dreams guarded by the enigmatic hag of the bog, each heartbeat weaving them deeper into mysteries greater and darker than they had imagined. But for now, wrapped in rest and wonder, they knew only peace beneath the twilight blooms.