The afternoon light at Baroldson Farm fell soft and golden across the thatched roofs, glinting on the restless leaves of the great tree at the settlement’s heart. The circle of stones surrounding it whispered faintly with old purpose, pointing ever westward. The party lingered in its shade, still heavy with fatigue and triumph after the defeat of Serath the Hollow-Voiced. Yet peace would not last—not while the dead still stirred in the bog.

Hat wiped his brow with an oil-stained sleeve, squinting at the tree’s faint lean toward the horizon. “West,” he murmured, half to himself. “Always west. But not yet.” The others agreed: the farm’s safety must come first. The hag of the bog—Grinroot, the gristle-thin root herself—had promised them protection if they brought her two things: the ashes of a selfless soul and a blade that had never tasted blood.

So it was that Hat set to work, commandeering the Baroldsons’ humble workshop. The forge was little more than a blackened hearth, the anvil dented from years of mending ploughs and horseshoes. But with Pebblesong’s whispered blessing and a little scavenged metal, the goblin craftsman began to shape his creation. Sparks danced like fireflies around his small green hands as he worked, singing some nonsense tune only he could understand. Pebblesong, standing by, murmured soft druidic words that lent his efforts an unseen harmony—the rhythm of growth and transformation.

When it was done, the dagger gleamed with copper and silver leaf, intricate filigree curling along its edge like vines climbing a trellis. It was beautiful, almost absurdly so, and sharper than any knife had right to be. “A blade too fine for blood,” Pebblesong observed dryly. Hat only grinned, eyes bright with pride. “Then it’s perfect.”

They rested that night beneath the farm’s rafters, the weary but confident heroes of the settlement. The tale of their deeds had already spread like wildfire—though in the retelling, Bartholemeow’s verse had been blended with peasant gossip until the story resembled more myth than memory. Still, it raised spirits. The living walls held strong against the next night’s shambling dead, and when the morning came, the adventurers took their leave, burdened only by purpose.

The road back through the swamp was a shifting labyrinth of ripples and reflections. Mist hung thick, carrying the stench of rot and sweet decay. Pebblesong watched the patterns of insect life hovering over the water, seeking the surest path by the way gnats clung to shallow pools and dragonflies avoided the deeper ones. Bhakris whispered half-forgotten prayers to his god, but the memory of his own brush with death made the words feel hollow. Still, together they found a safe passage, though the marsh demanded a toll of weariness and bruised shins.

By midday, the mists parted to reveal the familiar, unsettling garden of Thistle Grinroot. She was waiting for them on her moss-covered stoop, her eyes glimmering like dew in shadow. Her voice—half sigh, half rustling leaves—echoed through the clearing. “You have returned so quickly. Tell me… what have you seen?”

Bartholemeow stepped forward, tail twitching, and launched into his poem. The air around them shimmered as he spoke—images of their journey unfolding not in words but in living echoes: insects fluttering in the shapes of heroes, leaves curling into scenes of battle, voices heard through the strange filter of nature’s mimicry. The hag listened, her expression unreadable. When at last the cat finished, she inclined her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “I see.”

The offering was laid before her: Hat’s unblemished dagger and the metal urn of ashes from the fallen protector. Grinroot handled each with reverence and eerie curiosity, tasting the ashes as though sampling fine wine. “Hints of terror. A touch of sacrifice,” she mused. “Yes… this will do.”

From her garden she plucked a blue-flowered pitcher plant, its veins running red as if carrying blood. “If you would learn the gift of the Lurian hedge,” she said, “you must make a promise.”

Her eyes found Pebblesong’s—steady, kind, and impossibly ancient. “Swear that you will nurture what I teach you. That you will guard it from those who would harm life. That you will not share its secret with the cruel or the careless. Do this freely, and it shall be yours.”

Pebblesong hesitated only a breath before pressing her finger into the flower’s cool heart. It burned warm as she spoke her vow, sealing it with a pulse of power that sank into her bones. She felt the weight of the magic—binding, absolute. Hat followed, giggling nervously as he stuck his own finger into the strange bloom. When both promises were made, Grinroot’s smile deepened. “Then learn.”

The hag’s lessons were slow and deliberate: how to find the living shoots among the thorned hedges, how to clip without drawing blood, how to plant them in good soil mixed with a pinch of a hero’s ashes. A hundred clippings, she said, to ring the farm with protection. Perhaps more, if they wished it strong.

The work took two days. Pebblesong and Hat toiled with care, their fingers stained green and their arms streaked with sap. The others carried water and guarded the growing piles of fresh shoots. Grinroot watched in silence, ageless patience in her gaze. When evening came, she offered them rest in her garden—a sleep deeper than dreams.

That night, each awoke within their dreams to find a vine sprouting from their chest, flowering into bright blossoms that whispered, Isn’t it a beautiful morning? They woke with the dawn, hearts racing—and found the words of the plants still in their minds. The gift of communion lingered. When they spoke, the clippings replied in gentle chorus.

By morning, Pebblesong had gathered one hundred and fifty shoots, wrapped carefully in her dampened blanket. The plants chattered happily as they were carried, promising to grow strong and tall, to guard against the dead. When asked how long that would take, they sang back cheerfully, Only three years! So fast!

Pebblesong managed a weary smile. “Fast,” she echoed. “Right.”

They left the bog behind, trudging back toward Baroldson Farm beneath a pale sun. The bundle of living clippings wriggled softly in her arms, whispering songs of new soil and sunlight. Behind her, Thalmiir trudged in silence, frowning at the thought of waiting years for protection to bloom. But hope—strange, fragile, and green—had taken root in the party’s hearts.

By the time the farm’s fields came into view, their doubts had softened into weary laughter. The undead would not cross the swamp again—not easily. The hag’s magic was slow, but sure. And as Pebblesong looked at the tilled earth awaiting her care, she felt a quiet certainty: from death and decay, life would rise again.

Session Notes
  • The party reconvened at Baroldson Farm, having previously returned there “bedraggled and exhausted,” rested, and recounted their recent struggles and victories to the locals. They investigated the settlement’s central tree and confirmed:
    • The stone circle points toward the tree, and the tree itself subtly points west.
    • Discussion established that due west from the farm leads toward the cliffs of Secomber, the falls, and then Secomber proper; across the Delimber River lies the High Forest with a large mountain visible on clear days. The road does not run west out of the farm—rather south, then hooking west. The bog is to the north; the party has little knowledge of the east.
    • The farm possesses ashes of a person who died protecting others. The bog hag had required these and “a blade that has never tasted blood” to help grow a protective hedge against the undead.
  • The group prioritized tasks: first craft a never-blooded blade and take it, with the ashes, back to the bog hag to secure a protective hedge for Baroldson Farm; afterward, consider following the westward signs (potentially a “third point” of a mystical triangle).
  • Crafting the blade at Baroldson Farm:
    • The farm lacks a full smithy but maintains a workshop suitable for simple repairs. Hat (Goblin Artificer) is proficient with smith’s tools and can also fabricate tools as needed.
    • Pebblesong (Dwarf Druid) cast Enhanced Ability on Hat, granting advantage on his smithing effort.
    • For materials, the party used ball bearings from their own inventories (avoiding dependency on farm scrap). Hat embellished the blade with copper and silver leaf and invested ~90 minutes of work.
    • Result: an exquisite, very sharp dagger, explicitly brand-new and never blooded.
  • The party chose to remain at Baroldson Farm overnight before re-entering the bog:
    • They took turns guarding the walls. A brief alert of walkers in the northeast field was handled easily with no casualties, further boosting community morale.
    • Bartholemeow’s earlier epic poem had influenced local retellings; the party’s presence and stories improved morale.
    • The party enjoyed dinner, slept in the bunkhouse, and took a long rest.
  • Morning departure into the bog to return to the hag:
    • The DM ran one leg of the swamp travel procedure. Terrain featured broad shallow pools with hidden sudden deep spots detectable by ripple patterns.
    • Group check (Intelligence; Investigation suggested):
      • Waer’dara and Thalmiir succeeded using Investigation.
      • Bartholemeow failed using Investigation.
      • Pebblesong used Nature to read plant/insect patterns (counted among successes).
      • Bhakris attempted Religion at disadvantage (his shaken faith after a near-death experience hindered him).
      • Hat failed his check.
      • Tally: three successes, three failures → group success.
    • Travel damage: The encounter generated 23 damage to divide; the table applied 4 damage to each party member. Navigation was skipped (destination already mapped). The party reached the hedge-encircled garden and cottage of the bog hag without further incident.
  • At the hag’s garden, Grinroot (the hag of the bog) greeted them and asked what they had seen. Bartholemeow recited his epic; listeners experienced a mental montage of events as if witnessed by small animals and birds, with voices oddly distorted.
    • Grinroot acknowledged they likely dealt with Serath the Hollow-Voiced (even if not his entire project) and asked for the items.
    • The party presented Hat’s never-blooded dagger. Grinroot inspected it and accepted it as suitable.
    • The party also produced the metal box of ashes from Baroldson Farm. Grinroot sampled (pinch/taste/sniff) and affirmed the ashes bore markers of heroism, with hints of self-interest and terror, and were suitable.
  • Grinroot offered a boon: to grant the gift of the Lurian Hedge, conditional on a promise and hands-on instruction to those with the right skills:
    • She asked for someone proficient with herbalist’s tools; Pebblesong was proficient. Hat also elected to learn.
    • She led them to a pitcher plant with blue flowers veined red and required that any who received the secret freely swear a promise while inserting a finger into the flower. The promise:
      • To do all within their power to keep the clippings healthy and plant them properly to protect those who respect life.
      • To not share the secret with anyone who would not agree to the same promise.
      • If they become aware of a credible intent by someone capable of destroying the hedge, they are obliged to stop them.
    • Mechanics of the binding: The act enforced a Geas as if cast at 9th level. Violations deal 5d10 psychic damage (no more than once per day) unless undone by sufficient magic.
    • Pebblesong and Hat accepted and were bound by the Geas and taught the propagation method. Others did not undertake the promise.
  • Propagation instruction for the Lurian Hedge (as taught by Grinroot):
    • Clipping selection & cutting:
      • Identify promising shoots (new growth) on her hedge.
      • Cut only with a blade that has never tasted blood. If a blooded blade is used, the clipping fails (the host plant is unharmed, but the cutting will not be viable).
    • Planting process:
      • Use good soil; mix in just a pinch of the fallen hero’s ashes per plant.
      • Trim lower leaves, bury deeply, and water.
      • Protect the young plants from herbivores; keep clippings damp during transport (the bog makes this straightforward).
    • Spacing & function:
      • Mature hedges grow to a width of ~10–15 feet.
      • The hedge works best as a physical and magical barrier, but there is a magical barrier effect roughly every 20 feet even before forming a continuous physical wall.
    • Scale estimate for Baroldson Farm:
      • A hedge line along the frontier with the swamp is roughly 2,000 feet.
      • At ~20-foot magical intervals, this implies ~100 plants as a minimum.
  • Harvesting plan and timeline:
    • The party targeted ~150 clippings to exceed the minimum.
    • With one valid blade, a single harvester would need ~2 full working days to gather >100 viable shoots (care required to avoid blooding the blade). With Hat assisting in identification (still one blade cutting), time would be roughly halved.
  • While Pebblesong and Hat worked, Bartholemeow tried to extract useful information from Grinroot:
    • A Persuasion check permitted one substantive answer.
    • Question: What could the group attempt to improve the lives of people in the region?
    • Answer: Understanding (or unlocking) Chauntea’s gifts/influence in this region could profoundly affect mortals for the better; however, knowledge can be dangerous, and revealing it might carry risks. The scope of “here” might be larger than the immediate locale; outcomes are hazy.
  • Overnight in Grinroot’s garden:
    • The party accepted the garden’s hospitality for another night.
    • Shared dream: each “awoke” to find a vine sprouting flowers from their chest; the flowers greeted them with, “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” Then they truly awoke.
    • Effect: for that day, all benefited as if under Speak with Plants.
  • Morning harvesting with Speak with Plants:
    • With the spell effect, locating and confirming viable shoots was much faster. The clippings themselves expressed happiness and enthusiasm to be chosen and to become new plants.
    • Logistics:
      • Bhakris helped keep cuttings organized and damp, transporting them to water as needed.
      • Pebblesong soaked a blanket in swamp water and wrapped the bundles of shoots; the plants approved this method.
      • Clippings were bundled (about 50 per manageable bundle using twine/cord), and kept moist.
    • The party completed ~150 clippings by late morning.
  • Return to Baroldson Farm:
    • Travel back took about one hour; it was still morning on arrival.
    • On the march, Thalmiir asked how long the hedge would take to grow. Using Speak with Plants, the clippings replied they would grow “so fast”—about three years to become “huge.”
    • The party arrived ready to plan the planting along the farm’s frontier. There was lingering uncertainty about immediate protection versus the hedge’s longer-term maturity.
    • The DM noted Baroldson Farm has a legendary grain speaker (Old Gran), hinting she might assist with plant matters.
  • Session end: The party stood at Baroldson Farm with ~150 viable Lurian Hedge cuttings, a never-blooded dagger (now used and still unblooded), and sufficient ashes to plant. Planting logistics and any further measures to protect the farm would be handled next session.