Treasure of the Wraithwood Grove

The Guardian. Manifestations. Mercy. Treasures.

Raked across his chest, Bartram Humblefoot was thrown to the boundary of the grove to land amongst the twisted roots of rotting, dead trees clawing their way out of the soil.

The siabrae issued a triumphant shriek from its fleshless, deer-skulled head. Its seven-foot-tall solid oak form lumbered on its hind limbs, and its branch-like arms bore grasping hands of wicked wooden talons. A tattered gray cloak, layered over a ruined tunic and green tartan, was all that remained of its former self. In life, the druid Grue Kask was corrupted by the Wytchweed and transformed into an undead servant of evil.

“The Old Tree sent you to die, halfling,” Grue Kask hissed, its voice sounding like a chorus of screaming children. “And together, in death, we shall serve the Wytchweed, forever guarding the riches of this grove.”

An elder well into his seventies, Bartram was only three and a half feet tall, and the creature’s attack had ripped his copper-colored ringmail vest as if it were cloth; four channels of blood oozed from his wounds. Gasping, trembling in abject pain, Bartram crawled to gain distance, closed his eyes, and whispered an old, forgotten prayer.

Bartram prayed to Rillifane Rallathil, the Leaflord, pleading for favor. When he invoked his god, Bartram’s mortal mind attempted to process His divine influence through sensation and images. Bartram saw his patron as a towering celestial tree engulfed by a blinding white light. Merciful peace washed over him to ease his pain, and as Bartram’s belly dragged across the primeval forest floor, wet moss and slimy mud caked his wounds to seal them.

Miraculously healed and reinvigorated by the presence of the Leaflord’s holy spirit, Bartram wrenched to the left to escape the siabrae’s horrific maul, its claws tearing at the earth beside him. It roared a bloodthirsty cry.

Grunting in exertion, Bartram scrambled to his feet. Smaller, faster, and more nimble, Bartram out-distanced the monstrosity’s reach, stumbling to the center of the grove.

The trees in this forest had long succumbed to the Wytchweed, a magical, sentient, decaying blight that drained life’s essence from all forms of vegetation. Their trunks were blackened, crooked, and warped, corrupted by its voracious appetite. The men of the nearby Gaelwyn City State of Durfast called this dark place the Wraithwood and avoided these forests entirely. Inasmuch, the aged Halfling Paladin was dispatched to recover their treasure, for they hadn’t the courage to try.

His armor shirt was destroyed. Bartram’s right hand gripped his leaf-bladed, silvered shortsword, while a round steel shield was strapped to his left arm. Across from Bartram lay a trove of glittery, golden treasure spilled from a tree hollow - a fortune in gold, platinum, and silver coins, rare artifacts, jade idols, bejeweled chalices, and richly colored gems; the Wytchweed hoarded because it was greedy. And behind him, the guardian angrily pursued, growling and snarling, every heavy step shaking the earth.

Bravely spinning around in the center of the clearing, Bartram took a knee and plunged the tip of his shortsword into the ground, gazed to the heavens, and called to nature itself for aid. “Lux Luna Allilouchía!”

A piercing shaft of moonlight exploded from the treetops to fall upon the spot he drove his sword. Howling joyously at the opportunity to strike at the halfling, the siabrae lunged at Bartram, extending its sharp, clawed hands. Bartram paused to lure the beast in, only to rip his blade from the soil and steal himself from the monster’s reach. And when the saibrae contacted the moonlight, its wooden claws and forearms burst into flame.

Tricked, unable to slow its forward momentum, the creature went to its knees and arched back in a deafening, pained scream. Bathed in the moonlight, its wooden body caught fire, and flames, sparks, and embers took into the air.

Seizing his moment, Bartram leaped forward, shouted a battle cry, and sent his blade into the siabrae’s right shoulder. It bellowed in agony as Bartram’s blow cast fiery wooden debris to the ground.

And as the siabrae tried to retake its legs, Bartram turned, side-stepped to gain momentum on his swing, and sent his weapon dual-handed into the creature’s belly. His sword tore through it to rip away chunks of what would’ve been its ribs.

Yowling in agony, its whole body set aflame by the light of the moon, the creature lurched forward in an attempt to drag itself away from the rays that burned its skin. Positioned behind the creature, Bartram knew he had to keep it from escaping his trap, and so again, he called upon nature’s assistance.

“Prokaló Caligo Transportari!” Bartram cried, stepping through a misty fog to reconstitute as a solid mass before the undead. Swiping at the creature, his sword connected, the impact shattering the beast’s wrist and severing its hand from its arm.

Unleashing a vengeful shriek, the siabrae grasped at Bartram to grip his leg. Shocked, it was wrenched out from under him, and Bartram fell backward, realizing that he reappeared too close to the creature.

“Accipe vita de vivis,” its deathly voice grumbled, for it, too, was a druid, and capable of asking the vilest of favors from nature.

Bartram felt the creature’s hot, fiery grip turn icy cold, then death crawled up his leg. His calf turned pale and green blood filled his veins to rush up his artery. At the siabrae’s touch, a wormy rot set in under the halfling’s knee, his lower leg muscles atrophied, his skin withered and shriveled, and Bartram felt the frightening chill of doom as necrotic energy raced toward his heart.

As the siabrae desperately crawled on all fours to exit the punishing moonlight, the burns faded from its wooden skin. Dragging the halfling along like a limp sack of barley, Bartram flailed and uselessly flung his sword about him, hoping to strike the creature’s grip.

Grue Kask glared at its left wrist to find bark and wood writhe to reform like bone, muscle, and sinew, then snarled menacingly at the halfling as it lifted Bartram upside down.

His leg locked in the siabrae’s grip, Bartram Humblefoot’s heart thumped uncontrollably in panic. He could feel death’s tendrils wrapping up his hips. His life was being taken from him, and soon, Bartram knew his heart would stop beating. Rapidly drawing what might be his last breaths, Bartram concentrated and prayed.

Bartram’s consciousness appeared elsewhere, nestled within the hollow trunk of a tree. It was warm there, safe, sheltered from the elements, and the innards offered respite from a terrible storm that raged outside. He felt the coarse, grainy wood as he ran his hand down its wall. Above, the tree creaked and groaned, swaying in the blustering wind. He could smell the sappy freshness of the wood, feel the roughness of its internal skin on his fingertips, and see the pockmarks from bugs, beetles, and mites that ravaged it from within, for the tree was infested with nests of crawling, consuming insects. Repulsed, Bartram’s eyes shot open to find himself hurtling across the grove.

Reeling, the siabrae’s wooden body was covered in a swarm of translucent white termites, worms, tree-eating beetles and bugs - the expression of the Leaflord’s divine power manifested on the mortal plane. The mass of spiritual guardians ate into the creature’s oaken arms and shoulders, burrowed into its chest, bored into its pelvis, and riddled through its legs. Agonized, the monster threw itself to the ground to claw at the things, gouging at the bark of its own flesh with its talons.

Unable to move his stiff, rotting, necrotized leg, Bartram outstretched his hip to examine the damage. The limb was numb,  destroyed - it was as if only his leg itself had died. Bartram gritted his teeth, grasped his leg, and prayed for restoration.

In his mind, Bartram was shown a fallen tree decaying in a coastal wetland, its decomposed husk covered in thriving green moss, ferns, and tiered mushroom colonies. Overhead, dark clouds blanketed the sky, and when the winds kicked up, the storm roiled unnaturally backward.

Bartram winced, feeling the pain shoot up his thigh.

Nature scattered. Grass retreated into the soil. Bloomed flowers were sucked into buds again and slunk back into the ground. The mushroom caps closed and diminished. Fern sprouts folded to entomb themselves within their stems, and their milky-white stalks retreated into the dirt.

What was day became night, then night became day, cycling hundreds of times instantly. The green moss that had inundated the tree dried up, receded, and disappeared. Showers of raindrops lifted from the earth to cascade upward. Moldy sections of the trunk straightened out and strengthened.

Years passed through Bartram’s mind in seconds.

The fallen tree’s roots regrew and writhed about like tentacles just as its massive trunk leaned and bolted upright on its own, upturning mounds of soil, yielding to the tree as it retook the ground. Brown mulch covering the forest floor became rotting leaves that turned green again and chased the lifting trunk into the sky, while overhead, storms inhaled streaks of lightning from the earth and dashed to hide behind the horizon. Layers of bark rolled up its trunk as limbs and branches fell upward to reconnect to the tree’s trunk. Vigorous life returned, the tree was young, and time slowed.

“Argh!” Bartram gasped, clutching his leg as prickling, stinging, aching sensations rolled up his hip. The old halfling bent his knee and massaged his calf. He shrugged and cocked his brow, still amazed by the wondrous blessings of the divine.

Limping, Bartram fetched his sword while the siabrae madly clawed, tore, and scratched at its own smoldering body in a vain attempt to rid itself of the infesting spectral mites. It grunted and snarled, contorting itself to reach every inch.

Bartram leveled his silvery blade at the thing and said, “I was sent to retrieve the treasures of Man, and to destroy you - body and soul - if needed.”

The deer skull twisted to glare at Bartram with dead, empty eyes before the enemy fiercely leaped into a crawl, lowering its head to charge Bartram and gore the halfling with its antlers. Bartram deftly broad-jumped into the attack, placing his shield between himself and the bone. At impact, he rolled off the beast and was thrown to the ground.

Shrieking mindlessly, the siabrae spun its shoulders to send a backhanded strike plowing into Bartram but missed him by inches as the halfling rolled away.

The creature lashed out again with its opposing hand to connect with Bartram’s shield, deflecting the blow.

Rising to its full height - still riddled with the white, glowing celestial pests feasting on its wooden body - it lifted its arms to send its taloned hands down to crush Bartram, but the halfling nimbly jumped backward of the way. Its claws grazed the dirt.

Screeching in frustration, the siabrae took to all fours to advance on Bartram, buck its antlers, and snap at him with its boney teeth.

Then Bartram Humblefoot did something unexpected. The siabrae anticipated the halfling would dodge again and back away. Instead, Bartram threw himself under its belly to slide underneath it on his good hip while arcing his sword to the creature’s throat. The blade connected, crashing through the monster’s clavicle and bursting out the bottom of its ribcage.

Enraged, the siabrae reared and prepared to bury its claws into the halfling. Suddenly, Bartram rolled onto his side to rest the flat of his blade over his shield - pointing its tip at the beast - to whisper a combat prayer.

Overhead, a pinpoint of light burst into existence and then zipped at the siabrae’s spine like a brilliant white dart, erupting as a searing, radiant flame, and the creature’s wooden skin boiled in holy fire.

Bartram rolled to his right to force himself on his feet, eager to put some distance between himself and the ghastly monster. Bartram grimaced at the smell of the blaze and circled, bracing his shield and readying his sword. The siabrae thrashed as its backside bubbled and blistered from the effects of the sacred flame, and the spiritual infestation relentlessly burrowed and devoured it. Grue Kask was being destroyed faster than it could regenerate. It shambled toward Bartram as a flailing behemoth with the antlered skull of deer immersed in fire; its wail of suffering sounded like a welcoming dirge to the entrance of the Three Hells.

“Enough!” Bartram growled, limping dangerously into the raging inferno to send his sword out in a wide arc. His weapon crashed into the siabrae’s left knee. The blade burst through the other side to destabilize the horror and sent its weight careening to the ground.

Bartram put his back to the monster and planted the tip of his sword into the soil, knowing its purpose was fulfilled.

Eye-level with Bartram’s head, the siabrae’s voice hissed and gurgled, and it writhed in torment, but Bartram did not listen to it nor deem it worthy of being seen. Rather, as its remains burned to ash, Bartram stood his ground, faced the other direction, and closed his eyes to pray. He grasped the edge of his shield as one might grip a holy symbol and bowed his head, asking the Leaflord for mercy to be shown to Grue Kask’s soul. “This man has suffered enough,” Bartram breathed. “I forgive him, and I ask for his safe passage to the life beyond.”

Overwhelmed by an oppressive supernatural weight, Bartram grunted and collapsed to his knees, and threw out his shield arm to keep him upright; he could barely lift his head. In his mind, Bartram saw a lone white aspen tree emerge from a mist, its bark covered in wandering open eyes that looked directly at him. Deep in his brain, Bartram heard an otherworldly voice whisper, “I love you, most of all my champions, but I will show no mercy to servants of the Wytchweed.”

“Please,” Bartram choked, incapable of lifting his chin and nearly unable to breathe. “Show … mercy! To … this man!”

The aspen’s eyes shifted and narrowed, angrily glaring at Bartram, “Grue Kask must be punished. The weed brings waste to this forest. It perverts my purpose; it destroys billions of my kind; Grue Kask betrays me. Why should I honor your favor?”

Bartram felt the reflection of his deity’s anger as a splitting migraine, and his body trembled - he could no longer speak words. Drool escaped his lips. Turning on his thoughts, Bartram replied in concepts, phrases, and images his addled mind could muster, “Show kindess. Yield compassion. Forgive. The druid was corrupted - robbed of free will. The Wytchweed … was at fault! Mercy!”

“My beautiful champion,” Rillifane Rallathil cooed, the aspen’s open eyes darting to the right and left. “Justice is without mercy.”

Suddenly, the weight lifted from Bartram’s shoulders, and the vision of the aspen disappeared into the mist. He gasped to draw in air and to breathe. Behind him, the remains of the siabrae burned, popped, and smoldered, a sickening black smoke rising from its ashes. Together, they lingered in the Wraithwood Grove for a time, until Grue Kask was nothing more than ash and ember.

Eventually pushing himself up to his knees, Bartram weakly stumbled to the hoard spilling from the hollow tree. Wading through the pile of coins and bounty, Bartram pushed them all aside to dig into the excess, searching for one particular object. In finding it, Bartram liberated it from the hoard and inspected its surface.

It was a fired clay disc no more than six inches in diameter, covered on both sides with stamped symbols organized in a spiral. The disc was thousands of years old and represented the beginnings of Man’s understanding of Silvanus - their name for the divine power behind Bartram’s patron. It recorded the beginnings of His way and law. The Wytchweed stole it to conceal truth from the memory of Man.

Holding the disc close to his heart, Bartram left the Wraithwood Grove to return it to the people of Durfast. It was the only treasure worth taking.