Phealaferian Frontiers : 14 : Timberwood Rumble
As the battle with the wooden guardian raged in the forest grove, an ominous surge of power erupted from the moss-covered mausoleum. A beam of eerie green energy lanced outward, striking Thomas square in the chest. Without a sound, he transformed—his flesh hardening into bark, his eyes vanishing beneath layers of rough wood. In mere seconds, he was a tree.
The party stood frozen, stunned by the sudden loss. But grief quickly gave way to resolve. If the forest thought this would break them, it was wrong.
The Tree Warden loomed before them, a massive living construct of bark and vine—the centrepiece of the forest’s defence. It moved with surprising speed and hit with crushing force. Their weapons and spells barely made a dent, many strikes bouncing off its hardened limbs. Meanwhile, the creeping curse of the forest began to spread—skin hardened, limbs stiffened. Each of them could feel the forest trying to claim them. Bark began to trace lines across exposed skin, and their breaths grew shallow as dread settled into their bones.
Tosk, eyes wide with desperate inspiration, rummaged through his pack and lobbed a flask of oil at the guardian. Eldrin caught on quickly, he charged forward with his tinderbox in hand. Ducking beneath a massive swing from the Tree Warden, he struck a match and flung it directly into the oil-slicked bark of the creature. The flame caught with a whoosh, and fire raced hungrily across the Warden’s form. It let out a shriek of rage and pain, its limbs flailing as the blaze consumed it. Where moments before its wounds had started to close, the flames now seared and blackened the bark, halting its regeneration entirely—and now it was burning..
Realizing they had found a weakness, the group launched more flasks of oil. Each one added to the inferno, until finally Erisa hurled a final bottle that shattered across the creature’s chest. The Warden let out a guttural, wooden groan before collapsing into a heap of ash and cinders.
Around them, the last of the twig blights tried to flee. Guardian, unshaken, skewered one through the back as it turned.
But Thomas remained unmoving, bark-covered, a solemn monument to the cost of the fight.
The party turned their attention to the mausoleum. Tosk, without hesitation, began tearing vines from the stone, but as he did, his arms started to stiffen with creeping bark. Tobias felt it too, his legs turning rigid. They halted, realizing that attacking the forest directly was only hastening the curse.
Tobias, thinking quickly, cast Detect Good and Evil. At once, he sensed a malignant force woven into the vines. Reaching into the overgrowth, he pulled free a strange idol—twisted sticks bound into a humanoid shape. Its presence was foul and heavy.
Guardian recognized it immediately: a fetish of Morlatha. His voice barely held steady as he confirmed it was one of Mother’s.
Erisa, surprisingly, also seemed to recognize it, her voice sharp and curious. “Explain,” she said simply.
But there was no time. With a scowl, Tobias took the idol and crushed it beneath his axe. A wave of dark energy lifted, the heavy presence of evil vanishing. Yet still, Thomas was unchanged.
Frustrated, Tobias turned toward the mausoleum and strode to its entrance. He grabbed the stone door and began rattling it violently, calling out to whatever force might be listening beyond. “Let him go! This isn’t right!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the grove. The heavy door remained still, unmoved by his fury.
Then, a voice, gentle but firm, echoed from behind.
“I would rather be left to rest.”
They turned to see a ghostly figure approaching—a ginger tabaxi woman draped in ethereal leathers and moss, her wooden staff floating beside her. Her eyes, though spectral, held warmth.
Tobias fell to his knees before her, begging for her to save Thomas and the villagers. The spirit raised a paw gently.
“Easy, child. I am no foe. I wish I could help more, but I have long since passed. My name is Opal Whitestorm. I was a druid of the Astror continent, part of the first wave of settlers here, fifty years ago. My time was brief, but I helped establish many villages in this land, including Timberwood.”
She gestured, and her staff rose from the ground and hovered before the party. “I cannot undo the curse myself, but if you bring this staff to the centre of Timberwood, the heart of the curse, it will do what I no longer can.”
The party nodded solemnly. Before they left, Opal placed a gentle paw on the tree that had been Thomas.
“I will stay with him,” she said. “When the curse lifts, I will guide him to you.”
Returning to the village, the party gathered in the town square. Guardian, holding the staff reverently, raised it above his head and brought it down hard into the dirt.
A pulse of green-gold light burst outward from the impact. Trees around the village twisted and groaned, shrinking and contorting back into humanoid forms. Where bark had once replaced flesh, skin returned. Where branches had sprouted, arms now stretched. The townsfolk reappeared, confused, panicked, and dazed.
Tobias quickly stepped forward, raising his voice. “You’re safe now. The curse is broken!”
The panic eased. People began to look for loved ones, sobbing with joy or collapsing from weakness. The party, exhausted, made their way to the town hall.
Inside, Nestor the Elder, now painfully human again, met them. His face was pale, and he vomited up a few leaves mid-conversation.
“This feels like the worst hangover of my life,” he groaned. “Sap and all… Gods. Thank you. All of you. I can’t think straight right now, but rest, please. Use the inn. We’ll talk come morning.”
Before heading in for the night, Guardian led the group south to the farmland. There, in the paddocks, the little girl who once fed the sheep was now alive and well, giggling as she played with her woolly companion.
“I knew Lady Brightglade would save us!” she said with a smile.
Erisa tilted her head, “Lady Brightglade… she was here?”
“Lady Brightglade! She’s a hero! People turned into trees, then she came along and went into the forest. Then I became a tree, but now I’m not. So she saved us!”
Erisa looked away, heart pounding. She was sure of it now—Lady Brightglade was her mother.
With that, the party returned to the inn, finally ready for a well-earned rest. The night was calm, the stars overhead twinkling like soft lanterns.
Thomas’s fate still hung in the balance, but for now, Timberwood was free—and hope had returned.
