lucid-dreams-turned-storys

[lucid-dreams-turned-storys]

Rootbound

Chapter Three: Three Idiot’s In a Forest

Brax wasn’t sure what annoyed him more: the fact that his hooves kept getting stuck in the mud, or the fact that Zex would not shut up.

“Okay, hear me out,” the kobold said, struggling to pull his foot from a particularly deep patch of muck. It made a wet sucking noise, like the forest was actively trying to keep him. “What if he’s not actually a Dragonborn? What if he’s, like, a plant golem possessed by a forest spirit? That’d explain why he walks like he owns the place. Also explains the vague spooky vibes. And the moss.”

“I hate that I’m even engaging,” Brax muttered, yanking his own hoof free with a squelch that nearly pulled his leg out of the socket. “But I’m pretty sure he’s breathing, which means he’s alive. Golems don’t breathe.”

Zex shrugged and skipped—actually skipped, much to Brax’s slight bemusement—over a puddle. “Maybe he used to breathe and just does it out of habit. You don’t know his life.”

“He doesn’t even have a life. He’s a walking fern with delusions of mystery.”

Ahead of them, the Dragonborn paused and glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just looked at them in that calm, quiet, deeply unsettling way that made Brax feel like he’d just been weighed, measured, and found emotionally lacking.

Then the Dragonborn said, “The path is not in the soil, but in the silence between.”

Zex’s eyes lit up. “See? See? That’s not normal-person talk! That’s some tree-poet spirit-code nonsense. I love this guy.”

Brax groaned into his hands. “Gods. It’s like traveling with a sage, a squirrel, and a storm cloud all at once.”

“New nickname just dropped,” Zex declared, gesturing to the Dragonborn. “Stormcloud. That’s you now, big guy.”

The Dragonborn didn’t react. He simply turned and continued walking like gravity was just a suggestion and the forest parted for him out of sheer respect.

Zex, grinning like he’d just invented fire, hopped up beside Brax again. “What’s that, like, the third name we’ve given him today?”

“Fourth,” Brax grunted. “First it was Stickman. Then Mossfather. Then Leaf Dad. Now Stormcloud.”

“I still like Mossfather,” Zex said dreamily. “Sounds like he runs a cult. I’d join.”

Brax narrowed his eyes. “Oh you would join a cult, wouldn’t you.”

“Oh, definitely,” Zex nodded enthusiastically. “Especially if there were robes. I look great in robes. Flowy. Mysterious. Very ‘don’t ask what’s in the cauldron.’”

They trudged forward—or rather, Brax trudged, Zex slid, and the Dragonborn glided. Brax was fairly certain the man wasn’t even getting dirty. It was like the mud refused to cling to him, out of reverence or fear. Probably both.

Meanwhile, Brax’s cloak was approximately the consistency of a drowned sheep and weighed about as much. He grimaced as it slapped against his legs with every squelching step.

“Hey, question,” Zex chirped, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “If we’re gonna be a group now—which we totally are, by the way—do we get a name? Like a team name? Something cool. Something terrifying. Like... The Vengeful Verdant.”

“I’m not being part of anything that sounds like an angry salad,” Brax snapped.

Zex clapped a hand over his snout to stifle a laugh. “Okay, okay, fair. What about... The Thorn Three?”

“We are not naming ourselves,” Brax said firmly. “We’re not a band. We’re not an adventuring troupe. This is not a poster. We’re three idiots in a forest. That’s it.”

Zex put a clawed finger to his chin. “Ooh, Three Idiots in a Forest. Now that’s catchy. Very honest. Really tells a story.”

“You are this close to catching an axe, Zex.”

“Which part? The sharp part? Or the angry part?”

“Yes.” Brax all but growled.

Another glance behind showed the Dragonborn had stopped again, head tilted, eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood. He raised one clawed hand and murmured, “They shift beneath the roots. The forest tests us.”

Zex gave a thumbs-up while padding over to him. “Solid. Very ominous. Love it. Hey, are you auditioning for ‘Most Mysterious Creepy Guide in a Forest Setting’? Because you are killing it.”

Brax grumbled under his breath in mild agreement at that remark, as he grabbed a low-hanging vine and tried to swing over a patch of particularly deep sludge. The vine, as though taking it personally, snapped in his hands and dumped him straight into the muck with a splash. He let out a string of profanities so colorful even the forest seemed to wince.

Zex winced in sympathy, looking down at Brax’s soiled garments. “Yikes. That’s gonna smell like regrets and mildew for days.”

Brax dragged himself upright, eyes blazing. “Oh yeah, laugh now, rodent. Laugh, but when I’m dead from swamp rot, I am haunting you. Forever.”

“I’ll get a little ghost bell so I know when you’re near,” Zex said sweetly. “That way I can make you mad on purpose. Like old times!”

The Dragonborn waited silently ahead, unmoved by either the struggle or the commentary.

As Brax limped forward, unsuccessfully trying to shake off some of the mud from his clothes, he muttered, “Oh, he’s definitely enjoying this. I bet he’s laughing under that stupid moss beard of his.”

Zex whispered, “Do you think he has a beard? Like, under the leaves? What if it’s just... all moss? Like a face garden. I bet birds nest in there.”

“Zex.”

“Yeah?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Okay.” Only a moment passed between them before Zex started up again. “Hey, did you hear that—”

“ZEX.”

The kobold zipped his mouth shut and mimed locking it, but within seconds, he was humming. Off-key. Loudly.

Brax considered violence. Just a little. Nothing fatal.

At some point, the trees thickened. The path—such as it was—disappeared altogether. Only the Dragonborn seemed undeterred. He turned smoothly, silent as shadow, and pushed aside a curtain of vines. Beyond them, the forest opened up slightly, revealing a circle of stones worn down with age.

“Whoa,” Zex whispered, genuinely impressed for once. “What is this?”

The Dragonborn knelt by one of the stones and placed a clawed hand on its surface. His eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in deeply, then spoke:

“They passed through here. But not alone. Something else watches. Follows. Hungers.”

Brax rubbed his temples. “Of course something is following us. That’s how this nightmare works.”

“You think it’s worse than bandits?” Zex asked, tail twitching nervously.

“I think it’s probably covered in eyes and wants to eat our bones,” Brax muttered. “Because why not, right.”

The Dragonborn opened his eyes. “Night falls soon. The forest will not be kind when it wakes.”

Zex’s eyes widened. “Wait. I'm sleeping right now?! What happens when it wakes?!”

Brax gave him a dry look. “Hopefully it kills you first.”

“Wow,” Zex said, grinning. “That’s the nicest thing you���ve said to me all day.”

As the trio moved on—Brax limping, Zex babbling, and the Dragonborn floating forward like some kind of plant-powered ghost-king—one thing became increasingly clear in Brax’s mind.

This forest wasn’t just dangerous.

It was weird.

And so were the people he was stuck with.

Brax sighed deeply, sending a puff of warm breath into the cold air.

“Stupid forest,” he muttered. “Stupid bandits. Stupid... Stormcloud.”

Zex, just behind him, chirped happily, “Told you we were a team.”

“That way I can make you mad on purpose. Like old times!”

The Dragonborn waited silently ahead, unmoved by either the struggle or the commentary.

As Brax limped forward unsuccessfully trying to shake off some of the mud from his clothes, he muttered, “Oh he’s definitely enjoying this. I bet he’s laughing under that stupid moss beard of his.”

Zex whispered, “Do you think he has a beard? Like, under the leaves? What if it’s just... all moss? Like a face garden. I bet birds nest in there.”

“Zex.”

“Yeah?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Okay.” Only a moment passed between them before Zex started up again. “Hey, did you hear that—”

“ZEX.”

The kobold zipped his mouth shut and mimed locking it, but within seconds, he was humming. Off-key. Loudly.

Brax considered violence. Just a little. Nothing fatal.

At some point, the trees thickened. The path—such as it was—disappeared altogether. Only the Dragonborn seemed undeterred. He turned smoothly, silent as shadow, and pushed aside a curtain of vines. Beyond them, the forest opened up slightly, revealing a circle of stones worn down with age.

“Whoa,” Zex whispered, genuinely impressed for once. “What is this?”

The Dragonborn knelt by one of the stones and placed a clawed hand on its surface. His eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in deeply, then spoke:

“They passed through here. But not alone. Something else watches. Follows. Hungers.”

Brax rubbed his temples. “Of course something is following us. That’s how this nightmare works.”

“You think it’s worse than bandits?” Zex asked, tail twitching nervously.

“I think it’s probably covered in eyes and wants to eat our bones,” Brax muttered. “Because why not right.”

The Dragonborn opened his eyes. “Night falls soon. The forest will not be kind when it wakes.”

Zex’s eyes widened. “Wait. I'm sleeping right now?! What happens when it wakes?!”

Brax gave him a dry look. “Hopefully it kills you first.”

“Wow,” Zex said, grinning. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

As the trio moved on—Brax limping, Zex babbling, and the Dragonborn floating forward like some kind of plant-powered ghost-king—one thing became increasingly clear in Brax’s mind.

This forest wasn’t just dangerous.

It was weird.

And so were the people he was stuck with.

Brax sighed deeply, sending a puff of warm breath into the cold air.

“Stupid forest,” he muttered. “Stupid bandits. Stupid... Stormcloud.”

Zex, just behind him, chirped happily, “Told you we were a team.”

[lucid-dreams-turned-storys]

Rootbound

Chapter 2: Into the Thicket

“What the hell—?”

The thing was short. Real short. A kobold? No—some kind of hybrid. Fur and mismatched brownish scales, soaking wet and grinning like he’d just won a game of dice.

Brax tightened his grip on his axe and stepped instinctively between the newcomer and the Dragonborn, just in case. His muscles were already tired, but this new presence sharpened his instincts like a whetstone on steel.

The kobold raised both hands high in the universal language of don’t kill me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not here for a fight! Unless you’re fighting those bastards—then I’m very much here for a fight. But not with you.”

His voice had the charm of a rusty hinge—raspy, quick, layered with nervous energy and a bit too much enthusiasm for Brax’s comfort. He didn’t relax.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, probably. Tracking those smugglers. Bandits. Whatever you call them. You’re not exactly subtle, you know—left a trail even a blind troll could follow. So... I figured I'd gamble.”

Brax squinted at him. He couldn’t tell if this creature was clever or just completely out of his mind. Maybe both.

“You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m awake.”

Gods help me, Brax thought.

The Dragonborn hadn’t moved. Still watching. Still as calm and unreadable as ever. Brax shot him a glance.

“You know this guy?”

“No.”

“Great,” Brax muttered.

The kobold bounced lightly on his toes, despite the mud. “Name’s Zex, by the way. And you two are clearly on some kind of doomed quest to find very bad people in a very bad place during a very bad storm. Which means I’d like to tag along. You know—safety in numbers. Maybe I can help. Or at least distract something long enough for you to run away.”

Brax crossed his arms, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Why should—” he glanced at the Dragonborn, unsure whether or not to lump them together—“we trust you?”

Zex shrugged, stepping toward a tree to lean on—only to immediately slip and flail to regain balance. “You shouldn’t. Trust is for warm fires and good food. But the way I see it, three cold bodies are harder to rob than one. That’s just math.”

Brax exhaled through his nose and looked at the Dragonborn, eyebrows raised. “You gonna say anything helpful?”

The Dragonborn’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was weighing the moment with all the seriousness of a judge. Finally, he spoke. “The trail is fresh. If you intend to find them, I can lead you. Otherwise, you will be lost by nightfall.”

That caught Brax off guard more than he cared to admit. He blinked. “You’re... helping us?”

“I am helping the forest.”

Zex leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “That’s a yes.”

Brax shook his head. This was already turning into a weird day. He wasn’t even sure if it still counted as today. Morning felt like yesterday. Maybe it was or maybe it only felt that way because of the awful company he found himself with.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “But if either of you slow me down, I’m leaving you behind.”

Without another word, the Dragonborn turned and started walking, silent as shadow, deeper into the woods. The forest seemed to open for him, just slightly, as though recognizing something in his presence.

Zex jogged to catch up, practically skipping through the muck. “You know, you two make a great first impression. I think this is going to be the start of something wonderful.”

Brax rolled his eyes and followed, muttering under his breath, “Should’ve stayed in the damn tavern.”

And so, beneath the endless rain, with steam rising from their breath and mud caked to their legs, the unlikely trio moved into the heart of the forest. The trees seemed to close behind them, swallowing their trail.

Brax still didn’t trust them. Probably never would.

But he had a feeling the forest didn’t care.

[lucid-dreams-turned-storys]

Rootbound

Chapter One: The Meeting in the Storm 

The forest hated him. That was the only explanation Brax could come up with.

Rain came down in sheets, dense and slanted, stabbing through the canopy like falling knives. It drummed against his horns, slid down his fur in cold rivulets, and turned the path—if it could even be called that—into a soggy mess of roots and mud. His hooves sank with every step, making a wet squelch that set his teeth on edge. Even his cloak had given up, dragging behind him like a dead animal.

Everything was wet. Everything was miserable.

But alas, he trudged forward anyway, cursing every slippery step.

“Stupid forest. Stupid storm. Stupid smugglers.”

He muttered it under his breath, like a charm to keep from screaming. Like the words themselves might hold the weather at bay. They didn’t.

He’d been chasing them for three days—maybe four. Time blurred in the Thicket. Ever since that merchant caravan limped into town, half their goods gone and one of the guards missing an ear, They offered him his weight in gold should he retrieve their goods. So with that fine incentive Brax had picked up the trail. At first it had been easy: broken branches, discarded supplies, a familiar stink of desperation and cheap alcohol. But the deeper he went, the stranger the forest became.

The trees leaned in here, unnaturally tall and twisted, their trunks gnarled like clenched fists. Some of them looked like they’d started growing in one direction, then changed their minds halfway up. Moss coated everything in slimy green, and the air was thick with the smell of rot and wet bark. The ground squirmed with insects. Ferns curled like sleeping animals.

Sometimes, Brax could swear the branches moved when he wasn’t looking. Not swaying from wind—but moving, like fingers flexing in anticipation.

He didn’t like that. Frankley if he didn’t need the money so badly he’d turn around right now cursing bandit, merchant and storming forest alike on the way out. 

Brax paused, sucking in a breath. His muscles ached. His axe was heavy on his back. His cloak clung to him like a second, soggy skin. But the trail was still fresh. He could feel it—like heat rising off stone. Someone had come through here. Recently.

Then it changed.

He didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. He just... felt it. The air grew heavier, tighter, like the trees were holding their breath. His ears twitched. The rain hadn’t stopped, but now it was somehow quieter. As if something farther in was listening.

He dropped low, his body instinctively going still. His fingers brushed the haft of his axe. The forest watched. He knew it did.

Movement.

Just ahead. Tall. Upright. Still.

His breath caught. That wasn’t a smuggler.

He crept closer, silently, hooves finding firm patches of earth through the mud and slosh with nothing but sheer stubborn memory. A lifetime spent tracking things—beasts, men, worse—had burned a kind of map into his bones. The figure came into view—green-scaled, cloaked in layers of plant life that looked like they’d grown from his clothes, not been sewn into them. It was a Dragonborn. Not the city kind with all their ritzy glam, either. This one was different. Wilder. Of old blood.

Brax didn’t like being surprised. And he really didn’t like surprises in the middle of a supposedly cursed forest.

The Dragonborn turned to face him, eyes catching the low light—amber, glowing faintly, like coals under a bed of ash. Brax didn’t dare to move. He didn’t draw a weapon. He barely managed to draw a breath with his nerves so on fire. The Dragonborn seemed to give him a quick once-over.

Then he spoke.

“You are a long way from home, friend.”

Brax straightened slowly, his hand still on his weapon. “I’m not your friend,” he said lowly. “And I’m not here to chit-chat with whatever you are. You seen any bandits around here?”

The Dragonborn blinked, calm as a stone. “Bandits? I have seen many things in these woods. But to call them bandits is... limiting.”

What the hell did that mean?

“Bandits. Thieves. People who steal from villages and hurt folks. I’m after ‘em. Got a score to settle,” Brax said, straightening his posture in a vain hope to look even somewhat more impressive to the looming figure.

“They are not the only danger in this forest.”

Brax frowned. “You're saying that like I should be scared.”

“I am saying that the Thicket does not take kindly to those who come with violence in their hearts.” The Dragonborn wasn’t even looking at him now, instead he was peering into the woods. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something that Brax couldn’t hear.

Those words gave him pause though. Just for a second.

Something about the way he said it. Like the forest was alive—and kept a ledger.

But before he could sort through his thoughts, a loud crash erupted behind him—something small and fast tumbling through the brush.

He spun around, axe already half-drawn—

But instead of the expected ambush, instead through the bushes slid a wet, frantic ball of scales and fur.