#he will wander on to do more archdruid thing eventually

[tadpole-apocalypse]

This has been in my drafts for months I’m just releasing it so I can be free:

***

Thinking about Shadowheart and Halsin getting together post game in her little cottage core ending.

After her mother passes away she starts to fret about her dad being left all alone after she dies and gets a little bit of baby fever. She approaches Halsin to be the father with no expectation of anything further; she knows his lifestyle and he’s busy at the rebuilding of his old settlement. She’s fully prepared to raise the child by herself.

Halsin agrees but after she gives birth it ends up being twins and he just…stays for a bit to help out on the farm and with the babies, she’s not far from Reithwin so he can still get there quick by paw or wing. And then 20 years pass and they have 5 kids and are just like, well I guess we’re in love now!

[lemonwood31]

Leap of Faith

Pairing: Halsin/Shadowheart Rating: Explicit (... eventually) Tags: slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, antagonists to lovers Read on AO3

Welcome to the novel-length fanfic that could have been a couple of 500-word meta posts instead, but isn't it more fun to show rather than tell?

I started writing this with two aims: to explore Halsin and Shadowheart's potential as a pairing, and to write the kind of slow burn I personally prefer (heavy on the angst/pining, slow both emotionally and physically, and tightly confined to one POV to better facilitate fun misunderstandings and dramatic tension). Along the way, it turned into much more: a character exploration of both Shadowheart and Halsin; a story about faith and friendship and identity; about choosing new paths when you don't know where they'll lead; about breaking free of old patterns; about trying to have a healthy relationship when both of you are traumatised as all get out.

I'm really pleased with how it turned out. I hope you'll give it a chance. I'm not planning to post chapter notifications on tumblr, so if you like it and want to keep reading, keep an eye on it on AO3.

-

By the time I meet the druid Halsin, I’ve already made up my mind about him.

So, I’d contend, would have anyone with two eyes and a brain who’d been to the Emerald Grove and seen the mess he’s made of things there. Half the place is in almost open revolt: if not quite against him personally (at least not that any of them will admit), then certainly against the way he’s been running things. And who can blame them? The man’s clearly let his soft heart get the better of him, placing the interests of a ragtag bunch of tiefling refugees above those of his own Grove.

And what’s worse, he’s done it foolishly. He hasn’t, as far as I can tell, made any attempt to get the druids on side, to work out who among his people has influence and how to apply the correct motivations to convince them to support his plan for the refugees. He’s simply relied on it being the quote-unquote ‘right’ thing to do, and assumed that will be enough to bring the rest of them around.

And the whole Grove is reaping the results of his idiocy: resource-starved, vulnerable to attack, facing threats from within and from without. To cap it all off, he’s seized the first opportunity to abandon them in favour of a hare-brained reconnoissance mission to infiltrate a tribe of goblin cultists, leaving his Grove in the charge of a woman so uninterested in hiding her ill intentions that her familiar is a literal snake.

In short, by the time we encounter him in the cells of said goblin cultists’ dungeon, my opinion of him could hardly be lower. I’m simply praying like hells to my Lady Shar that he’ll turn out to be a better healer than he is a leader.

What it hasn’t occurred to me to consider is what he might turn out to be like as a man. I suppose when people say Archdruid, I picture someone old. Elminster, but with leaves in his hair instead of a wizard hat. In actual fact, though, when the bear we find in the cells finishes ripping out the throats of his goblin captors and turns back into an elf, he’s no more than middle-aged, and at least three times bigger and ten times more handsome than the vague mental image I’d conjured up in my tadpole-infested brain. He’s got thin leather straps buckled around biceps bigger than my thighs. It’s all quite a lot to take in.

If it took me thirty minutes of wandering around the Grove, asking innocuous-sounding questions and surreptitiously reading letters that have been left out on tables as if the druids want their dirty laundry aired for everyone to see, to make up my mind about him, it takes him all of three seconds to make up his mind about me.

‘Pardon the viscera,’ he says – rueful, charming, and I’m starting to see why he’s managed to hold on to first rank in a druid grove for a century or more despite having no aptitude for leadership whatsoever – and then he starts to say something else, but his eyes flick up to Lady Shar’s symbol at my forehead, and his face hardens as he bites off whatever he was going to say in favour of giving me a cold, supsicious look.

It’s a funny thing, having almost no memories. I know my training, know it inside and out, and so I know to expect this sort of reaction from outsiders. I’ve been on the lookout for it, in fact, in the companions I’ve met thus far, although all of them have either been ignorant or too tactful to give any outward sign that they recognise the holy symbols adorning my person. As it turns out, however, it’s one thing to expect the reaction, and quite another to experience it, to see his expression closing off as he visibly decides that he already knows everything important there is to know about me.

I do my best not to let the sting of it show on my face. Foolish of me to feel a sting in the first place: it shouldn’t matter what any outsider thinks of me, let alone a do-gooder bleeding-heart poor excuse for an Archdruid whose whole Grove falls to pieces the minute his back is turned. We need him, I remind myself sternly. Little as I may think of him, he’s still the best lead we’ve got for removing these blasted parasites from our brains.

And so I introduce myself and my companions, doing my level best to remain polite, and explain why we’ve come in search of him. He’s so interested, hearing that we’ve been infected for days without succumbing to either ceremorphosis or a sudden urge to commit our lives to the Absolute, that he almost ­– almost – drops the suspicion while he questions us and lifts a hand to invoke some sort of diagnostic spell I don’t recognise but which leaves behind a faint scent of verbena as it washes over me.

‘This is most unusual,’ he says, frowning. ‘I have been researching these tadpoles for some time now, but I haven’t yet come across anybody who has been able to resist their influence. Do you have any idea what might make you different?’

‘No clue, I’m afraid,’ I start to say, but I don’t manage to get the full sentence out before Gale is helpfully piping up, ‘We think it might have something to do with an artefact that Shadowheart is carrying.’

Lady of Sorrows guide us. It’s bad enough that we have to admit to the tadpoles; I’ve been forcing those words out from between my teeth, and with good reason, given that a substantial proportion of the people we’ve told about them have actively tried to kill us. I’d hoped that my companions would have enough sense not to blurt out the artefact’s existence to a random druid we’ve known for ten minutes, five minutes of which he’s spent as a bear, but apparently I haven’t calibrated my expectations low enough. I shoot Gale an exasperated glare. He raises an eyebrow back at me, unrepentant or unsure of why he’s upset me, who can tell.

The Archdruid is looking back and forth between the two of us. His frown has deepened. ‘An artefact?’ he says. ‘It would have to be a powerful one to block a mental influence this strong. Can you tell me anything more about it?’

‘I don’t know much about it myself,’ I say, begrudgingly. ‘Only that I’ve been charged to bring it back to its rightful place, and that it seemed to protect us from the voice of the Absolute when we entered the goblin camp.’

‘May I see it?’ he asks, and I manage to bite back an instinctive denial, but I can’t bring myself to reply in the affirmative, either.

His mouth thins in exasperation as he looks at me, and then he takes an obvious breath to steady himself and says, tone gentle, ‘I have no interest in taking it from you, child. Nor in telling others of its existence. I am simply trying to help you to the best of my ability. But if you aren’t willing to share its secrets with me, I won’t force you.’

‘Far be it from me to criticise the keeping of secrets,’ drawls Astarion, ‘but it does seem rather a waste of having come all this way to consult a healer if we then refuse to let him help us.’

I don’t like this, of course, but I also can’t think of a compelling counter-argument, so I produce the artefact, holding it out to the Archdruid on the palm of my hand.

‘Interesting,’ he says, reaching his hand out to hover near it, as if warming himself by a fire. I curl my fingers around the artefact, ready to snatch it away if he gets any closer, but he drops his hand and returns his gaze to my face. His expression is still wary, but it’s also apologetic, and I know what he’s going to say a moment before he says it.

‘I am sorry,’ he tells me, and I can’t help but tense; beside me, I sense my companions tensing too. ‘I will not draw out your hope any further by prevaricating: I cannot cure you. These tadpoles have been infused with a strange magic, one that’s capable of warping the minds of the infected and turning them to the Absolute. Without understanding the source of that magic, I cannot remove it.’

I busy myself in re-stowing the artefact in an attempt to cover my disappointment. I shouldn’t have expected anything else, but as it turns out, I’d still been holding out a bit of hope that he’d be able to solve our problem.

‘However,’ he goes on, ‘that doesn’t mean I cannot help.’

‘Oh?’ I say, politely, but my mind is already on our next steps. Is it best, I wonder, to stay longer in the area, try to find another lead that might point to a possible cure, or to push on towards Baldur’s Gate and hope that I can make it there before I succumb to the effects of the tadpole?

‘I have overheard several conversations during my time here,’ says the druid, ‘that point to the new tadpoles originating in a place called Moonrise Towers. It’s perhaps a tenday’s journey from here, but the way is fraught with peril. The land around Moonrise has been afflicted by a curse that is hostile to all life. Still, it’s clear that Moonrise Towers is the source of these tadpoles, and therefore it is your best hope of finding a cure.’

‘Rather a slim hope, it sounds like,’ I say, ‘if it means fighting our way through cursed lands and a tower full of Absolute cultists, all on the hearsay of a few gossiping goblins. And even if we discover information that might lead to a cure, how are we supposed to find a healer of a generous enough heart to try to implement it? I can’t imagine the cultists will have too many of those stashed away.’

He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy,’ he says mildly, and then he falls silent, giving me a scrutinising look. So scrutinising, in fact, that it takes an effort of will to resist the urge to squirm, to instead meet his gaze unflinchingly.

We stare at each other for several excruciating moments. Humiliatingly, I’m just about to break, to say something inane, possibly having to do with the tiny green flecks I’ve just noticed in his hazel eyes, when he saves me from myself by appearing to reach a decision.

‘My Grove is at risk,’ he says, and I blink at the non-sequitur. ‘It is only a matter of time before the goblins stray far enough east to discover us, and we don’t have the resources or the skills to resist a coordinated attack. This camp is ruled by three leaders, generals of the Absolute. Take them out, and the threat to the Emerald Grove is neutralised.’

Ah. So we’re negotiating. What in the Lady’s name does he think is in it for us? I wonder. ‘And you want us to deal with them for you,’ I say aloud.

‘I would be grateful,’ he rephrases, pointedly, ‘if you would assist me to remove the threat, yes. If you’re willing to do so, it would free me to travel with you to Moonrise and aid you in your search for a cure.’

I can’t help myself: my mouth drops open. ‘You must be joking,’ I say.

He frowns at me, puzzled. ‘I assure you, I’m quite serious.’

‘Well, why not, after all,’ I say, waspishly and unwisely. ‘This Grove of yours is in such a state that perhaps it’s a judicious decision to cut your losses and walk away.’

It’s his turn to gape. ‘Excuse me?’

‘What Shadowheart means to say,’ begins Wyll in a pacifying sort of tone, and Halsin and I both turn to glare at him, the first time we’ve been in concert in our acquaintance thus far. Wyll closes his mouth with a snap, and spreads his hands in a ‘well, I tried’ gesture.

‘I’d like to hear more about what Shadowheart means to say from Shadowheart,’ says the druid. He’s controlling his anger, but there’s no mistaking its presence in his voice.

I really shouldn’t antagonise him any further, but it’s clear from the look on his face that he won’t brook deflection, and any attempt to soften the message will make me look weak. So I lift my chin, and tell him, ‘Your precious druids have spent your absence preparing to cast the Rite of Thorns to cut off your Grove from the rest of the world. And from you, one assumes,’ I add, although this little twist of the knife doesn’t have a visible effect on him: his expression is frozen in horror. ‘I won’t tell you how to run your affairs, but may I suggest that if you’re serious about leaving, perhaps take the time first to choose a new leader who isn’t in league with shadow druids?’

It takes a few moments for this to sink in with him: time enough for my sense of vicious satisfaction to fade and my more rational brain to point out the unwisdom of all of this. I’m supposed to be gathering allies here. If it were possible for me to bring the artefact to Baldur’s Gate by myself, I’d be out on the road already, blessedly free of the company of all these irritating, idiotic men. Men who try to speak for me, and give away my secrets, and look at me with pain raw on their face as if I’ve just kicked their pet puppy, as if their failings as a leader are my fault for having pointed them out, as if I should have been kinder. Well, more fool them. Kindness is an impulse that Lady Shar has trained out of me, if it ever existed inside me in the first place.

‘I see,’ says Halsin at last. He’s recovered from the surprise of it, and his face has closed off again. ‘I will deal with Kagha in due course. I have little interest in your opinion of how I run my Grove, and even less in explaining myself to you. However, my offer to you still stands. Will you take it or leave it?’

‘We’ll take it, of course,’ says Gale quickly.

‘We’d be very grateful for your help,’ says Wyll.

‘Some of us will, at any rate,’ says Astarion, not quite under his breath.

Halsin holds my gaze, waiting. At least he isn’t acting as if my companions have a right to speak for me, I suppose. And by this time, my rational brain has managed to regain control. Any port in a storm, I tell myself, and give him a nod; he presses a fist to his chest and nods back, his expression cool, and the little voice in the back of my head wonders how long, exactly, it’ll be before I have cause to regret this.

[shanny-tired]

Another One to Remember, Always Another One, Never the Last One.

I cannot quite seem to escape this pattern in my life, can I? It is...strange to me. Yet at the same time I accept it because it seems to be all I have ever known. It is tiring, truly it is. I know not why I am doomed to repeat my past. All these pains...create me. They are who I am.

(CW: mentions of sex, death, Shanaris talking a lot. No seriously. It’s nothing but Shanaris talking. Romantic Background. Background. History.)

When I first met Al’mashan, it was at a simple fire and gathering - a celebration for who knows what...a good hunt probably. From the moment I saw him I knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. No....reveling or partaking in the madness of dance. Not that I do not like dancing, but it did not seem the time for a celebration. His demeanor was simple, and kind. He laughed, bowed his head - greeted everyone so kindly, even as his body gave into the alcohol he drank. As did mine. Slowly, our paths came to intersect by a bump and spill. Eyes met....and a fire we both knew nothing of ignited bright as it could. We both talked the sunset away and as the night emerged, each word progressing into deeper, more meaningful conversations. That very same day, we kissed. Just like our words, our kiss created fire. No-- not a fire... a blizzard, for the feelings we felt were sharp and harsher than the winds of Northrend. We both knew what we needed that day. He took my hand first, he took my heart first, he took my kiss first, and just after, he took my womanhood’s first. In a single day, imagine that? What could have spurred on such a series of emotions that delivered me to him so willingly? 

Even now I do not really know, nor do I care. I loved every second of it. From that day, he visited our humble village almost every week. By the fifth week everyone knew him, within the village, and treated him as part of the family. Brothers and sisters of kin, treating each other as just that. it was a beautiful, simple time. Years went on, and out bodies never grew tired of each other. Decades passed, and our bond only grew. Centuries, and we involved more than simply ourselves. He showed me a wealth of experience and love that I could never hope to experience again. Every day and night, he offered pleasure that left me weak in the knees, and hazy in the mind. It reached to such a point that I am...still feeling his effect on my body. My ears are not a sensitive place, whoever has sensitive ears truly is a strange, simple creature. Or maybe they are corrupted like me? Al’mashan always played with my ears when we enjoyed each other-- so often that now...the simple feeling of someone touching my ears reminds me of the pleasure I felt when he left himself inside me. How... invested one must be, to have a relationship like that and still be effected by his actions in the past? I...digress. He was one like no other. Kind, yet not weak. Wise, but not arrogant. He was nothing but a merchant too! A good one at that! I was the one who protected him when he got into a bad dealing. I guarded his wares, and his heart. I could not count how many times I had to beat sense into some arrogant Highborne or petty thief trying to make light and manipulate.

Whatever love, truly is. It was that, with him. With him I felt something that would never be felt again. When his bed held multiple bedfellows, I crawled in with them all and showed each of them, one by one, who truly has territory and worth here. Both on his body, and each Kaldorei that even attempted to pursue anything beyond bodily pleasure. Millennia. That bond lasted since before my rites into adulthood, to the exile of Highborne. That time...marked the end of my physical life with Al’mashan Starwhisper. A mark on my notch. Love was found, then taken away from me. I overreacted, and sought revenge. I killed her, and I smiled as I pulled the teeth from my knuckles. Yet it did not bring him back.

I wandered after that. I took my mother’s skills and wandered into the wilderness. It was in these wilds that I met Jorri, who seemed to be on a similar venture. A Troll, of all things, imagine that? His first words to me were an attempt at greeting in my tongue were words of food. Yet, it was that alone that told me he meant no harm, and actually wanted to speak rather than flee or fight. So...we did. I played charades with that Troll for years, learning his language and my own. It came to a point where I knew Zandalari fluently, just as he knew my own language. Oddly enough, he was sweet to me. Silly, but that was likely due to the language barrier, but sweet. I...fell in love again. With a Troll. With him I spent years out in the middle of nowhere, surviving off of the land, living in near-savagery just as the Kaldorei of old did. 

Decades passed and it was then i began to learn of mortality. Trolls were not immortal. His health was deteriorating and before long... I watched him, unchanged in the slightest - not a wrinkle or blemish on my flesh, and he looked like a raisin. From him I took something as well. My hair. When I lived with him, grooming was not a thing I thought of save for bathing. I used a blade to remove the tangled mess of pubic hairs as I could, but the hair on my body and head....remained growing. When he passed, he took someone from me as well just as I learned from him. He took my tears. As much as I cried, experiencing the death of another so peaceful, I could not cry any longer. My eyes dried up and my heaves were parched. His memory manifests upon me, as the length of my hair. It is such a simple thing to keep, but he always complimented me about my hair - always said how beautiful my hair was. He called me beautiful every day. It was the first word he had learned to fluently say, and the last words he uttered to me involved telling me to never let my beauty perish. Impossible. My smile was stolen with his last breath. Never have I met a Troll so genuine and kind. It made me wonder just how...just our genocide of their people was. I resented it. Of course, the Trolls were not in any sort of right either, but... war time has a way of making us forget that even with the soldiers, there are citizens. Another trait given to a Kaldorei with a diminishing personality. Thus, my hair remained long ever since.

Masianna Goldbloom. A spitfire if ever I met one. She was... special. I met her during a little excursion to Sentinel High Command to visit my mother. The Outrunner attempted a playful ambush on me. It was nothing out of the ordinary for me as I was used to a Sentinel’s way of horseplay. I was vaguely known at High Command as well. My mother and her troop welcomed me during their mock sessions and prayers. Masianna knew I came often, but she did not know my mother had trained me. She did not expect me to pin her to the ground. Something about that energy inside her made me visit more often.

So I did, and each time I did I felt something coming back that I had lost once again. There was a smile. A feeling I had not felt in so long that it actually made my cheeks sore the next day. I elected to stay near High Command after a few years of repeated visits. Eventually... I took her hand in mine, and just as Al’mashan was my first, I became hers. I did not want to make the mistake of before and wait too long to enjoy her company. So we moved forward. When I had trouble sleeping, she kissed and held me until I cried, then nursed my tears until I fell asleep. When I awoke, I nursed her. My cooking was amateur at best-- it still is, but I made up for that with a knowledge of spices due to my time with Al’mashan and my own gardens. I made sure, each time she helped me, that I did so in turn, with interest. I treated her like the troop she deserved to be. When she arrived to me wounded from a mission too risky, I helped her wounds, and forced her to wait for recovery. Even if the Sentinels desired otherwise... I fought for her right to recover. I was not going to allow this...light after so much darkness to leave once again, not while I was so close to escaping it. I did too. I  left that dark hole, and...invaded Masianna’s. Hmm, jests aside, she truly was a Light that managed a smile from me after years without.

Of course... history repeated. She did not return home to me, but her weapons did. Two daggers, and a note. The note was written hastily, and partially stained with blood making portions of the letter unreadable. She...always was a fast writer. Masianna wanted to tell me that she would not be coming home, but after her spirit passes, she would still like to see the diced and spiced meat at the bedside. She wanted to at least see it, one last time before she joined with Elune. I...did it. I did not know if she could even truly see it, but I did. I woke early, stared at the empty space in my bed, and did my duties. Once again, I gained something, and lost something. She taught me how to care. Because of her I no longer put myself before others. I may preform or act, but never...will I do something elfish that will exchange a friend’s or ally’s safety simply so i can be free. Never will I allow my partners to proceed through their life without knowing that someone holds them with value. 

Yet...she stole my life. The life in my eyes, died with the news of her death. I lost my smile, my frown, my anger.... I only felt pain.

Malnora Whisperleaf. Sweet...sweet Malnora. Without you, my dearest leaf... I do not know where I would be. You found me Malnora. You found me and I fought back. I pushed you away and only used you to sate my lust for how... amazing and unique you were. It took me so long... so...so long to realize just how perfect you were. You, Malnora, you were a light like no other. A blizzard that churned and stirred that forests of my mind. A spitfire that bit and clawed at every challenge, and a druid with far more potential than myself. Within you, I saw an Archdruid in the making. Generous, loving, romantic, fierce, stubborn, peaceful. What word would truly describe her other than perfect?

When I met Malnora, I began a career with the Coldwall Collective. We met, and I itched. I had an itched that needed to be scratched, so I played charms, and took her away. That night was something indescribable. The sweat, blood, and fluids that spilled that night could make a whore tremble in disgust. We repeated that, for several more nights, until we began to make a game of it. She would claim me, and I to her. Eventually... the lust had been sated within both of us...and we began to talk. Instead of meeting and spilling passion. We talked. We began to understand...and that is when I began to push her away.

I was afraid, as I said. I did not want to experience ten thousand years of pain all over again. I did not want to grow attached to someone else simply to lose it all. I was tired-- I am tired, of losing people. I want to love, to live, to settle and experience eternity with another. Yet I was afraid at the time. Malnora, I pushed her as much as I could, but she still said the three words I loathe. She still found me every day and flattered me to no end. She brought me gifts - a gift that I have ensured to never give up save for to those I hold closest. It took me too long to understand just how much she wished to be with me, and even longer for me to understand that I wanted to be with her. So... we ran away. We flew as the stormcrow to Un’goro crater, and build a home. From a simple hollowed out log, to the tree I live in today. In that home we settled, decorated, and made the jungle know that we were the lords of it, not the devilsaurs. 

I do not know why she stayed with me for as long as she did. What did she see in someone so cold and unloving? I was a stone, and she was a flame trying to melt me. Well, she succeeded. Eventually she forced a smile from me, then humor. Soon enough she was reviving a long dead forest of emotion with her touch, her words, and her efforts. Malnora did not give up on me, she accepted everything I did and worked to understand it. Whoever would harm such a sweet, pure creature faced with me. I made sure they were to never harm her again. No one was going to hurt my dearest leaf.

Yet...she left. One day, she was simply gone. All she left in her wake was the silver necklace adorned with my Goddess. I do not know why she left...or where she went, but I know she is alive. I feel her presence every so often as I wander. I know that some days she is closer, and others, she is farther. When I search, the presence vanishes. I am only left with tears...and a solemn grin. She is gone...but not dead. Not dead. Malnora lives, and she still cares. I know she does. Her reasons may be unknown to me but at least I know she still seeks to make sure I am moving forward.

She took my heart, but in return, gave me life again. She taught me once more how to enjoy existence and those I held close. She is the reason I hold Sophie so closely to my heart, despite how unstable, uncontrollable, and impossible she may be. I know that Sophie cares for me as I do for her. Whether I sleep with another elf or five, she always looks to me with a shaky gaze and exciting wish.

Only a matter of time, I keep on thinking. Soon enough she will take something from me as well, and give me something in return. I only pray it is not soon. Please Mother Moon, let this last. Let her madness stay bubbling at the surface. Do not let her fall.

[meonlyred]

The Story So Far: Part 4

Transcript of our D&D game written by our DM Amy: Character Art by meonlyred or dreambled

It was decided early the next day they would head again to back Phandalin. Over the previous few weeks Corrin had made attempts to contact his orc tribe but had heard nothing back from them. After sending a letter to Gundren in Phandalin to see if he knew of any orc activity in the area and getting a response back saying it had been quiet, Corrin was concerned about what may be going on. So the group packed up and set out again down the High Road to Triboar Trail. After several more days travelling, something the kooky cadre had become proficient in, they arrived again at Cragmaw Castle to find the orc camp in ruins and signs of battles all around. Slowly making their way through the destruction, they were attacked by two large and strange looking creatures they later learned were called trollkin. After a somewhat challenging but still brief battle, the trollkin were defeated. Upon their bodies they found a strange symbol, a black fist holding a black arrow in a tight grip. Entering the castle, they were greeted by Sheshka, a spellcaster and trusted warrior with the Red Arrow tribe that aided them in Wave Echo cave. To their surprise she had learned a few words of common and ushered them to the alter room of the castle where her, Brughar, and several other warriors were holed up. They also found here a young wizard woman with wild red hair, calling herself Meriana. She had come to the ruins to study them, and was cautiously welcomed by the orcs. The learned then that a rival orc clan, the Black Arrows, had attacked Brughar and his people, proclaiming the Red Arrow tribe to be weak and a disgrace to orc kind. They killed many of the people, children included, but some managed to escape to the Neverwinter Wood where Brughar said they had caves and several other hidden safe spots. Brughar and the others stayed behind to try and keep the attackers distracted with the aid of Meriana. They were weary and injured, and supplies were dwindling, but now that Corrin and the others had showed up and taken out the trollkin they had a chance to retreat and join the rest of their people. Before they parted Brughar imparted on Corrin some words of advice he was surprised to hear coming from an orc, suggesting that war and vengeance were not always the best actions.

Taking Meriana with them the group continued on to Phandalin, where they discovered Gundren had become the new Townmaster of the village and that rebuilding was already taking place. One of the most notable additions was a small temple to Tymora. Where before they had barely a small luck shrine dedicated to her, there was now a small temple being ran by Sister Garaele, a cleric of Tymora and member of the Harpers who had requested the aid of our novice champions on their first visit to Phandalin. Mara also discovered her friend Halia Thornton had taken off and left the Miner’s Exchange in quite a hurry, and another member of the Zhentarim had taken her place and was looking for her. Once settled in the group was asked by Gundren to run a few small errands in support of the operations taking place at Wave Echo cave, which the group had a small share in. The first task was to make their way to Triboar and retrieve mining supplies that he had commissioned the creation of in hopes of opening up trade between the two villages.

They set out following the trail eastward and arriving 3 days later in Triboar, the journey being uneventful. They made contact with Nathan Redwater, the blacksmith in Triboar, who said he needed one more day to finish getting the rest of the supplies together and suggested they settle in and maybe partake in the upcoming festivities,  a holiday known as Ser Cuthbert's Day where the town celebrated their founding. They began to hear strange tells of a grey man haunting the fields outside the town, stories of animal mutilation, and of the disappearance of a young mother and her child. They were called upon by Cordelia Oldfield, the Lord Protector of Triboar, to look into these issues while in town. She had heard of the things they did for Phandalin and hoped they could be of aid to her people as well. The party began making their way through town investigating the claims, speaking to Dorn Stonewood the abusive husband to the missing woman, Travik Quickmoore a nervous Gnome farmer who had suffered the loss of cattle to strange mutilations, and Father Longfellow a half-orc priest of Tymora who told them of the old graveyard. They made their way outside of town where they themselves had a brief encounter with the gray man. They attempted to communicate with him but found it impossible to do so. Making their way to the Stonewood home, they found it badly damaged and signs of a struggle all around. Pip, being rather observant and skilled in survival, quickly picked up a trail and lead the group into the woods. As they followed the path to its end they were attacked by a ghastly pack of demon dogs. Upon defeating the beasts, they found the missing wife and child of Dorn hiding in a bramble patch. Injured, hungry and cold, but still alive. They quickly escorted the woman and child to the temple where they were given to the care of Father Longfellow. The crew then made their way to the old graveyard where they again had a run in with the grey man and again failing in an attempt to communicate with the apparition before it charged the group and disappeared. As they entered the graveyard they were surprised to see a group of undead wandering the area, and strange glow coming from the center. They fought their way through the skeletons and zombies, noticing many dug up and desecrated graves as they went. When they arrived to the center, they were attacked by the horrendous visage of an undead necromancer. It was then the group realized Corrin had been possessed by the grey man they encountered, and a battle between him and the necromancer ensued. Embolden by this divine power Corrin quickly defeated the necromancer, and the grey man left his body. They learned this was the spirit of Ser Cuthbert. He had been disturbed from his long sleep by the presence of this necromancer and had been attempting to warn the village of the danger facing them. Unable to gather the proper strength to do so, he took the chance to possess one of the group so he could help protect the village he founded and loved.

The festival for Ser Cuthbert's Day was full of food, drink and revelry. The adventurers, never ones to turn down a good bash, partook in as much as they could. Mara of course made sure to make the "rounds" with the townsfolk and got to know as many as she could. They set off the next morning with the mining supplies in tow and made it safely back to Phandalin, where Gundren once again asked them for their aid. He requested their assistance in scouting down south of the town through the mountains and the Kryptgarden Forest in hopes of laying a road and shortcut to the town of Red Larch. He informed them he had sent a scout ahead already and intended for them to meet up with her and give her aid. They set out, ONCE AGAIN, and made their way through a small mountain pass Gundrens men had created, leading to the Kryptgarden Forest.

Upon entering the forest it did not take long to realize something was amiss. The forest was unusually quiet and a strange smell filled the air. They cautiously made their way further in. After fighting several strange blighted plant creatures they ran into Gundrens scout, a tall woman with long dark golden brown hair, golden brown eyes, and a black as night dane by her side. She introduced herself as Vibeke Thorne of the Lords Alliance, and her companion as Petunia. She informed them of the weird and unsettling things she had found and took them deeper still into the woods. Before they could get much further they were confronted by an elf and a large bear. Fortunately it took only seconds for the elf to recognize them and for them to recognize her as the druid Reida from Thundertree. She introduced her ally as another druid, Olonan, as he quickly reverted back to his elven form. They informed them of the blight and corruption overtaking the forest and how their tribe had suffered many losses. They were lead to a hidden cave where the remaining druid tribe members were taking shelter and brought before the elder and archdruid of the tribe Torleth. She told them of the Life Tree they worshiped in the center of the forest, and that she believed the corruption started there. They could not help but notice the druids seemed to be acting strangely melancholy and somewhat combative. The group took it upon themselves to head to the center of the forest and search out the cause of what was happening. Reida left a head to check the site of the tree, and the rest were guided by Olonan.

The closer they got to the center of the forest the more they noticed decaying and dying trees and plants, the presence of strange fungi and a brown mucky liquid. Mara found herself much more affected by the foulness they were surrounded by and found her mood dropping quickly. When they finally arrived to the Life Tree, they found it to have been cut down. Its roots now surrounded by the dark murky liquid, covered in an odd assortment of growths and polyps as well as decaying corpses. Two dark elves stood at the center, one with flowing robes and long jet black hair, the other in a strange carapace armor. To their horror they had Reida in their grasp, and before the groups eyes slit her throat and dropped her body at the base of the tree stump. The two introduced themselves as the Black Star and Black Blade, sisters to Black Spider, seeking revenge for his murder. The one in robes summoned forth two demons and a harrowing battle ensued. They proved themselves formidable foes, but the group managed to defeat the demons and gain the upper hand, eventually converging on Black Star and killing her. Unfortunately Black Blade managed to summon a portal and escape. Checking Reidas body, they found she had perished, and noticed the growths and water appearing to absorb and feed off her blood. As they collected Reidas body, Torleth came through the forest edge and made her way to the stump of the tree, proclaiming it needed new life to cure the pollution. She exchanged words in an old sylan dialect with Olonan, before removing her clothing and kneels on the stump, giving her own life in sacrifice. In her place a small tree with soft pink leaves began to sprout.

The walk back to the shelter was quiet and somber. Once returned the druids took Reidas body to prepare it for funeral rites, and the group spent the night quietly gathered around the fire. They spent the next morning helping the tribe pack up as they prepared to leave and head for the High Forest, proclaiming the Kryptgarden unsafe to live in for now. Vibeke announced she was heading back to Waterdeep and the main headquarters of the Lords Alliance, and extended an invitation for the gang to accompany her, they agreed.