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Regional Timber & Useful Plant Survey of Thirnavar

Common Woods, Specialty Timbers, Food Trees, and Utility Plants by Nation

TAURDAIN

Cold Temperate Forests, Highland Valleys, Northern Riverlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Oak	Hardwood	Longhouses, beams, wagons, shield cores
Pine	Softwood	Roofing, palisades, charcoal, scaffolds
Birch	Hardwood	Tools, containers, bark crafts
Ash	Hardwood	Spears, bows, handles
Spruce	Softwood	Towers, framing, pitch
Alder	Wetland hardwood	River docks, fish structures

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Hazelnut	Nuts	Trade food, oils
Crabapple	Fruit	Cider, preserves
Juniper	Berries	Preservatives, spirits
Rowan	Berries	Medicinal use, charms

Specialty Woods

Pale Ash of the Reach

Cold-resistant pale hardwood.

Uses:

• war bows
• spear shafts
• sled frames
• giant weapon hafts

Icevein Fir

Blue-resin fir from glacial forests.

Uses:

• northern ship spars
• longhouses
• cold-weather towers
• resin torches

THYLOR

Mountain Holds, Volcanic Valleys, Industrial Forests

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Oak	Hardwood	Heavy supports, bridges
Yew	Hardwood	Bows, crossbows
Cedar	Softwood	Storage, lining, cabinetry
Pine	Softwood	Mine supports, fuel
Beech	Hardwood	Tool handles, furniture

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Chestnut	Nuts	Staple food, flour
Walnut	Nuts/Oil	Oils, trade goods
Mountain Plum	Fruit	Preserves, spirits

Specialty Woods

Blackforge Oak

Dense industrial hardwood.

Uses:

• artillery frames
• siege engines
• cranes
• mining supports

Stonebark Yew

Dense alpine yew.

Uses:

• heavy crossbows
• pulley systems
• engineering arms
• composite bows

MITHRIN

Temperate Maritime Forests, Trade Rivers, Fertile Lowlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Elm	Hardwood	Wagon frames, docks
Pine	Softwood	Ship masts, scaffolding
Oak	Hardwood	Hulls, buildings
Willow	Softwood	Basketry, river crafts
Walnut	Hardwood	Furniture, interiors

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Apple	Fruit	Cider, preserves
Pear	Fruit	Trade fruit
Walnut	Nuts/Oil	Lamp oils, food
Mulberry	Fruit	Dyes, preserves

Specialty Woods

Blackwater Elm

Flood-resistant river hardwood.

Uses:

• barges
• harbor structures
• heavy wagons
• flood supports

AARAKIEL

Dry Grasslands, Coastal Plains, Temperate Maritime Zones

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cedar	Softwood	Shutters, furniture
Cypress	Softwood	Drying racks, storage
Willow	Softwood	Basketry, irrigation systems
Ash	Hardwood	Duelist weapons, tools
Olive	Utility tree	Oils, preserves

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Veilroot	Fiber/Resin	Textiles, preservation resin
Olive	Oil/Fruit	Cooking, lamps
Fig	Fruit	Trade food
Almond	Nuts/Oil	Sweets, oils
Grapes	Fruit/Wine	Wine trade

Specialty Woods

Sunlash Cedar

Golden aromatic cedar.

Uses:

• decorative architecture
• ship decking
• shutters
• fine furniture

Veil Cypress

Oil-absorbing cypress.

Uses:

• textile infrastructure
• alchemical drying systems
• trade containers

Glasswillow

Smooth pale willow.

Uses:

• instruments
• veilglass transport frames
• decorative latticework

OIOHELKA

Storm Coasts, Sea Cliffs, Maritime Terraces

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cypress	Softwood	Ships, harbor works
Pine	Softwood	Masts, towers
Poplar	Hardwood	Civic interiors
Olive	Utility tree	Oils
Cedar	Softwood	Maritime construction

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Olive	Oil/Fruit	Cooking, lamps
Lemon	Fruit	Preserves, ship stores
Fig	Fruit	Dried trade goods
Date Palm	Fruit/Fiber	Coastal food

Specialty Woods

Storm Cypress

Salt-resistant maritime cypress.

Uses:

• ships
• sea towers
• harbor structures
• cliff dwellings

DRACART

Arid Scrublands, Rocky Basins, Caravan Territories

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Acacia	Hardwood	Spears, wagons
Mesquite	Hardwood	Fuel, charcoal
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, food
Juniper	Hardwood	Tool handles

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Date Palm	Fruit/Fiber	Food, rope
Agave	Fiber/Sap	Cordage, alcohol
Cactus Fruits	Fruit	Water source
Desert Herbs	Oils	Medicine, incense

Specialty Woods

Sandthorn Acacia

Dense heat-resistant hardwood.

Uses:

• caravan frames
• bows
• spear shafts
• defensive stakes

KADATHE’

Frozen Forests, Glacier Valleys, Tundra Margins

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Fir	Softwood	Longhouses, towers
Pine	Softwood	Fuel, roofing
Birch	Hardwood	Bark crafts, sleds
Alder	Hardwood	Wetland structures
Willow	Softwood	Weaving, shelters

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Cloudberry Shrubs	Fruit	Preserves
Juniper	Berries	Smoke curing
Rowan	Fruit	Medicines

Specialty Woods

Ghost Alder

Pale wetland timber.

Uses:

• marsh walkways
• funerary carvings
• docks
• ritual markers

MOPAHTE

Swamps, Flood Forests, Tidal Wetlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cypress	Softwood	Walkways, boats
Mangrove	Hardwood	Root structures, pylons
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Willow	Softwood	Basketry

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Reed Grasses	Fiber	Mats, roofing
Wetland Rice	Grain	Staple food
Marsh Herbs	Oils	Medicines
Water Chestnut	Food	Trade crop

Specialty Woods

Bog Ironroot

Near rot-proof swamp hardwood.

Uses:

• submerged foundations
• pylons
• bridge supports
• marsh fortifications

Mire Cypress

Wetland conifer.

Uses:

• shallow boats
• raised housing
• swamp walkways

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INNARLITH

Volcanic Islands, Tropical Storm Forests, Geothermal Slopes

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Teak	Hardwood	Ships, docks
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolds, poles
Mangrove	Hardwood	Coastal structures

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Coconut Palm	Food/Oil/Fiber	Rope, oils, food
Breadfruit	Food	Staple crop
Banana	Fruit	Trade food
Sugar Cane	Sugar	Rum, trade
Spice Trees	Oils/Bark	Trade spices

Specialty Woods

Ashscale Teak

Volcanic mineral-streaked teak.

Uses:

• elite shipbuilding
• naval artillery frames
• palace interiors
• armored hulls

ANUFED

Badlands, Goblin Warrens, Fungal Zones

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Pine	Softwood	Tunnel braces
Juniper	Hardwood	Fuel
Scrub Oak	Hardwood	Rough tools

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Cave Fungi	Food	Staple nutrition
Bitter Root	Medicine	Alchemy
Ktala Growths	Chemical source	Drug production

Specialty Woods

Ktala Rootwood

Chemically altered root material.

Uses:

• poison apparatus
• alchemical grinders
• ritual objects

BEEZDALITH

Coastal Plains, Grazing Valleys, Rocky Maritime Highlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cedar	Softwood	Hall beams
Oak	Hardwood	Doors, shields
Ash	Hardwood	Spears
Olive	Utility tree	Oils

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Olive	Oil/Fruit	Cooking
Fig	Fruit	Trade food
Almond	Nuts/Oil	Oils

Specialty Woods

Hornwood

Spiral-grained dense hardwood.

Uses:

• heavy bows
• ritual carvings
• shields
• weapon grips

MARTH BORDER REGIONS

Thin-Veil Forests, Dream Groves, Fae-Touched Wilderness

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Birch	Hardwood	Ritual crafts
Willow	Softwood	Shrines
Pine	Softwood	Frontier shelters

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Dream Moss	Alchemical	Sleep tonics
Glowcap Fungi	Light source	Trade curios
Moonberries	Fruit	Ritual use

Specialty Woods

Veilbloom Cypress

Blue-veined fae-touched cypress.

Uses:

• magical focuses
• dream wards
• ritual architecture

Whisper Birch

Pale phosphorescent birch.

Uses:

• ritual arrows
• instruments
• ceremonial masks

HUERYZD

Goblin Frontier Lands, Broken Hills, Harsh Scrub Forests

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Scrub Oak	Hardwood	Fortifications, rough tools
Juniper	Hardwood	Fuel, smoke curing
Pine	Softwood	Tunnels, palisades
Thornbrush	Shrub hardwood	Defensive hedges

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Bitter Nuts	Food/Oil	Survival food
Cave Fungus	Food	Goblin staple
Smokeleaf	Herb	Preservatives, narcotics
Razor Reed	Fiber	Cordage, traps

Specialty Woods

Bloodthorn Ironbriar

A dense red-black thornwood found in harsh goblin territories.

Uses:

• defensive palisades
• trap stakes
• shield reinforcement
• brutal weapon hafts

Properties:

• naturally thorned growth
• highly durable
• difficult to carve cleanly

Notes: Often grown deliberately around goblin fortifications.

THE ARAQ SCRUBLANDS

Dry Thorn Plains, Wind-Carved Barrens, Sparse Riverlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Acacia	Hardwood	Spears, carts
Juniper	Hardwood	Fuel, carving
Scrub Pine	Softwood	Rough construction
Desert Willow	Softwood	Basketry

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Thorn Melons	Fruit	Water source
Dustroot	Herb	Medicine
Sand Grasses	Fiber	Rope, thatch
Resin Bush	Resin	Sealants

Specialty Woods

Dustveil Cedar

A pale dry-climate cedar resistant to cracking.

Uses:

• caravan frames
• shutters
• travel chests
• lightweight shelters

Properties:

• stable in heat
• aromatic insect resistance
• lightweight but resilient

VERKHYISH

Harsh Northern Forests, Black Rivers, Rugged Frontier Lands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Pine	Softwood	Longhouses, fuel
Fir	Softwood	Towers, supports
Birch	Hardwood	Containers, bark crafts
Alder	Hardwood	Wetland structures

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Rowan	Fruit	Medicines
Juniper	Berries	Smoke curing
Black Plum	Fruit	Preserves

Specialty Woods

Nightbark Pine

A dark resin-heavy pine from shadowed northern valleys.

Uses:

• tar production
• black pitch waterproofing
• ship sealants
• torch resin

Properties:

• exceptionally resinous
• dark near-black bark
• smoky aromatic pitch

Notes: Highly prized by northern shipwrights.

WYRLLISH

Vast Grassland Savannahs, Great Herd Plains, Seasonal Rivers

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Acacia	Hardwood	Spears, wagons
Savannah Oak	Hardwood	Hall frames
Tall Willow	Softwood	Basketry
River Cedar	Softwood	Boats

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Golden Prairie Grain	Grain	Staple crop
Tall Cane Grass	Fiber	Rope, mats
Firefruit Shrubs	Fruit	Dried food
Herdnut Trees	Nuts	Animal fodder, oils

Specialty Woods

Plainsheart Acacia

A broad golden-barked acacia adapted to lightning-swept grasslands.

Uses:

• greatbows
• wagon frames
• riding lances
• shield frames

Properties:

• highly flexible
• excellent shock resistance
• naturally resistant to splitting

Notes: Favored heavily by mounted cultures.

KANQQA

Devastated Volcanic Islands, Ash Forests, Lava Fields

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Burnt Pine	Softwood	Fuel, charcoal
Ash Mangrove	Hardwood	Coastal structures
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolding

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Firefruit	Fruit	Fermentation
Ash Taro	Root crop	Staple food
Sulfur Moss	Alchemy	Reagents
Char Fern	Herb	Medicines

Specialty Woods

Emberglass Ironwood

A black-red volcanic hardwood partially mineralized by repeated eruptions.

Uses:

• heat shields
• forge structures
• volcanic ship reinforcement
• ritual objects

Properties:

• extremely dense
• partially stone-like grain
• resistant to heat and ash

Notes: Extremely difficult to work with ordinary tools.

JELEK ISLES

Tropical Island Chains, Coral Coasts, Warm Trade Waters

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Palm	Utility tree	Food, rope, roofing
Mahogany	Hardwood	Ships, furniture
Teak	Hardwood	Maritime structures
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolds, poles

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Coconut	Food/Oil/Fiber	Rope, food, lamps
Citrus Trees	Fruit	Preserves
Breadfruit	Food	Staple crop
Spice Trees	Oils/Bark	Trade spices

Specialty Woods

Coralheart Mahogany

A warm red tropical hardwood grown in salt-rich island soils.

Uses:

• luxury ships
• carved interiors
• instruments
• noble furnishings

Properties:

• highly workable
• salt tolerant
• rich coloration

Notes: Highly sought after by wealthy merchants.

OOLAYPULA

Swampy Jungle Peninsula, Humid River Deltas, Deep Marsh Forests

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Mangrove	Hardwood	Foundations, pylons
Cypress	Softwood	Walkways, boats
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Jungle Cedar	Softwood	Raised structures

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Wet Rice	Grain	Staple food
Spice Reeds	Oils	Medicines
Jungle Fruits	Fruit	Trade food
Resin Vines	Resin	Waterproofing

Specialty Woods

Mirecoil Mangrove

A twisted swamp hardwood with spiral interlocked grain.

Uses:

• submerged foundations
• swamp bridges
• marsh towers
• river pylons

Properties:

• nearly impossible to rot
• resistant to insects
• difficult to split

Notes: Some roots continue living after harvest for years.

KISHROH

Dense Interior Jungles, Monsoon Forests, Vast Tropical Highlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Mahogany	Hardwood	Buildings, ships
Teak	Hardwood	Bridges, docks
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolding, tools
Ironbark	Hardwood	Heavy supports

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Banana	Fruit	Staple food
Cocoa Trees	Beans	Trade luxury
Nut Palms	Oils/Food	Cooking oils
Rubber Trees	Latex	Waterproofing
Spice Orchids	Oils	Perfumes, medicine

Specialty Woods

Deepcanopy Ironbark

An enormous dark jungle hardwood from ancient interior forests.

Uses:

• fortress gates
• war canoes
• heavy bridge structures
• giant drums

Properties:

• extremely dense
• highly resistant to humidity
• naturally insect resistant

Notes: Trees may reach colossal sizes in untouched jungle interiors.

UNKNOWN OR RELIC TIMBERS

These woods do not have confirmed natural origins within known Thirnavar.
Their acquisition may require:

• expeditions
• ancient ruins
• dangerous trade
• prefade vaults
• extraplanar travel
• deep wilderness journeys

Xorian Wenge

Dense black-purple resonance-dampening hardwood.

Known Uses:

• archmage staffs
• relic weapon cores
• ritual apparatus

Origin:
Unknown.
Possibly Turarnadalos.

Hollowglass Birch

Semi-translucent pale wood.

Known Uses:
Unknown.
Likely ceremonial or magical.

Origin:
Unknown.

Dreadroot

Black warped corruption timber.

Known Uses:
Generally avoided.
Sometimes associated with cults or warlocks.

Origin:
Unknown.
Possibly contaminated subterranean regions.

Regional Timber & Useful Plant Survey of Thirnavar

Common Woods, Specialty Timbers, Food Trees, and Utility Plants by Nation

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Purpose

This survey consolidates:

• ordinary real-world trees and useful plants
• regionally important construction woods
• specialty fantasy timbers
• food-bearing trees
• oil and resin sources
• textile and fiber plants
• culturally significant species

The goal is practical worldbuilding reference.

Most ordinary structures throughout Thirnavar are built from mundane local woods.
Rare fantasy timbers are exceptional materials layered atop ordinary forestry rather than replacements for it.

Overlap between nations is natural and expected.
Climate and geography determine distribution more than borders.

---

TAURDAIN

Cold Temperate Forests, Highland Valleys, Northern Riverlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Oak	Hardwood	Longhouses, beams, wagons, shield cores
Pine	Softwood	Roofing, palisades, charcoal, scaffolds
Birch	Hardwood	Tools, containers, bark crafts
Ash	Hardwood	Spears, bows, handles
Spruce	Softwood	Towers, framing, pitch
Alder	Wetland hardwood	River docks, fish structures

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Hazelnut	Nuts	Trade food, oils
Crabapple	Fruit	Cider, preserves
Juniper	Berries	Preservatives, spirits
Rowan	Berries	Medicinal use, charms

Specialty Woods

Pale Ash of the Reach

Cold-resistant pale hardwood.

Uses:

• war bows
• spear shafts
• sled frames
• giant weapon hafts

Icevein Fir

Blue-resin fir from glacial forests.

Uses:

• northern ship spars
• longhouses
• cold-weather towers
• resin torches

---

THYLOR

Mountain Holds, Volcanic Valleys, Industrial Forests

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Oak	Hardwood	Heavy supports, bridges
Yew	Hardwood	Bows, crossbows
Cedar	Softwood	Storage, lining, cabinetry
Pine	Softwood	Mine supports, fuel
Beech	Hardwood	Tool handles, furniture

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Chestnut	Nuts	Staple food, flour
Walnut	Nuts/Oil	Oils, trade goods
Mountain Plum	Fruit	Preserves, spirits

Specialty Woods

Blackforge Oak

Dense industrial hardwood.

Uses:

• artillery frames
• siege engines
• cranes
• mining supports

Stonebark Yew

Dense alpine yew.

Uses:

• heavy crossbows
• pulley systems
• engineering arms
• composite bows

---

MITHRIN

Temperate Maritime Forests, Trade Rivers, Fertile Lowlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Elm	Hardwood	Wagon frames, docks
Pine	Softwood	Ship masts, scaffolding
Oak	Hardwood	Hulls, buildings
Willow	Softwood	Basketry, river crafts
Walnut	Hardwood	Furniture, interiors

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Apple	Fruit	Cider, preserves
Pear	Fruit	Trade fruit
Walnut	Nuts/Oil	Lamp oils, food
Mulberry	Fruit	Dyes, preserves

Specialty Woods

Blackwater Elm

Flood-resistant river hardwood.

Uses:

• barges
• harbor structures
• heavy wagons
• flood supports

---

AARAKIEL

Dry Grasslands, Coastal Plains, Temperate Maritime Zones

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cedar	Softwood	Shutters, furniture
Cypress	Softwood	Drying racks, storage
Willow	Softwood	Basketry, irrigation systems
Ash	Hardwood	Duelist weapons, tools
Olive	Utility tree	Oils, preserves

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Veilroot	Fiber/Resin	Textiles, preservation resin
Olive	Oil/Fruit	Cooking, lamps
Fig	Fruit	Trade food
Almond	Nuts/Oil	Sweets, oils
Grapes	Fruit/Wine	Wine trade

Specialty Woods

Sunlash Cedar

Golden aromatic cedar.

Uses:

• decorative architecture
• ship decking
• shutters
• fine furniture

Veil Cypress

Oil-absorbing cypress.

Uses:

• textile infrastructure
• alchemical drying systems
• trade containers

Glasswillow

Smooth pale willow.

Uses:

• instruments
• veilglass transport frames
• decorative latticework

---

OIOHELKA

Storm Coasts, Sea Cliffs, Maritime Terraces

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cypress	Softwood	Ships, harbor works
Pine	Softwood	Masts, towers
Poplar	Hardwood	Civic interiors
Olive	Utility tree	Oils
Cedar	Softwood	Maritime construction

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Olive	Oil/Fruit	Cooking, lamps
Lemon	Fruit	Preserves, ship stores
Fig	Fruit	Dried trade goods
Date Palm	Fruit/Fiber	Coastal food

Specialty Woods

Storm Cypress

Salt-resistant maritime cypress.

Uses:

• ships
• sea towers
• harbor structures
• cliff dwellings

---

DRACART

Arid Scrublands, Rocky Basins, Caravan Territories

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Acacia	Hardwood	Spears, wagons
Mesquite	Hardwood	Fuel, charcoal
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, food
Juniper	Hardwood	Tool handles

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Date Palm	Fruit/Fiber	Food, rope
Agave	Fiber/Sap	Cordage, alcohol
Cactus Fruits	Fruit	Water source
Desert Herbs	Oils	Medicine, incense

Specialty Woods

Sandthorn Acacia

Dense heat-resistant hardwood.

Uses:

• caravan frames
• bows
• spear shafts
• defensive stakes

---

KADATHE’

Frozen Forests, Glacier Valleys, Tundra Margins

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Fir	Softwood	Longhouses, towers
Pine	Softwood	Fuel, roofing
Birch	Hardwood	Bark crafts, sleds
Alder	Hardwood	Wetland structures
Willow	Softwood	Weaving, shelters

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Cloudberry Shrubs	Fruit	Preserves
Juniper	Berries	Smoke curing
Rowan	Fruit	Medicines

Specialty Woods

Ghost Alder

Pale wetland timber.

Uses:

• marsh walkways
• funerary carvings
• docks
• ritual markers

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MOPAHTE & GARIKIAH WETLANDS

Swamps, Flood Forests, Tidal Wetlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cypress	Softwood	Walkways, boats
Mangrove	Hardwood	Root structures, pylons
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Willow	Softwood	Basketry

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Reed Grasses	Fiber	Mats, roofing
Wetland Rice	Grain	Staple food
Marsh Herbs	Oils	Medicines
Water Chestnut	Food	Trade crop

Specialty Woods

Bog Ironroot

Near rot-proof swamp hardwood.

Uses:

• submerged foundations
• pylons
• bridge supports
• marsh fortifications

Mire Cypress

Wetland conifer.

Uses:

• shallow boats
• raised housing
• swamp walkways

---

DEAVUM

Ancient Forests, Druidic Groves, Untouched Woodland Regions

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Oak	Hardwood	Peg-built halls
Willow	Softwood	Woven structures
Ash	Hardwood	Hand tools
Hazel	Hardwood	Baskets, staffs
Elm	Hardwood	Bridges

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Hazel	Nuts	Food, oils
Apple	Fruit	Cider
Elderberry	Fruit	Medicines
Walnut	Nuts/Oil	Lamp oils
Mushroom Groves	Food	Trade fungi

Specialty Woods

Greenmantle Oak

Ancient druidic hardwood.

Uses:

• sacred halls
• ritual circles
• elder staffs
• peg-built structures

Moonroot Willow

Flexible silver willow.

Uses:

• living architecture
• woven bridges
• ritual shelters

---

INNARLITH

Volcanic Islands, Tropical Storm Forests, Geothermal Slopes

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Teak	Hardwood	Ships, docks
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolds, poles
Mangrove	Hardwood	Coastal structures

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Coconut Palm	Food/Oil/Fiber	Rope, oils, food
Breadfruit	Food	Staple crop
Banana	Fruit	Trade food
Sugar Cane	Sugar	Rum, trade
Spice Trees	Oils/Bark	Trade spices

Specialty Woods

Ashscale Teak

Volcanic mineral-streaked teak.

Uses:

• elite shipbuilding
• naval artillery frames
• palace interiors
• armored hulls

---

ANUFED

Badlands, Goblin Warrens, Fungal Zones

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Pine	Softwood	Tunnel braces
Juniper	Hardwood	Fuel
Scrub Oak	Hardwood	Rough tools

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Cave Fungi	Food	Staple nutrition
Bitter Root	Medicine	Alchemy
Ktala Growths	Chemical source	Drug production

Specialty Woods

Ktala Rootwood

Chemically altered root material.

Uses:

• poison apparatus
• alchemical grinders
• ritual objects

---

BEEZDALITH

Coastal Plains, Grazing Valleys, Rocky Maritime Highlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Cedar	Softwood	Hall beams
Oak	Hardwood	Doors, shields
Ash	Hardwood	Spears
Olive	Utility tree	Oils

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Olive	Oil/Fruit	Cooking
Fig	Fruit	Trade food
Almond	Nuts/Oil	Oils

Specialty Woods

Hornwood

Spiral-grained dense hardwood.

Uses:

• heavy bows
• ritual carvings
• shields
• weapon grips

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MARTH BORDER REGIONS

Thin-Veil Forests, Dream Groves, Fae-Touched Wilderness

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Birch	Hardwood	Ritual crafts
Willow	Softwood	Shrines
Pine	Softwood	Frontier shelters

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Dream Moss	Alchemical	Sleep tonics
Glowcap Fungi	Light source	Trade curios
Moonberries	Fruit	Ritual use

Specialty Woods

Veilbloom Cypress

Blue-veined fae-touched cypress.

Uses:

• magical focuses
• dream wards
• ritual architecture

Whisper Birch

Pale phosphorescent birch.

Uses:

• ritual arrows
• instruments
• ceremonial masks

---

HUERYZD

Goblin Frontier Lands, Broken Hills, Harsh Scrub Forests

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Scrub Oak	Hardwood	Fortifications, rough tools
Juniper	Hardwood	Fuel, smoke curing
Pine	Softwood	Tunnels, palisades
Thornbrush	Shrub hardwood	Defensive hedges

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Bitter Nuts	Food/Oil	Survival food
Cave Fungus	Food	Goblin staple
Smokeleaf	Herb	Preservatives, narcotics
Razor Reed	Fiber	Cordage, traps

Specialty Woods

Bloodthorn Ironbriar

A dense red-black thornwood found in harsh goblin territories.

Uses:

• defensive palisades
• trap stakes
• shield reinforcement
• brutal weapon hafts

Properties:

• naturally thorned growth
• highly durable
• difficult to carve cleanly

Notes:
Often grown deliberately around goblin fortifications.

---

THE ARAQ SCRUBLANDS

Dry Thorn Plains, Wind-Carved Barrens, Sparse Riverlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Acacia	Hardwood	Spears, carts
Juniper	Hardwood	Fuel, carving
Scrub Pine	Softwood	Rough construction
Desert Willow	Softwood	Basketry

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Thorn Melons	Fruit	Water source
Dustroot	Herb	Medicine
Sand Grasses	Fiber	Rope, thatch
Resin Bush	Resin	Sealants

Specialty Woods

Dustveil Cedar

A pale dry-climate cedar resistant to cracking.

Uses:

• caravan frames
• shutters
• travel chests
• lightweight shelters

Properties:

• stable in heat
• aromatic insect resistance
• lightweight but resilient

---

VERKHYISH

Harsh Northern Forests, Black Rivers, Rugged Frontier Lands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Pine	Softwood	Longhouses, fuel
Fir	Softwood	Towers, supports
Birch	Hardwood	Containers, bark crafts
Alder	Hardwood	Wetland structures

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Rowan	Fruit	Medicines
Juniper	Berries	Smoke curing
Black Plum	Fruit	Preserves

Specialty Woods

Nightbark Pine

A dark resin-heavy pine from shadowed northern valleys.

Uses:

• tar production
• black pitch waterproofing
• ship sealants
• torch resin

Properties:

• exceptionally resinous
• dark near-black bark
• smoky aromatic pitch

Notes:
Highly prized by northern shipwrights.

---

WYRLLISH

Vast Grassland Savannahs, Great Herd Plains, Seasonal Rivers

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Acacia	Hardwood	Spears, wagons
Savannah Oak	Hardwood	Hall frames
Tall Willow	Softwood	Basketry
River Cedar	Softwood	Boats

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Golden Prairie Grain	Grain	Staple crop
Tall Cane Grass	Fiber	Rope, mats
Firefruit Shrubs	Fruit	Dried food
Herdnut Trees	Nuts	Animal fodder, oils

Specialty Woods

Plainsheart Acacia

A broad golden-barked acacia adapted to lightning-swept grasslands.

Uses:

• greatbows
• wagon frames
• riding lances
• shield frames

Properties:

• highly flexible
• excellent shock resistance
• naturally resistant to splitting

Notes:
Favored heavily by mounted cultures.

---

KANQQA

Devastated Volcanic Islands, Ash Forests, Lava Fields

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Burnt Pine	Softwood	Fuel, charcoal
Ash Mangrove	Hardwood	Coastal structures
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolding

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Firefruit	Fruit	Fermentation
Ash Taro	Root crop	Staple food
Sulfur Moss	Alchemy	Reagents
Char Fern	Herb	Medicines

Specialty Woods

Emberglass Ironwood

A black-red volcanic hardwood partially mineralized by repeated eruptions.

Uses:

• heat shields
• forge structures
• volcanic ship reinforcement
• ritual objects

Properties:

• extremely dense
• partially stone-like grain
• resistant to heat and ash

Notes:
Extremely difficult to work with ordinary tools.

---

JELEK ISLES

Tropical Island Chains, Coral Coasts, Warm Trade Waters

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Palm	Utility tree	Food, rope, roofing
Mahogany	Hardwood	Ships, furniture
Teak	Hardwood	Maritime structures
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolds, poles

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Coconut	Food/Oil/Fiber	Rope, food, lamps
Citrus Trees	Fruit	Preserves
Breadfruit	Food	Staple crop
Spice Trees	Oils/Bark	Trade spices

Specialty Woods

Coralheart Mahogany

A warm red tropical hardwood grown in salt-rich island soils.

Uses:

• luxury ships
• carved interiors
• instruments
• noble furnishings

Properties:

• highly workable
• salt tolerant
• rich coloration

Notes:
Highly sought after by wealthy merchants.

---

OOLAYPULA

Swampy Jungle Peninsula, Humid River Deltas, Deep Marsh Forests

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Mangrove	Hardwood	Foundations, pylons
Cypress	Softwood	Walkways, boats
Palm	Utility tree	Fiber, roofing
Jungle Cedar	Softwood	Raised structures

Food & Utility Plants

Species	Product	Uses
Wet Rice	Grain	Staple food
Spice Reeds	Oils	Medicines
Jungle Fruits	Fruit	Trade food
Resin Vines	Resin	Waterproofing

Specialty Woods

Mirecoil Mangrove

A twisted swamp hardwood with spiral interlocked grain.

Uses:

• submerged foundations
• swamp bridges
• marsh towers
• river pylons

Properties:

• nearly impossible to rot
• resistant to insects
• difficult to split

Notes:
Some roots continue living after harvest for years.

---

KISHROH

Dense Interior Jungles, Monsoon Forests, Vast Tropical Highlands

Common Woods

Species	Type	Uses
Mahogany	Hardwood	Buildings, ships
Teak	Hardwood	Bridges, docks
Bamboo	Grass/Wood substitute	Scaffolding, tools
Ironbark	Hardwood	Heavy supports

Food & Utility Trees

Species	Product	Uses
Banana	Fruit	Staple food
Cocoa Trees	Beans	Trade luxury
Nut Palms	Oils/Food	Cooking oils
Rubber Trees	Latex	Waterproofing
Spice Orchids	Oils	Perfumes, medicine

Specialty Woods

Deepcanopy Ironbark

An enormous dark jungle hardwood from ancient interior forests.

Uses:

• fortress gates
• war canoes
• heavy bridge structures
• giant drums

Properties:

• extremely dense
• highly resistant to humidity
• naturally insect resistant

Notes:
Trees may reach colossal sizes in untouched jungle interiors.

---

UNKNOWN OR RELIC TIMBERS

These woods do not have confirmed natural origins within known Thirnavar.
Their acquisition may require:

• expeditions
• ancient ruins
• dangerous trade
• prefade vaults
• extraplanar travel
• deep wilderness journeys

---

Xorian Wenge

Dense black-purple resonance-dampening hardwood.

Known Uses:

• archmage staffs
• relic weapon cores
• ritual apparatus

Origin:
Unknown.
Possibly Turarnadalos.

---

Hollowglass Birch

Semi-translucent pale wood.

Known Uses:
Unknown.
Likely ceremonial or magical.

Origin:
Unknown.

---

Dreadroot

Black warped corruption timber.

Known Uses:
Generally avoided.
Sometimes associated with cults or warlocks.

Origin:
Unknown.
Possibly contaminated subterranean regions.

The North Gate

The first accounts differed in detail. They always did when fear took hold of a city. Yet afterward, every witness agreed on three things.

The Thorn Elf entered Voolnishart through the North Gate shortly after midday. He walked into Delrat Cogsson’s Curiosity Shop before dusk. And something inside that building screamed for far too long.

Voolnishart had seen nearly every race beneath the sky.

The harbor city stood where trade routes, river roads, and caravan trails converged into one sprawling mass of ambition and humanity. Gao pearl-divers walked beside Dracartian caravaneers. Mangar spice haulers drank with Innarlithian sailors. Mithrini traders argued contracts beside Kadathe’ fur merchants while Deccan factors counted coin from shaded balconies overlooking the harbor districts.

The people of Voolnishart prided themselves on being difficult to shock.

The city smelled of saltwater, wet timber, forge smoke, hot oil, fish markets, river mud, roasting meat, and spices imported from half the eastern continent. Noise never truly ceased there. Teamsters shouted at overloaded grots hauling cargo through crowded streets. Bells rang from harbor towers. Hawkers called in competing languages beneath hanging banners and suncloth awnings.

Yet the city quieted around him.

Not immediately. At first only in fragments. A conversation ending halfway through a sentence. A merchant forgetting his sales pitch. Children stopping in the middle of a game. Then heads turned. Then whole crowds began to follow.

The Thorn Elf entered through the North Gate alone.

No caravan.
No horse.
No escort.

The gate guards later swore they had never seen him approach along the northern road. One moment travelers filtered through inspection lines beneath the gate towers. The next, he was simply there, standing calmly among them.

Even guards accustomed to strange travelers struggled afterward to explain why they had let him pass so quickly. One veteran later admitted that looking directly at the Thorn Elf for too long produced an overwhelming urge to step aside.

Not fear exactly.

Something older.

The instinct prey animals possess when confronted by something that does not need to threaten in order to kill.

He carried no visible supplies for long travel.

No bedroll.
No waterskin.
No pack animal.

Only the weapons.
And himself.

Witnesses argued endlessly afterward about his exact height. Some claimed he was merely tall for an elf. Others insisted he stood eye-to-eye with large Mithrini dock guards. Fear distorted memory. But all accounts agreed he possessed the build of a predator rather than a nobleman.

Broad shoulders.
Long arms corded with hard muscle.
A body built not for courtly elegance, but for climbing, hunting, and violence.

And the thorns.

No one forgot the thorns.

They emerged naturally from his flesh in dark clusters along his shoulders, spine, forearms, and jawline. Not decorations. Not armor. Actual growths piercing through tan skin like hooked black briars forcing themselves from beneath the body. Smaller thorn patterns framed his collarbones and wrists.

Worst of all, some of them moved.

Not much. Tiny flexing adjustments whenever he shifted.

Like living barbs sensing the air.

The guards at the gate reportedly debated stopping him after noticing them.

None did.

One later confessed:

“I think we all believed that if we touched him, something terrible would happen.”

His eyes were a vivid, unnatural green that many later described as luminous, though no witness agreed whether they truly glowed or merely seemed to in shadow. Those eyes missed nothing. Experienced adventurers later remarked upon the same detail independently: he observed entrances, rooftops, distances, weapons, crowds, and lines of escape continuously without appearing to move his gaze at all.

Like a hunting animal pretending to stroll.

His hair was coal black and hung to his shoulders in loose strands partially intertwined with thin living vines threaded through naturally grown braids.

The clothing unsettled people nearly as much as the Thorn Elf himself.

Nothing he wore appeared dead.

His cloak resembled layered leaves stitched together without seam or thread. Bark plates wrapped portions of his chest and forearms, yet bent naturally when he moved. Moss spread across sections of it in intricate patterns. Tiny pale blossoms no larger than fingernails slowly opened and closed near one shoulder.

Several witnesses later swore dew formed on the garments despite the heat.

Others insisted insects landed upon him and simply remained there calmly, as though mistaking him for part of a tree.

At his left hip rested the sword.

That weapon would become the subject of extensive study afterward.

The blade appeared carved entirely from black ironwood polished smooth with age. Pale green venomwood veining spread throughout its length in branching patterns resembling roots beneath dark soil. No metal edge existed anywhere upon it, yet hardened sellswords who saw it up close later admitted they felt immediate certainty that the thing could kill as easily as steel.

The whip at his opposite hip disturbed people even more.

At first glance it resembled braided thornvine.

Then it moved.

Not swaying.
Moving.

Slowly coiling against his hip like a resting serpent.

Tiny hooked barbs lined its length beneath folded dark leaves. Witnesses near the gate swore portions of it tightened reflexively whenever nearby guards rested hands upon their swords.

One child asked if it was alive.

The Thorn Elf glanced down briefly at the vine.

“Yes.”

The child immediately burst into tears.

From there, the crowd followed him through Voolnishart.

Children first.
Then laborers.
Then merchants stepping from their shops.
Then guards pretending not to escort him while absolutely escorting him.

Within twenty minutes, a crowd trailed behind the Thorn Elf through the harbor district.

He acknowledged none of it.

Questions followed him constantly.

“What are you?”

No answer.

“Where’d you come from?”

“East.”

“East where?”

Silence.

“Can that thing bite?”

A glance toward the whip.

“Yes.”

That answer spread through the crowd faster than plague.

A fishwife later swore the Thorn Elf passed directly beside her stall and paused because her youngest daughter had offered him a flower.

Not in fear.
Simply because children did foolish things.

The Thorn Elf stared at the little blossom for several seconds before kneeling to the girl’s height.

“What flower is it?” she asked.

“Marrow-bloom.”

“You know flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you got spikes?”

The Thorn Elf regarded her calmly.

“Protection.”

Then he continued walking.

The girl reportedly cried afterward because she thought he looked sad.

That detail disturbed her mother more than anything else.

Voolnishart thrived on spectacle. Exotic visitors drew attention constantly. A Mangar fire-eater could gather fifty people in minutes. A chained swamp drake from Kishroh might halt wagon traffic entirely.

But this became something else.

The crowd did not laugh.

No one shouted insults.

No one attempted bravado.

Even the usual dockside drunks kept their distance.

People whispered instead.

“What is he?”

“Forest spirit.”

“No spirit carries weapons.”

“That’s no elf.”

“It is.”

“No. No it isn’t.”

The Thorn Elf ignored all of it.

He moved with the same calm, measured stride regardless of who spoke to him. He never craned his neck to admire the city. Never stared upward at towers, harbor cranes, or the layered bridges crossing the canal districts.

Travelers always looked at Voolnishart.

He did not.

That unsettled people more than anything else.

It implied familiarity.

Or indifference.

Both were troubling.

Near the spice quarter, two young caravan guards attempted to block his path out of what several witnesses later described as sheer stupidity.

They were not malicious. Merely young men trying to impress nearby women.

One stepped forward with a grin too forced to be convincing.

“Quite a crowd you’ve got there, friend.”

The Thorn Elf stopped.

The crowd stopped with him.

The young guard swallowed visibly but continued anyway.

“What are you supposed to be then?”

The Thorn Elf regarded him silently for several long seconds.

The guard’s smile slowly faded.

“Traveler.”

His voice surprised everyone who heard it.

Quiet.
Deep.
Controlled.

The second guard forced a laugh.

“Traveler from where?”

“Marth.”

The reaction rippled outward instantly.

Some in the crowd stepped backward.

Others frowned in confusion.

Not everyone in Voolnishart knew the stories.

But enough did.

The Marth Wood was not discussed comfortably anywhere in Mithrin.

The first guard tried to recover.

“You don’t look much like the stories.”

The Thorn Elf tilted his head slightly.

“They are wrong.”

Then he resumed walking.

Neither guard attempted to stop him again.

Years later, the second guard admitted that during the brief pause he had become absolutely certain the Thorn Elf could kill both of them before either managed to draw steel.

Not suspected.
Known.

Certain in the same instinctive way one knows fire burns.

The first true disturbance occurred outside a canal bridge near the eastern markets.

An old beggar woman saw him approaching and began shrieking before he came within twenty feet.

Not startled screaming.
Not surprise.
Recognition.

Witnesses described genuine terror overtaking her instantly.

“No no no no no—”

She dropped her bowl and scrambled backward across the stones hard enough to tear skin from her palms.

“Don’t look at me!”

The Thorn Elf stopped again.

The crowd held its breath.

The old woman curled against the bridge railing, shaking violently.

The Thorn Elf watched her silently for several moments.

Then:

“You remember.”

The woman began sobbing.

Several nearby witnesses later swore the Thorn Elf sounded almost disappointed.

One brave—or foolish—dockworker called out:

“You know him?”

The woman screamed back immediately.

“No!”

Then, quieter:

“I saw one before…”

No further explanation could be dragged from her afterward.

She vanished from her usual place within the week.

Some claimed the city watch relocated her quietly after questioning.

Others insisted she fled Voolnishart entirely.

No one ever confirmed which.

The Council Hall

The Thorn Elf entered the Council Hall unannounced.

No herald named him.
No servant announced lineage or purpose.

He arrived armed, alone, and silent beneath the bronze arches overlooking the inner harbor canals while clerks, magistrates, petitioners, and merchants slowly realized something deeply unusual had entered the chamber.

Later testimony became contradictory almost immediately.

Some guards swore they attempted to stop him.
Others insisted no such attempt occurred.
One clerk claimed the Thorn Elf had already been standing inside the hall before anyone noticed him at all.

Whatever the truth, within minutes he stood before the council table beneath the banners of Voolnishart’s merchant houses.

He gave no name.
Nor did he ask for any.

Councilor Ven Alike reportedly attempted to assert authority first.

“You enter armed before the council of Voolnishart. State your business.”

The Thorn Elf looked at him calmly.

“The accord is broken.”

Silence followed.

Not dramatic silence.
Confused silence.

Several councilors exchanged glances immediately.

“What accord?” one finally asked.

“The old accord.”

Again confusion.

But not universal confusion.

A handful of older councilors reportedly stiffened at the phrase.

The Marth Wood possessed old stories attached to it. Most dismissed them publicly. Few did so privately.

Councilor Dres leaned forward slowly.

“What was taken?”

The Thorn Elf answered with a single word.

“Grenhet.”

The room remained silent.

One councilor frowned openly.

“What is Grenhet?”

The Thorn Elf regarded him without expression.

“Grenhet.”

No elaboration followed.
No description.
No explanation.

As though the answer should have been sufficient.

That detail would later become central to decades of argument among scholars and historians.

At no point did the Thorn Elf explain what Grenhet actually was.

Not once.

Some later claimed he refused.
Others argued the council had been too frightened to ask properly.
Still others insisted the Thorn Elf genuinely believed no explanation necessary.

Whatever the truth, the council left the meeting knowing almost nothing beyond several deeply troubling facts.

Something called Grenhet had been taken from the Marth.
An old accord had therefore been violated.
And the Thorn Elf had come to reclaim it.

Nothing more.

“How did it reach the city?” Councilor Merrow eventually asked.

The Thorn Elf answered in the same measured tone he had used throughout.

“Three men took it.”

Again, no names.

Only facts.

“From where?”

“The fringe wood.”

“And now?”

“One dead. One taken. One fled south.”

That phrasing reportedly disturbed the chamber greatly.

Not killed.
Not missing.
Taken.

No clarification followed.

The Thorn Elf spoke only enough to establish the trail.

Three northern thieves or scavengers had entered the outer Marth months earlier during severe rain. Something there had been removed. Afterward, misfortune followed every hand through which it passed.

Animals refusing proximity.
Illness.
Night terrors.
Disappearances.
People abandoning possessions suddenly and without explanation.

The final surviving thief eventually sold the object somewhere within Voolnishart’s harbor districts before vanishing shortly afterward.

That was all the Thorn Elf knew.

Or at least all he chose to say.

Importantly, he did not know who possessed Grenhet now.

He was tracking it.
Following signs no one else perceived.

Councilor Ven Alike reportedly grew increasingly irritated throughout the exchange.

“You crossed half the continent chasing a stolen trinket?”

The Thorn Elf looked at him for a very long time.

One guard later swore the chamber temperature dropped during the silence.

Finally, the Thorn Elf answered.

“No.”

Nothing more.

Yet afterward even Ven Alike spoke cautiously.

Because everyone present understood instinctively they had just been corrected in a manner they did not fully comprehend.

Councilor Dres eventually asked the question that mattered most.

“If this thing remains in the city…”

The Thorn Elf met his gaze.

“It will be reclaimed.”

Not threat.
Not anger.
Certainty.

The distinction terrified several councilors more than open hostility would have.

Because throughout the meeting the Thorn Elf never once threatened Voolnishart itself.

He behaved instead like a man informing others that consequences already existed independent of his wishes.

The debate afterward became heated almost immediately.

Arrest him.
Shadow him.
Expel him.
Aid him quietly.
Tell the watch.
Tell no one.

Several argued the city should mobilize immediately and scour the harbor wards.

Others feared panic if word spread that something from the Marth had entered trade circulation.

One older councilor finally voiced the concern haunting the chamber.

“If the people believe the Marth sends hunters into cities…”

No one wished to finish the thought aloud.

Eventually Councilor Merrow turned back toward the Thorn Elf.

“If granted leave to search our city, can you find Grenhet?”

The Thorn Elf nodded once.

“Yes.”

“And if found quickly?”

A pause.

Then:

“Peace.”

Not reassurance.
Not promise.
Statement.

The council granted leave before dusk.

Officially, no such meeting ever occurred.

After Delrat’s death, that lie became impossible to maintain.

By the time the Thorn Elf descended from the Council Hall toward the lower wards, word had already begun spreading ahead of him through Voolnishart in broken fragments and contradictory whispers.

Something from the Marth.
An envoy.
A hunter.
A curse.

No two versions agreed except on one point:

the council had allowed him to pass.

That frightened people more than armed escort would have.

In Voolnishart, power protected itself carefully. Dangerous things were stopped at the gates, drowned offshore, imprisoned quietly, or bought.

The idea that the council had simply allowed this unknown figure to walk freely through the city implied either confidence—or fear.

And the Thorn Elf did not walk like a man being tolerated.

He walked like someone already certain of the outcome.

The Thorn Elf ignored all of them.

He neither hurried nor wandered. His path through the city possessed an unnerving certainty, though he paused occasionally at intersections or crowded market crossings as though sensing something imperceptible to others.

Not searching with his eyes.
Listening.

Once, near a crowded fish market, he stopped entirely and turned slowly toward a narrow alley between two warehouse rows.

The crowd behind him fell silent instantly.

For several long seconds he stared into the dark passageway while harbor noise continued around them.

Then he resumed walking.

Nothing was found there afterward.

That somehow disturbed the witnesses more.

Voolnishart was not unfamiliar with unusual peoples.

Mithrin sat at the center of trade and sea traffic. The city saw northern trappers, Aurisian grain merchants, Kadathe’ caravans, river traders, island sailors, even the occasional foreign scholar or wandering mercenary company.

But peoples from the distant eastern reaches remained rare enough to draw attention immediately.

Aarakieli traders appeared perhaps a handful of times each year, usually wealthy and heavily escorted. Deccan merchants were rarer still, arriving almost exclusively through contracted trade ventures or diplomatic arrangements. Most citizens knew such peoples more through rumor than familiarity.

The Thorn Elf belonged to neither world.

Nothing about him resembled a foreign merchant or traveler.

He looked like something that belonged to the deep wilds beyond settlement and law.

That distinction spread unease through the crowds quickly.

The living garments did not help.

As more people gathered close enough to truly see him, descriptions became increasingly difficult to dismiss as exaggeration.

Leaves shifted subtly upon his cloak without wind.
Thin rootlets occasionally emerged from seams in the bark-like armor crossing his torso before withdrawing again.
One elderly herbalist later swore tiny thorn buds along his forearms slowly opened and closed during the walk through the city.

His whip moved openly now.

Not enough to be mistaken for attack.
Enough to remove all doubt that it was alive.

The vine occasionally coiled tighter against his hip or loosened again in slow serpent-like motion. Tiny hooked barbs flexed independently along portions of its length.

Children stared in horrified fascination.
Adults moved them farther back.

Questions followed constantly.

Some brave.
Some stupid.

“Are you really from the Marth?”

“Yes.”

“What’s Grenhet?”

No answer.

“Did the council send you?”

“No.”

“What happens if you find it?”

The Thorn Elf continued walking several paces before answering.

“Peace.”

The crowd did not find that comforting.

The Path to finding it

The Thorn Elf continued toward the harbor district while the city gathered around him like filings drawn to a magnet.

People ran ahead to spread word.

By the time he reached the lower markets, entire streets already knew.

Thorn Elf.
Marth Elf.
Forest devil.
Green-eyed killer.
Living briar man.

Rumors multiplied faster than truth could follow.

Through all of it, the Thorn Elf remained perfectly calm.

That calm frightened experienced men more than open aggression would have.

Veteran adventurers later spoke about it often.

Predators bluff.
Killers posture.
Dangerous men display confidence because they wish others to see it.

The Thorn Elf did none of those things.

He simply behaved like someone moving through an environment he fully understood and did not consider threatening.

Which meant either he was insane—or he genuinely feared nothing in Voolnishart.

Neither possibility comforted anyone.

It was nearing dusk when he finally entered the eastern harbor wards where Delrat kept his shop.

By then the crowd following him had become enormous.

Dockworkers.
Merchants.
Street thieves.
Sailors.
Laborers.
Guards pretending not to escort the situation.

Even several minor scholars from the botanical halls arrived after hearing the increasingly impossible descriptions spreading through the city.

One of them, Elrian Voss, would later become central to the council investigation.

At the time, however, he simply stared.

The Thorn Elf passed within several feet of him.

Voss later wrote:

“The garments were alive. I do not mean decorated with living matter. I mean alive in the same way a tree is alive. The bark flexed subtly with movement. The leaves adjusted toward sunlight. Fine rootlets occasionally emerged and withdrew along the seams. I observed one pale flower bloom and close entirely within perhaps ten seconds.

“The sword appeared to be genuine black ironwood integrated with mature venomwood veining. I still cannot explain how either survived shaping at that scale without catastrophic splitting.

“The vine weapon observed at his hip was unquestionably animate.”

Voss stopped speaking publicly about the matter after the council hearings.

Many believed he had seen something inside Delrat’s shop records afterward that frightened him permanently.

He denied this repeatedly.

No one believed him.

Then the Thorn Elf stopped walking.

The crowd nearly collided behind him.

Across the street hung Delrat’s sign.

DELRAT COGSSON’S CURIOSITIES & ACQUISITIONS

The storefront leaned slightly with age beneath layers of hanging charms, bones, lanterns, driftwood idols, old masks, and foreign relics collected over decades of questionable trade.

And above the door, suspended by black iron chain, hung the branch.

The Thorn Elf became utterly motionless.

He stood before the door of Delrat Cogsson’s Curiosities & Acquisitions while the entire street seemed to hold its breath with him.

No one spoke.

Even the harbor gulls had gone strangely quiet overhead.

Witnesses later argued endlessly about the smaller details. Whether the air had grown colder. Whether the shadows beneath the awnings deepened unnaturally. Whether the smell of wet earth became overpowering or vanished entirely.

For the first time since entering the city, something resembling emotion crossed his face.

Every account agreed on one thing:

the Thorn Elf knew immediately.

Not suspicion.
Not investigation.
Recognition.

His gaze settled upon the shop windows for several long seconds. Past the hanging relics and crowded displays. Past the driftwood charms and fossil shelves.

Toward something deeper inside.

Then he stepped forward and opened the door.

The little bronze bell above the entrance rang once.

A small, harmless sound.

Many survivors later admitted that sound haunted them more than the screaming.

Because afterward it became impossible to separate that tiny ordinary chime from what followed.

The Thorn Elf disappeared into the shop.

The door closed behind him.

And for perhaps five seconds, nothing happened.

The crowd remained frozen outside.

People pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along both sides of the narrow harbor street. Sailors leaned from upper balconies. Dockworkers stood atop cargo crates for better views. Watchmen hovered uncertainly at the edges of the gathering.

Inside the shop, muffled voices exchanged words none outside could clearly hear.

Later testimony conflicted wildly.

Some claimed Delrat sounded irritated.
Others insisted he sounded frightened immediately.
One witness swore the Thorn Elf never spoke at all.

Then came the crash.

Glass shattered somewhere deep inside the building.

Not a window.
A display case perhaps.

The crowd jolted collectively.

A woman screamed in surprise.

Then Delrat began shouting.

Not screaming yet.
Shouting.
Angry.
Confused.

“What do you mean taken—”

The rest vanished beneath another violent crash.

Furniture overturned.
Wood splintered.

Then suddenly every sound inside ceased at once.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat.

Then Delrat screamed.

Years later, hardened veterans still struggled to describe that first scream properly.

Because it did not sound like ordinary pain.

It sounded like realization.

The crowd outside recoiled instinctively.

Several people immediately began backing away from the storefront.

Inside the building, Delrat continued screaming while something heavy slammed violently against the walls hard enough to shake dust loose from the upper windows.

The screaming rose higher.
Broke.
Started again.

A dockworker near the front later vomited directly into the street and claimed afterward:

“It sounded like something was happening to him too fast.”

That became a recurring phrase throughout the investigation.

Too fast.

The city watch attempted to push forward then.

Four guards forced through the crowd toward the entrance while others shouted for people to clear the street.

The first reached for the shop door.

The moment his hand touched it, he staggered backward so violently he nearly fell.

Witnesses claimed blood streamed suddenly from his nose.
Others swore his hand blistered instantly black beneath the glove.

The guard himself later refused all questioning beyond one statement repeated endlessly until his death:

“Something moved under the wood.”

No one else touched the door afterward.

Inside the shop, the sounds became worse.

Far worse.

Delrat no longer sounded entirely human.

His screams interrupted themselves strangely now, choking off into wet gasping noises before beginning again.

Wood cracked.

Not furniture.
Something heavier.

Deep tearing noises echoed through the walls accompanied by sharp splintering pops many witnesses later compared to entire tree roots ripping through frozen ground.

Then came another sound.

A low creaking groan.

Slow.
Rhythmic.
Immense.

Like great trees bending in storm wind.

People farther down the street began fleeing openly now.

Others remained rooted in place despite their terror.

No one wanted to leave.
No one wanted to hear more.

Both instincts fought visibly across the crowd.

A woman near the rear of the gathering reportedly began praying aloud to every god she could name.

One old sailor collapsed to his knees weeping uncontrollably.

Children screamed.

Dogs throughout the harbor wards erupted into frantic barking all at once.

Then abruptly, they stopped.

Every animal sound in the district ceased together.

That silence frightened witnesses more than the screaming had.

Because Delrat was still making noise.

Only Delrat.

The sound coming from inside the shop no longer resembled a man crying out in pain.

Witnesses struggled for decades afterward to describe it.

Some called it choking.
Others compared it to drowning.
Several insisted they heard words buried somewhere inside the noises.

One scholar later recorded nearly twenty separate witness accounts and concluded:

“All descriptions differ except upon one horrifying point: everyone believed Delrat was trying desperately to beg for something.”

Not mercy.
Not help.
Something else.

One dockworker swore he heard Delrat screaming:

“GET IT OUT!”

Another insisted the words were:

“IT’S GROWING!”

A third claimed Delrat repeatedly shouted:

“NOT IN ME!”

The council eventually discarded all direct verbal testimony as unreliable due to panic and magical influence.

That phrase—magical influence—would become central afterward.

Because every witness was changed by the event.

Not cursed.
Not permanently enchanted.
Affected.
Subtly.

People lost time.
Forgot sequences of events.
Remembered impossible details inconsistently.

Several witnesses developed recurring nightmares involving roots beneath floorboards.

One council scribe became unable to enter buildings containing heavy timber beams without shaking fits.

Two guards abandoned the watch entirely.

A fishwife near the front of the crowd reportedly tore every decorative plant from her home afterward and burned them in the street.

Most disturbing of all, the witnesses agreed too little.

Ordinary crowds stabilize stories over time. People influence one another into shared memory.

This never happened.

The accounts grew less consistent instead.

As though everyone had witnessed only fragments of something too large or unnatural for the mind to properly assemble afterward.

Inside the shop, the noises reached their peak.

Something massive struck the floor hard enough to shake the entire storefront.

Shelves collapsed.
Glass exploded outward through the front windows into the street.

The crowd scattered screaming.

Through the shattered opening, several witnesses glimpsed movement inside.

None agreed on what they saw.

Branches.
Hands.
Roots.
Antlers.
A face in the ceiling beams.
A tree growing too quickly.
A man splitting open.

One terrified witness insisted the walls themselves had begun bending inward like living bark.

Another swore the interior appeared far larger than the building should physically contain.

The council later concluded all such accounts were unreliable.

Privately, none of them believed that conclusion.

Then came the final sound.

Not a scream.

A deep wet cracking noise followed by sudden silence.

Absolute silence.

No movement.
No voice.
Nothing.

The entire harbor street stood frozen.

Even the sea wind seemed absent.

After several long moments, the shop door slowly creaked open by itself.

The sounds inside Delrat’s shop ended all at once.

Not fading.
Not weakening.
Ending.

One instant the building shook with screams, splintering wood, and those vast groaning noises like trees bending somewhere far underground.

The next there was only silence.

The harbor street stood frozen.

No one moved.
No one spoke.

Even afterward, survivors struggled to explain why the silence felt worse than the screaming had.

Perhaps because the mind always expects suffering to stop eventually.

But not like that.

Not instantly.

Not as though something had simply decided it was finished.

For several long moments the crowd remained exactly where they stood, staring at the shattered storefront while broken glass settled across the cobblestones.

Nothing emerged.

No movement came from within.

No voice called for help.

The Thorn Elf did not appear.

That detail would later become one of the most fiercely debated aspects of the entire affair.

Because despite hundreds of witnesses surrounding the building, not one person ever successfully testified to seeing the Thorn Elf leave.

Not one.

Some later claimed they saw movement near the doorway after the silence.

Others insisted shadows shifted within the broken interior.

One sailor swore someone tall crossed behind the ruined display shelves.

None of the accounts aligned.

And under council examination, every witness eventually contradicted themselves in small but troubling ways.

The official investigation later concluded only one thing with certainty:

the Thorn Elf entered Delrat’s shop.

After that, no reliable witness account existed.

This fact haunted the council for decades.

Because the implications were deeply unpleasant.

If the Thorn Elf left unseen despite the crowd, then he possessed means beyond ordinary understanding.

But if he never left—

then what exactly had happened inside that building?

No one wished to pursue that possibility too closely.

The city watch did not enter immediately.

No one wished to.

Not after the sounds.
Not after what several guards described as “feeling watched” merely standing near the doorway.

The first men eventually forced themselves inside only because the council ordered it directly under threat of dismissal.

Four guards entered.

Three emerged.

The fourth stumbled from the shop several moments later vomiting violently into the street before collapsing unconscious.

He survived.

Technically.

But according to later records, he never again slept indoors if he could avoid it.

The surviving guards gave testimony separately.

All three accounts differed substantially.

The council found this deeply alarming.

Because trained men accustomed to violence and death usually remembered scenes consistently.

Not this time.

One guard described roots everywhere.
Another insisted the walls themselves had become wood.
The third repeatedly claimed the ceiling “went too high” and refused further clarification.

Yet several details appeared in all accounts.

Delrat remained alive when they found him.

Barely.

And something had happened to his body that none present possessed language adequate to describe.

The investigation consumed Voolnishart for years afterward.

Officially, the matter became classified under restricted harbor authority and merchant council seal.

Unofficially, it became obsession.

Not merely because Delrat died horribly.

Voolnishart had seen horror before.

But because nothing fit together afterward.

Nothing.

The council gathered every witness they could locate.

Dockworkers.
Sailors.
Merchants.
Street children.
Balcony onlookers.
Watchmen.
Scholars.
Even drunkards who had been nearby.

Hundreds of testimonies were collected.

The result only deepened the confusion.

Witnesses agreed upon emotional truths.

Fear.
Wrongness.
The sense that something impossible had occurred.

But factual details fragmented constantly.

People remembered sounds differently each time they were questioned.

Some forgot entire minutes.

Others inserted details later proven impossible.

One woman swore she heard birds singing inside the shop during the screaming.

A watchman became convinced for nearly a year that rain had been falling during the event despite clear weather recorded throughout the district.

The council eventually concluded all witnesses had suffered some form of magical contamination or perceptual distortion simply from proximity.

That conclusion terrified them privately.

Because magic existed in Thirnavar.

But this—

this was something else.

Not spellcraft.
Not illusion.
Not sorcery.

No known mage had ever produced effects like this merely through presence.

The investigation into Grenhet’s origins proved equally disturbing.

The council managed to reconstruct most of the object’s passage southward through painstaking interviews, caravan records, ferrymen logs, and trade receipts.

The three thieves themselves became infamous afterward.

Not because anyone knew much about them.

Because of what happened to them.

The first two had physically entered the Marth fringe.

The third had not.

That distinction became extremely important later.

The thieves themselves were unremarkable men. River-road scavengers and smugglers operating along northern caravan trails. Petty criminals accustomed to stripping abandoned camps, robbing burial sites, and smuggling rare alchemical materials southward.

They entered the Marth during heavy rain seeking blackroot fungus and rare fungal growths valuable to illicit apothecaries.

That much investigators established with reasonable confidence.

What they found there remained unknown.

No surviving witness ever described Grenhet directly.

Only the aftermath.

The first thief reportedly touched it.

What followed became fragmented legend almost immediately.

Animals fled their camps.
Fires burned strangely.
People sleeping nearby experienced vivid nightmares involving roots beneath skin and voices speaking through trees.

The first thief vanished near a river crossing.

Not killed.
Vanished.

His boots remained beside the fire.

Standing upright.
Still laced.

No tracks led away.

The second deteriorated rapidly afterward.

Travelers later described him screaming at forests from roadside camps, hacking apart saplings, and refusing to sleep near wooden structures.

One caravan witness testified the man became convinced branches were slowly turning to watch him.

He died several weeks later near the southern roads.

His body was discovered partially engulfed by thorn growth unlike any species local herbalists recognized.

The vines had emerged from beneath the corpse itself, piercing through skin and clothing before rooting into the surrounding soil.

Several investigators refused to examine the remains closely afterward.

But the third thief frightened the council most.

Because he never entered the Marth at all.

He had remained outside acting as lookout with the horses.

He never touched Grenhet.
Never saw where it had been taken from.

Yet whatever followed the others eventually found him too.

According to surviving testimony, it hated him worst of all.

Perhaps because he fled.
Perhaps because he profited.

No one knew.

The third thief survived long enough to reach Voolnishart.

But by then he had become nearly feral from terror.

Witnesses remembered him refusing enclosed rooms and screaming whenever roots broke through cobblestones after rain.

He changed lodgings repeatedly.

Animals reacted violently to his presence.

One stable horse reportedly tore its own mouth bloody trying to escape when he entered the building.

The man sold Grenhet desperately through intermediary brokers for a fraction of what such a curiosity should have fetched.

Not greed.
Panic.

Multiple witnesses later testified he begged buyers to take it without even naming a price.

One broker eventually accepted the item purely because the thief seemed so terrified.

The thief disappeared two nights later.

Not vanished.
Found.

Or what remained of him was.

Dockworkers discovered him in an alley behind the harbor smokehouses shortly before dawn.

At first they believed he had simply died there during the night.

Then they looked closer.

Roots had emerged from his mouth.

Tiny pale tendrils no thicker than thread rooted through the cracks between his teeth and into the damp mortar wall behind him.

The growth continued down his throat.

Investigators later determined he had still been alive when it began.

That detail spread quietly among the watch despite suppression attempts.

Several guards resigned afterward.

The body was burned immediately under council order.

The wall behind it continued producing pale root growth for nearly a year afterward whenever heavy rain fell.

Workers eventually tore the entire alley section apart and rebuilt it from stone.

No one involved in the reconstruction would speak publicly about what they found underneath.

The Aftermath

They found Delrat Cogsson in the center of the shop.

Or rather, they found what remained of him.

Later scholars would spend decades arguing whether the thing discovered inside Delrat’s Curiosities could still properly be called a man at all.

The council records avoided definitive language entirely.

Subject discovered alive but undergoing extensive botanical transformation.

That was the phrasing eventually agreed upon after thirteen revisions.

No one involved liked it.

But no better description existed.

The interior of the shop had been destroyed.

Not burned.
Not smashed in the ordinary sense.
Changed.

Shelves leaned at impossible angles beneath masses of dark root growth, splitting directly through the floorboards. Display cases had burst outward from within, as though pressure had suddenly expanded through them. Hanging charms and relics swayed gently despite completely still air.

Several guards later insisted portions of the room appeared larger than the building should physically allow.

The investigators officially dismissed this as panic.

Privately, none of them fully believed that conclusion.

And everywhere—roots.

Black roots.

Not natural wood.
Not vine.

Something denser.

Glossy in places like wet bark after rain.

They spread through walls, ceilings, shelves, support beams, counters, even stone foundations.

Not growing around the shop.
Growing through it.

As though the building itself had become soil.

The center of the transformation stood where Delrat had apparently fallen.

Or knelt.
Or been placed.

Witnesses disagreed.

The remains fused into the floor so completely no clear boundary existed between body and root structure anymore.

Delrat’s legs no longer appeared entirely human. Dark root masses had split downward through flesh and bone alike, driving into the timber beneath him and disappearing into the foundations below.

His torso remained partially recognizable.

That somehow made it worse.

One arm still possessed a human hand.

The fingers occasionally moved.

Not deliberately.

Slow contractions.

Like branches shifting in wind.

The ribs had opened outward violently beneath the skin.

Not broken outward.
Unfolded.

Dark wooden structures emerged between them in layered spirals resembling twisted sapling trunks, forcing themselves through a cage too small to contain them.

Black thorn growth spread across his shoulders, jaw, and throat.

One eye remained intact.

The other had become a hollow knot of dark wood leaking thick amber sap.

And from the center of his chest, the tree emerged.

At first, investigators described it merely as a sapling.

That word disappeared from later reports.

Because the thing growing from Delrat’s body did not behave like any tree known to Mithrin.

It stood perhaps seven feet tall upon discovery.

Black bark.
Smooth in some places.
Ridged in others.

Its trunk twisted subtly as though several smaller trees had grown together improperly.

No leaves grew from the lower limbs.

Only thorns.

Long black thorns curving backward like hooked teeth.

Higher branches possessed sparse dark leaves with faint green veining visible beneath their surfaces when light struck them.

Several witnesses later claimed the leaves moved slightly even without wind.

The growth continued while investigators watched.

Slowly.
But undeniably.

One council scribe assigned to inventory the scene recorded branch positions changing over the course of several hours.

A guard reported fresh roots emerging visibly through the floorboards near sunset.

Another swore he saw one branch bend toward nearby torchlight.

No one remained in the shop alone after that.

Most horrifying of all, Delrat still lived.

Barely.

His breathing came irregularly through a throat no longer entirely shaped correctly for speech. Every inhalation produced faint creaking noises somewhere deep within the root mass.

The guards attempted repeatedly to question him.

The results shattered several men emotionally.

Because Delrat seemed aware.

Not fully coherent.
Not sane.
But aware.

When approached closely, his remaining eye tracked movement.

His mouth moved constantly though speech emerged only in fragments.

Most witnesses heard different things.

“Still growing…”
“Cold…”
“Inside…”

Several guards later insisted he begged repeatedly for fire.

One investigator claimed Delrat whispered:

“Roots below the city…”

That statement never appeared in the official record.

The council ordered it removed immediately.

The scholars who were brought to examine the phenomenon argued constantly.

Botanists declared the growth impossible.

Druids refused prolonged exposure to the tree after initial examination.

Alchemists reported physical nausea near the roots.

One hedge mage suffered seizures after attempting simple detection rites and afterward refused ever to discuss what he saw.

No known magical discipline satisfactorily explained the event.

That frightened the council more than anything else.

If this had been sorcery, then sorcery possessed rules.

If cursecraft, then perhaps countermeasures existed.

But Grenhet—whatever Grenhet truly was—did not behave like known magic.

It behaved more like an intrusion.

Or reclamation.

That distinction quietly spread through the higher council chambers afterward, though none wished to voice it openly.

Because if Delrat had not been attacked—if he had instead been reclaimed—then what exactly had been taken from the Marth in the first place?

No answer ever emerged.

The tree continued growing for eleven days.

The council concealed this from the public successfully at first.

The entire harbor block surrounding Delrat’s shop was sealed under the authority of structural collapse and dangerous alchemical contamination. Workers erected canvas barriers while guards controlled entry points day and night.

Official statements changed repeatedly.

Alchemical pollution
Toxic mold.
Contraband powders.
Smuggling fire.

None fully explained the situation, but Voolnishart was accustomed to harboring secrecy and dangerous cargo incidents.

Most citizens accepted the lies publicly.

Privately, rumors spread uncontrollably.

Especially after the smell began.

Not rot.
Not decay.
Forest.

Wet soil after rain.
Flowering growth.
Fresh-cut bark.

The scent spread through neighboring streets, strongest after sunset.

People living nearby reported dreams afterward.

Trees growing beneath houses.
Roots inside lungs.
Branches pressing against windows from outside despite upper-story rooms.

The council quietly relocated three entire families after repeated disturbances.

Several homes near the shop developed black root growth beneath floorboards despite no visible spread above ground.

Those houses were demolished immediately.

No public explanation followed.

Attempts to destroy the tree failed.

Axes dulled.

Fire spread unpredictably through the roots without consuming them properly.

One laborer attempting removal suffered deep thorn punctures despite standing several feet away from the nearest branch.

The wounds blackened within hours.

He died three days later, delirious and begging not to be buried “where it could reach.”

The body was cremated before dawn under council order.

After that, fewer volunteers stepped forward.

Eventually, the council ceased speaking of destruction entirely.

Instead, they focused upon containment.

That word appears repeatedly throughout surviving sealed records.

Containment.

As though the council itself no longer believed the thing could truly be killed.

The tree did not stop growing.

That realization broke the first containment effort entirely.

In the days immediately after the incident, the council still believed they were dealing with some form of magical contamination or a transformative curse. Scholars argued endlessly regarding methods of removal while laborers dismantled neighboring structures and guards sealed the entire district under emergency authority.

Then the roots reached the canal foundations.

Black growths began appearing beneath nearby streets after rainfall. Cellars developed hair-thin root clusters pushing through mortar seams. Two neighboring buildings suffered structural cracking as root masses expanded beneath their foundations.

And at the center of it all, Delrat remained alive.

The council attempted execution repeatedly during the first month.

Those records remained sealed for nearly eighty years afterward.

Fire failed first.

The flames blackened portions of the bark growth but spread unpredictably through the root systems beneath the structure while leaving the central trunk largely untouched.

Witnesses reported hearing violent movement below the streets during the burning, as though immense root structures shifted beneath the harbor district itself.

Axes shattered.
Saws dulled.

One labor crew attempting physical removal suffered catastrophic thorn growth injuries when branches abruptly split during cutting attempts, launching hooked black thorns through heavy leather and chain garments alike.

The wounded died badly.

Not immediately.

Black root structures emerged beneath their skin over several days.

After that, volunteers became difficult to acquire.

Eventually the council changed strategy entirely.

No longer destruction.
Containment.

Always that word afterward.

Containment.

Within three months the entire harbor block surrounding Delrat’s shop had been quietly condemned and purchased through shell holdings tied to merchant council authority.

Walls were erected.
Canals rerouted.
Nearby residents relocated under various fabricated pretenses involving contamination, instability, or hidden smuggling tunnels.

The official story changed constantly because no single lie adequately explained the truth.

Most citizens eventually stopped asking.

Voolnishart was a port city.

Dangerous things happened there.

People learned when not to pry.

But the smell remained impossible to fully conceal.

Wet soil.
Rain.
Fresh-cut bark.
Flowering growth.

It drifted strongest at night.

Especially during storms.

And beneath it all, the sounds.

Because Delrat never stopped making noise.

That became the true horror.

Not the transformation.
Not even the tree itself.
The sounds.

At first he still resembled something partially human.

His remaining eye tracked movement. Portions of his mouth retained enough shape for fragmented speech. Guards assigned to the containment perimeter reported hearing him whisper weakly through the root mass during the early years.

The words differed constantly.

“Cold…”
“Still growing…”
“Don’t sleep…”

But one phrase appeared repeatedly across multiple independent accounts.

“Roots below.”

No one ever determined what he meant.

The council officially forbade direct conversation attempts after the Third Botanical Inquiry ended with two scholars suffering complete mental collapse following extended exposure inside the containment chamber.

Afterward, no one remained alone with Delrat.

Ever.

The Early Attempts

Delrat’s Tree

Calling it a tree remained an act of convenience more than accuracy.

It resembled no known species in Mithrin.

Nor any known species anywhere else.

That fact alone terrified the scholarly circles of Voolnishart more deeply than the common folk ever understood.

Because trees belonged somewhere.

Every botanist in Thirnavar understood lineage, structure, growth patterns, bark types, vascular systems, and seasonal behavior. Even strange flora obeyed recognizable principles.

This thing did not.

Its trunk spiraled upward in layered twisting growths that seemed to merge and separate simultaneously, depending on the viewing angle. Sections appeared smooth and black as wet stone after rain, while others split into deep ridges lined with hooked thorn formations resembling rows of teeth.

No two sketches of it ever matched precisely.

The branches spread in asymmetrical patterns impossible to map consistently. Scholars attempting measured diagrams often found proportions subtly wrong afterward. Angles refused consistency between observations.

One investigator eventually noted in frustration:

“The tree behaves visually like memory behaves after fever.”

The bark itself disturbed experts most.

Not because it was black.

Many trees possessed dark bark.

But because the surface appeared too dense.
Too layered.
Almost compressed.

In torchlight it reflected a dull organic sheen like chitin or wet bone beneath polished oil.

And beneath portions of the outer bark, movement occasionally occurred.

Not insects.
Not sap flow.

Slow shifting contractions, as though deeper structures adjusted beneath the surface.

The leaves proved equally unnatural.

Sparse.
Dark.
Almost waxen.

Each possessed faint green veining visible only at certain angles. Witnesses repeatedly claimed the leaves turned gradually throughout the day despite the vault admitting no natural sunlight.

No scholar ever successfully explained how they remained alive underground for twenty years.

Eventually most stopped trying.

The roots proved worse.

By the sixth year they had spread beneath the surrounding harbor foundations extensively enough that excavations became impossible without destabilizing entire sections of the district.

The root systems ignored ordinary growth logic entirely.

Some remained hair-thin as they penetrated solid mortar.

Others expanded into massive, black, woody structures, thicker than a man’s torso, beneath canal foundations.

Several workers described the roots as “searching.”

That phrasing quietly entered later restricted reports despite official objections.

Because the roots did not merely spread outward randomly.

They moved toward the water.
Toward movement.
Toward life.

The harbor district began reporting strange incidents after heavy rains.

Fish vanished from the tied nets.
Dock pilings cracked overnight.
Boatmen glimpsed black root masses beneath the water surface curling slowly through the murk below the piers.

At first, these stories were dismissed as harbor superstition.

He claimed roots “grabbed like hands” beneath the water.

No one officially believed him.

But he abandoned the harbor permanently within the month and never again entered a boat.

Divers quietly hired by the council reported that entire root tangles extended beneath portions of the bay floor around the quarantined district.

Fish gathered among them in enormous numbers.

Then vanished suddenly whenever the roots shifted.

After several divers refused further work, the underwater investigation ceased entirely.

The council eventually rerouted significant harbor traffic away from that section of docks under fabricated engineering pretenses.

Most captains complied willingly.

The older sailors needed little convincing.

The scholars failed next.

At first, Voolnishart summoned everyone remotely qualified to examine the phenomenon.

Botanists.
Druids.
Alchemists.
Natural philosophers.
Elven archivists.
Foreign scholars from Auris and even distant Kadathe’.

Most arrived skeptical.

None left unchanged.

The final break came when a delegation of elder elven botanists from deeper Mithrini enclaves entered the containment chamber during the third year.

These were not frightened men.

Several had studied dangerous magical flora for decades.

One had reportedly traveled the outer Marth itself in his youth.

They remained inside for less than an hour.

When they emerged, witnesses described all three as visibly shaken.

One refused to speak entirely.

Another reportedly vomited immediately upon leaving the vault.

The eldest eventually addressed the council privately before departing Voolnishart that same night.

No official transcript survives.

Only secondary accounts.

But every version preserves the same essential statement:

“This is Fae.”

Not fae-touched.
Not fae-influenced.
Fae.

The distinction mattered enormously to the elves.

According to later testimony, the elder botanist further warned the council:

“You seek logic where none is owed to you.
Stop asking what it is for.
You are assuming it was made for your understanding.”

Afterward, the delegation refused all further involvement.

No payment changed their minds.
No authority compelled them.

Several prominent elven scholars publicly withdrew earlier papers and refused even private discussion of the tree.

That reaction frightened the council more than any previous examination.

Because if the elves feared it—truly feared it—then the situation lay far beyond ordinary understanding.

And the elves upon the council did fear it.

Not publicly at first.

Elves within Mithrin held positions of immense respect, particularly in matters involving old history, diplomacy, woodland borders, and ancient accords. Their memories stretched farther than those of shorter-lived peoples, and in Voolnishart, their counsel carried enormous weight during matters concerning the Marth.

Until Delrat’s Tree, many among the younger races quietly believed the old warnings exaggerated.

Ancient politics.
Cultural superstition.
Stories grow larger with age.

That illusion died in the containment chamber.

The council session afterward became infamous in the few surviving records.

Not because of shouting.

Because of how frightened the elves appeared.

Witnesses later recalled that none of the elder elven councilors sat comfortably during the proceedings. Several refused wine despite hours of deliberation. One repeatedly rubbed his thumb against an old silverwood ring throughout the entire meeting without seeming aware of the gesture.

Most disturbing of all, they repeatedly spoke in Elvish among themselves.

Not ceremonial court speech.
Old Elvish.
Fast.
Urgent.

One younger councilor later admitted it was the first time in his life he had seen elder elves argue openly with one another from fear rather than principle.

Finally, Councilor Thaelir rose.

He had served upon the council longer than most humans present had been alive.

When he spoke, the chamber reportedly fell silent immediately.

“If a Fae—”

He stopped briefly.

Not from uncertainty.
From caution.

“If a true Fae power is involved, then every one of us is in danger should we provoke it further.”

No one interrupted him.

Even the human councilors who privately disliked elven influence remained silent.

Because Thaelir looked genuinely shaken.

Not frightened for himself.

Frightened in the manner experienced sailors fear storms large enough to sink cities.

He continued carefully.

“Issue an edict immediately. Spread the terms of the old accord again throughout every northern holding and trade route under Mithrini authority.”

Several younger members of the chamber looked confused.

One finally asked:

“The accord still stands?”

All three elder elves reportedly turned toward him at once.

The silence afterward became deeply uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Thaelir answered.

“As it always has.”

Another elf upon the council spoke next, quieter but no less severe.

“Deny any and all petitions seeking passage into the Marth. Refuse expeditions. Refuse surveys. Refuse logging ventures. Refuse relic hunters.”

His expression hardened.

“We cannot risk stirring that which sleeps there.”

Then came the statement many later remembered most clearly.

“Do not ask their names.”

The chamber remained still.

“To name such things,” the elf said softly, “is to invite attention.”

No one asked further questions after that.

Even decades later, surviving scribes recalled the atmosphere in the room changing at those words.

As though everyone present suddenly understood they had been discussing something enormous without realizing it.

Then the oldest in the chamber rose.

Very few living even remembered his original name afterward. Most records refer to him simply as Elder Caradhen. He had been ancient even then, older than portions of Voolnishart itself, and rarely spoke during council proceedings unless matters of profound significance arose.

When he stood, even the other elves fell silent.

Caradhen looked exhausted.

Not physically.
Spiritually.

Like a man watching history repeat itself, something terrible.

“They speak truth,” he said quietly. “But they are restrained in the manner of this threat.”

Every eye in the chamber fixed upon him.

Even the younger elves.

Caradhen looked toward the shuttered harbor district where Delrat’s Tree continued growing beneath containment.

“The few that remain,” he said slowly, “are nearly as powerful as the First Flame.”

Several humans visibly paled at the comparison.

The First Flame was not merely a dragon in the Elder tradition.

It was the first dragon.

Oldest among the Elder Pillars of Creation.

A being from the earliest ordering of the world.

Caradhen continued before anyone could speak.

“They are older than reckoning. Older than kingdoms. Older than our oldest songs.”

His eyes moved across the chamber deliberately.

“They are not as we are.”

That line appeared repeatedly in surviving private journals afterward.

Not as we are.

Caradhen spoke the words not with hatred, but with terrible certainty.

“They pass by us without thought. No more than we would notice blades of grass beneath our feet.”

A long silence followed.

Then:

“But if the grass scratches…”

He did not finish immediately.

When he finally continued, his voice had become very quiet.

“Their reactions are not based upon anything we understand.”

No one moved.
No one spoke.

Outside the chamber windows, harbor bells rang faintly through evening fog.

Caradhen looked then toward the sealed investigation records stacked upon the council table.

“Delrat drew attention,” he said.

“And paid a horrible price.”

Another pause.

Then the line that survived long after almost every official record had been destroyed:

“Delrat’s Tree was a warning…”

The old elf’s eyes settled on each councilor in turn.

“…from something that does not give warnings.”

Two years

The district slowly emptied over the years. At first, businesses attempted to remain. Harbor property carried enormous value in Voolnishart, and many merchants refused to abandon profitable locations over what they believed would eventually prove temporary.

Most changed their minds after the dreams began.

Not everyone experienced them, but enough did.

Roots beneath floorboards. Branches brushing the upper windows. Dark forests stand silently beneath moonlight, where harbor streets should have been. And always the sensation of being watched from very far away by something that neither hated nor cared about those observing it.

Families relocated quietly through council compensation programs disguised as redevelopment initiatives. Some left eagerly. Others required persuasion.

One stubborn goblin cobbler famously refused every offer made to him. His tiny canal-side workshop sat only two streets from the oldest root growths, and he reportedly declared to multiple council agents, “If the tree wants boots repaired, it can pay like everyone else.”

The story became a local legend afterward.

For nearly two years, he remained there alone while neighboring buildings emptied around him. Then, one autumn morning, he appeared before the relocation office carrying every possession he owned stacked upon a handcart.

According to surviving clerks, he signed the transfer papers immediately and without argument.

When asked what changed his mind, the goblin reportedly answered only, “The roots knock at night now.”

He refused further explanation.

Seventh Year

The council abandoned containment architecture during the seventh year.

Not formally. No proclamation marked the decision. The city simply stopped rebuilding what the tree destroyed.

At first, they tried walls. Then reinforced warehouses. Then, stone foundations were driven deep beneath the harbor district.

The tree ignored all of it.

It did not attack the structures violently. That misunderstanding persisted in later retellings, but surviving council records describe something far stranger.

The tree simply continued growing.

Slowly. Relentlessly. As though the city itself did not matter enough to oppose.

Roots thick as ship masts displaced stone foundations without splitting them outright. Black bark masses pressed silently through walls over months rather than days. Support beams warped around new growth until buildings became unsafe and were quietly abandoned.

Workers would return after weeks away to find entire rooms filled with smooth, black root structures hanging from the ceilings, like the inside of some vast, buried organism.

Eventually, the council realized something deeply unnerving:

The tree was not hostile.

At least not in any way people understood.

It never spread aggressively beyond the surrounding harbor district. It never sent roots rampaging through the city. It never hunted citizens. No known case exists of the tree directly killing anyone after Delrat’s transformation.

It simply grew.

And, in growing, it made normal life around it impossible. The dreams, the memory changes it all, added up, and drove everything away.

The distinction mattered enormously to later elven scholars, because several quietly concluded this proved Delrat’s Tree had never been intended as an attack upon Voolnishart itself.

It was something else.

A statement. A warning.

Or perhaps merely a consequence.

And slowly the story spread.

Trade carried it first. Whispers among sailors. Half-drunk accounts in harbor taverns. Fragments passed aboard grain ships, caravans, and merchant convoys.

Then came the investigations.

Aurisian clerics sent inquiries. Kadathe’ traders quietly questioned harbor officials. Even Deccan merchant houses reportedly purchased sealed reports through intermediaries seeking details regarding “the harbor growth.”

The connection to The Marth inevitably spread with the story.

That was the part people remembered.

Not Delrat himself. Not even the tree.

The lesson.

Something had been taken from the Marth.

Something came to reclaim it.

Sailors avoided the area entirely after dusk.

Not merely from superstition.

From experience.

And an entire harbor district suffered for twenty years afterward.

The story spread across eastern Thirnavar like a slow disease. Parents warned children. Caravan guards repeated fragments around campfires. Sailors made signs against ill luck when discussing the Marth after dark.

For nearly two generations, travelers entering the northern fringe woods carried the same warning:

Take nothing.

Nothing.

Not wood. Not flowers. Not stones. Not bones.

Nothing.

Because no one truly knew what Grenhet had been.

And that uncertainty made the warning worse.

The fifteenth year

By the fifteenth year, the tree stood taller than most harbor towers.

More than sixty feet of black twisting trunk and asymmetrical branches rose from the abandoned district overlooking the bay itself. Great root masses split old dock pilings and descended directly into the harbor waters where they vanished beneath the tides.

Sailors avoided the area entirely after dusk.

Not merely from superstition.

From experience.

The roots beneath the water moved.

Not quickly.

Not violently.

But undeniably.

Boatmen reported glimpsing long dark masses curling slowly through the bay beneath moonlight. Fish gathered densely among the submerged roots in impossible numbers, creating entire ecosystems within the black tangles beneath the abandoned docks.

And occasionally—

the roots surfaced.

Just enough.

A fisherman pulling lines too close to the district once reported black root structures winding around hooked fish before dragging both catch and line silently beneath the water.

Others saw similar things.

Never attacks upon boats.

Never direct aggression toward people.

Only movement.

Slow deliberate movement beneath the bay.

Enough to ensure no sane captain anchored nearby afterward.

The second decade

The worst years came during the second decade.

By then, the tree had become enormous.

The original shop no longer existed. Neither did the neighboring buildings. Entire streets around the harbor district had been abandoned to the spreading roots decades earlier after the council finally gave up attempts at containment.

Walls had failed. Reinforced warehouses had failed. Deep stone foundations had failed.

In the end, the city simply retreated.

The tree rose openly above the harbor afterward, a towering mass of black twisting trunk and asymmetrical branches overlooking the bay itself. By the second decade, it stood nearly seventy feet tall. Great roots split abandoned dock pilings and vanished beneath the tides while black bark masses consumed entire ruined structures left standing around its base.

And still the growth continued.

Roots emerged periodically through distant cobblestones after storms. Black thorn clusters appeared along cellar walls, blocks away, before being quietly removed by council laborers. Animals refused the district entirely. Dogs would not enter. Horses panicked near the outer streets. Even birds avoided the rooftops overhead.

Most disturbing of all, people nearby continued dreaming.

Not everyone. Not every night. But enough.

Roots beneath floorboards. Branches pressing against windows. Forests growing silently through sleeping streets. And occasionally, a voice creaking softly through wood asking for help.

The dreams became infamous among harbor residents

The council officially dismissed all such reports as mass hysteria. Privately, several councilors stopped sleeping in chambers containing exposed timber beams.

Inside the trunk, Delrat remained alive.

That fact endured as the core horror long after the growing tree itself became almost normalized within harbor folklore.

Delrat lived.

Conscious. Immobile. In agony.

The trunk swallowed him slowly over decades. Bark layered across flesh. Root systems threaded through bone. Branch structures emerged where ribs and spine should have remained. Yet portions of the face survived, visible within the black wood.

His eyes followed movement through openings in the bark.

Always.

Guards assigned to the district eventually learned not to meet them directly.

At times, Delrat begged for death. At others, he muttered continuously in half-coherent whispers about roots beneath the sea and voices moving through leaves during storms. Several witnesses claimed he sometimes answered questions no one had spoken aloud.

One old dock guard resigned after insisting Delrat had whispered his dead daughter’s name from inside the trunk.

The council officially dismissed the claim.

Privately, no one assigned that guard to the district again.

Delrat finally ceased movement nearly twenty years after the Thorn Elf entered the shop.

No witness agreed precisely when death occurred. By then, almost nothing visibly human remained above the root mass except portions of the face trapped within the trunk itself. The final attending physician claimed that the remaining eye continued to track motion even in the last weeks.

Others denied this completely.

On the final night, guards reported that the entire root had become strangely still.

No creaking. No movement. No growth sounds.

Silence.

Just before dawn, one witness claimed a long, slow exhalation emerged from somewhere deep within the trunk.

Then nothing.

The growth stopped afterward.

For the first time in twenty years.

The guards present that final night described the silence as worse than any sound the tree had ever made.

The harbor birds returned briefly to nearby rooftops before sunrise for the first time in years.

By morning, the withering had begun.

The enormous black tree that had dominated the harbor district for decades sagged visibly within hours. Leaves curled inward and darkened. Branches cracked beneath their own weight. The bark lost its strange wet sheen and became brittle gray-black husks.

And then the entire structure collapsed.

Not falling like an ordinary tree.

Disintegrating.

The massive trunk broke apart into cascading gray dust and ash that poured across the abandoned docks like dry soil. Branches crumbled before striking the ground. Roots dissolved within the harbor water, staining portions of the bay dark for days afterward.

By dusk, almost nothing remained.

No usable wood. No seeds. No surviving roots.

Only vast drifts of fine gray dust coated the abandoned district and the hollow spaces where the roots had once spread beneath the harbor.

The council removed the remains immediately, as best they could.

Not from fear of infection.

From fear of curiosity.

Within the month, the entire dock section was replaced and rebuilt, a massive undertaking, but it reopened a section of the docks that had been unused for two decades.   That was worth the cost. No remnant remained.

Because they feared fascination.

Curiosity. Expeditions. Treasure seekers. Scholars. Men arrogant enough to believe old accords did not apply to them.

And somewhere within the surviving sealed testimony of Councilor Merrow appears perhaps the most chilling line preserved from the entire affair:

“We never learned what Grenhet was. Only that it was willing to come for it.”

Then time did what time always does.

It eroded terror into folklore.

The shorter-lived races forgot first the tall tale grampa told, they forgot first. Witnesses died of old age. Records vanished beneath council suppression or simple neglect. Voolnishart rebuilt over old fears.

But the story survived.

Trade carried it first. Whispers among sailors. Half-drunk accounts in harbor taverns. Fragments passed aboard grain ships, caravans, and merchant convoys.

Then came the investigations.

Aurisian clerics sent inquiries. Kadathe’ traders quietly questioned harbor officials. Even Deccan merchant houses reportedly purchased sealed reports through intermediaries seeking details regarding “the harbor growth.”

And inevitably, the story became tied to the Marth.

That was the part people remembered.

Not Delrat himself. Not even the tree.

The lesson.

Something had been taken from the Marth.

Something came to reclaim it.

And an entire harbor district suffered for twenty years afterward.

The story spread across eastern Thirnavar like a slow disease. Parents warned children. Caravan guards repeated fragments around campfires. Sailors made signs against ill luck when discussing the Marth after dark.

For nearly two generations, travelers entering the northern fringe woods carried the same warning:

Take nothing.

Nothing.

Not wood. Not flowers. Not stones. Not bones.

Nothing.

Because no one truly knew what Grenhet had been.

And that uncertainty made the warning worse.

---

Current day no trace remains

Now, in the current age, only the long-lived remember the story clearly.

Humans dismiss it as harbor myth. Half-remembered superstition. Exaggeration passed between sailors and caravan guards to frighten the inexperienced.

But dwarves—old dwarves especially—grow visibly uncomfortable when the Marth is discussed too lightly. Most refuse the subject entirely.

And the elves never deny the story.

That perhaps disturbs people most of all.

They do not argue. They do not attempt to convince skeptics. They simply offer the same quiet warning they have repeated for generations whenever foolish travelers speak too boldly about exploring the Marth Wood.

Take nothing.

The words are usually followed by silence.

Then, sometimes, an elder elf will quietly add:

“It was a lesson.”

No one who hears those words asks comfortably what lesson was meant.

And still the story survived.

Not perfectly. Not accurately. But enough.

The phrase Delrat’s Tree entered common speech first throughout Mithein, then later across much of Mithrin itself. Its original meaning faded with the generations, but the warning endured.

To build a Delrat’s Tree meant pursuing greed beyond reason.

To water Delrat’s Tree meant inviting disaster through arrogance.

Older caravan guards used the phrase more bluntly:

“Don’t plant a Delrat.”

Most who repeat the sayings now no longer understand where they came from. Only the oldest races remember clearly.

Dwarves grow quiet when asked. Elder elves simply repeat the ancient warning in calm, measured tones whenever travelers speak too eagerly of entering the Marth.

Take nothing.

Nothing.

And if pressed why, they sometimes answer with the final lesson left behind by Delrat’s Tree:

“Some boundaries exist because something older than us decided they should.”

Alchemy, Herbalism, Familiars, Plants, Creations and Danger

Momma Toki’s Guide to Interesting and Dangerous Pets, Mounts, and Work Animals.

Interesting animals not suitable for domestication.

Apex Predators and Dangerous Creatures

Part I — The Walk Into Black Water

They knew the ways, they waited offshore with the trade flag showing until the clan offered a agreement pole at the chosen point of landing.  To land without permission was seen as an attack and met with deadly force, no warnings.  Whoever was on this skiff knew the Garikiah ways.

They met him where the hard sand ended and the black water began, near the pole. Within sight of the bay, but not in the open, The Garikiah were not open people.  “Gar” the Darud of the tribe, its connection to outsiders, waited patiently as the group of small people from the north worked their way through the dense undergrowth and swamp.  Old marker poles rose from the mire in uneven rows: cypress trunks driven deep into the mud and carved with water marks, warning cuts, old kills, and the names of hunters who had not returned. Some carvings were fresh. Most were softened by years of rain and insects. The swamp beyond them breathed slowly in the afternoon heat, thick with the smell of rot, salt, wet bark, stagnant water, and mineral mud.

Gar stood beside the pole, he stood a head and shoulders above even the tallest men, a towering swamp-born giant of the Garikiah, broad as a draft beast and built with the heavy solidity of something that had spent its life wading through mud, black water, and cypress roots. He measured just over ten feet in height, though the way he carried himself made him seem larger still. Every movement possessed a slow, deliberate confidence, as though haste was something for smaller creatures with more to fear.

His hide was thick-scaled and ochre dark, the color of wet bark after rain, each plate rough and ridged like ancient crocodile leather worn smooth at the edges by years of river water and travel. Bands of scar tissue crossed his arms, shoulders, and chest in pale seams, some clean and straight from blades, others ragged from teeth and claw. Smaller scars vanished between the scales in dense layers impossible to count.

A crown of heavy horns swept back from his skull, layered and uneven like the roots of some drowned tree clawing free of the earth. Smaller spikes framed his jawline and brow ridges, giving his face a naturally severe cast even at rest. Yet his eyes held none of the wildness many expected from the swamp tribes. They were sharp, watchful, amber-gold beneath heavy ridges, constantly measuring distance, movement, and threat with the patience of an old hunter.

His Hakori rested across one shoulder as casually as another man might carry a walking staff. The massive heavy crossbow was built on a scale few outside Mohpate could even lift, all dark timber, blackened iron, and thick tension cords braided from swamp sinew. The bow arms alone looked capable of punching through a shield wall. Gar carried it one-handed without strain, thick claws loosely hooked beneath the stock while the weapon’s weight settled comfortably against the back of his neck and shoulder.

Across his back hung the Barakish.

The great warclub looked less forged than assembled through a lifetime of kills. Dark hardwood formed the body, dense and heavy enough to crush stone, while rows of massive predator fangs had been set into the head in descending rings. The largest curved fangs crowned the striking end, yellowed ivory polished smooth from handling and old blood. Smaller teeth followed down the shaft in careful symmetry, each one taken from some beast dangerous enough to matter. It was not an ornament. It was a memory.

A thick leather harness crossed his chest and torso, layered with riveted hide, bone toggles, travel pouches, and practical tools worn from long use. No sword hung at his side. Only a broad utility knife rested near his belt beside a weighted baton and survival gear suited to the swamps. Behind one shoulder rose a heavy quiver packed with thick-bodied bolts fletched in dark marsh feathers.

His tail dragged slowly behind him through the mud with the lazy weight of a resting predator, leaving a deep groove in the earth wherever he walked.

Not a site often seen anywhere, but known to the leader of the group as they approached.  Daslm, a Gao had delt with Gar before.  He knew the ways, he was to make the bargain.

Gar studied the party for a long time before speaking. Dalsm held up a hand in greeting and apparently had instructed the group that this short feeling out would occur because they waited patiently even the pomp Zandir Sorlock.

Dalsm Ironvein stood closest. The Gafspear rested easily in one hand, its dark haft wrapped in old cord, the vicious head turned slightly toward the swamp as though it disliked the place already.

Harlow waited behind him in dull black cobra-scale mail hidden beneath a mud cloak.

Tink Vale checked valves and tension screws on a brass harpoon launcher while muttering quietly to himself.

Brother Calven Ors stood with one hand on his holy symbol and the other hooked through the strap of a weather-darkened satchel and gripping his staff, that shined of bright metal and was topped with a dragon motif.

Galkin Vane Garrik said nothing at all. His attention stayed in the trees, moving constantly through shadows, roots, and branches.

Vesper Tal-Varin stood where the ground was cleanest. The clean ground was three paces behind everyone else.  Gar noticed that first, soft, a problem he thought.

Dalsm wasted no time. “Four longfangs,” he said. “Yours. The meat also.”

Gar’s eyes shifted briefly toward the swamp and back.

“And the hide?”

“The hide, scales, organs, remaining fangs, and anything recovered from the lair or the boat belong to us.”

“If you kill it,” Gar said.

“If we kill it.”

Gar nodded once. “If you fail, Kalia keeps what it takes.”

Vesper made a faint sound in his throat. Not quite amusement. Worse than amusement.

“An economical arrangement,” he murmured. “We provide the expertise while our local associate receives the refuse.”

Tink closed his eyes briefly. Harlow’s jaw tightened. Gar looked at Vesper without expression.

“The meat feeds hatchlings.”

The words landed heavily enough that even Vesper let the silence linger before speaking again.

“Then by all means,” he said lightly, “let the hatchlings feast.”

Dalsm stepped in before Harlow could. “The terms stand.”

Gar ignored Vesper entirely and addressed Dalsm instead.

“You are here for Kalia,” he said. “Only Kalia. I know where a young one hunts. Halfday walk for you. I guide. I help kill. We leave all else alone if we can. Understand?”

“We understand,” Dalsm replied immediately.

Gar looked across the group one by one.

Harlow nodded once. Tink grunted agreement. Calven inclined his head. Galkin remained silent. Only Vesper sighed deeply while waving biting insects away from his face. “Yes, yes.”

He then withdrew a delicate silver locket from inside his violet mantle. It resembled a small cagework egg suspended from a chain. With an irritated twist he opened it. Sweet floral perfume spilled immediately into the swamp air.

Vesper inhaled with visible relief. “Ah. Better. This place reeks of decomposition.”

Gar laughed then, a low rough sound that drew glances from the others.

“Put that away, silktongue,” he said. “You will draw things you do not want.”

“I will do no such thing,” Vesper replied. “If I am expected to slog through this hellhole, I intend to preserve some dignity.”

“Swamp does not care about dignity.”

Vesper smiled thinly. “I have noticed.”

Gar lifted the Barakish free of the mud with a wet sucking sound.

“Then walk where I walk.”

No handshake followed. No oath. No blessing.

The hunt began.

The swamp made distance punishing.

It did not let them march. It made them negotiate every yard with balance, patience, and attention. Mangrove roots twisted beneath black water like hooked fingers. Reed mats concealed sucking mud. Moss covered sinkholes deep enough to swallow a man. The air itself felt heavy enough to lean against. And the bugs were an endless annoyance.

Gar moved first, paced to allow the group to keep up and always watching for hazards.

He crossed the swamp with the unsettling ease of something born inside it. His feet found hidden shelves of clay beneath the water, half-sunk logs, root crowns, narrow reed tangles dense enough to hold weight. His size should have made movement harder. Somehow it did not.

Dalsm adapted fastest.

The ring on his hand carried him over soft mud as though shallow tension held beneath every step. Water bent around his boots instead of swallowing them. Still, he watched Gar constantly and placed each foot exactly where Gar had stepped before.

Good. Gar noticed that.

Harlow fought the swamp directly. He tested uncertain ground with the sheath of his sword and hauled himself free whenever the mud tried to take him. His gear was suited to the task made for mud and water, he came prepared.  Gar noticed this as well.

Tink moved with a constant orchestra of clicking straps and brass fittings. Wide reed frames lashed beneath his boots spread his weight enough to keep him from sinking too quickly, though they made him look vaguely absurd whenever he stumbled sideways regaining balance.

Several times he stopped Harlow long enough to tighten a loose strap or scrape mud from a buckle with a brass pick.

“This place eats metal,” he muttered while oiling one of Harlow’s scale harness points. “Another day here and your shoulder clasp snaps clean through.”

“You always this fussy?” Harlow asked.

“Yes.”

Harlow considered that a moment. “Useful habit.”

Tink grunted, satisfied.

The little maker watched the swamp the way another hunter might watch enemy soldiers. He studied insects, fungus, water movement, root spread, even bird calls. When Gar pointed out hazards, Tink leaned closer instead of away. He was drinking in the lessons, Gar admired that.  Perhaps these small people were more than he thought.

Brother Calven spent almost nothing of consequence. Small cantrips dried soaked bindings, marked safer crossings, warmed chilled fingers after deep water. He conserved every real prayer for the Kalia. Everyone understood why.

Galkin repeatedly assessed the canopy for movement routes. Several times he climbed partway up a trunk before stopping. He found arboreal snakes draped over branches like vines, pale spiders hidden in bark hollows, and once a many-legged thing folded into a rotten limb that even he could not identify. After that he remained on the ground behind Gar. Prudently.

And Vesper, Vesper complained.

“The air has texture,” he muttered during the first hour. “I can feel it against my teeth.” Or “These insects are not merely biting. They are organizing.”

The perfume made everything worse.

Mosquitoes circled him constantly. Bright-winged marsh flies clung to his sleeves. Once a biting epee crawled into his collar and forced him into a furious swearing fit while Galkin silently handed him a cloth without comment.

Gar noticed the rogue never laughed at anyone.

He simply watched.

Good hunting behavior.

The swamp respected attention more than confidence.

They found the first drop-sting during the second hour.

Galkin froze mid-step with one foot hanging above what appeared to be nothing more than wet moss beside a cypress knee.

Gar stopped instantly.

“Hold.”

Everyone did. Gar pointed. The moss breathed. A squat frog-like body lay hidden beneath hanging strands of green growth. Pale venom spines protruded through the moss like frills on its back. The creature remained perfectly still except for the slow inflation of its throat.

“Drop-sting,” Gar said quietly.

Galkin withdrew his foot.

“Deadly?” Calven asked.

Gar nodded once. “Step on spine, leg swells black. Heart stops after.”

Tink crouched immediately, fascinated.

“Safe to approach?”

Gar studied him briefly, then nodded.

“Slow.”

Tink moved carefully closer until he could study the concealed venom spines beneath the moss.

“Amazing,” he murmured. “Looks exactly like drowned moss.”

“It kills exactly like poison,” Gar replied.

That drew a rough laugh from Harlow.

Even Dalsm smiled faintly.

Vesper did not.

“Ambush amphibian,” Tink muttered while examining it.

Gar pointed toward the creature again.

“Moss that breathes. Watch for that.”

Then he looked toward Galkin.

“Good eyes.”

Toward Harlow and Dalsm.

“Good listening.”

Vesper brushed insects from his sleeve irritably.

“How fortunate we brought a philosopher of mud.”

No one answered him.

That became the pattern.

Later, Gar stopped abruptly beneath a stretch of mangroves where the roots formed black arches above still water. Vesper nearly walked into him. Gar caught the front of his mantle and shoved him backward.

“Remove your hand.” Vesper snapped.

He pointed upward.

At first there seemed to be nothing there. Then the shape resolved itself.

A massive dark spider clung to the bark just above where Vesper’s face had been. It resembled a swollen wood gall more than a living creature. Beyond it stretched an enormous web disappearing through the shaded underside of the mangroves and cypress for dozens of yards. The silk was black and nearly invisible except where moisture caught faint light.

Harlow’s hand dropped immediately to his sword.

Gar shook his head.

“Black Weaver. Not hunting us.”

For one brief instant embarrassment crossed Vesper’s face. Then pride buried it. He thrust out one hand. Violet force cracked through the still air. The eldritch blast struck the spider and exploded it against the bark before Gar could move. The web trembled violently.

Gar seized Vesper by the front of his mantle and dragged him forward hard enough that mud splashed around both of them.

“That costs another fang, silktongue.”

Vesper stared back coldly.

“Unhand me.”

“You bargained for Kalia. Not swamp.”

“It was vermin.”

“It was ours.”

“It was in my way. Pray you do not become obstacle.”

Harlow stepped forward immediately. So did Dalsm.

Dalsm reached them first.

“Enough.”

Vesper ignored him entirely.

Dalsm turned to Gar instead. “He broke the agreement. I apologize for it. You will have another fang.”

Gar held Vesper’s gaze several long moments before releasing him with a shove.

Vesper adjusted his mantle with obvious disgust.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Grovel to the savage. Excellent strategy.”

That earned hard looks from nearly everyone present.

Gar removed a smooth baton from his belt and began carefully winding the black silk onto it. Deliberately slowly. He made Vesper stand there and wait.

“Black Weaver eats chigs,” Gar said while gathering the silk. “Flies. Fever-biters. Old web makes strong cord.” He glanced back toward Vesper.

“We do not waste them.”

The last strands came free. Gar tucked the baton away.

“You bargained for Kalia hunt. Nothing else taken. You attack on my word or in defense.”

His voice deepened. “Do you understand, silktongue?”

For once Vesper seemed to understand exactly where he stood.

He gave a short nod. Gar looked to the others.

“All understand?”

“We do,” Dalsm answered immediately. “Let us continue.”

Gar turned back toward the swamp. The hunt resumed.

Part II — The Basin

They saw the river lurker during the third hour.

Not fully. Only the ridge of its back beneath a raft of floating leaves in a narrow black channel that cut across their path. At first it resembled part of the bank. Then one yellow eye opened in the mud.

Vesper shifted irritably behind Gar. “What now?”

Gar never looked away from the water. “River lurker. Big one.”

Then he began moving off through thicker reeds at an angle.

Vesper stared after him. “Surely we can deal with it and move on. Why are we going that way?”

Gar stepped over a root shelf without slowing. “Because this way gets there alive.”

Vesper started to answer again, but Dalsm silenced him sharply. “Enough.”

Harlow added nothing. He only looked back over one shoulder, and somehow that mattered more. Galkin remained silent throughout it all. Gar noticed the rogue had seen the eye open before anyone else had spoken. Good.

Gar led them nearly half a mile around the channel before returning to firmer ground. Vesper muttered complaints under his breath for most of the detour. The swamp answered him with insects.

An hour later the Gafspear hummed. Only once. Low. Dalsm stopped instantly. So did Gar.

The water beside them was deeper there, black enough that even reflected sky vanished beneath the surface. Cypress roots rose through it in tangled walls and arches. Somewhere beyond them came the slow creaking strain of wood under pressure.

Not wind. Something heavy, large. The sound faded. The Gafspear stopped humming.

Dalsm looked toward the dark water. “What was that?”

Gar listened for several seconds before answering.

“Something large.”

Vesper spread his hands irritably. “That describes nearly everything in this miserable place.”

No one answered him.

Gar noticed Harlow’s grip tighten around the sheath of his sword. Tink quietly checked the catch on the harpoon launcher while studying the waterline with renewed caution. Galkin searched both the roots above and below the surface at the same time. Good. They were learning.

Then the roots creaked again. Closer.

Conversation nearly died after that. Even Vesper’s complaints came slower now, worn down by heat, insects, and exhaustion. Mud stained the hem of his mantle. The perfume locket continued drawing clouds of mosquitoes and marsh flies around him despite his growing irritation.

The swamp changed near the lair. Not dramatically. That was what made it worse.

Bird calls vanished. The insects rose higher into the trees. The smell shifted from ordinary swamp rot to iron, bile, and old scales. Drag marks wider than wagon wheels scarred the mud beside the deeper channels.

Gar crouched beside one.

“Kalia,” Dalsm said quietly.

Gar nodded.

“Close?”

Gar pointed ahead.

No one spoke after that.

The lair opened before them as a blackroot basin half filled with stagnant water and sucking mud. Bleached cypress trunks leaned inward around it like listening bones. Mangrove roots twisted through the shallows. Old skeletons lay half buried in silt, most broken apart long ago. Near the far bank the remains of a small trade boat rested half submerged beneath mud and algae.

That was what had brought the party here. The boat. The salvage hidden inside it. The promise of wealth worth risking the swamp, risking the Kalia.

A bloated river boar floated near the center of the basin. Large. Still. The carcass pulsed faintly where it drifted in the black water. Gar’s eyes narrowed immediately. Something creaked beneath the basin.

A deep wooden strain somewhere under the roots and mud, as if enormous weight had shifted beneath the drowned cypress below them.

Galkin’s head snapped toward the sound. Good. The boar pulsed again.

Not gas.  Movement. Gar raised one hand sharply.

Dalsm stopped instantly. The Gafspear began to hum.

It started low, like a throat clearing beneath the earth. Then sharper. Then urgent.

Harlow lowered into a ready stance. Tink’s head came up at once. Calven touched the holy symbol beneath his vestments.

Vesper stepped sideways for a clearer line of sight.

Gar’s voice dropped low.

“Soft ground.”

Dalsm took two quick steps backward across the mud, the ring carrying him over the surface.

Gar’s tone hardened immediately.

“Back.”

Vesper raised one hand while violet force gathered between his fingers. “See? Gas. Rot. Nothing more.”

He frowned toward the drifting carcass.

“Now, if everyone is finished consulting the mud—”

The basin erupted.

Mud and black water exploded upward in a violent sheet. The boar carcass vanished into the air as something immense burst through the center of the basin with five necks unfolding almost simultaneously. Bone fragments spun through the spray. The Kalia came upward in a mass of scales, mud, and water that seemed too large for the basin itself.

It did not roar, it struck first.

One head lunged toward Dalsm, but the Gao was already moving. The Gafspear jammed between the creature’s jaws with a grinding crack of bone and iron. Dalsm twisted hard and drove the point beneath the jaw hinge. Causing the head to retreat shaking free of the spear.

Harlow’s sword came free with a harsh metallic ring and a gold hued dagger appeared in his offhand. Another head snapped toward him. Instead of retreating he stepped into it, letting the jaws close across the reinforced edge of his bracer while the salt-steel dagger punched deep into the throat beneath the scales. Smoke hissed from the wound immediately.

Tink fired the harpoon launcher. The spring cracked like a snapped branch.

The barb slammed deep behind one forelimb and nearly dragged Tink into the basin before he locked the crank and fird the anchor line around a cypress root.

“Line set!”

Galkin was already climbing. He moved up the leaning cypress beside the basin with the speed of something born arboreal, a lightning scroll clenched between his teeth.

Brother Calven stepped into the mire with his holy symbol raised high. “By the Platinum Throne,” he said steadily, “stand against the devourer.”

White-gold light gathered around him.

Vesper finally acted.

Fear touched his face for half a heartbeat before pride buried it again. He raised both hands and four violet blasts screamed into the Kalia in paired spirals. The impacts cracked scales and drove one head violently backward into the basin.

The Kalia froze. Not in pain. In attention.

Wet clicking sounds came from somewhere deeper in the body. Several throats flexed independently.

One voice emerged first. “Magic…”

Another overlapped it from lower in the mass. “Hot…”

Then the central head lifted slightly. “Delicious.”

The words rolled together like stones grinding underwater. Silence rippled briefly through the party.

Tink looked appalled, “It talks?!”

Vesper smiled despite himself, breathless with triumph. “It bleeds.”

Gar fired.

The Hakori answered with a deep wooden thrum that cut through the chaos. The bolt buried itself nearly to the fletching behind the creature’s shoulder. His second shot was turned away by the dense scales and the creature twisted its heavy shoulder forward.

The Kalia flinched. Not from pain alone. From recognition.

Dalsm saw it too. “It’s thinking.”

Gar reloaded smoothly. “Yes.”

Then the Kalia moved. That changed everything. The enormous body slid beneath the mud with terrifying speed. It did not lumber or thrash like a wounded beast. It vanished into the basin as though the swamp itself folded around it.

Dalsm followed immediately, the ring carrying him across the water’s surface. Harlow tried to pursue and lost half a step when the mire grabbed his boots.

That half-step mattered. The tail came around hard enough to throw Dalsm sideways across the basin. He skipped once across the water before crashing through reeds near the bank.

The Gafspear never left his hands. The Kalia ignored Harlow after that. Vesper had become the greater threat.

Harlow slashed deep into the retreating flank as it moved. The salt-steel dagger followed again, carving another smoking wound through the scales. He began favoring the dagger as it worked the best leaving his sword as defensive.

Tink cranked the harpoon line tighter. The rope snapped taut. For one glorious second it held.

Then the Kalia rolled beneath the mud, transferring its weight through the line. The cypress root groaned violently. Tink shouted and threw his shoulder into the mechanism while Harlow grabbed the rope with one hand and planted himself beside him.

Together they slowed it. Not stopped. Slowed, amazingly, Tink’s line held.

That was enough for Gar. Another bolt punched into the base of one neck. The head spasmed and struck blindly into empty air.

Calven’s called his guardian spirits around him then, pale white-gold shapes like dragon wings and toothy maws. Whenever the Kalia surged near him the spirits carved searing lines through wet scale and flesh. Not deep but painful, from the reaction.

The creature hated that. But it still wanted Vesper. It vanished fully beneath the mud. Tearing the root anchor loose and sending Tink scrambling to ready another launcher.

Gar saw the bubbling first. “Watch the bubbles!” he barked.

Rot-gas simmered upward through the black water.

Vesper stepped backward too late. The mud beneath him exploded.

One head burst almost vertically from beneath the basin and closed around his waist before he could finish the spell already gathering in his hands. He screamed once.

“Dalsm!” The Gao was still dragging himself free from the reeds. Harlow turned immediately, but the mud slowed him. Tink cranked the harpoon and readied to fire. Calven forced himself through sucking mire toward the struggling caster.

Gar fired.

The bolt punched into the Kalia’s cheek and out the opposite side. The jaws loosened for half a second.

Vesper clawed desperately at the mud while violet force flashed around him in a polished arcane shield. The shield cracked almost instantly. It bought him one second. The Kalia used that second to drag him under. Only his boots remained above the surface kicking wildly through the mud.

Bubbling erupted muffled, somewhere below the basin. Then even the boots disappeared. The swamp closed over him. For a moment the fight narrowed entirely around the place where Vesper had vanished. Calven reached it first, plunging one arm shoulder-deep into the mud. “Vesper!”

Gar yelled, “NO get back!”

Nothing answered.

Tink abandoned the harpoon and fumbled for a hooked rescue cable with shaking hands.

Harlow forced himself through the mire despite blood running from the bite across his shoulder. Dalsm came back across the basin at a run. The Gafspear hummed violently now.

Above them Galkin unrolled the first lightning scroll. “Clear line!”

No one had one. The Kalia gave him one.

It erupted beneath the cypress. The entire tree lurched sideways. One head burst from the basin with Vesper’s boots still visible between its teeth for a single awful instant before they vanished deeper into its throat.

The head snapped upward toward Galkin. The rogue threw himself sideways along the trunk as the jaws shattered bark where he had stood. Splinters exploded across his face.

He finished the scroll one-handed while hanging above the basin. Lightning tore downward.

The swamp turned white. The sound followed like the sky splitting apart.

The Kalia convulsed violently. One head slammed into the mud. Another reared backward burned black along the jawline. For the first time the accumulated damage became visible: Gar’s bolts buried deep in muscle, smoking salt wounds from Harlow’s dagger, spear gashes, radiant scars, seared channels from Vesper’s blasts.

It was hurt. Not dying. But no longer untouched.

Then it spoke. “Flee…”

Another voice overlapped it. “Run…”

Then all five together. “Maybe… maybe… maybe… you live.”

Harlow spat blood into the mud.

“You pay first.”

And charged. After that the fight stopped feeling like battle and became labor. Not glorious labor. Not heroic labor. The brutal exhausting work of killing something that refused to die. It lashed out smashing and raking when it couldn’t get a solid bite.

Dalsm reached the Kalia alongside Harlow this time. The Gafspear drove through one lower throat and levered the head sideways while Harlow hacked into the exposed folds beneath the jaw. The salt-steel dagger struck again and again, each thrust followed by thin smoke and black blood running into the basin.

The Kalia tried to retreat.

Dalsm stepped with it across the water’s surface.

“No! Tink, ANOTHER ANCHOR!” He yelled.

He planted the spear shaft across its movement and forced the creature’s central head lower. Tink aimed his harpoon and fired true, and then fired an anchor line into the biggest tree near him. For one precious moment it could not move cleanly.

Gar used that moment immediately.

The Hakori thudded again. One bolt punched into the same wounded neck Harlow had opened. Another slammed into the shoulder joint deep enough to stagger the creature sideways.

Tink fired a third device from the ruined harness at his side. This one was no harpoon. A compact metal cylinder spun through the air and burst against the Kalia’s flank in a sheet of burning oil and alchemical grit that crawled into cracked scales and open wounds.

The Kalia rolled violently through the mud trying to smother the flames. Twisting the harpoon and Gafspear out of its hide doing so.

Calven’s guardian spirits tore into it whenever it passed near him, white-gold lines carving through steaming flesh. The priest himself looked half ruined already. cuts marked one side of his face and one sleeve had nearly been torn away, but he remained upright.

The Kalia snapped toward him.

Calven raised his shield.

The bite crashed through half the wood and drove him backward through the swamp, yet he stayed standing long enough to slam the end of his staff into the creature’s jaw with a pulse of divine force.

“Stand!” He yelled as his spell washed over Harlow.

This time the word sounded less like command than prayer.

Above them Galkin moved through the cypress branches with dangerous speed despite the blood running from his scalp. He unrolled the second lightning scroll while balancing along a slick branch above the basin.

The Kalia saw him now. It was learning.

A tail smashed into the cypress before the scroll was finished. The trunk lurched violently. Galkin lost his footing and swung one-handed above the basin while bark exploded beneath him. He did not drop the scroll. Lightning struck again.

This time directly into the exposed flank wound opened by Harlow and the burning charge.

The Kalia screamed with all five throats.

The sound rolled across the swamp like grinding stone and wet metal. Birds exploded upward from distant trees. Something huge splashed far away in alarm.

Then the Kalia changed. The throats swelled. Gar saw it first. He had already begun repositioning toward firmer ground when realization struck him.

“Spread!”

No one understood.

Not fast enough.

They had done what frightened people always did when something hunted them one by one.

They had gathered together.

Dalsm moved first. Harlow tried. Calven raised his ruined shield. Tink dropped flat behind the remains of his broken launcher.

The Kalia vomited the swamp back at them.

All the heads unleashed the caustic flood simultaneously. Boiling yellow-black acid mixed with half-digested matter blasted across the basin with enough force to strip bark from cypress trunks.

The sound was not a splash.

It was a hiss.

Harlow took the edge of it across chest and shoulder. His cobra-scale mail saved him from immediate death, but straps curled and smoked instantly. He dropped to one knee with teeth bared and sword and dagger still clenched in blistered hands.

Calven vanished behind the spray and staggered backward half-blind, holy symbol burning against his palm.

Tink’s machinery failed catastrophically. Brass warped. Pressure tubing burst apart in clouds of steam and acid. He screamed and still tried to close one valve before the rig fully collapsed.

Dalsm escaped the worst only because the ring carried him across soft mud faster than the others could move. Even so, acid splashed across one side of his armor and left smoking streaks behind.

Vesper’s ruined body lay in the steaming mess.

The caustic flood forced what remained of him back out through the Kalia’s throat and into the basin. His violet mantle was gone entirely. The silver perfume locket still hung around his neck blackened but intact while insects already gathered around the lingering sweetness despite the acid stink.

For one terrible instant his body rolled face-up in the steaming water. Then it sank again. No one spoke.

The Kalia lunged immediately.

It went for Calven.

The priest was wounded, half blind, and still dangerous. The guardian spirits continued carving at the creature every time it drew near.

The Kalia bit him once. The shield broke. It bit again.

Calven jammed the smoking staff sideways into the jaws and poured the last of his healing magic into himself instead of anyone else. It kept him upright just long enough for Dalsm to arrive.

The Gafspear slammed between them.

“Back!”

Harlow came from the side moving like a dead man refusing to fall. His sword hacked deep into the lower neck while the salt-steel dagger punched upward beneath the jaw again and again.

The Kalia tore backward, ripping its own flesh open to escape. Gar fired. Another bolt. Then another. Not at heads anymore.

At shoulders. Tendons. Neck joints. Anything that still carried strength.

Tink dragged himself through the mud toward the remains of his shattered rig and tore loose a breeching cylinder with burned shaking hands.

“Harlow!”

Harlow caught it immediately.

“Wound!” Tink rasped.

Harlow understood at once. He drove the cylinder deep into one of the smoking salt wounds and struck the primer with the pommel of the dagger.

The charge detonated down into the creature.

Not large. Deep.

The Kalia lurched sideways violently enough that one front leg finally collapsed beneath it.

Above them Galkin opened the final lightning scroll.

He did not shout. He simply read.

Lightning crashed downward and traveled through every wet wound the party had carved into the creature. The basin flashed white again.

The Kalia collapsed halfway into the mud.

Dalsm moved instantly.

He ran across the water’s surface and drove the Gafspear into the base of the central throat with both hands. He buried the weapon deep and hauled downward with all his remaining strength.

“Harlow!”

Harlow came dagger first.

The blade pierced through scale already broken by lightning, salt, acid, bolts, and fire. Black blood flooded across the basin.

Calven raised his holy symbol one final time.

His voice was ruined.

Still the prayer came healing those nearby a little, all he had.

The guardian spirits till surged around the Kalia, such was the Brothers willpower in one last burst of white-gold force.

The creature had taken everything they possessed.

The blasts.

The lightning.

The bolts.

The spear.

The sword.

The salt.

The divine fire.

The machine charges.

The blood loss.

The Kalia understood dying now. Then one lesser head nudged the gold beads hanging around its throat. Another hissed softly. “yesssss”

The central head sagged lower beneath the Gafspear.

Its eye found Gar. Recognition struck him instantly.

He had seen relics like those once before.

Fire beads.

Old ones.

Dead ones.

Or so he had believed.

“The fire beads,” he breathed. “no”

Then his voice became a roar.

“Deep water! NOW!”

Dalsm looked up immediately. Harlow did not understand. Tink did. His face changed completely.

“MOVE!”

The Kalia bit down on the necklace. One orange bead cracked between its teeth. Then another. For one precious heartbeat nothing happened.

The swamp went silent. Even the insects stopped. Then the basin became the sun.

White fire rolled outward through mud and water with impossible force. Steam exploded upward as surface water vanished instantly. Mud vitrified into black glass beneath the blast.

Harlow vanished inside the light.

Calven disappeared in boiling steam and flame.

Tink’s ruined rig exploded apart into fragments of brass and leather.

Galkin’s armor split from within and burst into fire.

Dalsm flew backward across the basin with the Gafspear still locked in his hands.

Gar survived only because he had already chosen distance before the detonation.

The heat struck him like a wall.

His cloak smoked instantly. Exposed skin blistered. His eyes watered nearly blind.

Still he remained standing. That was the difference. When the light finally faded the basin no longer existed.

Only a crater rimmed with shattered mud and steaming black glass. Water slowly working its wat back into it.

At its center lay the Kalia. Burned. Split. Ruined. But alive.

One head still functioned fully. Two twitched weakly. The others hung burned severely.

The creature dragged itself toward a dark water towards the opening to its den beneath the shattered basin. Not fear. Instinct. A wounded thing wanted darkness, water, and time.

Gar saw Dalsm still breathing near the crater edge. He saw the Kalia crawling. Both truths existed together. Dalsm could not be saved while the creature lived. Gar reloaded. The Kalia dragged itself toward the exposed tunnel mouth leaving black blood across cooling glass. Gar stepped down into the crater. His boots hissed against hot mud and ash. The Hakori thudded. One bolt punched through the active neck. The Kalia lurched sideways. Another shattered against the bone along the eye ridge. Still it crawled.

Gar reached into the side of his bolt case and withdrew a heavier shaft wrapped in dark sinew against swamp damp. Reinforced. Thick-headed. Built for the Hakori’s double-string pull.

A killing bolt. The Kalia lifted a ruined head. One eye remained open. It watched him. The layered voices came weak now, wet and broken beneath collapsing throats. “Why…”

Gar said nothing.

The creature’s jaws flexed weakly. “Never… hunted… yourssss…”

Black blood spilled from its mouth. “Why…?”

For a moment only steam moved between them.

Then Gar sighted down the Hakori.

“Because now you know us.”

The weapon cracked like a snapped tree trunk.

The reinforced bolt punched through the armored chest and buried itself deep into the heart of the creature. The great body shuddered once. Then settled. The swamp exhaled.

Aftermath

Gar found Dalsm where the blast had thrown him, half-submerged against a ridge of shattered reeds and blackened mud near the edge of the ruined basin. Steam or smoke drifted around him in slow white curtains. One side of his armor had burned through, and blood spread beneath him into the shallow water in dark ribbons that disappeared into the swamp.

The Gafspear was still locked in his hands.

Gar knelt beside him.

For a moment neither spoke. The basin hissed behind them where refilling water met cooling glass. Somewhere farther out insects had already begun returning to the edges of the swamp.

Dalsm’s breathing was shallow and wet. One side of his chest no longer moved correctly.

His eyes shifted toward the crater.

“Dead?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Dalsm’s mouth moved faintly. Not a smile. Close enough. “Good.”

Gar looked over the burns, the shattered ribs beneath the armor, the blood darkening the reeds around him. He had herbs. Burn paste. Binding cord.

Nothing for this. Dalsm knew it too.

“Fangs?” he asked quietly after a long silence.

“Five.”

That earned another faint movement at the corner of his mouth. “Good bargain.”

Gar nodded once. “Yes.”

Rain hissed softly against the steaming crater behind them.

Gar looked back toward the shattered basin. “The fire beads,” he said quietly. “I thought they were dead.”

Dalsm gave a weak breath that almost became a laugh. “They weren’t.”

“No.”

Gar’s jaw tightened. “That cost all of you.”

Dalsm’s eyes remained fixed toward the crater where steam rolled upward around the dead Kalia. “No,” he said softly after a moment. “Vesper… cost us….”

Gar said nothing. Because it was true. If Vesper had listened. If he had stayed back near the roots with Gar. If the Kalia had not learned his power too early. If pride had not placed him exactly where the beast wanted him.

The others might still have died. But not like this.

Dalsm’s fingers tightened weakly around the Gafspear. “Return it.”

Gar understood immediately he meant the spear.

Then Dalsm added, quieter still: “Me too.”

Gar looked at him. Dalsm’s breath shuddered painfully in his chest.

“They paid my debts,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean I belong to mud.”

Gar placed one heavy hand over the shaft of the Gafspear. “You stood.”

Dalsm closed his eyes briefly. “Almost won clean.”

“Yes.”

The answer came rougher than Gar intended.

For a few moments they sat in silence while rain fell through the broken reeds around them.

Then Dalsm spoke again without opening his eyes.“The quiet one.”

Gar looked toward him.

“Galkin,” Dalsm whispered. “Good hunter.”

Gar nodded once. “Yes.”

“Never heard him speak.”

“Only storm words.”

That almost drew another laugh from Dalsm, though it became only a wet cough.

“Harlow?”

“Fought to end.”

Another weak nod.

“Tink?”

“Closed broken valve while burning.”

This time Dalsm actually managed the edge of a smile.

“Of course he did.”

The swamp sounds returned softly around them, insects, bird calls a distant splash.

After a long while Dalsm spoke again. “You keep the extra fang.”

Gar looked down at him. “For the spider?”

Dalsm nodded weakly. “He broke bargain. Price owed.”

“Yes.”

Another silence stretched between them while steam rolled upward from the crater beyond the reeds.

Finally Dalsm opened his eyes one last time. “Don’t let them say we died stupid, we had it till the fire.”

Gar met his gaze steadily. “I won’t.”

Dalsm’s fingers tightened once around the Gafspear.

Then loosened.

Gar remained beside him longer than he needed to. Long enough for the glassed mud to cool. Long enough for insects to return to the edges of the crater. Long enough to think how close they had been. Then he stood.

The basin smoked around them while rain hissed softly against cooling glass and charred roots. Beyond the crater edge the swamp had already begun reclaiming sound: distant insects, dripping mangroves, unseen things moving through black water. The Kalia lay dead at the center of it all, enormous and broken, its blood running in dark streams through shattered mud.

They had been close. Too close for this ending. If the silk-tongue had listened. If his magic had remained in the fight longer. If the fire beads had truly been dead.

Eventually Gar stood.

There was still work to do.

He took the horn from his pack and blew one long note into the swamp. The sound rolled low and deep through mangroves and drowned cypress. The smoke would lead the way even if they hadn’t known where he was going.

For a time only insects answered. Then another horn sounded far away. Then another. Gar lowered the horn and looked back toward the dead Kalia.

At the fangs.

At the hide.

At the meat.

At the bones.

At the wealth of a lifetime lying in steam and blood.

Then he began to work.

A bounty

The Garikiah arrived within two hours, they would work into he dark.

Humans would have taken a day on the journey. The Garikiah moved through the swamp without haste and without waste, crossing hidden reed shelves, root bridges, and shallow channels no outsider would ever notice. They did not cheer when they saw the Kalia.

They went silent. That was greater respect.

The elders came first, then the cutters, then the carriers, then younger hunters permitted to watch from the edges. The shaman came last, painted in grey swamp clay and carrying smoke herbs in a hanging shell burner that filled the humid air with bitter curls.

Gar met them at the crater rim.

“Young Kalia,” he said simply. “Five heads. Fire beads. Killed six. Dalsm stood.”

The eldest hunter studied the corpse for a long while before speaking.

“All meat?”

“All.”

“Fangs?”

“Five mine by bargain. Rest clan.”

The elder frowned slightly. “Too many.”

“Bargain changed.”

“Why?”

Gar answered, “Silk-tongue, killed a black weaver without cause.”

Several younger hunters hissed softly in understanding.

The elder grunted.

“Wasteful.”

“Yes.”

The shaman crouched beside the extracted longfangs and touched one with grey-painted fingers. “But proper.”

“He thought swamp belonged to whoever had strength enough to take from it,” Gar said. “Needed reminder.”

The shaman’s lined face shifted slightly. “Did he learn?”

Gar looked toward the scorched crater where Vesper had vanished beneath mud, acid, and fire. “Yes.”

That earned low approval from several older hunters. The shaman marked each fang with smoke and grey clay before handing them to Gar. “Then swamp paid.”

Only after the markings were complete did Gar touch them himself. The work began immediately afterward.

The cutters opened the hide in enormous sheets, careful around the burned portions. Belly hide was separated from the heavier back scales while bones were sorted by purpose: frame bones, club cores, tool stock, spear material, supports for hide tents. The meat was foul by human standards.

To the Garikiah it was a bounty.

They took all of it.

Only after the butchering began did Gar and several hunters move beyond the corpse toward the shattered skiff wedged against the far bank.

The boat had suffered badly in the basin and worse during the battle itself. Half the hull had collapsed inward beneath roots and mud, but portions of the cargo hold remained intact beneath swamp silt and Kalia nesting debris.

Gar found crates there.

Several broken open.

Several still sealed.

Heavy merchant work, iron-banded and pitch-treated against water. Trade markings they carried were hidden beneath mud, algae, but they were there.

The Garikiah hauled the surviving crates free along with the salvageable planks, nails, chain, and fittings from the wreck. Nothing useful was left behind. The intact cargo was stacked separately beneath stretched hide away from the butchering pools.

Gar looked over the crates once without opening them.

Merchant things.

Important enough that armed outsiders had crossed half the swamp to retrieve them.

The clan would decide later what to do with them.

For now, they simply became part of the salvage.

Dalsm was wrapped separately.

The Gafspear was cleaned, rebound, and laid beside him.

One younger hunter asked quietly, “Why return him? He was not clan.”

Gar answered without looking up from his work. “He fought well, tried to save his people.”

The younger hunter waited for more.

“He made bargain and kept it,” Gar continued. “His people would not know if we lied.”

The elder nearby nodded once. “That is why we do not lie.”

The lesson settled quietly among them.

Gar found the perfume locket near the edge of the crater half buried beneath black mud and shattered reeds with what was left of Vesper. The silver cagework had warped from heat but still opened when twisted. Sweet floral scent spilled immediately into the swamp air. He carried it with him while the clan worked.

Near the edge of camp he found two small Black Weaver webs stretched between mangrove roots and low branches. Young weavers. Not yet large enough to threaten grown hunters. Gar hung the opened locket nearby. By the time the butchering ended the webs crawled with trapped chigs, bakflies, mosquitoes, epees, and even one small swamp bat tangled among the black silk.

Gar nodded once. Good feeding. Strong weavers later. He removed the locket and handed it to the shaman while pointing toward the webs. The old shaman understood immediately. The charm would draw insects for feeding weavers or gathering bait.

Useful thing. Use mattered. Another thing came from Vesper’s remains. A ring.

Simple-looking at first glance, though faint light stirred beneath the metal whenever touched. Gar had watched it during the march. The thing swallowed small magic and held it quietly until needed.

The shaman turned it carefully between painted fingers.

“A storing ring.”

Gar nodded once. Strong boon. Not for war. For preserving food during flood season. For holding healing when herbs ran thin. For clean water when rivers spoiled. The silk-tongue would have hated such uses.

Gar almost smiled thinking about it.

Near a slab of blackened cypress root Gar found something else half buried in cooling mud.

The salt-steel dagger.

Harlow’s dagger.

The blade was dirty soot stained and had glass melted to it from the blast. Most of the grip wrapping had burned away, yet the edge remained intact. Gar turned it slowly in his hand.A useful thing, a powerful thing.

It opened the Kalia again and again. Even after acid. Even after fire. Harlow had carried it into the beast’s throat until the end.  Harlow saw the value and switched to the dagger almost immediately after it proved more damaging than his sword.  Gar had seen it but didn’t realize till they examined the beast just how many blows the dagger had landed.

Gar cleaned the dagger himself that night beside the washing pools while rain struck steadily against the stretched Kalia hide overhead. No ceremony. No witnesses. He simply worked removing acid residue from the fuller with rough cloth, oil, and patient hands.

Later he would fashion a balanced heavy killing shaft with the blade from the dagger.  Its hilt and grip were burned from the fire, but the golden salt steel withstood the blunt of the blast remained hard and true.  So, Gar Worked it into his final shot his killing bolt. A heavy Hakori bolt using black silk and cured hide strips, one that could take the strain of a double string firing one that would end the fight.

No one asked why Gar kept that bolt separate from the others. No one asked why he sharpened it himself. The clan would know it only as another hunting bolt. But the golden tip would always, remind Gar. He knew what it as Harlow’s Bolt.

The fireside

The younglings always wanted the fire story after a great kill.

Rain drummed steadily against the stretched Kalia hide overhead while the fire burned low beneath it. Smoke drifted through the great rib supports holding the hide tent upright, carrying the smell of roasted meat, wet scales, bitter herbs, and swamp mud drying near the coals. The younglings sat in a rough half-circle around Gar with greasy fingers and bright eyes while older hunters pretended not to listen from farther back in the shadows.

The five largest longfangs already crowned the head of Gar’s Barakish.

One of the smallest younglings pointed at the club. “You killed it alone?”

Gar looked at him. “No.”

The youngling lowered his head immediately.

Gar tore a strip of roasted Kalia meat free with his teeth and swallowed before speaking again.

“Six came I led them there. One left.”

“You.”

“Yes.”

“You killed it.”

“At end.”

That confused them. Good. Confusion made room for learning. Gar leaned back against one of the great rib bones stacked beside the fire while rain rolled in steady lines down the hide overhead.

“They came with bright tools,” he said. “Good tools. One spear that warned danger before eyes did. One black-scale fighter who did not stop after burning. One maker with hooks and fire. One priest with hard spirits. One quiet climber carrying storm papers. One silk-tongue with too much power and not enough listening.”

Several younglings hissed softly at silk-tongue.

Gar did not smile. “Do not laugh. His blasts hurt Kalia, more than anyone.”

That quieted them immediately. “He was foolish,” Gar continued. “Not weak.”

One older young hunter tilted his head. “How foolish?”

Gar pointed toward the darkness beyond the fire where the swamp moved softly beneath rain. “Before Kalia there was Black Weaver, he killed it.”

Several younglings shifted uneasily. “The web stretched under mangroves. Big enough for birds and bats. Weaver waited above silk-tongue’s head.”

“Did it bite him?”

“No.”

“Then why kill it?”

“Pride.”

The fire cracked softly. “He thought swamp belonged to whoever had strength enough to take from it.” He pointed to his Barakish “The fifth fang paid for Black Weaver.”

The younglings stared at it quietly. “He broke bargain after warning. Swamp took payment.”

“Never waste strength on what is not hunting you,” he continued, “or what is hunting you hears.”

He lifted one finger. “First lesson.”

The younglings repeated it unevenly.

“There was river lurker too,” Gar said. “Awake in black channel.”

“Did you fight it?”

“No.”

“Could you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not?”

“Because we hunted Kalia.”

Second finger.

“Do not collect fights.”

Several older younglings nodded immediately.

Gar continued while the rain hissed softly against the stretched hide overhead. “There was moss that breathed.”

The smallest youngling blinked. “What?”

“Drop-sting.” Several younglings groaned knowingly. Gar nodded once. “Quiet climber saw it before stepping. Maker asked before touching. Harlow and Dalsm listened when warned.” He looked around the circle slowly. “If swamp warns you, do not ask swamp twice.”

The younglings repeated that one more carefully. Gar noticed several of the older hunters listening now too. Good. The fire shifted. Rain rolled down the outside of the Kalia hide in long dark lines.

“Kalia waited under dead boar,” Gar continued. “Basin already wrong. No birds. No insects low. Roots creaked under water.”

Several older hunters glanced toward each other at that. They understood what root-creaks meant. “It spoke after silk-tongue blasted it.”

A youngling frowned. “Kalia talk?”

Gar nodded once. “When hurt enough or interested.”

His voice lowered into the layered rough rumble that had echoed across the basin.

“Magic…”

The younglings leaned forward.

“Hot…”

Gar’s eyes reflected the firelight.

“Delicious.”

No one moved.

“It chose silk-tongue after that.”

The silence deepened. Gar let it remain there. Then he continued. “It took him under mud alive. Shield broke. Kalia dragged him down.”

One youngling edged closer to another.

Gar did not soften the story. “Later Kalia spat stomach-fire.” He touched the scars along one forearm. “Not spit. Inside-fire. Burns leather. Burns eyes. Burns metal. If throats swell, move before understanding why.”

“Did they move?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They were brave. Hurt. Trying to save each other.” Gar looked slowly around the fire. “Sometimes close together kills more hunters than fear.” Another finger lifted. “Against Kalia, spread.”

The younglings repeated it quietly.

Gar continued speaking while the fire popped softly beneath the rain.

“They hurt it badly. Spear pinned heads. Salt blade opened flesh. Storm papers burned wounds. Spirits cut it every time it came close. Hooks held it. Fire crawled through broken scales.” He paused there. Not theatrically.

Remembering. “The quiet climber,” he said eventually. “Good hunter.”

Several younglings looked up.

“Never heard him speak. Only storm words.” A few of the older hunters nodded slightly at that. Gar continued. “Maker watched swamp right way too. Asked before touching things. Even burning, still tried fixing broken machine.”

That earned quiet approval from some of the older hunters listening in the dark.

“Harlow?”

Gar looked toward the Barakish beside him. “Fought to end.” Simple words. Enough words.

“And Dalsm?”

That came from one of the older young hunters. Gar looked into the fire a long while before answering. “He listened.” The fire cracked softly. “He watched feet. Watched roots. Believed warning spear. Did not ask swamp to prove itself twice.”

Gar’s voice remained level. “He stood.”

That mattered more than speeches. The younglings felt it even if they could not fully understand it yet.

“Then Kalia chose fire.”

The younglings went silent immediately.

“Gold beads around throat. Taken from dead hunters before us. Kalia knew enough to use them.” The rain outside thickened. “The basin became white.”

No one moved.

“Harlow died. Priest died. Maker died. Quiet climber died. Dalsm broke inside. Kalia burned too.”

Gar leaned slightly toward the fire. “But not enough. Fire, fire doesn’t hurt Kalia like us, never hunt one with fire.”

The flames snapped sharply. “It tried reaching tunnel.” His eyes lifted toward the darkness beyond the hide tent. “Hurt thing wants dark. Water. Time.”

Final finger. “Never give Kalia time.”

The younglings repeated it softly.

One finally asked, “Why bring Dalsm back?”

Gar looked at him for a long while before answering.

The youngling waited.

“Because he asked, and I agreed word given.”

“He was not clan.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Gar’s voice remained calm. “Because his people would not know if we lied.”

Several older hunters nodded slowly in the darkness beyond the firelight. Some lessons were not for younglings alone.

Gar reached beside him and lifted the reinforced Hakori bolt.

The salt-steel dagger gleamed beneath the heavy iron head in the shifting firelight.

One youngling whispered, “What is that?” voice filled with wonder at the gleaming golden point.

Gar looked down at it for a long moment. “Harlow’s Bolt.”

The younglings stared silently.

“Salt blade opened Kalia again and again,” Gar said. “Even after acid. Even after fire.”

He turned the bolt slowly in his hands.

“Useful things should keep working.”

Then he planted the bolt upright beside the Barakish.

“When you see these,” he said quietly, “remember hunt right. Not Gar killed Kalia. Not city people weak.”

He looked slowly from face to face around the fire.

“Remember this: young Kalia took six armed hunters and nearly returned to tunnel.” he nodded as they listened intently.  “That is why we hunt them only if we must and then whole clan goes.” 

Rain rolled steadily down the stretched hide overhead.

Gar’s voice lowered once more into the layered rumble that had echoed across the basin.

“Flee…”

The younglings froze.

“Run… run… run…”

The fire cracked softly.

“Maybe you live.”

No one moved.

Gar let the silence remain.

Several lessons did not need speaking aloud. That the swamp did not care how educated you were. That strength without listening became weakness. That pride killed faster than teeth. That useful dead still fed the living. That bargains mattered most when no one remained to enforce them.

Gar handed a strip of roasted meat to the smallest youngling beside him.

“Eat,” he said quietly. “That is why we hunt.”

Outside the hide tent the swamp breathed softly in the dark.

The journey north begins in the Jelek Isles, a scattered chain of volcanic islands set in warm, bright waters where trade winds carry the scent of salt, citrus, and woodsmoke through open markets. Life here moves at an easy pace, shaped by fishing tides, shared meals, and the steady rhythm of barter and conversation. Strangers are welcomed quickly, often with food before questions, and the island culture favors patience, familiarity, and a quiet confidence born from generations living between sea and fire. Yet beneath that relaxed surface, the islands are no longer as untouched as they appear. The merchant powers of Deccan have begun pressing their influence through contracts and economic leverage, seeking to bind the islands into their wider trade network. In response, the dwarves of Thylor have established a presence of their own, introducing stable coinage and smithing expertise to counter Deccan’s reach. The ringing of newly minted coins has become a symbol of something larger—an emerging independence. At the same time, rumors move through the markets of a map fragment tied to Ascore, a lost city spoken of in uncertain tones. Whether truth or tavern talk, it has begun to draw attention, and in Jelek, where journeys so often begin, larger powers are watching more closely than ever.

Beyond the islands lies Deccan, a nation that does not rule through crown or conquest, but through trade. Authority here rests in the hands of merchant houses whose wealth determines their power, guided by a Trade Assembly that governs through negotiation rather than decree. Deccan’s strength lies in its networks—rivers, contracts, fleets, and the careful movement of goods across difficult terrain. Yet its land cannot sustain itself fully, and it depends heavily on imported grain to support its population. This limitation has shaped its entire outlook. Deccan does not seek to conquer territory so much as to control the flow between places, building influence along trade routes rather than borders. Its growing involvement in Jelek reflects this strategy, as does its ongoing effort to construct Port Thalerys, a harbor intended to reshape regional trade. The people of Deccan reflect this mindset in all things. They speak carefully, negotiate deliberately, and measure success not in moments but in long-term advantage. Among them it is often said that a sword may win a battle, but a ledger wins a generation, and it is by that belief that they move—slowly, steadily, and with purpose.

North of Deccan, the land shifts again as the traveler enters Aarakiel, a broad and varied country where jungle, forest, and open plains stretch between sea and desert. The transition is gradual but unmistakable. Dense southern jungles give way to deep forests, and those forests thin into wide grasslands that carry trade northward. The land is fertile and active, but never entirely safe. Rivers harbor unseen dangers, and the wilderness remains close enough to reclaim any ground left unattended. Among these lands live two distinct peoples who share the region without fully blending their cultures. The Zandir are outward and expressive, known for their skill in trade and their tradition of formal dueling. Their towns are lively places where commerce and reputation are closely tied. The Aramite, by contrast, are quiet and reserved, shaped by a culture that places great importance on death and its proper passage. They are often encountered as escorts, wardens, or enforcers of clan justice, and their presence carries both respect and unease. Though the two peoples live side by side, their identities remain separate, and their coexistence forms a balance that has endured for generations. Aarakiel prospers through its trade and its access to the sea, yet it is never far removed from the wild forces that surround it, and travelers quickly learn that the land allows passage but never full control.

Beyond Aarakiel, the sense of order fades. Verkhyish is not a nation in the traditional sense, but a frontier where the structure of the south gives way to the harsh realities of the north. The land itself changes step by step, beginning with the thinning edges of jungle, where scattered woodland and hidden settlements mark the last traces of southern life. From there, the terrain hardens into thornwoods and broken forests, where the ground grows rocky and water less certain. Human tribes and the native Araq move through these lands with caution, living in patterns that shift with season and need. The Araq, reptilian in form and precise in manner, are known as trackers and guides, though their trust is not easily earned. Eventually the traveler reaches the Grall River, a vital lifeline cutting through the land. Its banks are thick with vegetation and offer one of the few reliable sources of water for miles in either direction. Crossing it marks a quiet but important turning point, for beyond the river the land begins to dry and harden in earnest. Scrub replaces grass, the air grows hotter, and the terrain becomes unforgiving. Settlements vanish, distances stretch, and survival depends on knowledge rather than strength. By the time the desert edge comes into view, the journey has stripped away any illusion of comfort. Verkhyish does not welcome travelers. It allows them to pass, and only if they understand the land well enough to survive it.

Taken together, these regions form a clear progression from south to north, a gradual loss of ease and certainty. Jelek offers warmth, community, and the beginnings of opportunity, though already shadowed by greater powers. Deccan introduces structure, ambition, and the quiet pressure of competing interests. Aarakiel balances prosperity with danger, holding civilization and wilderness in uneasy harmony. And Verkhyish stands as the final threshold, where comfort falls away entirely and only those who respect the land endure. It is along this path that many journeys begin, but few remain unchanged by where it leads.

Appendix: Firearms, Powder, and Ammunition in Thirnavar

Availability, Craftsmanship, and Rules for Play

In the centuries since the Fade diminished the ready flow of magic in the world, many nations turned increasingly toward engineering and metallurgy to replace the powers that arcane traditions once supplied. Among the most visible results of this transition is the slow spread of black-powder firearms. These weapons exist in several technologically progressive regions, but they remain uncommon, expensive, and mechanically demanding.

Firearms appear most frequently in Mithrin and Taurdain, where trade networks and industrial workshops support their manufacture and maintenance. Smaller numbers circulate in Auris, and scattered experimentation occurs in Deccan, Aarkeil, and Quttara.

The greatest engineering achievements in firearm design originate from Thylor, whose master craftsmen developed repeating chamber mechanisms capable of firing multiple prepared charges before reloading. These designs are closely guarded national technologies and rarely appear outside Thylor except through carefully controlled trade channels—most commonly those passing through the port city of Voolnishart.

Firearms in Thirnavar are therefore not casual equipment. A character who carries one likely possesses either wealth, a background tied to military or trade institutions, or connections to the craftsmen capable of maintaining such devices.

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Standard Firearms (Muzzle-Loading)

The most widely available firearms are muzzle-loading weapons. These designs fire a single shot before requiring a full reload procedure.

Weapon	Damage	Range	Properties	Weight	Price
Pistol	1d10 piercing	40 / 120	Loading, Loud	3 lb	250 gp
Petronel (Horse Pistol)	1d12 piercing	50 / 150	Loading, Loud	4 lb	300 gp
Long Gun (Musket)	1d12 piercing	80 / 240	Loading, Two-Handed, Loud	10 lb	400 gp
Blunderbuss	2d8 piercing	15 / 45	Loading, Scatter, Loud	8 lb	350 gp

Weapon Properties

Loading
The weapon must be reloaded after each shot. Reloading requires an action.

Scatter (Blunderbuss)
Creatures within 5 ft of the primary target must succeed on a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw or take 1d6 piercing damage from stray shot.

Loud
The report of a firearm can be heard 300–600 feet away, depending on terrain and conditions.

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Thylorian Chambered Firearms

Four-Shot Repeating Mechanisms

Master engineers of Thylor perfected rotating chamber mechanisms capable of holding multiple prepared charges. These weapons fire several times before requiring a reload of the chamber assembly.

They represent advanced engineering and are treated as restricted technology outside Thylor.

Weapon	Damage	Range	Properties	Weight	Price
Thylorian Revolving Pistol	1d10 piercing	40 / 120	Four-Shot, Loud	3 lb	1,200 gp
Thylorian Cavalry Revolver	1d12 piercing	50 / 150	Four-Shot, Loud	4 lb	1,400 gp
Thylorian Repeating Long Gun	1d12 piercing	80 / 240	Four-Shot, Two-Handed, Loud	10 lb	1,800 gp
Thylorian Volley Blunderbuss	2d8 piercing	15 / 45	Four-Shot, Scatter, Loud	9 lb	2,000 gp

Four-Shot Property

Weapons with this property contain four loaded chambers.

• Each attack expends one chamber
• The weapon may fire four times before reloading
• Reloading the chamber assembly requires one action

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Misfire and Reliability

Black powder weapons are powerful but temperamental machines. Powder fouling, damp charges, or worn mechanisms can cause failures.

Weapon Type	Misfire Range
Standard Firearms	Natural roll of 1–2
Thylorian Firearms	Natural roll of 1

When a firearm misfires:

1. The attack automatically fails.
2. The weapon becomes jammed.

A jammed firearm cannot be fired again until cleared.

Clearing a Jam:
Requires one action.

Optional rule: If a firearm misfires twice consecutively, it suffers mechanical damage and requires repair during a short rest using appropriate tools.

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Masterwork Firearms

A masterwork firearm reflects the work of an exceptional gunsmith. Precision boring, carefully balanced mechanisms, and superior metallurgy reduce ignition failures.

Masterwork firearms are commonly produced in advanced workshops in Mithrin and Thylor.

Masterwork Benefit

Masterwork firearms reduce their misfire range by 1.

Weapon Type	Base Misfire	Masterwork Misfire
Standard Firearms	1–2	1
Thylorian Firearms	1	none

Masterwork firearms typically cost 50–100% more than the base weapon.

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Imbued Firearms

Some firearms are imbued with minor magical reinforcement through advanced crafting techniques or rare materials.

These follow the standard magical crafting limits of the modern era:

• Maximum enhancement bonus +2
• Only one enhancement source applies to an attack
• Additional damage effects capped at +2d6
• Effects roughly equivalent to 3rd-level spells

Such weapons are rare works of master or grandmaster craftsmen.

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Feat: Firearm Mastery

Prerequisite: Proficiency with firearms

This feat represents formal training common among soldiers and hunters in firearm-using regions such as Mithrin, Taurdain, and Thylor.

You gain the following benefits:

Ignore Loading
You ignore the Loading property of firearms with which you are proficient.

Reduced Misfire Risk
You reduce the misfire range of firearms by 1 step.

Weapon	Normal	With Mastery
Standard Firearms	1–2	1
Thylorian Firearms	1	none

Quick Clear
You may clear a jammed firearm as a bonus action.

Steady Aim
If you do not move before firing during your turn, you gain +1 to the attack roll.

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Ammunition and Powder

Firearms require black powder and appropriate projectiles to function. Ammunition must be kept dry and maintained carefully.

Standard Powder and Shot

Item	Price	Weight
Powder Horn (20 shots)	20 gp	2 lb
Lead Shot / Ball (20)	5 gp	2 lb
Paper Cartridges (20)	25 gp	2 lb

Paper cartridges combine powder and shot in a prepared package and slightly simplify loading.

Standard supplies are commonly available in specialized weapon shops or alchemical supply stores in major cities.

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Thylorian Cartridges

Thylorian firearms frequently use advanced cartridges, which combine powder, projectile, and ignition preparation into a single sealed unit.

These cartridges dramatically improve reliability and ease of loading, but their manufacture is highly specialized.

Creating Thylorian cartridges typically requires:

• Artificer knowledge
• Advanced alchemical skill
• Precision metalworking

Because of this complexity, cartridges are rarely produced outside Thylorian workshops.

They are normally obtained through:

• Official Thylorian trade channels
• Military supply networks
• Licensed merchants operating under permit

In Voolnishart, a small number of licensed suppliers distribute Thylorian cartridges. Purchases require appropriate documentation, letters of commission, or trade authorization.

Item	Price	Weight
Thylorian Cartridges (20)	50 gp	2 lb

Unauthorized possession or smuggling of Thylorian cartridges may draw attention from local authorities or Thylorian trade agents.

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Practical Implications

Firearms in Thirnavar are not disposable tools but carefully maintained mechanical instruments. Powder quality, craftsmanship, and operator skill all influence their reliability.

A well-maintained firearm may last decades, while a neglected one becomes dangerous to its wielder. For this reason, experienced users often develop strong attachments to their weapons, commissioning improvements or upgrades over time.

In a world where magic has faded and craftsmanship has risen to prominence, firearms represent one of the clearest examples of the new age: power achieved not through spellcasting, but through ingenuity, metallurgy, and disciplined engineering.

Thylor produces the most advanced firearms and munitions in the world currently but strictly controls them. These examples of masterworks are displayed in the Hall of Smiths in Thylor.

Deccan has a well-established firearms industry, significantly behind Tylor in complexity and scope but controlled and recognizable.

Agents of the Trade Houses and the Trade Commission of Deccan use Ledger guns as emblems of office and Indicators of authority and rank.

Sevenmouth, a Deccan volley gun, is the only surviving prototype of an abandoned military project. Currently on display in Koranth Bay north of Thession Reach. A newer version was commissioned by the Bugbear master-at-arms Rokguixor. A veteran sailor who inherited the original on one of his ships and put it to use.