Carrying the severed head of the wicked Dark Faun down to
the water, Belton, Najáre and Sif are met by the Leshy while Quick Jim hags
back a little on the steps down into the sinkhole. The Steward of the Pool
cautions them against desecrating the holy water by allowing the blood of the
Unseelie Fae to fall in it so they take care to place the grisly trophy far
from the water’s edge under the overhang of rock. The Leshy trundles over and
builds a muddy, semicircular rampart to ensure no blood pools and runs in to
the pond.
Having fulfilled their part of the bargain the time has come
for rhe Leshy to produce the Phial of Pure water. There is a kind of sadness
that overtakes the creature as he explains that once he gives the Phial to
Belton, who presented the head, he will cease to be, his purpose for being
having been fulfilled. This takes aback many of the party who found the
diminutive nutter to be an amiable fellow, despite it’s odd sense of humor and
peculiar ways. Quick Jim, spontaneously names the creature, Doctor Lillypadface
and the grateful construct peers up in gratitude and wonder. In all it’s 400
years, it had never been so specified and regarded as to actually have a true
name. Something fundamental and wondrous changed in that exchange between the
wily Hobo and the little forest guardian and the divine spark in Belton Harald
for a fraction of a second felt a whisper of it. For a fleeting moment, Belton’s
innate sense of good and evil through which he senses the nature of a nearby
soul, flickered with recognition in regards to this tiny construct. This tiny walking
doll of mud and leaves animated by ancient druid magic seemed to possess a
SOUL! An impossibility by any rational assessment, for the poor creature has
neither heart nor mind, but only sticks for bones and dark obsidian marbles for
eyes. It would take a miracle for such a thing to possess a soul. But there must
have been some magic in that ancient holy pool in which the Leshy had lived for
400 years. And it’s little body WAS completely saturated every day with its
miraculous waters. Who’s to say some primal magic wasn’t triggered by the
naming of such a thing, so thoroughly suffused with holy water and thus, divine
power. Maybe it could have a soul after all…
But that was not the only miracle that morning. For the Leshy
was bound by its bargain to give up the Phial of Pure Water and sink into
oblivion. And a construct is not truly a creature of free will but rather a
thing created to uphold and perform the will of its master. True to its purpose
it gives over the Phial to Belton and lo! It’s mud begins ot dry and crack and
it’s water-weeds brown and curl with age and desiccation. Parts crack and drop
off as it looks on in sadness at the inevitable dissolution of its being. But
then the decay stops and it beholds in impossible wonderment its new life! But
that is only a trivial thing to the true miracle it experiences, for, for the
first time in all of its existence, for the first moment after four centuries
of servitude and the performance of its purpose-bound duties, it has a thought
of its own Free Will! Astounded it looks on in shock. Awed by its new freedom
and momentarily stupefied by the implication of its own Will. Dr. Lillypadface
staggers about by the poolside, overwhelmed by its outrageous fortune. For the
first time ever, it does something to receive from the Pool rather than to care
for and give of itself to the holy place, as it has done for many lifetimes of
a mortal man. It reaches down into the pool’s blessed waters and beholds in joy
as the magical place give back to it, under its own unguessable power, life and
energy, such that it has been infused and blessed with since time immemorial.
The grateful holy pool gives Dr. Lillypadface healing prana that courses
through its tiny frame and fills out its wild flesh, restoring moist mud and
soddening its tiny limbs of sticks and reeds. Making it whole after its narrow brush with death
and nothingness. In moments, the Leshy stand whole and hale, restored by the
waters of the holy grotto. Sif sweeps the little thing into her arms and hold
it in her mighty embrace, sharing her warmth and companionship with a thing
that has never known the embrace of friendship and human warmth. Again Dr.
Lillypadface reels with newfound wonder at this new emotion it was aware of but
had never thought to experience. Exalting in this acceptance and camaraderie,
the Leshy’s soul tips toward the good from its starting place of neutrality.
Sif
undertakes then and there to take part of her conquered Worg pelt and cut away pieces,
fashioning for the tiny doctor, roughspun leather breeches and a clever Nordic
coat for him to wear, helping to hold in all of his slightly crumbly parts and
making him look like a dashing little green-headed boy For his part, Dr. Lillypadface is beside himself with excitement over all the
new events in his life, he struts about grandly in his new fine clothes and
dashes about madly with excitement to be off from the Grotto where he was
created and where he has never left for 400 years. Taking a moment, it solemnly gifts sif with a special gift from it's tiny body. a huge pearl-like cyst of pure refined air that glows with magic, explaining that for 1000 heartbeats, anyone who consumes this pearl whole, will be able to breath water as if born to it.
Sif shucking off her clothes in her shockingly unselfconscious manner dives into the deep expanse of the pool and swims to the bottom, rewarded by a sight rarely encountered, a trove of castaway offerings to the magic and gods of the pool. centuries of weapons and armor and less recognizable things piles atop one another in the depths of the pool. She has no innate sense for magic but she can see some of the trove is radiant with eldritch power and it is these things she scrambles to recover first. filling her large treasure-sack with an adamantine breastplate, a curious thorny sword, a strange horn of green and ancient manufacture and a prismatic blade of onyx stone that scintillates with strange light as the suns rays pass through it. All of this she loads into her sack and ties firmly wiht her stout 50 foot rope before rushing to the surface to work hard with Belton at pulling this booty to the surface.
The heroic band gathers up their gear and the good meat of
the wild boar now well cooked by the bait-fire of the previous evening. Sharing
a fine meal they set out to the cave of Barael with Dr. Lillypadface among them
in their band. It’s eyes wide with wonder at the broad world of the Arthfell
Forest.
At last returning to the old Druid’s cave they turn over
their newly recovered relic to him. Sif, uncovers the leather wrappings and
reveals the ancient Elf’s sylvan blade. Barael looks upon the thing for the
first time in centuries, remembering ancient battles restoring the balance of
good and evil to the forest. Remembering foes vanquished and companions lost to
war and the travails of life in the wilderness. He looks on the ancient weapon
and bids her put it away. In his wisdom, ancient Barael is past the thirst for
glory and the hunger to crush his enemies and see them driven before him,
having heard too many time the dark cries of the lamenting women. Having seen
too often the starving orphans of war die alone and destitute. Baraels path
through war and conflict is well travelled and he has earned his peace in
seclusion here in the deep wood far from his own people and any others save the
occasional ranger or itinerant druid.
Our heroes beseech the old man to take the naïve little
creature under his wing for a time to prepare Dr. Lillypadface for the greater
world at large. With a wisdom like Yoda, it’s possible they could not have
chosen a better mentor for the newborn soul. Reluctantly the Ancient agrees and
then seeing the condition of decay of the little Leshy’s body, calls forward
Najáre to retrieve the Phial of Pure Water from his cave and bring it to the
circle where they sit. When she returns with the ancient artifact he warns her
most assiduously to sparingly allow three of the most conservative and modest
drops ONLY to fall upon the creatures head. And those only one at a time with some
moments between them. So sedulous are the old Druids warnings and admonitions
that all the rest of the party retreat several paces from the two, including
old Barael himself. With great care, Najáre lets drop one tiny droplet of water
u Dr. Lillypadface’s upturned little head. In a trice he swells and grows
profoundly sodden with clear water that seems to nearly burst from his every
seam. Gathering in a muddy lieel puddle at his feet in the forest grove. His weeds
and reeds seem to brighten and freshen with new green shoots and vibrant life.
The little doll seems to grow a few inches.
A second drops it let loose on the head of the creature and
all of his limbs and torso thicken as with a sudden springtime of new growth, a
new mane of hair-like growth of cat-tails and plaited reeds sprouts from his
head and falls back under its own growth and weight, becoming a clever hair-like
arrangement of foliage in a style like old Barael’s. The good doctor now
resembles a stout, healthy child of eight to twelve summer as opposed to the
toddler of 2 years he first resembled. With strong limbs like a farmboy or Smith’s apprentice. Corded, viny weeds coil
about each other in the semblance of muscles like it sees on fair-haired Sif.
This having seemed to settle, the Huntress Najáre allows the
last drop to fall on the simple creatures scalp. And then there is a moment of
solemn regard as a strange spirit, felt rather than seen, lays it’s gravity
upon the glade before the cave where our heroes have gathered. A subtle light
enters the Leshy’s eyes, the glimmer of wisdom and uplifted reason and
comprehension. Dr. Lillypadface, taken aback for a moment at what would appear
to be a sudden and momentous enlightenment staggers back a half-step and pauses
to regard all of the assembly. Keen, insightful gazes pass between each hero
and the new sentient being. A fully awakened, spiritually whole, true and
living thing of animate matter speaks then and profoundly thanks everyone
present for the astonishing gift it has been given. Sense and comprehension heavy
in its words. Dr. Lillypadface is no longer an “IT”, he is now a “HE”. And all
who witness this can see it as if by common sense. Everyone takes a moment to
marvel at the implications of the miracle that has been done here this day.
Barael, seemingly concerned at the course of events, still asks the Leshy to
stay with him for at least a few days to speak and have companionship before
setting off into the world. With the Doctor’s agreement everyone falls into
easy fellowship and quick Jim, ever the aficionado of stew, prepares a hearty
meal of rabbit stew that is warm and filling and enjoyed by all.
The party spends a pleasant evening in this company and then
set out in the morning for the final part of the panoply, the Spirit Staff of Nàrven.
Making good time through the trackless wood with the help of
their birch-bark map and the excellent skills of Najáre, whose favored terrain
is the wilderness of these Avistani lands. Sif scouts ahead and ranges about
gathering the lay of the land and bringing in treats of fresh barriers and
roots picked up foraging along the way as she goes, her eye growing ever keener
for the signs of survivable food in these woods.
Soon along the path in a dark place in the woods, The party comes to a place of silence and deep arboreal growth. huge and ancient gnarled trees twist in the wind here overgrown with moss and vines and a verdant riot of life.
From out of the gloom rushes a roaring, hooting, snarling monstrosity of magic gone wrong but bred true, the horrid Owlbear! A ferocious magical beast of tearing beak and ripping claw, legendary for its disregard for it's own life and it's savage claws that bring down armored knights and their destriers in single sweeps of it's daggerlike talons.
Sif unlimber her ancient horn, which Barael had bid her not sound in the precincts of his home, and blasts a long, clear note upon it. As the last of the notes echoes fade into the woods, the ground boils and cracks and splits and births up like a bursting cyst a confusion of hides and pelts and limbs and teeth and horns that resolve into three brutal savage berserkers clad in rough hides and wielding primitive weapons of antler and stone and bone. Sif commands them to kill the Owlbear and they set to with a ferocity equal to the monster they face. The Wildlings and the owlbear tear into each other with furious blows, one Savage is brought low by the owlbear, who guts and strews about the entrails of the warrior horridly. Sif, ever at the ready for battle stands forth among the fray and with the Bastard's Blade, sweeps the head from the hulking terror with a single powerful blow, the keen otherworldly materials of the strange blade sweeping through tough hide and dense, thick flesh with unnerving ease. As she stoops to collect the trophy, the berserkers clamber about the Owlbear's body and they and their fallen foes are consumed in moments by the boiling cystic earth beneath them. They all disappear into whatever ancient underworld claims these ancient peoples. Wondering at the power of the strange horn, the party makes their way rfom this shadowed wood to the less dank environs of the Forest, glad to be away from that strange battleground.
About midday they come to a tumbledown bridge of ancient
stone, then worked over again by ancient elves in the time of legend only to
have once again encountered misadventure of natural disaster resulting in a 2
meter section from the peak of the arch having fallen away, leaving a gap to be
leapt or otherwise traversed. As Belton cheekily flies over the opening to
stand upon the opposite side, a great green hand lashes out from the
underdepths of the ancient bridge and reveals the presence of an awful
Freshwater Merrow, a kind of river-troll known to haunt forlorn bridges and
trackless places, waiting to ambush little gruff billy-goats and larger prey. It’s
rough common patois leers and sneers from it’s green and twisted face, it’s
mouth full of jagged cannibal teeth and it’s corded limbs twitchy with the anticipation
of fresh meat. Foolishly overconfident it threatens the party, demanding
tribute to cross the bridge.
The hot blood of the Nordic shieldmaiden boils with rage at
this insolence, drawing the Bastard’s Blade, she stalks to the fore of the
company and threatens the hulking brute with such savage ferocity and fearless
intensity that it shrinks back from her. Spying her legendary blade, known by
all brigands and knaves of the Arthfell forest as an instrument of Elvish vengeance
and woe-bringer to darkling skulkers such as he, the Merrow backs down and
grants them free passage while slinking away back under the waters of the
nameless river, disappearing from sight in the murky depths.
Carrying on, our heroes at last reach the grove so indicated
by the Birch-bark Map as the final Druidic Holy Site and resting place of the
Spirit Staff. Easily the spot the old Elvish ruins where a shrine was one
erected on this holy site and beneath that the signs of earlier, ancient man’s
dolmens and stone table altars as well. This site might be the most ancient of
all the groves they have visited. They split up, Sif and Quick Jim stalking off into the woods to reconnoiter
while Najáre and Belton accompany Gaia to the remains of the shrine at the top
of a small rise.
At the Shrine Belton espies a time-worn bas-relief fashioned in the days of the Empire of Thassilon bearing a Fairy-like Green-Man seal somewhat similar to the holy symbol of The Green Faith.
As a Traveler of Desna's faith, he scratches the holy symbol of his patron goddess into the lower right corner to make his passage in this lonely place.
This desecration of this Holy Place of nature awakens the final guardian. A nameless behemoth of wild magic awakens, towering nine feet at the shoulder and weighing almost three tons if it's a pound! without a work it peels itself from the ground it has settled into and begins to make toward the rise and the shrine where our heroes search for the fabled treasure. Quck Jim happens to be only steps behind it as it uproots itself and he leaps into it's broad and grassy back to deliver an attack to its vital organs, only to discover that the whol thing is a creature of weed and rocks and dead logs and it lacks any kind of rational anatomy at all! He clings on like a horse-breaker as it lopes over the intervening distance to the shrine.
From the opposite side of the clearing, Sif espies the shambling mound of murderous debris and not to be forgotten by Valhalla, she races out of the woods and over the rise to meat this foe in glorious battle, axe in hand and the battle cries of her ancestors ringing from her throat. Najáre tears her axe and saber free from their scabbards and leaps up the front of the charging creature to join Quick Jim as Belton drops his chisel and peels a sword from his wings. Like a stone resolute, Gaia, the rescued maiden, turns ot face this onrushing horror. Unflinching, she kicks with her heel against the bottom of her elven blade's scabbard, sending two feet of it's length jumping from its sheath, the hilt and pommel springing into her waiting outstretched hand, her left hand glows with mystic radiance and she passes it before her body, sweeping upward slowly but steadily and a shimmering suit of radiant, astral armor of superlative craftsmanship and exquisite fit and workings appears over her body where her hand has passed. As her left hand sweeps gracefully before her face and head a full helm of celestial elven manufacture gleams into being, it's faceplate a find filligree of arcane words and elven script in a radiant gold and silver light. As the thundering guardian reaches the top of the rise she leaps as if pulled from the ground by an unseen hand toward the high head of this creature. The battle begins...