Greg awoke to the unfamiliar comfort of a proper mattress beneath him, a rare luxury after the harsh conditions of the road. The soft morning light filtered through the wooden shutters, casting faint patterns across the small tavern room. As he shifted, the creaking of the bedframe was accompanied by the rhythmic sound of slow, steady breathing.
Turning his head slightly, Greg smirked at the sight of Sienna resting in a chair near the window, arms crossed over her chest, her bow within reach. Even in sleep, she remained a ranger first, though she had clearly found some ease in their temporary refuge. More surprising was the fact that she had taken the chair, leaving Greg the bed—a small gesture of trust or practicality, though he decided not to dwell on it too much.
His stomach growled, an audible protest against the meager rations he had been surviving on for days. Deciding food was now a priority, Greg silently rose, taking care not to disturb his resting companion, and made his way downstairs.
The Rusty Stag’s common room was already alive with morning activity. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and a hint of ale mingled in the air, a stark contrast to the cold, stale provisions of the wilds. Greg’s sharp eyes scanned the room, noting a mix of townsfolk, traders, and off-duty guards scattered among the tables, each engaged in quiet conversation.
The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with greying hair and an apron dusted with flour, caught sight of him and waved him over. "Ah, finally awake, are ya? Your lot slept like the dead. Thought about waking you, but figured you needed it. Got a plate ready—roast venison, potatoes, fresh bread. Five copper, or you can put it on that merchant’s tab if he’s still feeling generous."
Greg reached into his coin pouch and placed a silver piece on the counter. "Nah, I got this one," he said, then gestured toward the stairs. "But bring a plate up for the lady still resting. No need for her to be bothered coming down just to eat among hooligans."
The innkeeper smirked as she pocketed the silver. "Proper gentleman, eh? I’ll have it sent up soon. She’ll eat well, don’t worry."
As Greg settled at a table, he tore into his meal with the kind of appreciation only a man fresh off the road could muster. While eating, he let his ears wander, picking up snippets of conversation from the surrounding tables.
-
A pair of guards spoke of increased patrols at night, unsure if the captain was acting out of necessity or paranoia. "The captain's got us doubling shifts, but I've yet to see anything myself." "Aye, but them woods ain't right. I hear things at night. Some folks claim to see figures lurking just outside the torchlight."
-
Two traders whispered about missing caravans on the northern roads. "Three wagons gone missing in the last fortnight. No wreckage, no bodies, just gone." "Think it's bandits?" "Doubt it. Bandits leave bodies, even if they loot 'em."
-
A farmer, deep into his ale, ranted about his failing crops. "I tell ya, it ain't natural! The soil ain't holdin' right—crops witherin’ before they can grow! And I ain't the only one!"
Though none directly mentioned undead, the signs were there. Strange figures, missing caravans, and land turning sour—it all painted a picture of something unnatural creeping closer to Ormstead.
Greg polished off his meal and returned the plate to the counter. "That hit the spot," he said, watching the innkeeper’s reaction.
She grinned, wiping down the counter. "A man with an appetite like yours must be a hard worker—or a hard fighter."
"Bit of both," Greg admitted.
She leaned in slightly. "You and your friends came in at an interesting time. Folk around here have been uneasy. Some say it’s just bad luck—crops failing, merchants disappearing, shadows where they shouldn’t be. But I know old trouble when I see it. And this? This feels like trouble."
Greg glanced around to ensure no one was listening too closely. "They’re not wrong. I ran into a missing caravan myself. And those shadows?" He exhaled sharply. "They’re not just shadows."
The innkeeper’s face darkened. "That bad, huh?"
"If I were you, I’d keep to the safety of the town walls for now."
She nodded grimly. "I’ll make sure others do, too."
Before long, the rest of the party began filtering downstairs. Trevor was the first, looking disheveled but better rested than before. He plopped onto a stool beside Greg, rubbing his eyes. "Didn’t think I’d wake up to the smell of something decent. Slept better than I have in weeks. I’ll give this place that much."
Greg smirked. "You’re lucky to be waking up at all."
Trevor huffed a laugh. "So, what’s the word?"
Greg leaned in, voice low. "Townfolk are noticing the same problems we saw in the forest—strange figures, crops failing, things lurking just outside torchlight."
Trevor frowned. "Sounds like we weren’t just unlucky."
Aren joined them next, looking more refreshed, followed by Sienna, who slid into the seat across from Greg. "Got my meal delivered," she remarked. "Guess I have you to thank for that?"
Greg gave a small grin. "Figured you’d want to enjoy a decent meal in private. Hope I didn’t snore too much."
Sienna smirked but didn’t comment.
As they settled at a more secluded table, the conversation turned serious. Greg recounted what he had overheard, and the group mulled over the implications.
"If whatever’s behind this is inching closer to town, it means it’s spreading," Aren noted grimly.
"And we already know it’s smart. Those things we fought weren’t just wandering corpses. They were hunting," Trevor added.
Sienna tapped a finger against the table. "We need to find the source. If we wait too long, Ormstead could be overrun."
Greg nodded. "We all know where this likely started." His mind drifted back to the dead clearing, to that massive tree and the way the undead had gathered around it.
Trevor exhaled sharply. "That damn tree. Whatever was rotting in that clearing felt wrong."
"If that’s the source, the real question is, do we go back? Or do we try to find someone in town who knows more?" Sienna asked.
Aren stroked his chin. "If the town has records of past undead incidents, we should start there. Otherwise, we’re walking in blind."
Greg pulled the strange stone collar from his pack. "The guards told me to speak to their captain. If he believes us, we might get help."
He sighed. He had never been one to play the hero, but seeing that cursed bear... It gnawed at him. If he ignored this, was he even worthy of the path he walked?
"Look," he said finally, his tone serious. "If we do this, we could all die. And we’re not exactly equipped to break undead curses."
Sienna smirked. "I’ve always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory."
Trevor scoffed. "Terrible sellsword mindset. No profit in dying."
Aren nodded. "We start with the town guard. If Ormstead’s dealt with undead before, they’ll have some idea of how to fight it."
Greg exhaled. "Alright. Let’s go find the man in charge."
"Barracks should be the best place to start. If the guards are worth anything, their captain should be there during the day," Trevor said, running a hand over his weary face.
The Rusty Stag bustled with the low murmur of townsfolk discussing their daily struggles, their voices blending into the crackling of the hearth and the occasional clink of tankards. Greg sat at the table, arms crossed as he listened to Trevor’s suggestion.
Sienna adjusted the strap of her quiver. "Let’s hope he’s in a listening mood. I’d rather not have to fight our way out of town for causing a panic."
Aren smirked but said nothing, merely falling in step with the group as they rose from their booth and made their way out of the tavern inn. The streets of Ormstead were bustling, but there was a quiet unease lingering in the air. Villagers moved with wary glances toward the outskirts of town, as if expecting something to emerge from the wilderness at any moment.
The barracks stood near the town square, a sturdy stone building with a modest training yard enclosed by a wooden palisade. A pair of guards flanked the entrance, gripping their spears as they looked the group over but made no move to stop them. Greg led the way inside, where the scent of oiled leather and sweat hung thick in the air. Off-duty guards sat at a table, rolling dice and exchanging quiet banter, their laughter subdued.
A young soldier, no older than twenty, looked up from his post. “Something you need?” he asked, eyeing the group with mild curiosity.
Greg straightened up. "Looking for Captain Eldrick. Got some urgent business to discuss."
The guard frowned but gave a short nod, jerking his head toward a door further inside. "He’s in his office. Knock first."
Sienna sighed. "Great, let's see how this goes."
Greg stepped forward and rapped three firm knocks on the door. "Gregory Bearheart, visitor. Here to make a report to the Captain."
A gruff voice responded almost immediately. "Enter."
Greg pushed the door open, stepping inside with the others close behind. Captain Eldrick sat behind a heavy wooden desk, several scattered reports laid out before him. A man in his forties, he had the look of someone who had spent more years in armor than out of it—his face lined from years of service, his dark hair peppered with gray. His armor, though well-kept, showed signs of wear.
His sharp eyes flicked over the group, lingering on Greg before settling back onto the papers in front of him. "Bearheart, was it?" he repeated, setting his quill aside. "You don’t look like one of mine, so this better be good. I assume this has to do with whatever warning you gave my gate guards earlier?"
Greg nodded and stepped forward, placing the strange stone collar onto Eldrick’s desk. "Aye. We ran into some real trouble on the road here. Bandits, sure, but worse than that—undead. Not just your usual shambling corpses, either. Something’s out there in the woods, stirring up the dead, and we got a bad feeling it’s not stopping."
Eldrick leaned forward, picking up the collar and turning it over in his hands. His expression darkened. "Go on."
Greg detailed their journey—finding the dead clearing, the undead gathered around the massive tree, the shadowy figures watching from afar. He described the battle with the twisted undead humanoids, their unnatural movements, and the zombified animals they'd encountered, including the wolf and the strangely resting bear.
Eldrick listened intently, his face growing graver with each passing detail. By the time Greg finished, the captain exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair. "Well, damn," he muttered. "You’re not the first to report strange figures in the fields at night, but no one’s come back with details like this."
He ran a thumb over the carving on the stone collar. "The woods have always had their dangers, but necromancy? That’s different. And if it’s affecting the wildlife, that means it’s spreading. Most undead wander aimlessly. They don’t watch. They don’t track. If something intelligent is behind this, then we’ve got a serious problem."
His steel-gray eyes locked onto Greg. "You said the tree seemed to be the center of it? If that’s the source, then it needs to be dealt with. But I don’t have men to spare—not with bandits still an issue on top of this. If you lot were able to fight through it once, what would it take for you to go back and put a stop to it?"
Greg exhaled. "Supplies. Equipment that might prove useful in a direct assault. All I came to town with is this," he said, motioning toward his greataxe.
Eldrick nodded. "Fair enough. I can’t send men with you, but I can at least make sure you’re not walking into that nightmare empty-handed." He gestured toward a locked weapons rack. "I can requisition some basic gear—torches, oil, maybe a couple of vials of holy water if the temple still has any to spare. If you need better weapons or armor, you’d have to speak with the blacksmith. Name’s Rurik Ironbrand. He’s fair, but he doesn’t work for free."
Greg couldn't help but glance at the others, gauging their reactions in this chosen course.
Trevor met his gaze with a firm nod. "We started this together. No sense in leaving the job half-done."
Sienna exhaled sharply, rolling one shoulder. "Wouldn’t sit right with me to walk away, not after what we’ve seen. That thing in the woods… it needs to be dealt with."
Aren hesitated but adjusted his glasses. "It’s reckless. And dangerous. But I’d rather face it head-on than wait for it to creep up to these walls." He sighed. "I’m in."
Greg saw it in their faces—they weren’t backing down. They were with him.
The half-orc squared his shoulders. “We’ll do it,” he affirms to Eldrick and to reassure him says he has a plan.
Captain Eldrick listens intently as Greg lays it all out. When the mention of alchemist’s fire comes up, the man’s brows furrow slightly, but he doesn’t immediately object. As Greg finishes and tacks on the request for healing potions, Eldrick leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest.
“You’re asking for alchemist’s fire,” he muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not something we keep in great supply here—it’s dangerous, and expensive. But given the circumstances…” He glances at one of the guards standing by the door. “See what we have in storage. If we’ve got any, bring it here.”
The guard nods and quickly exits. Eldrick then focuses back on Greg and the others.
“Healing potions, I can spare two. More than that, and I’m dipping into what we need for our own wounded, should things turn worse.” He stands up, pacing slightly. “I appreciate that you’re taking this seriously. I don’t have men to send with you, but I’ll make sure you’re not walking into this empty-handed.”
The guard returned shortly with a small crate, setting it down on Eldrick’s desk. Within, two vials of thick red liquid glistened in the dim light—healing potions. Next to them were three flasks filled with alchemist’s fire. Eldrick gave a satisfied nod. “This is what I can spare. Use it wisely.”
Greg reached forward, inspecting one of the vials before sliding it into his pack. “Do your stocks have any spare weapons or armor?” he asked.
Eldrick smirked. “Standard militia gear—nothing fancy, but it’ll serve.” He motioned for a guard to lead them to the storeroom.
Inside, racks of weapons and armor lined the walls. Greg’s eyes settled on a sturdy chain shirt, a steel shield, and a battleaxe. The weight of the shield felt foreign at first, but his grip adjusted quickly, his experience as a mercenary evident. He strapped the chain shirt over his broad frame, the cool metal pressing against his skin.
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Sienna grabbed a quiver of arrows, nodding in approval. “Good call. I was running low.” Trevor examined a longsword before taking it, replacing his worn spear. Aren, ever the pragmatist, picked up a healer’s kit and a small vial of silver dust.
With their new gear secured, they returned to Eldrick, who surveyed them one last time. “You’re taking on a serious risk. If things get too dire, get back here.”
Greg smirked. “Understood.”
Eldrick nodded. "I bid you luck. If you can root out whatever’s causing this, Ormstead will be in your debt."
Before leaving town, they needed to stop by the marketplace. But Greg first went back to the Rusty Stag to wake Vannis and drag him along, ensuring the merchant lord contributed to their cause. They gathered rations, torches, rope, and other essentials for travel. Sienna procured a hunting trap, while Aren picked up two flasks of holy water.
As Greg secured the last of his provisions, he turned to Vannis with a pointed look. “When we get back, I still think you owe us more than what’s on that tab.”
Vannis sighed, snapping his coin purse shut. “Just make it back in one piece.”
Greg smirked, saluting the merchant with two fingers. The last sight Vannis had of them was their figures disappearing into the treeline, marching toward the setting sun, and into the heart of the cursed woods once more.
Chapter 7: Unwelcome Return
The sun hung low on the horizon, casting its last feeble rays over the village of Ormstead. The streets bustled with the faint echoes of daily life winding down, yet the four warriors had no interest in rest. With the undead threat still looming over the region, Gregory Bearheart and his party prepared to depart. Their destination: the clearing where the twisted dead gathered beneath the cursed tree.
Greg secured the last of his supplies, checking the straps on his battleaxe before pulling his newly acquired shield snug against his arm. He glanced over at Sienna, the shifter ranger, who adjusted her quiver and double-checked her bowstring with practiced ease. Trevor, the steadfast fighter, sat on a wooden crate near the town gates, tightening the bindings on his gauntlets. Aren, the group’s druid, rolled his shoulders and exhaled sharply, as if steeling himself for what was to come.
“We travel by night,” Greg declared, his voice firm. “No need to wait on daylight when three of us see just fine in the dark. The longer we waste, the worse this could get.”
Aren lit a small torch, its flickering flame the only real light among them as they stepped beyond the village’s protective walls. The forest swallowed them in an eerie embrace, the towering trees blotting out the sky as the sounds of the town faded into the distance.
* * *
The night was still, almost unnaturally so. The party moved with purpose, their pace measured yet determined. Greg took point, his instincts honed from years on the road. Sienna followed closely, her sharp eyes scanning the darkness for movement. Trevor and Aren walked in step behind, ever watchful for threats lurking just beyond sight.
Hours passed, and the deep silence of the wilderness was broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves underfoot. Then, suddenly, Sienna tensed, her hand flashing up in a silent signal to halt.
Greg gripped his battleaxe. “What do you see?”
“Shadows,” she whispered. “Four… no, six figures moving between the trees.”
Trevor exhaled sharply. “Let me guess—more of those twisted bastards.”
The moment stretched, tension thick in the air. Then, the faint crack of branches gave way to the grotesque forms of the undead stepping into the dim light. Tattered remnants of clothing clung to their skeletal frames, and their hollow eyes glowed faintly with an unnatural, eerie light.
Aren lit a second torch, raising it high. The undead recoiled slightly, their forms twitching, as if caught between hunger and hesitation.
Greg’s grip on his axe tightened. “Stay close, hold the line. We put them down—permanently.”
Sienna nocked an arrow, exhaling as she took aim. “Then let’s get to work.” Sienna loosed her first shot, the arrow striking one of the creatures squarely in the chest. It staggered but continued forward, unrelenting in its pursuit of the living.
Aren, murmuring a quick incantation, thrust his hand toward the forest floor. Vines erupted from the earth, writhing like grasping fingers, ensnaring three of the undead where they stood. The creatures snarled and thrashed against their restraints, but the enchanted roots held firm.
Greg stepped into position, raising his shield just in time to deflect a swiping claw from an approaching ghoul. The impact rattled his arm, but he held firm. Trevor, meanwhile, met another attacker with the full force of his longsword, cutting deep into rotting flesh.
“Three held, three coming through,” Aren called out. “Keep them off me!”
Greg grinned, blood pumping hot in his veins as he tapped into his rage. He shifted his stance, muscles coiling like a spring, then lunged forward with a powerful swing. His battleaxe struck true, carving deep into the undead’s shoulder, nearly cleaving it in half. Yet the creature still stood, its decayed body refusing to fall.
“Damn persistent, aren’t you?” Greg muttered, yanking his weapon free.
Trevor let out a sharp curse as another undead lunged at him, its bony fingers raking across his arm. He retaliated with a precise counterstrike, severing its head with a single, fluid motion.
Sienna kept to the rear, her arrows finding their marks with deadly efficiency. “Two down!” she called.
Aren held his focus, reinforcing the spell keeping the remaining undead entangled. “Then finish the rest!”
Greg answered with action, stepping past Trevor and bringing his axe down upon the nearest restrained enemy. The undead gave a guttural hiss before Greg’s blade severed its spine, ending its unnatural existence.
Moments later, the last of the creatures fell, Sienna’s arrows and Trevor’s sword cutting down those that remained. The battlefield fell silent once more, save for the heavy breaths of the victorious warriors.
The party stood among the lifeless corpses, weapons still in hand. Aren moved to Trevor’s side, producing the healer’s kit to tend to his wounds.
“Just scratches,” Trevor insisted, though he did not protest as Aren began wrapping his injured arm.
Greg nudged one of the corpses with his boot, scowling. “No markings, no signs of where these fellas came from.”
Sienna frowned. “Except this.” She knelt, brushing away a layer of cloth and filth on one of the corpses to reveal a faint sigil etched into the skin.
Greg grunted, staring at the symbol. “It looks like a brand."
Aren sighed and trembled. “You know, that makes me feel more nauseous.”
“Yeah,” Greg admitted and planted his heavy foot to cave in the corpse's midsection. “Just an eye sore now," looking at the now mangled find.
Trevor wiped his blade clean, glancing toward the darkened forest ahead. “Are we pressing on?”
Greg took one last look at the carnage before rolling his shoulders. “Yeah. We push on.”
With that, the party moved forward, leaving the broken bodies behind as they continued toward the heart of the corruption.
Chapter 8: Shadows at Dusk
The morning mist had long since burned away under the steady glare of the midday sun, leaving the air dry and the forest unsettlingly quiet. With their camp packed and gear checked, Greg ensured each carrying a vial of Alchemist’s Fire was secured and easily accessible. Weapons were sharpened, armor adjusted, and supplies accounted for. The weight of the task ahead hung over them, but the party made themselves ready in their own way.
“Listen,” Greg addressed the group, his tone firm. “We should make the clearing around nightfall. Sunset if we’re lucky. Just keep sharp out there. We can’t afford any slacking.”
Trevor nodded in agreement, adjusting his grip on his weapon, while Sienna instinctively checked her arrows once more. Aren, standing slightly apart, murmured an incantation, reassuring himself of his magical reserves. They had spent the previous morning hours resting to be certain they went into tonight at their best, but the unease of the task ahead still loomed over them like a dark omen.
The journey was uneventful at first, the dense forest gradually giving way to more barren stretches of land. The trees thinned as the group marched forward, the eerie stillness of the land growing more pronounced. The closer they got, the more it felt as though something unseen was watching them. The wind whispered through skeletal branches, carrying with it a sensation of something unnatural lingering just beyond their sight.
As Greg predicted, they reached the outskirts of the clearing near sunset. The sun was low on the horizon, bathing the forest in a deep orange glow, the first hints of twilight creeping in. Greg halted the group, holding up a hand.
“Alright, looks like we got here easy enough,” he grunted. “Let’s first scope out the perimeter. Make sure we don’t get bogged down by enemy undead. We take a stealth approach until we know what these shadows we’re dealing with are.”
He turned to Aren, recalling the druid’s earlier spellwork. “Just curious—how many of those trap spells can you muster?”
Aren furrowed his brow in thought. “I’ve got a couple left in me for the day. Two, maybe three if I push it. But if we’re expecting a big fight, I’ll need to save energy for other spells.”
He glanced towards the darkening treetops, his expression serious. “I can help us move quietly though. I’ve got a spell that can dampen our steps for a while.”
Greg nodded in understanding. “We need to make sure our approach goes as quiet as possible.” He looked to the others. “We’ll go in under cover. Yes, Aren, keep that spell up as long as you can.”
The druid muttered an incantation, and suddenly the forest seemed to wrap around them, the shadows deepening unnaturally. Their footsteps became eerily muffled as if the very air swallowed any sound they made. Greg motioned for Sienna to take point, leading the party forward.
They moved like ghosts through the underbrush, their steps soundless beneath the enchantment’s embrace. The eerie silence of the clearing ahead sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. He didn’t like it—too quiet, too still.
Sienna, keeping sharp eyes ahead, suddenly signaled the group to slow. They had reached the edge of the treeline, where they had a vantage point over the dead tree and its surroundings.
Greg leaned in. “What do you see?”
Sienna’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the clearing. “Undead,” she whispered. “At least six. They’re standing like sentinels—completely still.”
Greg frowned. “That’s not normal.”
“There’s more,” Sienna added. “The shadows we saw before… I see them again. They’re not moving like the undead. They’re watching.”
Greg felt his grip tighten on his greataxe. “How many?”
“Three, maybe more. They’re quick, blending into the darkness, but they’re studying the undead… almost like they’re waiting.”
A knot formed in Greg’s stomach. He didn’t like this. If the shadows weren’t undead, that meant they were either intelligent enemies—necromancers, cultists—or something far worse.
“And the tree?” Greg asked.
Sienna’s voice was grim. “There are glowing runes etched into the bark. They pulse with some kind of sickly green light. And the ground at the base—something’s been disturbed there. Either something was buried, or something was dug up.”
Greg clenched his jaw. This was getting worse by the minute. “Alright,” he said, thinking fast. “We’ve got two plans. But both could get us swamped.”
He laid out the first: have Sienna loose a fire-tipped arrow into the dead tree. If it was the source of the corruption, burning it might weaken the undead.
“Of course, that’s assuming it doesn’t just enrage them all,” Greg muttered.
Aren rubbed his chin. “If the tree is fueling them, burning it could be the key to stopping this.”
Trevor folded his arms. “And if it’s a trap?”
Greg frowned. “Then we deal with it.”
He explained the second plan: take out the shadowy figures first. If they were controlling the undead, eliminating them might stop whatever dark influence held sway over the clearing.
“But now I’m concerned about the patch of earth Sienna spotted,” Greg admitted. “Could be something cursed, drawing them in. Or it could be something was dug up and caused this mess.”
The group was silent for a moment, weighing their options.
“I say we handle the shadows first,” Aren finally said. “If they fall, the undead might stay put.”
Trevor nodded. “We can always burn the tree later. Assuming we’re still alive.”
Sienna smirked at that, agreeing this was the best option forward.
Greg exhaled sharply. “Alright. We circle around, keep low. If we take out those figures, we might stand a better chance against the rest.”
“How much time left on your spell?” he asked of Aren.
“Maybe ten minutes, give or take,” the druid whispered about the effects of Pass without Trace.
Greg motioned forward. “Then let’s move.”
He took point, leading Trevor and Aren in a tight formation, while Sienna trailed behind, keeping a watchful eye on their rear. Their movements were like shadows among the trees, creeping ever closer to their target.
As they neared the figures, Greg spotted a small ridge overlooking the clearing. A perfect vantage point. He signaled the others.
They scaled the ridge without issue, crouching low behind scattered brush. Now they had a better look.
The figures weren’t undead. They were armed. Cloaked figures watching the undead with unnerving patience.
Greg’s gut twisted. These weren’t mindless corpses—they were something else entirely.
“We don’t know what they are yet,” Greg muttered. “Could be bandits, could be necromancers admiring their handiwork.”
Trevor’s fingers twitched near his weapon. “What’s the play?”
Greg spoke in quiet tones, "Let's see what we're dealing with first. We'll lure them here to avoid a fight on two fronts.” He turned to Sienna. “Loose an arrow their way. Don’t hit them—just close enough to make them react.”
Sienna quietly nodded as Greg laid out the plan. Moving with careful precision, she set a hunter’s trap along the footpath leading toward the ridge, ensuring it was concealed just enough to catch a careless pursuer. Her years as a ranger had trained her well in such tactics, and as she secured the mechanism, her eyes darted back toward the shadowy figures near the large dead tree.
Once the trap was in place, she nocked an arrow, taking careful aim. It wasn’t meant to strike, merely to misdirect—just enough to draw their attention without immediately revealing the party’s position. As she loosed the arrow, it streaked through the dimming light and landed with a soft thud into the dirt a few feet away from the figures. The group near the tree stirred, shifting slightly at the sudden noise.
Sienna took a slow step back into the shadows where Greg, Aren, and Trevor had already taken cover. With Pass Without Trace still active, they moved deftly, pressing themselves into the foliage, their breath quieted as they observed the figures’ reaction.
The figures paused, scanning the direction of the noise. The leader, a lean man draped in a dark cloak, took a careful step forward, eyes narrowed with suspicion. A hushed murmur passed between them before they began moving toward the source of the disturbance.
Seeing this, Greg seized the moment and began emitting low, guttural growls from his hidden position. His deep voice rumbled through the trees, bouncing off the uneven landscape in eerie echoes. It wasn’t loud, just unsettling enough to sound like the distant growl of a predator lurking in the underbrush.
The figures froze. One of them cursed under his breath. Another hesitated, gripping a short blade at his side. The leader signaled the others to move cautiously, their steps now slower, more deliberate. It was clear they weren’t entirely sure what they were dealing with. Were they about to be ambushed by a beast? Or was something else at play?
Then, the trap was sprung.
A sharp snap echoed through the still air as one of the figures stepped into Sienna’s hunter’s trap. A strangled yelp followed as the metal jaws clamped down around his boot, yanking him forward with enough force to send him stumbling to one knee.
"Watch it," one of the others hissed, moving quickly to help him before realizing the predicament his fellow had triggered.
Greg smirked. That was all he needed.
With a sudden surge of movement, the half-orc burst from his cover, battleaxe in one hand, shield in the other. His imposing frame emerged from the darkness like a specter of war, his voice a commanding growl.
"Alright, the gig is up. Drop the weapons, hands where I can see ‘em!"
The figures froze as the rest of the party emerged from their positions, surrounding them like a tightening noose. Sienna’s arrow was nocked, aimed directly at the closest target. Trevor and Aren revealed themselves, weapons drawn and ready for a fight. The air crackled with tension as the strangers found themselves suddenly caught at a disadvantage.
The leader’s gaze flicked from Greg to each of his companions, sizing up the situation. Though clearly uncomfortable, he kept his tone measured. “No need to get jumpy,” he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. “We’re not here for trouble—at least, not with you.” He loosened his grip on his sword but did not fully release it. “I’m Cael. We’re just... trying to make sure things stay under control.”
Greg’s sharp eyes didn’t miss how Cael’s gaze darted toward the clearing, to the looming silhouette of the dead tree standing in eerie stillness. The barbarian tightened his grip on his battleaxe.
“Care to explain what ‘under control’ means out here?” Greg asked, voice low and heavy with suspicion. Greg let those words settle for a moment before stepping forward, his broad frame imposing in the moonlight. Then he began listing off all the undead encounters they had fought since entering these woods.
Cael hesitated before answering. “Alright, alright,” he relented, raising his hands slightly. “We’re not bandits—at least, not in the way you’re thinking.” He glanced toward his crew before exhaling sharply, deciding how much to reveal. “We took on a contract... kinda shady but... they're interested in what’s happening out here—in the deadwood, the undead. We’ve been keeping tabs like instructed but, well you can see... the situation got out of hand. Some of the undead are just mindless husks, but others... they, they turn twisted and run off howling.”
His voice dropped as his eyes flicked toward the tree. “That thing is drawing them all in. It’s like a beacon. And I fear something darker is pulling the strings.”
“Sounds like you’ve been real effective, at watching,” Greg's tone laced with biting sarcasm.
Cael had the decency to look sheepish, but the half-orc wasn’t finished. He cast a look toward the others. “I am in the mood to make a deal, though,” he admitted, eyes narrowing as he measured their worth.
Cael swallowed hard, the tension in his posture easing just a fraction. “A deal?” he echoed cautiously.
Trevor scoffed, pivoting his longsword . “Probably depends on whether you’re actually worth keeping around.”
Aren, always the more diplomatic, made it sound nicer. “Or if you have any useful skills to aid us here.”
Sienna, bow still trained on them, narrowed her eyes in response, as if daring them to say no.
Greg huffed, lowering his battleaxe just slightly. “Look, we’re here to deal with this situation properly,” he said, leaving no room for argument. Then, with a tilt of his head, he motioned toward Cael’s injured man, still caught in Sienna’s hunter’s trap. “Get him out and try to bandage him up so he doesn’t stumble about.”
Trevor and Aren moved to assist, loosening the trap and dressing the wound with the supplies they had. The injured man hissed but nodded his thanks, still wary of his captors.
While the first aid was being administered, Greg motioned for Cael to step aside with him. Lowering his voice, he ordered, “You’ll hang back with our ranger pal here. Guard her flank, call out if any other undead come from the brush. Make yourselves useful.”
Cael opened his mouth to argue but quickly shut it when Greg’s gaze darkened. The half-orc casually ran his thumb across his throat—a silent but clear warning.
Cael sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. No funny business.”
Sienna muttered under her breath. “Great. I get to babysit.” She shot Greg a glare. “If they get in my way, I’m shooting ‘em.”
Greg smirked. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
With that, the immediate tensions settled. Greg turned back to the group. “Alright, we do this now.” He shut down any further debate before it could start. “Night’s almost on us, and I don’t want to risk any more undead gathering.”
He quickly ran through the plan again, this time ensuring Cael and his men knew their role. Sienna would launch a fire-tipped arrow into the tree, hoping to set it ablaze. Aren would follow up with an Entangle spell to snare as many of the undead as possible, giving them a chance to split their numbers should they advance.
“You lot,” Greg said, nodding at Cael’s men, “hang at our rear. Call out if anything tries to sneak up on us.”
Trevor adjusted his grip on his longsword. “Risky, but the fire might shake things up.”
Aren rolled his shoulders, gripping his staff. “I’ll trap them as soon as the arrow lands. We’ll need to move fast.”
Sienna finished wrapping the tip of an arrow in oil-soaked cloth. “Let's make this count.”
Greg gave one final look around the group, ensuring everyone was in position. The plan was set.
With a strike of flint and steel, Sienna lit the arrow’s tip, drawing her bowstring taut as she took careful aim at the gnarled, cursed tree.
Greg inhaled, watching the clearing for anything that might foil their plan.
Seeing none, he gave the final order. “...And fire.”
race: half-orc, class: lv.4 barbarian, subclass: totem warrior
statblock: 18 Str, 14 Con, 14 Dex, 8 Int, 10 Wis, 12 Cha
other feats: lv.4 ASI -> Tavern Brawler
But these changes were made during the revision process.
During the actual game itself, he was listed as a fighter, but no actual feat was ever used.
Again these changes were made during the revision process. Also using the spell-less ranger variant for her.
During the actual game, she was listed as a beastmaster ranger, but had no pet.
Changes also made during the revision process. Using the UA variant of this sidekick class so he has full spell progression.
Idea was to make him a druid spellcaster, without making him an actual druid.
Other notable thing about him is his lv.4 ASI was subbed for the Healer feat to build up his support role as a background character.
The other two are sidekicks tied to wherever Vannis's storyline goes. Which I have ChatGPT planning to be the next lv.4 story.