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Scene 14:A Misty Morning in Willowshade
Random Verbs, Scold, Muddle, flower
I read that as someone is scolding someone over a mix up with some flowers
The mist clung to the cobbles like a secret not yet told. Willowshade, still drowsy from yesterday’s bustle, now wore silence like a shawl. The market stalls stood empty, their canvas flaps fluttering like tired sighs. Elric the merchant had vanished with the dawn, his caravans creaking away toward distant trade routes, leaving behind only the scent of cinnamon and old stories.
A few villagers stirred — Old Marnie swept her doorstep with ritual precision, muttering to her cat about the price of turnips; young Thom practiced his slingshot aim at imaginary goblins behind the well; and somewhere near the temple, the bell gave a single, accidental chime, as if clearing its throat.
The village breathed slowly, as if waiting for something — a letter, a traveler, a forgotten prophecy tucked into the roots of the willow tree by the pond.
Renka was the first to break the hush, her boots still damp from morning dew. “Well,” she said, hands on hips, “what do we do now? Wait for a goblin to knock politely?”
Nyra, ever the practical one, adjusted her scarf with ceremonial flair. “We’ve been tasked with guarding the village until the season turns. So we guard. With valor. And snacks, if possible.”
Renka squinted toward the misty woods. “Protect it from what, exactly? Rampaging turnips? Mischievous fog spirits?”
Nyra shrugged, her eyes twinkling. “I’m sure the answer will arrive in due time. Possibly wearing a cloak and carrying a riddle.”
Branwen and Lini remained silent. Lini’s snow leopard, however, flicked its tail with theatrical menace and let out a low, thoughtful chuff — the kind that suggested it had already spotted something worth worrying about.
Droogami’s tail flicked once, twice — the kind of motion that meant something was off. Not danger, exactly, but the kind of social discord that snow leopards find mildly offensive. The party paused.
From the direction of the temple came raised voices: a man, sharp and scolding, and a girl, defensive and flustered. The words “petals,” “ruined,” and “ceremony” floated through the mist like gossip on stilts.
Renka tilted her head. “That doesn’t sound like a goblin.”
Nyra squinted. “No. But it does sound like a quest.”
Branwen remained silent, arms folded. Lini crouched beside Droogami, who was now staring intently toward the voices, ears twitching like antennae tuned to village drama.
The companions led by Droogami the snow leopard, make their way over to the mist shrouded temple.
Brother Cress, priest of Shelyn, goddess of beauty and art, stood stiffly beside the temple’s flower-strewn threshold. His robes were rumpled, his tone sharp. “These are funeral blooms, child. Not ceremonial. The petals are wrong. The scent is wrong. The message is wrong.”
Lark Pindle, cheeks flushed and fingers stained with pollen, clutched her basket. “But I picked them from the glade! The same glade I always do. The same patch, even. I swear it!”
Cress pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then something has changed. And that is no small matter.”
Renka leaned toward Nyra. “Protecting the village includes flower drama now?”
Nyra nodded solemnly. “Everything’s connected. Besides, I like a good glade mystery.”
Branwen said nothing, but her gaze was already drifting toward the woods. Lini crouched beside Droogami, who let out a low chuff — the kind that meant investigate now, nap later.
Cress turned to the group. “If you return with the correct ceremonial blooms, I will bless you at the temple. And perhaps we’ll all learn what’s truly stirring in the glade.”Brother Cress, priest of Shelyn, goddess of beauty and art, stood stiffly beside the temple’s flower-strewn threshold. His robes were rumpled, his tone sharp. “These are funeral blooms, child. Not ceremonial. The petals are wrong. The scent is wrong. The message is wrong.”
Lark Pindle, cheeks flushed and fingers stained with pollen, clutched her basket. “But I picked them from the glade! The same glade I always do. The same patch, even. I swear it!”
Cress pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then something has changed. And that is no small matter.”
Renka leaned toward Nyra. “Protecting the village includes flower drama now?”
Nyra nodded solemnly. “Everything’s connected. Besides, I like a good glade mystery.”
Branwen said nothing, but her gaze was already drifting toward the woods. Lini crouched beside Droogami, who let out a low chuff — the kind that meant investigate now, nap later.
Cress turned to the group. “If you return with the correct ceremonial blooms, I will bless you at the temple. And perhaps we’ll all learn what’s truly stirring in the glade. Perhaps Lark, you will be kind enough to show them the way.”
Scene 15: The mist-drenched forest glade.
When the party reached the glade, the mist seemed to thicken and the air felt heavier — not dangerous, but reverent, like a place that remembered too much. The patch where Lark Pindle always gathered ceremonial flowers now bore only mourning blossoms: dusky violets, pale lilies, and a single black hellebore, nodding as if in apology.
Lini knelt beside Droogami, who sniffed the soil with quiet intensity. “Something’s shifted,” she murmured. “The land is grieving.”
Branwen traced a finger along a fallen petal. “Or remembering.”
Nyra, ever the tactician, scanned the glade. “This isn’t just seasonal. It’s symbolic. Something buried. Something lost.”
Renka raised an eyebrow. “You think flowers are mourning a thing?”
Branwen nodded. “Not just any thing. A truth. A theft. A wound that never healed.”
Mist swaddled the glade like a forgotten lullaby. The party stood among the funeral blooms — dusky violets, pale lilies, and the black hellebore that bowed as if in mourning. Sound was muffled, as though the forest itself held its breath. Time bent softly, like a reed in water.
A faint scent of ash and rosemary lingered — not unpleasant, but ancient. Lark Pindle clutched her basket with both hands, her voice hushed. “This is where I always pick them. Nothing’s changed. But everything feels… different.”
Above, a bird as black as pitch circled once, twice, then landed without a sound. Its eyes glowed like twin embers, watching.
Then she appeared.
The Crow-Speaker.
She stood motionless at the edge of the glade, her feathered cloak rustling without wind. Her face was obscured, her presence undeniable. She did not speak. She never did — not unless offered something meaningful.
An item.
A memory.
A question spoken aloud.
Droogami growled low, not in threat but in recognition. Branwen stepped forward, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade. Nyra whispered, “This feels like a threshold.”
Renka nodded. “Then let’s knock.”
Roll d6 on the Echoes Table.
Echoes Table: What Does the Land Mourn?
| d6 | Echo of Mourning | The Crow-Speaker’s Response | Clue or Consequence |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | A Broken Oath | “A promise made beneath the elder boughs… and broken in silence.” | A faded ribbon is found tied to a root — the colors match the founding family’s crest. |
| 2 | A Stolen Name | “The land remembers what was taken… and who dared not speak it.” | A tree bears a scar shaped like a sigil — a family mark long thought lost. |
| 3 | A Buried Truth | “Not all graves hold bones. Some cradle secrets.” | Droogami uncovers a buried locket or carved token — tarnished, but unmistakably old. |
| 4 | A Forgotten Song | “Once, the glade sang. Now it weeps.” | Lark hums a tune she doesn’t remember learning. Cress later identifies it as a mourning hymn from the heirloom’s era. |
| 5 | A Watcher Unseen | “The glade is not alone in its grief.” | The black bird returns with a scrap of parchment in its beak — a fragment of a journal or map. |
| 6 | A Shadow Unnamed | “The thief walks still, cloaked in legacy.” | One of the villagers begins to act strangely when the party returns, as if recognizing something they shouldn’t. |
Lini rolls 5.
Lini moves beside Branwen and rest her hand on the Rangers arm, indicating to her that she must not show aggression. Lini speaks to the Crow-Speaker in a quiet, reverent tone, “What does the land mourn?”
The Crow-Speaker’s voice echoed like wind through hollow branches:
“The glade is not alone in its grief.”
The black bird took flight, circled once, then returned with something clutched in its talons — a torn fragment of a journal, its edges singed and brittle. The ink shimmered faintly, written in an ancient language none of the party could decipher. Even Branwen, who had studied old border scripts, shook her head.
Lini stepped forward, her voice soft but steady. “Will you help us understand?”
The Crow-Speaker did not reply. Instead, she tilted her head, and the bird hopped to the edge of the flower patch. It pecked at the ground — once, twice — then paused, as if waiting.
Droogami prowled closer, ears alert. The soil beneath the flowers seemed to shimmer, and a faint hum rose from the earth — not sound, but sensation. A memory, perhaps, waiting to be unearthed.
The crow continues to peck at the ground, it seems to be focusing its attention on a specific flower, the black hellebore. Branwen holds the piece of journal in her hand, she draws her shortsword and starts dig, as she does so she notices something odd about the journal, the words seem to be rearranging, she can begin to read them.
The fragment of journal hints and the heirloom’s last bearer, and a place it was hidden.
Branwen shows the text to Lini who upon reading it turn to face the Crow-Speaker ready to ask more questions, but the Crow-Speaker is gone, then, with a squawk, the crow takes off to.
Lini turns back to Branwen, “keep digging, I believe this is where we will find what was hidden. Droogami, help Branwen please.”
They dig further and further down, and then Droogami purrs. There, hidden under the flowers, a small jeweled locket is revealed.
to be continued.
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