Chronicle Day: 166 As told by Abercrombie Whalan
Abercrombie’s Note
Sleep came fitfully beneath the earth.
Even inside Throsh’s conjured hut, with its warm glow and familiar safety, the cavern felt alive around us — shifting, breathing, whispering. I dinnae ken if it was the roots, the plants, or simply my own nerves, but every sound echoed like a warning.
And in the morning, when we stepped out into that green‑lit garden again, I felt as though the earth itself was watching.
The Watches — Uneasy Rest Beneath the Roots
We took our watches in pairs. Mine passed quietly enough, though the cavern hummed faintly, like distant insects or a heartbeat in the stone.
Rudy and Kaz heard movement — soft, skittering, never close enough tae see. I saw the fear in Rudy’s eyes when he returned tae the hut. The trolls had shaken him badly, and the darkness below the earth did him no favours.
Still, nothing breached the dome. We lived tae see the morning.
Or whatever counts as morning in a place without sky.
The Garden Beds — A Circle of Experiments
The cavern floor was divided into great circular plots, each one filled with strange vegetation. The green glow from the central oak cast everything in shifting hues — black one moment, blue the next, then green again.
We moved anti‑clockwise, keeping tae the outer ring first.
Plot One — Ragweed and the Moss of the Well
The first bed held herbs — ragweed mostly, harmless enough. But beneath the leaves, we found moss.
The same moss whose scent clung tae the well in Garland’s Fork.
Kaz, in his boundless curiosity, licked it before any of us could stop him. A heartbeat later, he went pale.
I recognised the smell instantly — the metallic, earthy tang that had clung tae the cursed water above.
“Spit it out,” I told him. “All of it.”
He forced himself tae vomit, and Throsh helped with a well‑placed punch tae the gut. Most of the moss came up. We prayed it was enough.
We bagged the rest separately, far from food or water. Whatever curse had taken the villagers began with this.
I’m certain of it.
Plot Two — The Vermilion Bushes and the Night‑Vision Berries
The next bed was dominated by towering vermilion bushes, eight feet tall, thick with diamond‑shaped leaves and clusters of tiny red berries.
I’d never seen their like.
A cautious taste revealed them tae be edible — tart, almost citrus‑sharp — and moments later, the darkness of the cavern sharpened around me.
Darkvision.
A gift from the earth itself.
We harvested handfuls, storing them carefully. Useful as they were, I dinnae trust anything grown in this place without question.
Plot Three — The Dead Man in the Herbs
A patch of herbs concealed a corpse — half‑buried, half‑forgotten. His gear was intact: a dagger of fine make, a thick money belt, and a few coins.
We covered him again when we were done. It felt wrong tae leave him exposed.
Another victim of Knockmort’s garden, no doubt.
Plot Four — The Moss‑Covered Pines and the Red Crystals
A stand of stunted pine trees grew here, each one coated in thick moss and dusted with red crystalline growths. They looked like sugar, brittle and sparkling in the green light.
We harvested a few samples. Whether they were food, reagent, or poison… time would tell.
But the moss on the trunks matched the moss from the well. Another thread in the same tapestry.
Plot Five — The Dancing Flowers and the Fountain of Vines
This bed held orange flowers that swayed as though listening tae unheard music. Kaz danced with them, of course. I dinnae think he could help himself.
At the centre stood a stone fountain — a child pouring water from a jug — but the basin was choked with vines.
When Sergei leaned in tae inspect it, the vines struck.
They wrapped around him like living ropes, dragging him toward the water. We hacked and burned at them until the central vine snapped, and the rest fell limp.
Another guardian. Another experiment.
Knockmort’s hand was everywhere.
Plot Six — The Quicksand Fern
A massive fern dominated this bed, its fronds brushing the cavern ceiling. The soil beneath it shifted strangely — and when Kaz stepped forward, he sank.
Fast.
We hauled him out with ropes, strength, and no small amount of panic. The ground swallowed him like a hungry mouth.
We marked the area and moved on.
The Shriek in the Bushes — Fungus That Hunts
In the vermilion bushes, a shrill cry split the air. I’ve heard dying animals, wounded men, and worse — but this was different. Wrong.
Four fungal creatures burst from the foliage — viridian mushrooms with tendrils like grasping fingers. They shrieked again, a sound that rattled my teeth.
We fought them in the narrow paths between the bushes. One fell quickly. The others fled into the dark.
I dinnae think we’ve seen the last of them.
The Crate — And the Dryad Within
Near the central oak, half‑buried in hay, we found a chained crate. When we opened it, a swarm of giant rats burst forth, snapping and clawing. We dispatched them quickly.
But the crate held something else.
A small wooden figure — a dryad, emaciated and trembling, her bark‑skin cracked and pale. She looked at us with hollow eyes and whispered her name:
Druchii.
She begged us tae take her tae the oak.
We did.
When she touched its bark, she dissolved into it — merging with the tree like water into soil.
Before she vanished, she spoke one name:
Knockmort.
The gardener. The experimenter. The one who twisted this place into what it had become.
And she warned us:
“The oak has a guardian. Speak the passphrase, or it will tear you apart.”
Then she was gone.
The Chest Beneath the Earth
Beneath loose soil near the oak, we found a buried pouch and chest:
- A potion of strange, swirling colour
- A pouch heavy with gold — more than a thousand pieces
- A few scattered coins and trinkets
We divided what we could, though I suspect not all hands were honest. But gold is the least of our worries now.
Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan
The deeper we go, the clearer the pattern becomes.
The moss. The berries. The vines. The fungus. The dryad in chains. The corpses hanging from the oak above.
This is no natural garden. It is a laboratory. A proving ground.
And Knockmort — whoever or whatever he is — tends it with a cruel and patient hand.
Tomorrow, we approach the central oak. Tomorrow, we face its guardian.
And if Druchii spoke true, the passphrase may be the only thing standing between us and death.
The Whalan Chronicles continue.
