Chronicle Day: 166 As told by Abercrombie Whalan
Abercrombie’s Note
Knockmort’s garden is a place o’ wonders and horrors, each plot a wee experiment in madness. The deeper we walked, the more I felt the earth watching — curious, hungry, patient.
And on this day, the garden gave us fruit, pets, and enemies in equal measure.
Plot Six — The Forsythia Fruit and the Mellowing Curse
The sixth garden bed rose like a fat, leafy hill — thick vegetation, broad leaves, and clusters o’ unnaturally yellow fruit, swollen and glossy like they’d been lacquered.
Rudy approached first, cautious but curious.
The mound moved.
Leaves shuddered, vines tightened, and the whole hill rose up like a waking beast. It lunged at Rudy with a wet rustling roar, but we were ready. Steel, spell, and fury cut it down quick — easier than most things we’d fought in this cursed cavern.
When the creature fell still, Kaz — reckless as ever — plucked one o’ the yellow fruits and bit straight in.
His eyes widened. Then softened. Then… mellowed.
The rage drained out o’ him entirely. His shoulders sagged, his breathing slowed, and he looked at us with the expression o’ a man who’d forgotten what anger even felt like.
We found a marker stone half‑buried near the roots:
Forsythia.
A name for the fruit — and a warning.
Kaz tried tae rage again. Nothing. Not even a spark.
In the hedgerow nearby, we heard rustling — then soft hoots. Two owlbears, enormous and shaggy, frolicking like cubs, utterly harmless, utterly mellow — their eyes half‑lidded, their movements slow and playful.
They wandered toward us, sniffed curiously, then nuzzled into Kaz’s shoulder like oversized puppies.
And just like that, we had two owlbears as pets.
I dinnae ken if it was wise, but gods help me, they were adorable.
Beside the yellow fruit grew clusters o’ blue fruit. Kaz ate one o’ those as well — aye, he never learns — and the magic settled into him like a cool breeze. His mind sharpened, his instincts steadied.
Advantage on wisdom, Throsh said. “But don’t eat too many,” he added. “Unless ye want a hangover that’ll make ye beg for death.”
Kaz pocketed a few anyway. The owlbears followed him like children following a sweet‑seller.
Plot Seven — The Apple Trees and the Grenades
The next plot held two massive apple trees — branches heavy with red and green apples, stalks o’ corn growing between them but strangely barren, no ears at all.
The ground beneath the trees was blackened out tae ten feet, as though scorched by repeated blasts.
I approached carefully and plucked a red apple — not from the branch, but from the stem itself.
It exploded in my hand.
A sharp crack, a burst o’ force, and a spray o’ pulp. I staggered back, ears ringing.
A weapon. A fruit‑grenade.
We harvested four red apples, each one carefully removed with the stem intact — safe tae carry, deadly tae throw.
Red Apple Grenade
- Damage: 2d6 force
- Save: DC 16 Dexterity
- Trigger: Removing the stem
We also gathered eight green apples for rations — blessedly normal, blessedly safe.
The owlbears tried tae eat one o’ the green apples whole. Kaz stopped them, muttering something about “exploding shits.”
Toward the Door — The Bugbear Patrol
We made our way toward the stone door near the quicksand plot — the one Druchii had warned us about, the one that likely led deeper into Knockmort’s domain.
But the path wasnae empty.
A patrol o’ seven bugbears emerged from the shadows, weapons drawn, eyes hard. They fought with brutal discipline — not the wild raiders we’d seen above, but trained guards.
Throsh frowned the moment he saw them.
“This is wrong,” he muttered. “Bugbears dinnae come this far south. The Embassy was built tae keep them — and the orcs and goblins — in the North.”
His words settled over us like a cold fog.
If bugbears were here, deep beneath Garland’s Fork, then Knockmort’s influence reached far beyond twisted plants and cursed moss. Something — or someone — had drawn northern warbands south of the line they were meant tae fear.
The fight was brutal. Steel clashed, spells cracked, and the owlbears barreled into the fray with delighted hoots. Six bugbears fell, and one fled into the dark, shouting for someone named Koralat.
A warning carried on swift feet.
Before we could breathe, a swarm o’ Sturges descended — but we cut them down quickly, the owlbears swatting them from the air like bothersome flies.
I dinnae think I’ve ever loved a creature more.
The Final Guard — Six More Bugbears
Closer tae the door, six more bugbears stood waiting — a second line o’ defense. They charged without hesitation, but we were ready. Steel met steel, magic met flesh, and moments later the last o’ them fell.
The stone door loomed before us now, silent and heavy.
No rest taken. No time bought. No turning back.
We stood bloodied, bruised, and breathing hard — but still standing.
The owlbears sat beside Kaz, humming contentedly.
And beyond that door lay Knockmort’s true garden.
Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan
Forsythia fruit that steals rage. Blue fruit that sharpens the mind. Apples that explode like grenades. Creatures tamed by sweetness. Creatures twisted by moss. Guards trained tae kill. And now — two owlbears who’ve decided we’re their family.
All circling the great oak at the cavern’s heart — the place Druchii fled back tae, the place where the guardian waits.
We stand at the threshold now, the stone door cold beneath our hands.
Tomorrow, we open it. Tomorrow, we face whatever Knockmort has left for us.
The Whalan Chronicles continue.
