Chronicle Day: 168 (continued) As told by Abercrombie Whalan

Abercrombie’s Note

There’s a heaviness that settles on a man when he knows he’s walking into the heart o’ something wicked. Not fear — not exactly — but a weight, like the air itself is thicker.

Knockmort’s garden had grown darker with every step, and on this day, the shadows finally began tae speak.

Looting the Fallen

We stripped the six bugbears we’d slain near the cavern door. Among their gear, we found two more red apples, the explosive kind, still intact with stems. We added them tae our growing armoury — fruit grenades in a madman’s garden.

The owlbears sniffed at the bodies, then sat down beside Kaz, humming softly. Loyal beasts, for now.

The First Door — Tar and Traps

We stepped through the stone door and into a narrow corridor. Thirty feet ahead stood another door, slightly ajar.

Derek — aye, Rudy’s true Gaelic name, and I’ll be calling him Derek from now on — moved forward tae open it.

The moment he touched the handle, a tar trap dumped from above, drenching him head‑tae‑toe in black pitch.

He shrieked, flailing, calling for anyone with prestidigitation. Throsh obliged, scraping and cleaning until Derek looked less like a chimney sweep and more like a man again.

Kaz took over trap‑checking.

He triggered a tripwire immediately.

A crossbow bolt snapped past his ear and buried itself in the door behind us. A flare sputtered near the crossbow’s frame, casting jittering light across the corridor.

Kaz muttered something about “learning by doing.” I dinnae think he learned anything.

The Bugbear Barracks

Fifty feet further down lay another door. Sergei took point, stepping inside — and the tiles beneath him cracked and gave way.

A makeshift sleeping quarter lay beyond, and eight bugbears had barricaded themselves inside.

One stood out — clad in owlbear skin, towering, scarred, and holding himself with a strange authority. He spoke a single word:

“Yield.”

Throsh attempted tae parley, but the bugbear’s eyes were cold and disinterested. He wanted surrender, not conversation.

He told us Knockmort was not here — that the gardener we sought was back out in the cavern, deeper still.

We left them behind. There was no point in slaughtering creatures who’d already chosen not tae fight.

Back to the Cavern — The Second Door

We returned tae the cavern and hugged the natural wall, moving deeper until we found another door carved into the stone — smaller, older, almost forgotten.

Derek opened it. Kaz stepped through.

The walls inside were lined with pictographs — cuneiform-like symbols, hieroglyphic carvings, ancient warnings etched by hands long dead. They told of a great evil, a tree whose roots strangled the world.

A door waited in the southwest corner.

We followed.

The Shrine of the World‑Root

Ten feet in, the corridor turned left. Ten feet more, it turned right.

A brighter green light spilled ahead — harsher, sharper than the cavern’s glow. We entered a shrine.

A raised dais stood at the centre, and behind it rose an eight‑foot relief carved into the stone: a terrible tree, its roots coiled around the world like a serpent, crushing continents beneath its grasp.

But the light did not come from the relief.

It came from a gem embedded high in the ceiling, glowing like a sickly star.

The air hummed with power.

As one of us climbed the dais — I dinnae recall who — three hyenas burst from the shadows. They died quickly, barely worth the breath it took tae swing a blade.

Throsh examined the relief and found a hidden door behind it — and an inscription carved into the stone.

The passphrase for the guardian of the central oak.

The one Druchii warned us about.

Kaz, meanwhile, climbed up toward the ceiling and pried at the gem — the source of the bright green light. It resisted him at first, but eventually came free with a crack like splitting bone.

Ryn stepped forward then, quiet and purposeful, and handed two bags of holding — one tae Throsh, and one tae myself. A gift, and a responsibility.

Throsh stored the gem inside his.

The light vanished. The shrine dimmed. The air felt suddenly colder.

The Spirit Naga

Behind the relief’s hidden door lay a narrow passage — and beyond that, a chamber.

A giant serpent waited inside, coiled and watching. A Spirit Naga — ancient, hateful, and hungry.

Sergei stepped forward and was nearly killed in a single strike. Derek hurled daggers. Sergei slammed the door shut and froze it with magic, buying us precious seconds.

We braced ourselves, opened the door again, and fought.

The naga fell — not easily, but decisively.

When the chamber was safe, we lowered Derek into the pit. He rummaged through the coils and muck, emerging with a satchel heavy with coin:

• 5,175 silver pieces
• 200 gold pieces

We hauled him up, naga skin and all, and stored the satchel in my bag of holding.

The snake’s hide went in as well — a trophy, and perhaps a useful reagent.

Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan

The pictographs spoke true.

A tree whose roots strangle the world. A guardian who waits for the passphrase. A gardener who twists nature into weapons and wonders.

Knockmort is close now — close enough that the air tastes different, close enough that the roots hum beneath our feet.

We have owlbears at our side, fruit grenades in our packs, and a gem that pulses with stolen light.

Tomorrow, we follow the carvings deeper. Tomorrow, we confront the gardener.

The Whalan Chronicles continue.