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

Abercrombie’s Note

We’d been hunting Knockmort for days — following his moss, his fruit, his twisted creatures, his traps, his pictographs.

But nothing prepared me for the truth.

Knockmort wasnae some druid hiding in the roots. He was the roots.

The Pit of Filth

Leaving the naga’s chamber behind, we returned tae the main cavern and turned right, skirting the wall. Derek and I scouted ahead, the air growing foul with every step.

Then we smelled it.

A stench so vile it clawed at the throat — refuse mixed with the rot of death, thick enough tae taste. Ahead lay a pit, 100 feet across and 40 feet deep, filled with organic waste, half‑liquefied, half‑solid, all disgusting.

Even approaching the edge made us nauseous.

But beneath the filth, we saw glints — metal, gear, weapons. Treasure buried in a midden.

Kaz didnae hesitate. Before we could tie a rope to him, he dove straight in.

Derek slipped toward the pit himself, barely catching his balance. The cavern was dark, but Kaz still had the night‑vision berries in his system.

Our owlbear companions, Mr Hoot and Owly, followed Kaz without hesitation, hooting excitedly as they splashed into the muck.

Kaz rummaged through the refuse and found:

• +2 dagger
• Bracers of Defense
• Two healing potions
• Masterwork thieves’ tools

Derek uncovered:

• Two emerald‑studded leather collars
• A small locked strongbox

He pocketed the collars with a grin.

The Otyughs Emerge

The ground beneath the refuse erupted.

Two massive creatures burst forth — tentacled, foul, eyes gleaming with hunger. Otyughs.

Kaz was struck hard, nearly killed in a single blow. Sergei dove in after him, shouting for us tae help.

Mr Hoot and Owly were attacked as well, screeching in pain.

Derek hurled daggers, landing the killing blow on the beast mauling Kaz. Ryn rushed tae help the owlbears, shouting arcane words.

Throsh slid down the pit wall and stabilised Kaz, who lay bloodied but breathing.

The second Otyugh fell soon after.

The pit grew quiet again — save for the soft, pained hoots of our companions.

The Strongbox and Derek’s Sleight of Hand

During our brief respite, Ryn examined the emerald collars, muttering about enchantments he couldnae quite place.

Derek, using the masterwork thieves’ tools, cracked open the strongbox with deft fingers. Inside he found 32 gold pieces.

He pocketed the lot without a word — then handed each of us 2 gold pieces with a smile.

A rogue’s habits die hard.

The Illusion Wall

We continued toward the tree we’d climbed down earlier, passing the garden shed. Derek found tracks — fresh ones — going back and forth across the cavern floor.

We followed them until they led straight into what appeared tae be a solid stone wall.

Derek pressed his hand against it. Then his head. And it passed straight through.

An illusion.

Beyond lay a natural stone chamber with two doors — one on the left, one on the right.

The Giant Bats

The chamber echoed with dripping water and the beating of wings. Five giant bats screeched from the darkness.

We dispatched them quickly — blades, bolts, and magic cutting through the gloom.

The Gardener’s Storeroom

We checked the left door first.

A smell of peat moss and cinnamon drifted out — strange, earthy, almost pleasant. Inside were tools and crates sized for a very large gardener, barrels filled with a white chalky powder, and a small box containing a darker powder.

Throsh warned us sharply:

“Do not touch, ingest, or inhale any of this.”

We obeyed.

A small coffer held a glowing stone, similar tae the gem Kaz had taken from the shrine ceiling. I placed it carefully in my bag of holding.

Sylvan text marked the barrels — unreadable tae all of us.

We took small samples of the powders, sealing them in potion bottles for later study.

The Treant Laboratory — Knockmort Revealed

The right‑hand room was worse.

A massive laboratory scaled for a creature twice our size — flasks, burners, beakers, strange apparatuses lining a long stone table. A bookcase sagged under the weight of tomes.

And beside the desk stood a Treant, symbols painted across its bark like ritual scars.

He turned toward us.

And in that moment, I knew.

The moss. The fruit. The vines. The fungus. The pictographs. The guardian. The garden.

All of it flowed from him.

Knockmort.

The gardener of Garland’s Fork. The corrupter of the oak. The architect of the cavern.

He raised a branch, and the roots beneath the floor trembled.

The fight was immediate.

Bolts, daggers, axes, fists, and spells flew. Knockmort roared, summoning a second Treant from the roots — a twisted servant, bark blackened, eyes hollow.

Sergei went down hard, crushed beneath a sweeping branch.

We fought like cornered animals — Kaz raging, Derek darting between roots, Throsh shouting warnings, Ryn weaving spells, Mr Hoot and Owly biting and clawing.

At last, Knockmort fell.

His servant collapsed beside him.

The room grew still.

The gardener was dead.

A Well‑Deserved Rest

We dragged Sergei to safety, tended wounds, and finally — finally — allowed ourselves tae rest.

The cavern hummed quietly around us. The powders, the glowing stones, the pictographs, the Treants — all pieces of Knockmort’s grand design.

And now the gardener lay silent.

Tomorrow, we see what remains of his garden.

Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan

We came seeking the source of the corruption. We found him.

Knockmort was no druid, no hermit, no mad botanist. He was a Treant twisted by his own ambition — a creature who believed the world should be shaped by roots and vines, not men.

We rest now, bruised and weary, but victorious.

Tomorrow, the Chronicle continues.