Chronicle Day: 159–161 As told by Abercrombie Whalan

Abercrombie’s Note

Some tales are loud — all steel and shouting and the clash o’ battle. Others creep in quiet, like roots beneath the soil, twisting unseen until the earth splits open.

This is one o’ the quiet ones. And I dinnae think I’ll forget it soon.

Day 159 — The Road Frae Tor’Elyr

We left Tor’Elyr beneath a pale morning sun, the kind that promises warmth but hasnae yet found the courage tae deliver it. Phillip snorted clouds o’ steam as we rode, and the others traded jabs and stories, still riding the high o’ our victory at The Embassy.

Finnevar’s field report sat tucked in my pack — our first merit earned proper. But the road east felt… wrong. Still. Expectant.

It was Rudy who broke the mood.

“Yonath,” he said. “Farm boy. Messenger. Should’ve been back days ago.”

A simple lad, known for delivering vegetables and gossip in equal measure. Folk worried when someone like that vanished.

The clerk had asked us tae look into it. We agreed. Of course we did.

Garland’s Fork — A Village Gone Silent

We found the first sign o’ trouble long before we reached the village.

A tree stood in the middle o’ the road.

Not fallen. Not chopped. Grown — full and tall — right through the wheel ruts as though it had always been there.

And hanging from its branches:

• a torn shirt
• a basket
• a water skin
• a scrap o’ parchment pinned by a twig

Rudy climbed up, nimble as ever, and retrieved the note. The ink was smeared, the writing frantic.

“Help… something wrong… the water… changing us…”

The rest was lost tae panic and weather.

Kaz muttered something about “trees no belonging in roads.” Sergei’s jaw tightened. Throsh whispered a prayer tae Deshrinigex.

We pressed on.

The Village of the Changed

Garland’s Fork was silent in a way that made the hairs on my arms rise.

Not the quiet o’ dawn. Not the hush o’ snowfall.

This was the quiet o’ a place that had forgotten how tae breathe.

Trees grew where they shouldnae:

• through floorboards
• through beds
• through the roof o’ the inn
• through the anvil in the blacksmith’s shop

Branches held scraps o’ clothing, baskets, tools — as though the villagers had been caught mid‑task and… changed.

Rudy found a dog chained in a backyard — starving, trembling, but alive. The only living soul we’d seen.

Throsh examined the well. The water smelled wrong — metallic, earthy, like something old and restless had seeped into it.

“Could be a curse,” he murmured.

“Could be something in the water,” Sergei added.

None o’ us kent for certain. But we didnae drink it.

The Blacksmith’s Door

We were searching the blacksmith’s shop when the back door exploded inward.

A massive shape filled the frame — green skin stretched over corded muscle, patches o’ crude metal plates hammered into its flesh. Its mouth dripped blood.

A troll.

Then another.

The first roared, shaking dust from the rafters.

Kaz charged it without hesitation. Rudy vanished into shadow. Sergei stepped forward, fists igniting with a low, hungry flame.

The trolls came at us like a storm.

The Fight Among the Trees

The blacksmith’s shop was too small for a battle like this. Tools clattered, wood splintered, and the half‑grown tree in the centre o’ the room shuddered as the trolls slammed into it.

Kaz took the first blow — a sweeping claw that sent him crashing into the wall. Blood sprayed across the floorboards.

Rudy darted behind the second troll, daggers flashing. One found a gap between the metal plates; the troll howled and swung wildly, catching Rudy across the ribs. He went down hard.

“Rudy!” Throsh shouted.

Sergei stepped over him, fists blazing. He struck the troll square in the chest — and for the first time, the creature recoiled, its flesh sizzling.

Then we saw it.

The wounds knitting shut. The flesh crawling back together like wax melting in reverse.

Rudy, half‑conscious but sharp‑eyed even then, rasped:

“Fire! They need fire tae stay dead!”

That changed everything.

I loosed bolt after bolt, trying tae keep them back. Ryn, enlarged by his ain magic, crashed through the doorway like a living battering ram, slamming into the second troll and driving it into the yard.

Kaz rose again, bloodied but roaring, and cleaved into the first troll with a fury that shook the walls. Sergei followed, fire trailing from his fists. Throsh’s starry wisp streaked overhead, crashing into the troll’s skull like a falling star.

The creature staggered.

Rudy, barely conscious, hurled a dagger from the floor — it struck the troll’s eye.

Sergei finished it with a burning strike that split its head in two.

The second troll tried tae flee, but Ryn caught it by the leg and dragged it back. Kaz ended it with a final, brutal swing.

Both bodies twitched.

Then Sergei poured alchemist fire over them, and the twitching stopped.

Aftermath — The Roots of the Curse

The trolls carried:

• six flasks of alchemist fire
• skunk pelts
• a silver chalice inlaid with sapphires
• a basket of rations and a water skin

But no answers.

The villagers were gone — changed, transformed, or consumed. The well was tainted. The trees were too many, too sudden, too deliberate.

Something had happened here. Something old. Something patient.

And it wasnae finished.

Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan

I’ve seen death in many forms. I’ve seen battlefields, ruins, and the aftermath o’ monsters.

But Garland’s Fork unsettled me in a way few places have.

Not because o’ the trolls. Not because o’ the silence. Not even because o’ the trees.

But because the villagers had time tae leave a note.

Time tae understand what was happening. Time tae fear it. Time tae beg for help.

Whatever changed them did so slowly enough that they could write — and quickly enough that none survived.

We’ll return tae Tor’Elyr and report what we’ve found. But I fear the roots o’ this curse run deeper than one village.

And the road ahead grows darker.

The Whalan Chronicles continue.