Chronicle Day: 165–166 As told by Abercrombie Whalan

Abercrombie’s Note

There are places in this world where the air feels wrong. Not cursed, not haunted — just wrong, as though the land itself is holding its breath.

Garland’s Fork was such a place. And the deeper we went, the heavier that breath became.

After the Trolls — A Village Holding Its Secrets

We gathered at the well after the fight, each of us bruised and shaken. The water shimmered faintly in the light, but none of us dared touch it. The smell alone was enough tae warn us — metallic, earthy, wrong. Whatever had twisted the villagers had begun here, and we kent better than tae risk it. We kept our distance and tended our wounds with potions and bandages instead.

There was still one building left tae search.

The Burnt Farmhouse

The farmhouse stood wide and low, its western wall torn open by a great burnt hole. The yard behind it was trampled flat, the horse pen broken, and the animals gone — not eaten, but taken. Blood marked the ground, but no bodies remained.

Tracks told the tale: bipeds, some barefoot, some shod, many more than the trolls we’d fought.

A raiding party had come through here long before the trolls arrived.

Inside, the others found little but ash and ruin — until they came upon a diary left open on a bed. The pages were filled with the voice of a young woman, frightened and alone:

• A green flash in the sky.
• Her hair turning tae leaves.
• A fear that she was becoming something else.
• A belief that a woman named Quella, the barmaid, had cursed her.
• And finally, despair — the sense that the whole village was falling tae the same fate.

I read the last entry twice. It chilled me more than the trolls ever had.

Tracks Into the Forest

We rested briefly — potions, bandages, a few whispered prayers — then followed the tracks eastward. Throsh and Gil scouted ahead, slipping through the trees like shadows, while the rest of us kept a steady pace behind.

The forest grew denser, the air thicker. After nearly an hour, the trees opened into a clearing.

And there it stood.

The Hollow Tree

A lone, massive tree rose from a small hill, half its leaves gone, its trunk hollowed at the base. A lattice of roots covered the opening like ribs over a chest.

The moment I saw it, my stomach tightened.

There was something ancient about that tree — not in age, but in purpose. As though it had been waiting for us.

We descended one by one, climbing down the roots into darkness.

The Cavern Below

The shaft dropped nearly seventy feet into a vast cavern lit by a dull green glow. The air smelled of spice, moss, and guano. Roots hung like ropes from the ceiling, and the ground was uneven with soil and stone.

Beyond the first chamber lay an underground garden — raised beds of oversized poppies, sunflowers, strange blue plants, and a palm bearing green coconuts that glowed faintly in the cavern light.

It would’ve been beautiful, if not for the silence.

Then the silence broke.

The Sturges

A swarm of Sturges burst from the shadows, wings beating like leather drums. One latched onto my shoulder before I could raise my crossbow, its needle‑like mouth piercing deep. The pain was sharp and cold, as though it were drinking more than blood.

Kaz roared and swung wildly. Rudy cursed and vanished into shadow. Sergei struck them from the air with blazing fists. Ryn, enlarged by his magic, swatted them like flies.

I tore the creature from my shoulder and crushed it underfoot, breath ragged.

More came. Then more.

We fought in a frenzy, blades flashing, spells crackling, blood dripping onto the cavern floor. At last the swarm broke, scattering into the dark.

Some of the giant poppies uprooted themselves and shuffled away, as though offended by the violence.

I dinnae ken what unnerved me more — the Sturges, or the flowers that walked.

The Shack and the Prisoners

Deeper in the cavern stood a wooden shack, cramped and cluttered with gardening tools, barrels, and worktables. A bell‑trap on the door had been cleverly disarmed earlier.

Inside, a second locked door led tae a small prison room.

Four villagers lay on straw mats — emaciated, barely conscious, their eyes dull and unfocused. They breathed, but only just. Their spirits were broken, their bodies starved, their minds somewhere far beyond reach.

We gave what healing we could. It wasnae much.

We left the door unlocked and told them where tae find the rope. Whether they had the strength tae climb… I dinnae ken.

But leaving them locked away felt worse.

A Moment of Rest

Exhaustion weighed on us like wet wool. We gathered near the garden plots, harvesting fifteen green coconuts and examining the strange plants. The cavern hummed faintly, as though the roots themselves were whispering.

Throsh conjured his Tiny Hut, and we settled inside its protective dome. Outside, the cavern glowed green and silent.

Inside, we breathed — for the first time since entering Garland’s Fork.

Tomorrow, we would follow the tracks deeper into the forest. Tomorrow, we would learn what truly happened here.

But tonight, beneath the earth, surrounded by roots and shadows, I couldnae shake the feeling that something was listening.

Something old. Something patient. Something waiting.

Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan

The trolls were never the heart of this. Nor the raiders. Nor the Sturges.

Something else lies beneath Garland’s Fork — something that twists flesh into bark and breath into sap.

And whatever caused that green flash… it didnae fall from the sky by accident.

The Whalan Chronicles continue.