The air in the Hexenwald forest was thick, smelling of damp earth and the sharp, metallic tang of ancient magic.
Lucia stood in the center of the witch’s hut, her eyes darting toward a heavy, leather-bound tome. She knew better than to touch it. She knew the stories of what happened to those who pilfered from a fellow witch’s collection.
And then she took it anyway.
“I’m keeping the book, guys,” Lucia said, her voice a mix of guilt and stubborn glee as she tucked it beneath her cloak. “I feel like I shouldn’t, but I want to. I’m just going to keep it.”
“That surely won’t cause issues in the future,” Sternberg muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He glanced at the mirror the wolfkin Zarah had just turned over—a silent dismissal. “We should get out of here. If whoever was on the other side of that mirror knows we’re here, and she doesn’t want to talk, we’re just being antagonistic.”
“To the treehouse then?” Lucia asked, looking toward the sprawling canopy that loomed over the lake. “It sounds more fun than staying here waiting for a doll with needles in it to show up.”
Upon reaching the treehouse near the western shore of the pond, the party realized that the lofty home didn’t have a ladder or rope to ascend.
“I could get up there and tie a rope,” Rudever mused. “Or… I’ll just solve every puzzle by turning into a duck.”
“An eagle,” Lucia corrected, watching as the druid’s form began to ripple and shift. “An eagle could actually carry the rope.”
With a sudden rush of feathers and a sharp cry, Rudever took flight, a heavy coil of hempen rope clutched in his talons. He banked toward the high platform of the treehouse, the party’s gear shrinking and merging into the transformation—a bit of magic Lucia found “adorable,” despite the predatory grace of the bird.
At the top, he didn’t find a monster, but a woman playing a fiddle. The music was strange, vibrating through the floorboards in a way that felt less like sound and more like a physical pulse.
“I’m sorry to barge in,” Rudever said, shifting back into his human skin and adjusting his cloak. “We saw your treehouse and were curious so we had to come look.”
The woman didn’t stop playing. Rudver, ever the seeker of lore, felt the pull of the music. Eventually she stopped and acknowledged his presence.
“It’s not polite to barge in, but what’s done is done. I am Astrid, who are you who darkens my door?” The woman said.
The young woman was dressed in dark robes and had bright red hair. Her home was filled with instruments, particularly fiddles, and comfy chairs or piles of pillows atop thick rugs. A pot of tea boiled away continuously on an open fire.
Jumping down from her perch, Astrid said, “Call your friends up and we can all make acquantices.”
With that she kicked over a long rope ladder with wooden steps that clattered all the way to the forest floor. Once the rest of the party made the ascent, Rudever introduced himself and the others. Astrid was polite if a little coy at times and seemed to find the adventurers amusing.
After asking why the party was in the Hexenwald, the mood changed. Astrid was happy to hear it was time for the Fallturn festival, but when the group mentioned the attacks from Restless Dead, Astrid went pale for a moment.
“You should talk to Silence,” she said. “I can’t believe any of my fellow witches would be involved — even if Emmaline is creepy sometimes — but Silence would know what is going on.”
While the others discussed the festival at the village and the “Restless Dead” stalking the woods, Rudver sat near her, plucking at a spare fiddle, trying to match the resonance of the wood and the wind.
“I want to learn this,” Rudver whispered. “Stone singing. Is it a gift for dwarves, or can it be shared?”
The woman looked at him with eyes that seemed to see the vibrations of his very soul. “There is harmony in nature,” she said. “More than you know.”
Rudever opted to stay behind when the party got to their feet to visit Silence on the opposite side of the pond. After promising to come find him if anything happened, the rest of the adventurers climbed down to the forest floor and set out along the winding path.
As they trekked toward the northern route, the atmosphere shifted from whimsical to lethal. The woods grew silent—too silent. Then came the dragging footsteps and the dry, rattling breath of the Restless Dead.
“I see no reason to fight if we can avoid it,” Lucia whispered, her hand on her crossbow. “Save our strength for something bigger.”
“I’’m not so sure,” Sternberg disagreed, his eyes scanning the treeline. “I don’t want to be caught in the dark by a mob of these things. Better to take them on now while there is light.”
Zarah was the deciding vote and opted for a quick retreat. They tried to slip through the brush, but the dice of fate were unkind. Sternberg stumbled, the snap of a dry branch echoing like a rockslide. The dead turned in unison.
“Push through!” Sternberg hissed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He felt his resolve fraying, his body reaching its breaking point. “I’m going to be broken if I keep this up. I have to fight!”
He pulled his blade and it sang as it left the scabbard. He became a whirlwind of steel, hacking into the gray, desiccated flesh of the corpses to buy the others time to retreat.
Lucia provided cover, her crossbow bolts thunking into the trees as she signaled the retreat. “Run! We’re running!”
The adventurers fought a running battle through the forest before breaking the first line of the dead. While they caught their breath, they heard what sounded like a warhorse followed by a pack of wolves.
In a flash, a massive shape burst through the underground and smashed into the oncoming zombies. Zarah the wolfkin gasped when she recognized the person before them. It was the old woman riding a massive alpha wolf she had seen the night before.
Seconds after the wolf burst through, it was followed by a swarm of dire wolves. The pack ripped the remaining undead to shreds. The woman and the wolf turned to the party and she spoke directly to Zarah.
“You are lucky I arrived when I did,” the woman whispered. “You may call me Mother Malb, and this is my pack. We protext the Hexenwald.”
Zarah was halfway through a response before she noticed something strange. The rest of her friends were staring at her and then she looked keenly at the old witch. She realized that Mother Malb had not moved her lips but was instead speaking in sign language — but somehow Zarah had her a voice in her head.
“Do you all not hear her,” the wolfkin asked. Everyone shook their heads and made it clear they didn’t understand the woman.
She began to move her fingers in a series of sharp, fluid gestures. To Sternberg and Lucia, it was gibberish. But Zarah’s eyes widened. She recognized the tilt of the head, the flick of the wrist. It was the silent language of the forest—the way a wolf signals the hunt, or a raven marks a carcass.
“You… you speak the wild tongue,” Zarah whispered.
She responded to the witch in kind, her hands mimicking the twitch of an ear and the low prowl of a shadow. The others watched in baffled silence as their hunter engaged in a frantic, voiceless debate with the mysterious wolf rider.
Not wasting any time, Malb continued and issued orders to Zarah. “You and your friends will be safe the rest of the way to Silence’s home if you follow the main path. My wolves will trail you to make sure you’re undisturbed. Tonight is not an evening you should sleep outside.”
With that, woman and wolf raced off at an unnatural speed and disappeard into the forest.
Meanwhile, back at the treehouse, Rudever was pressed to the edge of his musical ability. After trying his best to maintain a duet with Astrid on a variety of instruments, the witch put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I think you have talent. I can teach you the rudimentry aspects of Stone Singing magic if you’d like.”
“Yes,” the druid responded. “But am I allowed to? I that only the dwarves were allowed that power?”
“There should be no issue as long as your use does not bring disharmony,” Astrid replied. “However, my time is valuable, as is this ability. What do you offer in trade?”
Rudever emptied the contents of his pack, and proffered many items but her eyes fell to one of his most treasured artifacts — Wail’s Horn. With a deep sigh, the druid offered up the gift—a horn that had seen the fall of a fire giant knight—in exchange for the secrets of the earth.
After the bargain was struck the pair played for hours. The powerful witch having the half-elf practice with a variety of instruments, vocals, and musical theory. The combination gave Rudever arcane insight that he had never considered possible before. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he felt a new power thrumming in his bones.
Across the pond in the east, Rudever’s compatriots had just reached Silence’s hovel as the sun disappeared over the horizon. It wasn’t so much a hut as it was a mound—a swelling of the earth itself, crowned with a chimney that exhaled thin, pale ribbons of smoke.
“Silence lives here?” Sternberg asked, sheathing his blade. “Fits the name. It looks like a place where sounds go to die.”
“She was recommended,” Lucia reminded them, stepping forward to knock. She hesitated, then rapped her knuckles against the reinforced wood of the door. “Hello? We were sent by the Mother Mab and Astrid. We’re looking for… well, for Silence.”
The door didn’t creak; it swung open with a heavy, muffled thud. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of drying herbs and the smoke of hundreds of candles. As the party settled onto low stools, the silence became oppressive.
Looking around the room, the party realized the home extended much higher into the air than it would appear from the outside. The hut was filled with alcoves, shelves, and other resting places for a plethora of lit candles.
It was Lucia who noticed the minute detail that caused her to cry out. Each of the candles was inscribed with an arcane rune.
Before she could warn her friends, a cheerful voice wafted out from the smoky darkness, “Welcome friends. I am Silence, and it seems like you’ll be my guests…”
JesseFolk.com 