With the sinking sun bleeding orange onto the river’s surface, and Glynfir’s magical detection waning, the group repositioned themselves in a tighter formation aligned with the anomaly’s boundaries and continued the search southward. The deeper they went, the stranger things became. The aggressive infestation of non-native foliage gradually swallowed the undergrowth. Thick vines boasting bright pink flowers and white-splotched, head-sized leaves provided a tropical flair, strangling the trunks of the area’s long-standing sycamores and willows.

  Tsuta knocked his elbow against the ranger’s side, silently getting his attention. Gesturing with his eyes, the bald monk brushed back a waterfall of plant life, exposing small blocks of smooth white boundary stone standing neatly in a row.

  “At some point, there was a community here,” he breathed, pointing the tip of his staff in evidence toward similar anomalous shapes hiding beneath the carpet of green.

  The frequency of the peculiar stick figure warnings also increased, becoming impossible to miss; some attached directly to the foreign vines, twisting innocently in the afternoon breeze. Flocks of some species of electric blue bird with the wings of a dragonfly and the head of a lizard flushed from the thick ground cover, with an annoyed buzz, every third step. But the strangest sight, by far, was the emergence of a thatched-roof cottage, nestled in the heart of a small clearing, several miles from where they began back at the main road.

  The clearing itself showed no signs of recent homesteading. A circle of lush green grass surrounded the dwelling. The area’s only other feature was a hulking, massive stump. Over six feet at the base, rising five feet from the ground, the top edge was jagged and blackened, suggesting an end far more sinister than any axe or saw could deliver.

  The cottage was simple, with no more than two rooms. Timber lashed together with the thick, tropical vines provided the rectangular frame. The roof was a single peak broken by a modest stone chimney. The surface was slathered in the typical base layer of mud and dried thatch interwoven with more of the vines. Growing and flowering happily on their sunny, sloped anchor, their presence brought a kaleidoscope of green, pink, and white to the dwelling’s otherwise drab, earth-toned palette. Off the side of the structure, a modest railed paddock contained a single dappled grey mare, grazing contentedly. A small curl of smoke twisted skyward from the chimney top.

  Someone was home.

  With a raised fist, Segwyn gave the signal to halt when the clearing came into view. Sinking behind a large mound of overgrown deadfall, he motioned the others to his position.

  “What now?” Iskvold hissed as they all pressed their backs against the moss-covered brush pile. “Do we just step up and knock?”

  Lunish shook her head. “I wouldn’t, not until we get a look at whatever lives there. If it is a hag, or more than one, there are several varieties, none of them pleasant. I say we watch from a distance until we know better.”

  Iskvold quietly snorted before rolling her eyes. “Boring.”

  Bird rose to a crouch, glancing at Whydah. “It might also be a good idea to spread ourselves out a bit. I’m headed around the back, just in case there’s another exit.” The halfling nodded in reply, and the two quietly peeled off to the right before disappearing around the side of the clearing.

  Forest life went on, unconcerned around the others as they watched for any sign of life within the cottage. Thirty minutes later, the wooden slab creaked against its hinge, and the door swung open. From the shadows within, a half-elven man emerged, wearing a hide cloak over brown and green canvas robes. One hand clutched a crude wooden pipe jutting from his bearded jaw. Two fingers rose and fell above the bowl’s surface, while grey clouds of smoke bloomed from the corner of his mouth as he drew on its stem. His other hand gripped two straps attached to a folded animal hide that swung as he strode toward the pile of cut wood propped against the cottage wall around the corner.

  “What do we think?” Iskvold prompted Lunish. “Hag or no hag?”

  The druid peered out over the lip of their hiding place. “Definitely not a hag. She’d have no reason to be disguised as a man of elven heritage just hanging around the house.”

  Tsuta turned to Glynfir. “What is it with you halfies, and your love of facial hair, Mustache?”

  Keeping his eyes on the stranger across the clearing, the wizard smiled. “No need to hate on it just because we can grow it, and you purebloods can’t,” he teased.

  Satisfied with the druid’s answer, Iskvold unexpectedly shot up into a standing position, forcing a scramble among the others to do the same. “Hey!” she shouted toward the stranger.

  The man instinctively dropped the log carrier before thrusting his gesturing fingers skyward in a flash of green. With a quick reaction, Glynfir cast Counterspell, but as he released the energy, the magic buckled. Arcane tendrils swirled, but failed to bind together, before dissipating with a fizzle, sending a jolt of magical feedback up his arm. The wizard recoiled with a strained wince. All the vines within twenty feet immediately sprang to life, swirling and slithering around legs and arms, holding everyone fast.

  The drow struggled against her bonds, calling across the clearing, “We don’t want any trouble!”

  Segwyn turned his head in her direction. “Next time, maybe lead with that?”

  The stranger bolted for the paddock, stopping in his tracks as Whydah strolled casually around the corner, cutting him off. “Let’s just all take a breath. I don’t want to hurt you, but believe me, he’s not above it.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The man pulled the pipe from his teeth, its smoldering ash spilling from the bowl as his hand fell to his side. “Who?”

  Whydah delivered an up nod over the man’s shoulder, causing him to risk a glance. By the time he saw Bird, one katana was already tucked under his chin. A soft chuckle purr—the low vibrato rumble of contented feline amusement—rose from the tabby’s throat.

  His chest tightened with the prickle of cold steel on his neck. “Who are ye? Did those Crimson bastards send ye? You’ve no clue who you’re working for!”

  The cat shushed him repeatedly before whispering directly into his ear. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  From across the clearing, Lunish inserted herself into the discussion. “Come on, Hedge, we’re part of the Radiant Guardians. Snuggles sent us here to look for Sugarplum, which I assume is you? We’re known as Sweetheart.”

  Bird felt the muscles in the man’s shoulder relax slightly. “Now, how about you cut them loose and we’ll have a civilized conversation?”

  As a show of good faith, he stepped back, sliding the blade into its sheath before raising his hands, palms forward. The man stroked his beard, eyes darting from the tabby to Whydah and back, before flicking his fingers toward the others. The thick green tendrils fell harmlessly back to the ground with a sighing thud.

  The stranger directed his question to Whydah. “How do I know ye are who you say, and you’re not just gonna run me through when I let me guard down?” his accent was a lilting brogue, which smacked of a rural upbringing.

  Whydah’s shoulders slumped as she let out a long breath. “Wow, you are a suspicious satyr, aren’t you? How else would you explain us knowing your code name? And the code name of your handler at the Hub?” The halfling raised her eyebrows in expectation, waiting silently for an answer as the others made their way across the clearing.

  Iskvold fell in step with Glynfir at the back of the group. “What’s a Hedge, and why did she call him that?” she murmured to the wizard.

  Glynfir stopped, regarding the drow momentarily before deciding to speak. “Sometimes I forget how little of Venn you’ve experienced. Hedge wizards or witches is an ugly term used to describe those who learn their magic organically, from nature, rather than from a book or a scroll. More specifically, druids.”

  “What makes it ugly?”

  “Well…” the wizard chose his words carefully. “It’s a slur mostly used by those more formally trained in magic, suggesting they’re somehow better, or more evolved than the druids.”

  “So then why would she call him that? Seems like a bad way to make a good first impression.”

  The wizard glanced at the rest of the group pulling up to Bird and Whydah’s position, all except Tsuta, who had curiously detoured toward the blackened stump. He stopped again, keeping them out of earshot, and locked his gaze on her pink eyes. “It’s a form of empowerment among the druidic community. They’ve taken back the word and use it with each other, like a term of rapport, demonstrating a shared common injustice—a term of endearment.”

  Iskvold’s brow furrowed, her jaw slightly open. “But we never call her that, and we’re her friends…”

  “Noooo,” the wizard stretched the word for emphasis. “Coming from anyone who isn’t a druid, and particularly from me, a formally trained wizard, it’s a scathing insult, and highly disrespectful.”

  Iskvold shook her head and stepped forward again toward the others, muttering over her shoulder. “Life at the monastery was so much simpler.”

  Lunish was fully immersed in the debate with the stranger when Iskvold and Glynfir caught up.

  The tiny druid pleaded with her bearded colleague. She shook her Sending Stone in front of his face for emphasis. “Does this look familiar? Snuggles told us your code name and sent us to find you, after we told her about the Dominion and their connection to the Red Queen.”

  Arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know anything about this Red Queen, and I’m just supposed to take the word of some random hedge witch that the Hub would break their prime directive in revealing my identity to put us together?”

  Her tone took on an edge of frustration. “That’s precisely the point! Both sides have kept the connection secret, but she’s their leader, and by the way, a very powerful lich. Together, they are a serious threat to all the civilized peoples of Venn. We’re gonna try to stop her, but we need to know a lot more about the Dominion. Didn’t Snuggles tell you we were coming?”

  Taking a long pull on his pipe, he shook his head. “Now that you mention it, I haven’t heard a peep from her in almost two days.”

  The gnome straightened, glancing around the group. “Neither have I, and that is strange.”

  Her pause gave Segwyn an opening, and he stuck out his hand. “What’s your name, friend?”

  With one final moment of scrutiny, the stranger returned the handshake. “Turin. Turin Wulf—”

  “Ah, Ah!” the ranger interrupted him. “Let’s keep it to first names only, it's safer that way! Good to meet you, Turin. I’m Segwyn.” Playing to the man’s obvious paranoia, he deliberately looked around. Maintaining the handshake, he pulled the other man close, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Here’s the thing, Turin, we think the Red Queen is using the Dominion to quietly undermine our institutions; the kingdoms, the laws, military command, even people’s perceptions of right and wrong. She’s softening things up from the inside so that when she finally reveals herself and moves in with force, we won’t stand a chance.”

  Turin’s eyes glittered intensely, hanging on the ranger’s every word. His cheeks worked double time on the pipestem, pluming a wreath of grey smoke around his head.

  The ranger doubled down, leaning in even further, his face contorting into a wince before continuing. “Now, we are going to try and cut her off at the knees, and we’ve got a plan, but it's dangerous business, and we need your help. Can we count on you to help save Venn?” As one performer recognizing another, albeit on a different stage, Bird stifled a smile of appreciation watching the ranger work.

  Finally releasing the handshake, Segwyn leaned back and waited. Turin straightened, his gaze lingering on each member of the group in turn. Finally, the muscles on the corners of his jaw bulged in tandem with a single sharp nod. “Aye. How can I help?”

  “Not out here,” the ranger cautioned. “How about we make some introductions and then take things inside?” After a nod of agreement, he worked his way around the circle. Turin met each member of the group with a hearty handshake and a nod, hesitating only slightly when it was Bird’s turn.

  The tabby dipped his head apologetically as he offered his paw. “You can never be too cautious. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  “And this is Tsuta.” Segwyn gestured across the clearing, and everyone turned toward the bald monk. His face inches from the bark, he closely examined the stump, his fingers delicately moving across its gnarled surface.

  Turin’s brow furrowed in confusion as he looked to the others. “What’s he doing over there?”

  Glynfir shushed him. “It’s better not to ask, or you risk an extremely long and boring explanation. We like to just let him work out whatever’s going on in his brain first. That helps limit the discussion to his outcome…Just trust me.”

  At the sound of his name, Tsuta finally looked up. “Hey!” He offered Turin a casual nod of recognition before launching immediately onto another topic. “What do you know about this stump?”

  The Glimmerstone Enigma and The Siremirian Conundrum?

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