The party turned their attention to unfinished business. The missing tenth mining pick—one of the stolen tools they had been hired to recover—was still unaccounted for. Retracing their steps along the path that they followed to the cave, they noticed a splintered trail previously overlooked. Cautiously, they followed it.
The party stepped onto the splintered path, the underbrush thinning as they pushed forward. Tracks crisscrossed the dirt—about a dozen kobold footprints, their clawed toes digging into the soft earth. Among them were larger boot prints, deeper and heavier, likely belonging to the bugbear they had fought earlier. But what caught their attention most was a fresh set of tracks—smaller than the other kobolds. The prints were erratic, dragging slightly, as if their owner was struggling under the weight of something heavy. The path ahead twisted deeper into the trees, and with cautious steps, they followed, their minds racing with questions about who—or what—they would find at the end of it.
The trail through Wyrmhollow Wood grew darker, the dense foliage swallowing the last of the sun’s light. The party moved cautiously, weapons at the ready. Signs of struggle marred the earth—deep scuff marks, drag marks that abruptly ended, and the eerie absence of sound. The usual hum of insects and distant bird calls had vanished, replaced by an unnatural silence that pressed down on them like a living thing.
Then, something shifted.
A vine trembled without cause. A patch of disturbed earth settled slightly, as if something enormous had only just burrowed beneath it.
And then it struck.
What had seemed like an innocent tangle of roots and moss lurched to life, convulsing into a towering Shambling Mound, its vine-choked body twisting unnaturally. A cavernous gap formed in its mass, a crushing prison for anything unfortunate enough to be caught within. It lashed out with terrifying speed, trying to pull Rithlas and Thokein Tuskhand of the Huldrask into its huge maw.
The battle was desperate. Blades cut deep, spells scorched its oozing tendrils, but the creature would not fall. Even when hacked apart, it would slither back together, the forest itself seemingly willing it to endure.
Then came the final strike. Rithlas' staff cleaved through the thick vines, splitting the creature apart. A wet, tearing sound filled the air as the Shambling Mound convulsed violently, then collapsed. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sluggish dribbles of thick sap pooling onto the damp earth.
From the crater covered by the ruins of its body, the party unearthed several lost trinkets—a waterlogged pouch of ancient coins, silver bracers etched with leaf engravings, a simple oak wand, and a backpack containing some ruined items, a potion, and a delicate silver pendant inscribed: "To my dearest Gunder, may this always guide you home." The weight of forgotten history hung over them, but there was little time for reflection.
They still had a missing kobold to find.
With the shambling mound defeated, the party took a moment to catch their breath. The forest, once eerily silent, remained unnaturally still—as if the land itself was holding its breath. Their eyes turned to the disturbed earth where the kobold tracks continued, weaving through the dense underbrush.
The deeper they traveled, the thicker the mist became. A strange golden glow flickered between the trees, and suddenly, the trail ahead shifted. The air felt thick, humming with unseen magic, and then—the whispering laughter began. The trees twisted into unnatural shapes, their bark pulsing faintly, as if alive. Golden motes of light danced between the branches, giggling softly.
The party was tested—forced to rely on instinct, insight, and clever thinking to determine the real path.
One path smelled of spring blossoms, yet its footprints led backward rather than forward.
The second glowed faintly, an inviting warmth, but it felt eerily familiar, like they had already walked it before.
The third seemed cold, unsettling, its path strewn with fallen leaves, but the wind always pushed toward it.
Through careful deduction, they chose the third path—and with a single step, the enchantment shattered. The woods resumed their natural state, and the Fey’s laughter faded.
The test was over.
As the fey illusion unraveled, the golden motes of light flickered and faded, retreating into the shadows of the ancient trees. The once-twisting paths melded back into a single, true trail, the unnatural warmth of the crossing giving way to the familiar chill of Wyrmhollow Wood. The party exhaled, the tension of the trickery lifting, but as their vision adjusted, something new stood out amidst the undergrowth.
Just off the path, nestled between the roots of an ancient oak, a small satchel lay forgotten in the dirt. The leather was soft, worn by time, its seams lined with delicate ivy embroidery. Inside, they discovered two doses of an herbal poultice, their fragrant blend of crushed leaves and dried petals still potent despite the bag’s age.
But the satchel wasn’t the only thing left behind.
A man, thin and frail, stood between the trees, blinking in confusion. His robes were tattered, his long gray hair unkempt and streaked with white, framing a face lined with age. He bore the mark of one who had wandered too far, lost in a place where time did not move as it should. His hands trembled slightly, though whether from age or disorientation, it was hard to tell.
"Who are you?" Thokein asked, stepping forward cautiously.
The old man blinked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his thoughts seemingly drifting somewhere distant, before finally settling on a response.
"I… am Akiro." His voice wavered, like someone testing the sound of their own name after a long silence.
Akiro’s gaze drifted over the party, his eyes lingering on their weapons, their armor, the way they stood with practiced readiness. Slowly, a flicker of understanding passed across his face.
"You are adventurers, aren’t you?" His voice grew steadier, his confusion giving way to something more certain.
Maybe there was hope after all...
Akiro had been trapped in the Fey illusion for three days, unable to escape until the party unknowingly freed him. Though weak and disoriented, he seemed to regain clarity as they traveled. By the time battle erupted, the lost wanderer had become something else entirely.
The party pressed forward, and the forest grew even denser, the towering trees looming overhead, their thick branches weaving together to cast deep shadows across the path. Then, without warning, the trail turned right, to a small cul-de-sac before continuing on.
At the center of the small clearing, a tiny, motionless figure lay curled inward. Even from a distance, it was clear—this kobold was smaller than any they had seen before. His frail body was wrapped around a mining pick, his clawed fingers barely gripping it, as though even in unconsciousness, he refused to let it go. A dark pool of blood seeped into the dirt beneath him, fed by a single, deep puncture wound in his chest. His back was covered in ugly, swollen bruises, unmistakable marks left behind by the shambling mound’s crushing vines. He had fled—but had not escaped unscathed.
The party exchanged glances, weapons still in hand, but there was no movement. No sound. Was he dead?
Then, suddenly—a twitch.
His clawed fingers tightened around the pick, and in a blur of jerky, frantic motion, he jolted upright. Wide, yellow eyes darted wildly between them, his snout pulling back into a terrified grimace.
He stumbled backward with a shrill yelp, nearly tripping over his own tail. The mining pick clattered to the ground as he threw his hands up, his entire body shaking with fear.
"No! No kill Zax! Zax no steal! Zax just dig! Zax only want shiny rock—please, please, no smash Zax!"
The words tumbled over each other, a frantic mixture of Common and Draconic, his voice high-pitched and desperate.
His tail flicked wildly, his eyes darting to the trees, scanning for an escape route—but he was too weak to run. His ragged breathing came in uneven bursts, his small frame shaking violently.
With no other option, he did the only thing he could:
He pressed his hands together in a desperate plea, bowing his head over and over, his voice whimpering out in terrified surrender.
Zax was at their mercy.
The monk, Rithlas, knelt down and spoke gently in Draconic, introducing himself. Zax blinked rapidly, processing the words. His fear didn't fully subside, but his head tilted slightly, as if debating whether he could trust them.
Zax explained that he was no thief—he had been dragging the mining pick back to his “big building” when the shambling mound attacked. He needed to find Ixit to report that the other Kobolds were harrassing him, but unlike Ixit, he couldn't take the magical portal so he needed to walk the long way around. But then, his eyes flicked to the trees, scanning the shadows, before leaning in with a shiver.
"Zax dig," he finally muttered, his claws twitching, still ready to bolt. *"Zax only dig for shinies. Zax no fight. Big boss Ixit strong. He beats other Draggos. Not Zax. Zax stay smart, Zax stay on his good side!"
The party shared a look. Draggos? A term they hadn’t heard before—perhaps Zax’s name for the other kobolds under Ixit’s rule.
"I will take you to the big boss. I will take you there. I'll take you. Big building. Big building. Yes. I'll show you him." Zax continued stammering, desperate to convice the party he was useful.
Thokein Tuskhand of the Huldrask knelt down, using his divine magic to heal Zax wounds and his gaze shifted to the holy symbol around Zax’s neck. With a flash of recognition, he realized it bore the mark of Lord Wundreld, the Wayfarer—God of Travel, Messengers, and Safe Journeys.
"You follow Lord Wundreld?" he asked.
Zax nodded quickly, his eyes gleaming with a flicker of pride and fear.
"Yes! Yes! Zax pray to Lord of Paths to keep safe, Zax no want to be eaten by tree monster!" He shuddered, rubbing his bruised back.
The words sent a ripple of unease through the party. There was someone even above Ixit?
When asked about the true leader of the kobolds, Zax’s expression darkened, and his voice dropped to a nervous whisper.
"But big boss, Ixit, he strong. Not like Zax. Ixit want more. He work for… bigger boss. Scarier boss. But Zax never see him."
The party digested this new information. There was someone else pulling the strings.
After a brief conversation, the party exchanged glances, weighing their options. Zax was nervous, constantly fidgeting with his claws, his tail twitching as he awaited their verdict. He had been ostracized by the other Draggos, and without access to the portal that Ixit uses, was forced to take the long way around—yet he still sought Ixit's approval. His story had the ring of truth, or at least enough sincerity that they chose to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Rithlas thought about it for a moment, "He's running us into a trap."
Zax immediately straightened, his eyes wide. "No trap! No trap! Zax no trick! Zax want to live!"
With a quick nod, Zax turned on his heel and hurried ahead, leading them deeper into the woods. Though still weak from his injuries, he moved with urgency, casting nervous glances at the trees as if expecting something to leap out at any moment.
As time progressed Zax began to relax - becoming content even.
The path they followed was rough and uneven, winding through twisted roots and crumbling stones. The deeper they went, the clearer it became—they weren’t just walking toward a kobold hideout.
They were heading toward something far older.
Pushing through the dense undergrowth of Wyrmhollow Wood, the trees finally parted, revealing the outline of a crumbling stone structure, half-consumed by ivy and time. At first glance, it seemed abandoned, but as they drew closer, it became clear that was not the case.
A set of double doors, once grand, now weathered and warped with age, stood slightly ajar. The right door hung open just enough for them to peer inside. Through the gap, they could make out the occasional kobold moving past the entrance, their small figures flickering in the dim light. The flickering glow of a campfire smoldered in the center of the chamber, surrounded by gnawed bones and scattered refuse
Zax crouched low beside them, his tail twitching nervously.
Thokein Tuskhand of the Huldrask leaned toward him. "How many Draggos are in there?"
Zax nodded sagely, then held up eight fingers.
"Four."
The party stared at him.
Rithlas sighed. "Zax, that’s… that’s eight fingers."
Zax blinked, looked at his own hands, wiggled his fingers, then grinned sheepishly. "Yes... four."
Rithlas rubbed his temples. "Right. So… more than four, then."
Zax shrugged, his snout scrunching up in a vague, uncertain expression.
Zax was obviously smart for a kobold, but was still a kobold - that wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Peering through the doorway again, the party studied the dust-covered stone floor, the vine-choked columns, and the worn carvings along the walls. This wasn’t a fortress or a stronghold—it had once been a small temple, now left to decay for at least two decades. The kobolds hadn’t built it.
They had moved in.
Rithlas eagerly whispered, "Full frontal assault?"
However many Draggos there were, Ixit was inside. And whatever he was up to in the ruins of this temple, they were about to find out.
Thokein focused his energy inward, feeling his form shrink and shift, his limbs twisting into delicate legs, his vision fracturing into countless tiny lenses. In the span of seconds, his body morphed into that of a small spider, barely distinguishable from the cracks and dust along the temple’s stone.
With silent, skittering steps, he slipped through the partially open doorway, creeping into the first chamber unnoticed.
Inside, four kobolds sat in a loose circle around a flat stone, yipping and hissing excitedly as they pushed small blue rocks across its surface. Their attention was entirely fixed on their game, their clawed hands darting forward to seize stones with practiced speed. Gambling, then. Whatever value those stones held, they were worth more to these kobolds than watching the door.
The room itself had seen better days. The soft flicker of firelight danced across a crumbling stone wall, where part of it had collapsed inward, leaving a pile of scattered rocks and debris. A faded carving adorned one of the remaining walls, though Thokein couldn’t make out the details from this distance.
Four bedrolls—likely belonging to the kobolds—were spread haphazardly near the fire, confirming that this chamber was more than just a temporary gathering place.
To the east, a wooden door stood closed, its frame slightly warped from age. But it was the iron gate to the north that drew his attention. The bars were thick, rusted with time, but still sturdy, and beyond them lay a garden, its wild overgrowth barely contained by a crumbling stone fence lined with wicked spikes.
The kobolds were too engrossed in their game to notice a small spider, and so, Thokein slipped through the gate, stepping into the overgrown garden beyond.
Tall grass swayed in the faint breeze, nearly waist-high on an average human, though it seemed untouched for years. Vines crept along the stone fence, their tendrils curling through the iron spikes, and scattered chunks of rubble and debris lay among the tangled greenery—perhaps from the same structural collapse that had left its mark in the first chamber.
But what truly caught his many-eyed gaze was the statue.
Set upon a cracked pedestal, carved from smooth blue stone, stood the likeness of a wistfully smiling woman, her expression gentle yet knowing. She held a wand in one hand, and in the other, a book, its surface worn with time.
Though its features remained intact, the statue bore subtle signs of decay, the once-pristine chisel work softened by the creeping passage of years. Still, something about it felt… deliberate. Preserved. As if whatever power lingered here had not yet faded completely.
Thokein paused, letting the moment settle, the whispers of history hanging in the air. Who had she been? Why had this temple been abandoned?
His spider legs twitched. He had seen enough for now.
Skittering back toward the chamber, he slipped once more through the iron gate, careful to avoid the kobolds’ notice. The party needed to know what lay beyond these walls.
As Thokein skittered back into the first chamber, he barely had time to process what he saw before the wooden door to the east suddenly swung open with a loud creak.
A larger kobold, taller and broader than the others, stomped into the room, his scales a dull red, his eyes narrow with authority. He barked something in Draconic, his voice sharp and commanding.
Thokein didn’t understand exactly what was said, but the effect was immediate.
The four kobolds gambling by the fire scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons and hastily stuffing the blue stones into small pouches. Their carefree yipping turned to hurried mutters, and their movements became tense, practiced—this wasn’t just a game-ending scolding.
They were about to start a patrol.
Realizing this was their best chance to strike, Thokein released his wild shape, his form quickly expanding back into his humanoid self. With a flick of his wrist, a shard of glittering ice formed in the air before him, its surface swirling with freezing mist.
Before the kobolds could react, he hurled the shard directly into their midst. The ice knife exploded upon impact, shards of razor-sharp frost ripping outward, cutting through scales, cloth, and exposed limbs alike. The kobolds shrieked, clutching at their wounds, their breath coming out in sudden, panicked gasps.
Before they had a chance to recover, the rest of the party surged forward.
Without warning, Akiro raised a frail hand—and with a single gesture, a swirling orb of energy crackled to life in his palm.
The bright sphere of elemental energy shot forward, blazing toward the largest kobold. As it collided with his chest, an eruption of energy engulfed him, sending him flying backward into the nearby wall and engulfing the others in arctic energy as well.
From outside the entrance, Aragon loosed arrows, the shafts burying themselves deep into kobold flesh. With a battle cry, Rithlas and Costa, rushed to join the melee.
The chaos of battle raged around Costa—the clatter of kobold chittering, the crack of steel meeting stone, the sharp twang of a loosed arrow. He barely had time to register the flickering campfire casting jagged shadows across the crumbling temple walls as he rushed toward the doorway, heart pounding, his sword slick with sweat and dust.
Then—a deep, shuddering crack from above. Instinct screamed at him to move, but before he could react, a heavy weight slammed into his shoulder, knocking the breath from his lungs. A jagged blue stone glowing with energy, roughly the size of a melon, had dropped straight from the archway above. The impact sent him reeling, his vision flashing with bursts of light as the stone bounced off his pauldron and crashed to the ground at his feet.
For a heartbeat, he froze, waiting for the inevitable—a blast of energy, a surge of strange magic, something. But… nothing happened. The stone sat silent, inert, its deep blue surface barely flickering before the glow faded entirely. A dud. By sheer, dumb luck, it hadn't exploded. Costa let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, staring at the harmless-looking rock at his feet. Then, a kobold shrieked nearby, snapping him back to reality. The battle still raged. And the next stone might not be so merciful.
The battle was soon over and the chamber fell silent except for the crackling fire and the ragged breaths of the adventurers.
A few moments later, as they caught their breath the party exchanged glances, realizing that their new companion was far more capable than they had assumed.
With the first chamber now cleared, they turned their attention to the eastern door and the iron gate leading to the garden.
The temple was still full of secrets.
And somewhere inside, Ixit was waiting.