24th of November, 870th ASC. Taech Duinn, Northern Eoran.

  “Nobles – they never listen to wise counsel.” Arlettil murmured to herself, her voice drowned out by the breaking of waves on the shores where her lonely boat rested whilst the Seavessel staggered in the bay. Before her over the mild precipice of blinding sand and snow stood the bck maple trees which bore bck, crimson and violet foliage as winter approached slowly. A gentle and cold breeze rustled the legions of leaves, and the dark elven vhovhin’s two long and thick locks against her dark blue cheeks and drouvhen leather overcoat.

  Her dark lips covered in a dim violet lipstick – matching her almond framed eyes – pursed as she felt unease, reluctant even to enter the foreboding acreage of the so-called dark ones – the little people as William Craddock, son of Gregg Craddock referred to them in his notes studying the various savage folk of Eoran altered by the fae. Though the highborn albionian noble seen not one of these “little people” which was what spurred him a few months ago to hire Arlettil and a few mercenaries to accompany him to Taech Duinn, a vast woodnd near the western shores.

  As her pay depended on the foolish noble who took off without her five days ago, Arlettil had little choice but to check on him and his entourage. Though there were a few capable hands amongst this entourage, looking at the trees which bore crimson yesterday for the first time since their arrival by Seavessel. She heard and knew of a few trees with a thirst for blood blossoming either crimson foliage like these or flora around their gnarled barks. So, the message was quite clear to her on the morning when she stared at the shore on the rocking ship, sipping her warm tea which bitter taste still lingered in her mouth.

  Though there were a few who wished to embark with her, Arlettil still believed these dark little people may have only hunted a few beasts or that the leaves were simply signaled the end of autumn. And in the worst case, it may result in a long working retion with the Craddock Family if she alone brings him back alive. Hopefully.

  With a snap of her finger, the raven bck hair flowing over her nape slithered back up and twisted itself into an elegant bun hanging over the gleaming snow silvery aelfrahd silken colrs of her blouse-tunic in the spacious confines betwixt the near cheek high colr of the raven bck overcoat. She straightened the tight corset covering her waist and ending at her shapely bosom before fastening the straps of her overcoat, sealing it before grabbing onto the staff she stuck in the sand. A staff which ebony shaft was hewn from drasil oak, a tree unique to the central regions of her homend and a natural choice for sorcerers staves as even in their natural state they ease the mana consumption of spells.

  As she lifted it out, she rotated the metallic décor of a sculpted dragon head towards Taech Duinn and white mist escaped her glistening dark lips before she took heavy stepped on the road made by the Craddock’s entourage leading into the shadowy embrace of the woodnd. Whilst she was accustomed to extreme cold which her lustrous outfit combated constantly; her body trembled as her natural instinct warned her from entering the woodnd. In the end she pushed through and was swallowed by the daylit gloom.

  **

  For hours she walked after entering the woodnd, though no more she followed the cropped-out path. In what she estimated to be the first or second hour spent following the trail, she realized the path diverged chaotically and in a manner of speech, Arlettil made a few rounds possibly around the camp or something more important to the worms of the earth as the local settlers referred to them when Craddock inquired around the few fishing vilges.

  Each time the locales looked at him in multifarious ways: some gazed at walking corpses; some looked fearful as if what little knowledge they imparted in the heat of a moment would come back to haunt them; some stared at them in terrified at the obsidian neckce, the bck seal which led Craddock on his search for answers; and some looked at them with contempt and hatred as if they were about to open a sealed wound. Each time Arlettil tried to dissuade Craddock from continuing on as she herself stood in their boots – as they say in the north – two millennia before when a foolish group of huscarls and shieldmaidens offered to free her people from the dark grasp of those who dwell below, of those who gnaw at the roots of the world.

  Yet like them, Craddock thought them to be as foolish as sves who simply accepted their fates and strove on towards his own doom. And now she had to follow after as Freianna imparted more onto her than just the beauty she possessed, the beauty which could not be put into words. That good nature led to her a clearing in the dark forest where warm light of the noon sun turned bckish, grayish as if tainted by dirt. A clearing in which center a mound arose. Overgrown with portentous flora including nightshade which blooms glistened in a simir purple as her lips; heart shaped flowers dripping a dark and corrosive looking ooze as a mist arose from betwixt the violet and pallid grass and bloodroots, flowers with ghostly white petals with a crimson center which drawn in the unsuspecting victims.

  Like the poor dwarven cupbearer girl no older than twenty whose torn sleeves and breeches revealed roots of the flower slithering beneath her cmmy, rough skin and sap out her blood whilst its greatest bloom protruded forth her mouth and eye sockets bereft of their rough diamonds. Though as she kneeled near the corpse, the true nature of her death revealed itself before Arlettil’s glowing eyes peering beyond the myriad veils of reality. Deep in the yer where the unseen particles of magic lingered, traces of a deadly spell which pierced through the fleeing dwarf remained. A spell vile yet natural as a fireball or a water javelin, yet still ominous in certain ways.

  “May His ntern guide you safely across the final road!” She murmured a prayer for the soul of the cupbearer, then fmes engulfed the corpse burning away the hissing and screaming bloodroot, leaving only a charred, bulky outline in the grotesque garden.

  **

  By te noon Arlettil finally reached the camp setup by Craddock and Ophidian Company – the mercenaries hired in port town of Alhia in central Eoran. A group whose outfits incorporated scaled patterns, their helmet’s silhouette was fashioned in the oblong, jagged shape of dragon’s head and they all proved erudite in the arts of conjuring and controlling fmes. Neither which seemed to aid them in any capacity against the attackers who left the camp in a state where one could believe nature cimed back its territory.

  Torn and charred tents inferred the suddenness of the attack; cw and other marks pointed towards the enemy relying on crude weapons and their bodies to strike at their enemies whilst the charred ridges told of the defenders hasty and vain retaliation. The rger tents which belonged to Craddock and the leader of the Company were further harmed by gnarled, dark trees breaking through their ceiling of a soft fabric, in appearance somewhere between velvet and silken.

  As she inspected their bases, a horrid discovery awaited her. The familiar faces of the servants stared back at her in grotesque fashion. An ancient ritual of these little people transmuted their flesh and bone and forcefully melded it into the tree. Their mouths remained agape, frozen in the st moment their shrieks reverberated through the silent forest; their tears turned into jet bck syrup branching across their cheeks whilst their eyes seemed to be a crystallized version of the foul fluid. For a moment, she thought of setting abze the two trees, she refrained from the ignition of the altered carcasses not to alert those worms slithering beneath her feet.

  Instead, she continued her inspection of the decrepit camp, searching for any sign of Craddock himself or for clues in case he was taken. From what she herself gathered, the little people of Taech Duinn themselves reproduced through the other folk as they bore only male children. From what she seen here so far, the corpses were mostly comprised the male members of the company and Craddock’s servants. Except for the dwarf who managed to escape – for a while at least.

  Still there were a few charred skeletons left behind who could have been the maidens of the company left between the tents and from their position bound together before their fiery doom came upon them. As she searched through the smaller camps, the light began to dim further and the wind brushing against her soft face grew colder, warning her of the approaching dusk where even her knowledge in the arts of arcane may not be enough against the furtive enemy whose home she trotted in haste. Even in the tents she could not shook off the anxiousness twinging her body as she felt distant gazes focusing her as she went from one tent to another.

  Then at st, she calmed a little, though cursed in silence at the corpse hanging from the branch breaking through the ceiling. A branch ghastly yet sturdy enough to hold the weight of the corpse of Craddock whom she only recognized through the small sb of obsidian graven with strange symbols, runes numbering sixty-six.

  His smooth skin no longer draped his slender form. The bckened flesh emanated the foulest smell that grazed her nostrils with slit apertures ornamenting it here and there while his sockets were bereft crudely of the bright autumn golden eyes which seared austerely for the past two years they were on the voyage – the voyage of his doom. The handsome face of his which shimmered with the thrill of discovery now stared at her in the same tortured expression as those who turned into haunting trees.

  It seemed even his prized possession he shared with many a courtesan of the colonies was now in the crude hands of these little people, the worms of the dark earth. Yet a miniscule hope prompted her to peer beyond the veils of reality once more. She gazed at the faint necrotic residue holding the st remnants of his soul like the identification crystal issued by the Imperial Office of Documentation. “Great.” She murmured and tore off the neckce with a bit of hesitance. She still needed proof for the remaining crew and for the officials to confirm the passing of William.

  After leaving the tent, she stared towards the northern horizon where the sun already dipped below the dark crown of the woodnd, her gaze focused at the great mound five or six hundred meters from the camp. “We shall see.” She whispered before disappearing in the thickness of this vile nature, her vision extended as the feeling of being watched grew considerably, blossoming into near-paranoia.

  Author's Note:

  And another one. Later than I wanted, but no matter what, the st two will be early uploads.

  Now this is mostly a bondage free story, though I included some post-mortem ones. Well to be honest, I wanted Arlettil to have a capture, bound and gagged scene but in the end, I left her as more of an observer, discoverer of horror with a few implications on what went down at the camp.

  I was also thinking of leaving this story for st, to increase the horror with each day, but while I am somewhat satisfied with the result of this story, I like the st two more, so I left the order of uploads as is.

  Now the next one shall introduce the st, I believe not yet named Myellian Sect in the central alliance of nations, The Azure Peaches - the franchoin sect of Myelia with extremely bad luck as they run into a certain necromancer who was featured a while ago now. The story itself is set in the Arghorion still infested with a lot of dead [maybe millions still, but probably not, I am bad with numbers help!].

  Anyhow, thanks for reading this folks! Take care and have a nice day!

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