“If I may be so bold,” a prim voice said from my shoulder, “your current trajectory suggests a distinct lack of forethought. This path is less a road and more a suggestion of one.”
I glanced at Bartholomew, who perched on my shoulder.
“Thanks for the input, Bartholomew. Super helpful. I’ll be sure to file that under ‘things my talking cat says that sound condescending’.”
He sniffed, a delicate, aristocratic sound. “I am merely pointing out that a proper thoroughfare would be infinitely more suitable for travel. This is for… peasants. And badgers.”
“Well, seeing as I have exactly two copper pieces to my name and a communications degree that’s about as useful here as a screen door on a submarine, I guess that makes me a peasant. You’re just along for the ride, buddy.” I ducked under a low-hanging branch, feeling the damp leaves brush against my hair.
The air here was different. Fresher, cleaner, and laced with the scent of damp earth and something vaguely floral. It was a nice change from the perpetual smell of deep-fryer oil and existential dread that clung to my Medieval Times waitress uniform. Still, I missed Wi-Fi. And tacos. Oh god, what I would do for a taco. Or a latte.
My eyes scanned the edge of the path. I had a shopping list of quests to complete: deliver this shit to this other shitty place, find some guy that really shouldn’t be lost, and find a cat for an entirely too-large reward. Standard stuff, apparently. But a girl’s gotta eat, and the stale bread and questionable stew from the inn weren’t cutting it, not to mention my growing tab.
“Ooh, jackpot,” I muttered, veering off the path. A cluster of plump, reddish-brown mushrooms huddled at the base of an oak tree. Next to them, a bush was heavy with glossy, dark purple berries that looked suspiciously like a?aí. My inner, broke-college-student-turned-forager was screaming.
“Mistress Paige, I must implore you to desist,” Bartholomew said, his tone laced with genuine alarm. “One does not simply consume the local flora without proper knowledge. That could be a Death Cap’s second cousin, and those berries are likely Night-Howlers, known to cause… gastric unpleasantness of a most spectacular order.”
I plucked a mushroom, admiring its earthy scent.
“Relax, Bart. I worked at a Ren Faire for two summers. I know my mushrooms. Besides, this is just like the free samples aisle at Costco. Nature’s bounty.” I stuffed a handful intomy satchel, then scooped up a bunch of the berries and wrapped them in a spare handkerchief. “It’s all about that cottage core aesthetic, you know? Living off the land.”
“The aesthetic you will be cultivating is ‘corpse’,” he grumbled, tucking his head under my chin. “A very pale and bloated aesthetic reeking of final emissions. Do not say I did not warn you.”
I rolled my eyes and continued walking, the path growing narrower still. We were truly in the sticks now. The sun dappled through the thick canopy, painting shifting patterns on the ground. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the fact that a ‘fell beast’ was probably lurking nearby, waiting to turn me into a chew toy.
Just as I was contemplating the merits of trying one of the berries, a soft ding echoed in the air around me. It wasn’t a sound from the forest; it was a sound from my former life. The sound of a notification. A transparent blue rectangle shimmered into existence in front of my face, text scrolling across it in a crisp, familiar font.
[Quest Nearby!]
I blinked.
“Are you seeing this?”
Bartholomew peeked out. “I see a magical contrivance of questionable origin suggesting we engage in a fool’s errand. So, yes.”
[Quest: A Furry Predicament][Description: Little Kristin has lost her beloved cat, Snowball. He was last seen chasing a butterfly near the Old Barrow Mounds][Reward: 10 Gold Pieces, Good Karma]
A lost cat quest. It was the most basic, level-one, tutorial-zone quest imaginable. And, more importantly, easy money.
“We’re doing it,” I declared.
Bartholomew let out a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a hiss.
“We are most certainly not. We have grander objectives. We are on a path to heroism, not to be reduced to common stray-finders.”
“Hey, it’s a cat-related quest,” I countered, starting to follow the faint, glowing arrow that had appeared beneath the quest box, pointing deeper into the woods. “You’re our subject matter expert. Think of it as a professional consultation.”
“My expertise lies in appreciating fine silks, demanding sustenance at unreasonable hours, and judging mortals for their myriad failings,” he sniffed. “It does not extend to retrieving wayward felines named ‘Snowball’. The indignity is almost too much to bear.”
“Oh, lighten up. It’ll take like, ten minutes.” I popped one of the purple berries into my mouth, ignoring his gasp of horror. It was tart, a little sweet, and… fuzzy. Weird. My tongue suddenly felt thick and tingly. “Huh. Zha’s odd.”
“You have poisoned yourself,” Bartholomew stated flatly. “Excellent. This journey is proceeding splendidly.”
“I have no’ poizoned myzelf,” I insisted, my words coming out slightly slurred. The color of the leaves seemed to be vibrating. “My tongue’s jus’ a little blue. Pro’ly full of an’i-ox-i-dants.”
[You have been poisoned. Time remaining 1:00:00]
He groaned, a long, suffering sound.
I selected the cat quest, and an arrow appeared that led us off the path entirely, through tangled undergrowth and over moss-covered stones that looked like ancient, forgotten teeth. The Barrow Mounds rose from the forest floor ahead of us, a series of grassy, man-made hills that radiated a low-key, creepy vibe.
“Here, kitty kitty,” I called out, my voice sounding strangely resonant. “Here, Snowball! We’ve got… uh…” I fumbled in my satchel and pulled out a mushroom. “…Fungus?”
A faint sound answered. It wasn’t the high-pitched “meow” I was expecting. It was a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate in my bones. It came from the direction of the largest mound, where a dark opening yawned like a mouth.
“Pray tell, did that sound like a ‘Snowball’ to you?” Bartholomew whispered, his claws digging nervously into my shoulder.
“Maybe he’s got a deep voice,” I mumbled, my blue tongue making it hard to sound convincing. “Let’s check it out.”
My confidence was mostly a front. The rational part of my brain, the part that wasn’t currently captivated by the pulsating colors of a nearby fern, was screaming at me to turn back. But the part of me that had binge-watched entire seasons of fantasy shows in a single weekend was morbidly curious.
We crept toward the opening of the barrow. The rumbling grew louder, punctuated by a soft tearing sound. Peeking around the stone entrance, I saw the source.
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Snowball was not a fluffy white kitten.
Snowball was a monstrosity. It was white, yes, but it was the stark, bone-white of a predator. It was the size of a small panther, with rippling muscles under its short fur. Its eyes were glowing pools of crimson, and from its mouth, which was currently tearing into the carcass of a large deer, protruded two wickedly long, saber-like fangs. Two shadowy, whip-like tentacles writhed from its shoulders, twitching idly in the air. This wasn’t a cat. This was the final boss.
“Bartholomew,” I whispered, my voice trembling. The berry’s effects were rapidly wearing off in the face of sheer terror. “That is not a housecat.”
“A Displacer Beast,” he hissed back, his own voice tight with fear. “A creature of shadow and malice, a hunter of unparalleled savagery. And it is named Snowball.”
The beast, Snowball, paused its gruesome meal. Its head snapped up, those crimson eyes locking directly onto ours. It let out another low growl, this one vibrating with a clear threat. The tentacles on its back arched, poised to strike.
Before I could do the sensible thing—scream and run—a small voice piped up from behind us.
“Snowball! There you are, you naughty boy!”
I spun around to see a little girl, no older than five, toddling towards us. She wore a simple brown pinafore, her blonde hair in two neat braids. In her hand, she held a small, jingling cat toy—a ball with a bell in it.
She marched right past me and into the barrow, completely unafraid.
“You ran off again! You had Mummy so worried.” She wagged a finger at the saber-toothed hell-beast.
The creature’s menacing posture melted away. It dropped the deer carcass and trotted over to the little girl, rubbing its massive head against her legs with a purr that sounded like a rockslide. The shadow-tentacles drooped and then playfully batted at the little bell toy she was dangling.
I stood there, my jaw on the floor, my tongue still a disconcerting shade of blue. Bartholomew was rigid on my shoulder, utterly speechless.
Maura turned to me, a bright smile on her face.
“Oh, thank you for finding him! He’s such a rascal.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small leather bag filled with coins and pressed them into my numb hand.
“Here’s your reward!”
The blue notification box reappeared with a cheerful ding.
[Quest Complete!] [A Furry Predicament][Rewards: 5 Gold Pieces, Good Karma, 10XP]
I stared at the coins, then at the panther-sized monster purring at the little girl’s feet, then back at the coins. My entire Medieval Times salary for a four-hour shift couldn’t have prepared me for this level of absolute absurdity.
“You’re… you’re welcome,” I stammered, slowly backing away.
“One might suggest,” Bartholomew finally managed to say, his voice a faint squeak, “that in the future, we stick to the main road.”
I watched the little girl and her pet shadow-panther disappear back into the mist-shrouded barrows, leaving me with a handful of coins that felt ancient and wrong. They were cold, not like metal, but like river stones, each stamped with a spiraling knot I’d never seen before.
“For future reference,” I said, tucking the bizarre currency into my bag, “when a lost child is guarded by a creature that could double as a KISS concert pyrotechnic, we just leave them the hell alone.”
Bartholomew, trotting beside me with an air of profound injury, sniffed.
“A most prudent suggestion. Had you not insisted on playing the part of the benevolent heroine, we would be halfway to Briar’s End by now, my paws blessedly free of this ghastly bog water.”
“Excuse me, my paws are also wet, and unlike you, I’m not equipped with a built-in fur coat.” I gestured down at my Goodwill-equivalent peasant garb, which was now less ‘budget-minded’ and more ‘drowned rat chic.’ The mud-caked trouser legs slapped miserably against my ankles with every step.
The main road, when we finally found it, was less a road and more a suggestion of a path where fewer trees had grown. Still, it was a vast improvement over the soul-sucking swamp we’d just escaped. The oppressive silence of the barrows gave way to the chirping of unseen birds and the rustle of wind through the impossibly tall, silver-barked trees. It was almost peaceful, if you could ignore the fact that every rustle made me jump, expecting another panther-sized monster to demand a toll.
By the time the low-slung, thatched roofs of Briar’s End came into view, the sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and purple. The town looked like it had been coughed up by the forest—a jumble of crooked timber-framed houses, wreathed in ivy and creeping moss. Smoke curled from stone chimneys, carrying the smell of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and various herbs.
“Alright,” I said, stretching my back. “We’re looking for an herbalist. Name of…?” I trailed off, realizing the poster had only described her as ‘the one the whispers follow.’ Super helpful.
“Let us inquire,” Bartholomew stated, ever the pragmatist. He hopped onto a nearby barrel, preening a stray bit of mud from his whiskers. “Do try not to accost the first person you see. A modicum of decorum, if you please.”
I ignored him and flagged down a passing man whose beard was so long it was braided and tucked into his belt. “Hey, excuse me. We’re looking for the town herbalist?”
The man stopped, eyeing me up and down. His gaze lingered on my ridiculous outfit, then on the talking cat, but he seemed remarkably unfazed.
“Ah. Ye be seekin’ Maura.” He didn’t point. Instead, he jutted his chin towards the edge of the village. “Follow the blooms. She don’t have a shop so much as a… situation.”
“A situation,” I repeated flatly. “Great. My favorite.”
Following the ‘blooms’ was easier than I thought. The drab, muddy path began to sprout errant flowers in vibrant, unnatural colors. First, a few purple bell-shaped blossoms, then clutches of electric-blue ferns, until the path itself was more petal than dirt. The air grew thick and heavy with pollen and the heady scent of night-blooming jasmine, even though it was still dusk.
The source of it all was a cottage that looked less like it was built and more like it had been grown. Its walls were woven from living willow branches, and the roof was a thick thatch of moss, from which hung luminous, pale fungi that cast a soft, ethereal glow. The door was a curtain of hanging vines laden with heavy, white flowers. It was beautiful in a way that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Well,” Bartholomew murmured, his usual cynicism tinged with something like awe. “That is certainly a… situation.”
“Right. Communications degree, prepare to fail me again,” I muttered, pushing aside the vine-curtain and stepping inside.
The interior was a greenhouse on steroids. Plants of every conceivable shape and size grew in a chaotic jungle, climbing the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and sprouting from cracks in the flagstone floor. The air was warm and humid, and the only light came from the glowing fungi and jars filled with captured fireflies. In the center of the room, a woman stood with her back to us, tending to a pot of writhing, tentacled blue vines.
She was tall and willowy, dressed in clothes that seemed to be spun from bark and leaves. Her hair was a wild cascade of dark green, woven with tiny, starlike flowers. When she turned, I saw that her skin had a faint, greenish tint, and her eyes were the color of new moss. She didn’t look at us so much as sense us.
“The air told me you were coming,” she said, her voice like the rustle of leaves. “A broken soul and a weary spirit. You seek the Sun-shy Moss and the Whisperbloom.”
I blinked. “Yeah, that’s us. Broken and weary is my new brand. We came for the delivery.” I pulled the crumpled poster from my satchel and held it out.
The woman, Maura, glided over, her movements unnervingly fluid. She didn’t walk; she flowed. Her mossy eyes fixed on Bartholomew.
“A king, trapped in a jester’s body. Your pride is a heavy coat, little one.”Bartholomew bristled, his fur puffing out.
“I am a gentleman of distinguished lineage, madam, not a plaything for botanical analysis!”Maura smiled, a slow, serene expression that didn’t quite reach her ancient eyes.
“The forest does not distinguish. It simply knows.” She turned her attention to me. “And you. You smell of iron and lightning. Of a world not born from this soil. You are the unraveling.”
“Listen, lady, I’d love to stay for the free psychoanalysis, but we’re on a schedule. The Shadow Lord isn’t exactly taking vacation days.”
Her smile faded.
“The shadow fears two things: the light that reveals, and the life that persists. You came for these.” She drifted to a dark corner of the cottage and returned with two packages. One was a clay pot sealed with wax, from which a deep, resonant cold emanated. The other was a small, silken bag that seemed to absorb the light around it. “The Sun-shy Moss,” she said, handing me the pot. It was frigid to the touch. “It must not feel the sun’s direct gaze. Keep it in darkness, or it will turn to dust and sorrow.”
“Dust and sorrow. Got it. Standard Tuesday.”
She then handed me the silken bag. It was eerily silent.
“And the Whisperbloom. The petals are woven from captured sounds. A harsh noise, a sudden shout… and they will shatter, releasing a scream that can curdle blood and attract unwanted attention.”I stared from the freezing pot to the silent bag.
“So I have to keep this one in the dark, and this one has to be kept quiet. You’re kidding me.” This wasn’t a delivery quest; it was a high-stakes, magical version of the game Operation.
“Nature requires balance and care,” Maura said simply. “Your payment?”
Payment? The poster didn’t say anything about payment. I hesitated, then pulled out the pouch of strange, cold coins the little girl had given me. I half-expected her to laugh, but her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She reached out a slender, green-tinged hand and plucked one from my palm, holding it up to the fungal light.
“Fey-gold,” she breathed, a flicker of something—fear? respect?—in her voice. “You have traded with the Barrow-folk and lived. The roots of this world run deeper than you know, child of iron.” She nodded slowly. “This will suffice.”
She took only one of the coins and gestured for us to leave. As I backed out through the vine door, clutching my ridiculously high-maintenance packages, her voice followed us. “Beware the path to Oakhaven. The quiet things are listening, and the dark things are watching.”
Outside, the last of the light had bled from the sky, and the town of Briar’s End was lit only by warm flickers of firelight from windows and the cold, distant glitter of stars. I looked at the pot in my left hand and the bag in my right.
“Okay,” I whispered to Bartholomew, who had trotted out after me and was now shaking his paws disdainfully. “New plan. We stay the night here, then find the quietest, darkest road to Oakhaven.”Bartholomew let out a sigh that sounded remarkably like a deflating bellows.
“The merits of the main road, if you recall, were not predicated on its solar illumination, but rather its relative lack of things that would prefer to digest us whole. Things that tend to lurk where the light does not reach, such as in the ominously quiet, darkly inviting paths you seem so keen to explore.” He flicked a paw, dislodging a stray bit of straw from his otherwise immaculate fur. “And as for ‘quiet’, my dear Paige, in this particular realm, a greeting is far more likely to be a guttural snarl or a bloodcurdling shriek than a polite inquiry about your well-being.”
I scowled, the pot of suspiciously glowing herbs feeling heavier in my hand.
“Fine, fine. Point taken. But if I have to spend another morning dodging overly enthusiastic farmers with pitchforks who think I’m some kind of runaway livestock, I might just embrace the aggressively organic hellscape and start eating things myself.”
I gave the pot a tentative sniff. It smelled like overripe lemons and something vaguely like damp earth after a thunderstorm. Not exactly appetizing, but then again, neither was Bartholomew’s description of the local fauna.