9th day of Vroden 67252
We’re three days into the Forest. The air is dense and heavy. I’ve never once in all my years encountered a wood so dark and foreboding. The animal noises are muted, almost as if they are in hiding from some sinister presence. We ride along in silence. the atmosphere is having an effect on the party. I don’t sense fear but rather a deep desire not to draw attention to ourselves. Meal and water breaks are quiet and subdued. Both Faylith and Emeria stay closer to me than the norm. When Druids are disturbed by the condition of the forest you know something is amiss.
Thank Ja’wea for the Amulet of Animal Protection. We’ve been able to stable the horses each night with out fear. Thank you Yapheh, Faylith and Emeria for the combined efforts in keeping our camps safe at night. We spotted a stone building further ahead. We head there in the morning and hope we can trade for some supplies.
10th day of Vroden 67252
I still don’t know whether the crypt was meant to be found, or if the forest simply grew thin enough in that place for us to stumble upon it. The stonework was old—older than the trees crowding around it—and the door on the north face stood ajar, as if it had been waiting. The air inside was wrong, heavy and warm despite the forest chill. There is no trading to be done here, yet we felt compelled to enter.
We had barely crossed the threshold when the Incubus revealed itself, all honeyed words and false mercy. It tried to turn us on one another, to make the fight end before it began. When steel and spell finally silenced it, the quiet that followed felt strained, like the crypt itself was holding its breath. Faylith suffered a trauma during the fight. I must keep my eyes on her.
Beyond the first chamber lay a room tiled in a black-and-white checker pattern, the stones polished smooth by time or intent. That was where the Infernal Watchers waited. They did not rush us. They did not need to. They moved only when we dared to look away, statues one heartbeat and death the next. I have faced predators, bandits, even spirits—but nothing has unsettled me like fighting an enemy whose greatest weapon is patience. We did not defeat them. We survived them. Eyes burning, muscles screaming, we backed away inch by inch until the forest light finally broke their hold on us.
There was one last chamber—a small one, cramped and mean—where a gargoyle crouched in false stillness. Stone met steel, sparks flew, and the creature shattered under our combined effort. Whatever power animated it fled with a sound like grinding gravel. We took what little the crypt still held: coins dulled by age, a few trinkets that felt colder than they should, and the certainty that this place was not finished with the world, only forgotten by it.
We sealed nothing. We sanctified nothing. We simply left, slipping back beneath the boughs of the forest, grateful to feel wind on our faces again. The trees closed behind us as if the crypt had never been there at all—but I know better. Some places remember you after you leave, and I suspect that stone beneath the roots still knows my name.
We left the crypt behind us we see smoke ahead of us down the trail. Mayhaps, tomorrow we can find some generous souls willing to trade. Normally my skills would found food and potable water, but whatever evil has beset these woods has turned the environment against us. We still have supplies of food and water but my training led me to believe we would have found means to replenish our dwindling resources by now.
11th day of Vroden 67252
We thought the farm would mean people. Smoke from a hearth, voices, maybe suspicion—but still a chance to trade for clean water and a meal that hadn’t come from my own pack. Instead, we found silence. Doors left open. Tools dropped where hands should have still been holding them. The place felt fled, not abandoned by time but by fear. We took what food and water we could find, careful not to disturb more than necessary, though the air itself felt uneasy—as if the land resented being left behind.
That resentment made itself known quickly. An enchanted barrel in the house began producing monkeys as if the thing were cursed by a bored trickster entity. No sooner had we driven one off than another came screeching out after it. When that finally ended, the chickens came. Dire Chickens, six feet tall, all beak and fury, eyes too sharp to belong to anything that should have been scratching for grain. I will never again underestimate poultry. Faylith was laughing afterward—relieved, I think—but only because we survived.
The worst of it waited near the outbuildings. A giant spider had claimed the place, and in its web we found Aly’syn, a gnome bard, cocooned and very much intended as a future meal. The fight was vicious and close, but we prevailed, and cutting her free felt like pulling a thread that had snagged fate itself. She was shaken but alive, sharp-tongued even through exhaustion. I suspect the road will be louder with her along—and perhaps brighter.
We ventured near the northeastern edge of the farm. A green mist clung there, thick and viscous, like ooze pretending to be fog. It radiated something foul—wrong in a way no natural swamp gas ever has. We skirted it carefully, and I could not shake the feeling that it watched us pass. I do not believe it is natural. If the settlers ran, I think that thing was why.
One final note, if only to remind myself: Simmons disgusts both Faylith and me. His enthusiasm for eating monkeys and spiders and, and… is… unsettling. Survival may demand many compromises, but some lines should not be crossed lightly. If the forest is testing us, I would rather it test my blade than my appetite.
Fortunately, we feasted on chicken. Simmons did have the good idea of curing the remainder of the meat from the dead bird. We found Aly’syn’s bagpipes. She regaled us with song and dance as we made camp. Aly’syn was very thankful for the rescue. She has expressed hope that her former party is ok. She bears them no ill will for thinking she was dead and leaving her behind. She and her party were headed for a mansion about two days further down the path. This is good news indeed. We may find a quiet night with something other than rations or chicken jerky.
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Oberon Oberon’s Journal, and Aly’syn base images were built using ChatGPT using prompts by Alien Graphics. Maps were built using Dungeon Alchemist. All images ©2026 Alien Graphics
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