A collection of prequels we ran when only one or two players could show up.
SS 2020 Peridot 3
"Never trust a forest at twilight. The trees grow too many ears, and the beasts wear too many faces."
—Alrik the Lantern-Bearer, failed guide of the Sturgwood
Seven worried. Thearch had gone off into the woods and not returned, and the shadows were already stretching long. Town was out of the question—his bear face and adamantine body would not be met kindly. So he sought out Henry-Person. Henry was steady, sharp-eyed, and knew how to follow a trail. Together they picked up Thearch's tracks and plunged into the darkening wood.
They had not gone far when Henry froze. His hand rose, pointing to the treeline. Some kind of wild cat—five feet long or more—prowled after them, muscles rippling beneath its hide. With a sudden snarl it lunged at Henry, jaws snapping shut a hair from his throat.
Seven reacted instantly. His metal arms locked around the beast in a crushing embrace, bones creaking under the pressure. The cat shrieked—but then something terrible happened.
The skin of its face split like parchment, peeling back to reveal a raw, skinless horror beneath. It loosed a screech so vile it rattled their bones. Henry’s courage broke first, then Seven’s. Both fled in blind terror.
The thing herded them expertly, screaming whenever they tried to rally, driving them always back toward the way they had come. Between moments of panic they struck it, scoring deep wounds, yet their terror drove them--directly into the path of another cat!
Henry, bloodied and staggering, ducked behind roots and brush to regroup while Seven stood defiant. The two horrors circled him, fangs and claws flashing. Their blows glanced from his adamantine shell, but his own strikes carried weight. One fell beneath his crushing fists, but the other’s keening scream shattered his resolve. Again he and Henry fled, stumbling.
When at last they returned, they saw only drag-marks in the loam where the survivor had hauled away its dead.
Thearch appeared later by their campfire, calm as ever, carrying no tale of battle or trouble. “The cat removed its face and yelled at us,” Seven explained flatly. The dwarf frowned, but said nothing more.
By morning, they limped back safely home—though Henry’s eyes lingered on the treeline, and Seven’s on every cat that crossed their path.
SS 2020 Peridot 4
"Roots remember blood more keenly than water. Step softly where the forest has fed."
— Sister Calyra of the Green Groves
Ignen had not expected much when he stopped at a lonely cottage on the farm road—just a roof, a cup of water, and perhaps a moment’s conversation. Instead, he found a gruff half-orc fur trader named Kagan. Despite his rough exterior, Kagan was hospitable enough to pour a drink for a stranger.
Their talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. Harley, Kagan’s neighbor, stood there, worry written plain across her face. Her daughter had gone wandering and not returned. Kagan offered at once to track her down, and Ignen, sensing adventure coiling at the edges of the night, agreed to accompany him.
Tracks led them to a clearing with a large, vine-choked tree. At its base gaped a cave mouth, half-hidden in greenery. As they drew closer, a ragged scream split the silence. An orc burst from the cave, eyes wild with terror. Ignen reacted first: a word of power, and the brute crumpled into enchanted slumber. A second incantation wound around the orc’s mind like ivy. When he woke, he looked at them with friendship in his eyes instead of fear.
His name was Erkent. Spirits, he said, had dragged him into the cave, tormenting him until he tore free of their bindings.
The three advanced together, but the cave’s threshold was no longer still. Bundles of twigs and vines shivered, twitched, and pulled themselves upright—twig-things, their splintery fingers tipped with poison. They swarmed, clawing and hissing, too many to count. Kagan carved through them with brutal sweeps of his greatsword, but each slash cost him—poison seeping into his veins, his mighty frame growing heavy. Erkent, snarling, swung a dead twig-creature like a cudgel, snapping its kin apart.
"Make a torch out of you!" Ignen ducked and darted, his dagger flashing, prying sap from stick-flesh.
One by one, the things fell still, broken kindling at their feet.
The cave led to a stone stair and a buried stone building. Roots burrowed through the walls, thick as limbs, and vines ran everywhere. They saw the girl, Ghislaine, bound tightly in a know of roots. A man stood near her--brown-grey skin, bark rough, his eyes unreadable. He raised a hand without speaking or even looking at them, and bade them leave.
For one heartbeart the air was still. The next, Kagan, greatsword wet with blood, stood over the strange man, collapsed in the roots. A serpent larger than a man struck from the roots, fangs bared, but Erkent seized it and clubbed it until it fell limp.
Kagan bent to cut the girl free, but the steel in his hands seared against his palm. The blade grew hot--too hot. He planted it in a large root, and smoke hissed forth where metal met wood.
The strange man rose, the wound in his chest closed. The roots around them writhed to life, ensnaring Kagan, Ignen, and Ghislaine. The man slipped past them, a serpent in the roots, and though Kagan tore his sword free in time to swing once more, the stranger vanished into the vines.
They wrestled themselves loose and carried Ghislaine home. Her mother wept with relief, clutching her close. Erkent, released from Ignen's spell, shook their hands with a rueful grin and went his own way.
But as Kagan cleaned his sword, still faintly warm to the touch, he muttered: “Roots remember.”
SS 2020 Peridot 10
"A man may guard his hens with spear and snare, yet it is goodwill that keeps the night truly at bay."
—Ransford the Mason
It was after the evening's Fight Club that Morvin the farmer approached the boys. He was a plain man, shoulders stooped from work and eyes heavy with worry. Something had take a hen. Maybe a wolf, maybe worse. With Hendrick the ranger off on some mission, he needed help, and he needed it now.
Farm dinner is hearty: stewed vegetables, fresh bread, and plenty of ale. Only once the plates were cleared did Morvin finally ask, hat in hand, for their aid. The boys were happy to oblige—though not without bargaining for pie.
That night, they lay in wait. A snare was set by the coop, but the danger came from the dark south fields. Three coyotes, lean and desperate, burst from the shadows.
The first leapt for Grolm as the others circled him. But Grolm stood like a wall, bellowing as he shoved them back with his sturdy tower shield. Henry and Thearch moved to help.
One by one the coyotes fell. A well placed blow with Thearch's mace. A blow from Grolm's bare hand. And Henry's crushing embrace held the last, tightly, until it stilled.
-----
Breakfast at Morvin’s was as grand as dinner—eggs, bacon, and as much pie as the table could hold. The boys ate until their belts strained. They left with full bellies, goodwill, and three coyote pelts.
As they departed, Thearch advised Morvin to shore up his coop with proper stonework. Ransford, the local mason, would later thank him for the suggestion and the work.
Back in town, Skinner the fur trader gave them nine copper for the pelts, though he grumbled it should’ve been less.