Old Whispers and New Warnings

When I woke, the world felt quietly alive—a tranquil hush filled the air, like the Grove itself was holding its breath. Gentle mist draped the ground, dew sparkling on leaves, and somewhere close, the stream whispered through stone. Birds had not yet begun their chorus, lending the morning a secret, hidden-oasis stillness. For a heartbeat, I wondered if I was still dreaming. My vision blurred, and faint words flickered across the darkness behind my eyes

[Corruption +1]

[Corruption +1]...

Another, then another, glowing soft before fading. Anonymous. Countless. I blinked them away, though the strange warmth they left behind lingered in the back of my mind.

I rolled out of my bedroll and stretched, every muscle feeling unreasonably fresh. Maybe it was the gentle vitality of the Grove seeping into my bones—or maybe it was simply the lingering warmth from last night’s events. Either way, I felt... charged. I glanced around; everyone else was still asleep. The dying embers of our fire smoldered quietly.

I decided to treasure the rare moment of serenity taking a walk around camp, letting instinct guide me. The mist hung low over the ground, wrapping the camp in a pale shroud. That’s when I saw them: footprints, half-hidden in the dew. Delicate, deliberate, made by someone who was accustomed to sneak around. And beside them, a second trail—a thin, rippling mark pressed into the mud.

A serpent’s trail.

So, Kagha had taken my invitation and visited last night. Interesting. Why hadn’t she made herself known? The question lingered like the mist around the camp. What had she seen? Had she been skulking in the shadows, watching us sleep—or worse, witnessing what happened between Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and me during our 'reconciliation'? The thought coiled tight in my chest, equal parts curiosity and unease.

Today would be the ceremony—the Bloom, the Blasphemy. Call it whatever you want, it would disrupt the Oak Father’s cycle. I’d twist it, rewrite it, and hopefully deliver the Grove and its faithful right into Graz’zt’s awaiting hands. And in return I'd be handsomely rewarded. Finally.

The plan was rather straightforward.

Giving Mayrina’s unborn child to Ethel would twist birth into something unholy;

De-aging Kagha would erase growth;

The mere existence of the petrified dwarf, cursed to be alive forever in stone, mocked decay;

And the soon-to-be reanimated husband would defile **** itself.

Four sacred tenets, all corrupted in unison and sealed with a seed of blasphemy. If that didn’t rip a hole in the natural order, nothing would.

My dear patron, Graz’zt, had been his usual infuriating self—Dramatic, and utterly unhelpful. A seed and a pat on the back, that was all I got. It had been fertilized last evening—by two kisses nonetheless, not one as he instructed. Hopefully he would appreciate the extra flair. Now it pulsed longingly in my pocket, ready and eager.

The youth potion Ethel had brewed should also be ready by now; she was likely already lurking somewhere in the Grove, dragging around her cursed luggage. Everything seemed to be falling into place, and yet I couldn’t shake the unease curling in my gut. Kagha was crucial in all this—the key to getting us deep beneath the Idol and letting us do our dirty deeds without interference. She was already drunk on my promises of power, eyes wide with the thought of leading for good. Or bad. But would her loyalty last once she realized just how twisted this ritual truly was? I’d have to convince her, charm her, or—at the very least—make sure she didn’t stand in my way when it began.

And then there was the hag problem. Doubts gnawed at me, a chorus of disapproving voices whispering in the back of my mind. My promise ...All the babies you could want. A steady stream. No eyes on you, no holy types poking their noses in. You’ll have more raw stock than you know what to do with... had seemed clever at the time, necessary even. She’d needed an irresistible prize, and I’d promised her one—enough to pry loose quite a few possessions for my plans to bear fruit. Maybe, if I played it right, I could turn her ambition around? If she wanted the kids of the Grove so bad, surely she would fight to keep them. At least for a little while.

The Grove’s stillness surrounded me as I sat on a flat stone near the firepit. My mind preparing battle tactics, future dialogue options, what items that could come in handy and when. With all our preparations the battle seemed winnable, maybe even—"

“..Unwritten.”

The voice rasped out of the fog like the scrape of bone on stone. I turned—and nearly jumped. Withers stood a few feet away, still as a tombstone, mist curling through his ribs. His empty eyes fixed on me with ageless patience.

"Withers", I said, exhaling. “Do you ever knock?”

He tilted his skull slightly, a motion that somehow managed to feel disapproving. “You have dabbled where mortals should not.”

“I dabble everywhere,” I said. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The Lady of Loss,” Withers intoned, his words eerily heavier than usual. “You toy with devotion, turning agony to mockery. You have drawn Her gaze, and she remembers insult as others remember breath.”

I blinked slowly. So, he did know about me and Shadowheart. Of course he did. “You mean Shar,” I said. “I didn’t mock anything. I just… fine-tuned her blessing.”

Withers didn’t move, yet the silence between us pressed like weights on my chest. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a trace of sorrow so faint it might have been imagination. “Divine pettiness cuts deeper than any blade. You think you pull the strings—but it is the noose you weave.”

“Come on,” I **** a laugh. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It can,” he said flatly. “And it is. When gods are insulted, they do not shout. They whisper” Withers said softly. “And those whispers lead you where they will be heard. You have set your path toward Her, whether by design or folly.”

“That’s… not comforting.”

“Comfort is for the blessed,” Withers murmured. “You are neither. Beware whom which you have provoked, as she kills not in seconds, but in centuries.” His words seemed to fade into the air, as the mist slowly dispersed around us.

Fuck.