The Petrified Forest

Pacing Move

[5] Advance a Plot - the Daemons have taken more prisoners as part of their plan

—

Passing through the opened barrier is less strange than either of the girls might have expected. But the atmosphere of the Delwald, surrounded by ancient stone-like trees and scorched earth is truly uncanny, almost like setting foot in another world.

Sir Henry’s notes spoke of a Daemonic incursion, and Works, within the Delwald. Neither of which sounds pleasant. Lavorra shivers as she remembers the Fleshworks that her temporary captors mentioned.

She can hazard a few guesses as to what those are.

Already the areas is beginning to show signs of corruption: purple veins grow through the petrified fauna, giving sick new life to the long-dead trees. The cries of otherworldly creatures echo around them, reminding Lavorra of the many-limbed beast at the bandit camp.

She shivers, and then stops short, grabbing Zeya by the arm. Her Tiefling friend flinches, looking at her with alarm. Lavorra presses a finger to her lips, taking Zeya by the hand, and leading her into a dense thicket of wiry, bone-like branches. Dead wood and thorns snag at their clothes as they creep forward, towards the sounds that had grabbed Lavorra’s attention.

More Daemonspawn march deeper into the woods ahead of them, moving towards a series of rough lean-to’s and tents of wood and tanned leather. Beyond them is a squat bastion formed of black stone, ran through with more purple veins of energy. Lavorra recognises the signs of the Daemonic abyss beginning to bleed into their world, but it’s not that which frightens her, as they watch the marching Daemons.

A ragged row of female Elves staggers along, each of them grey-skinned and dressed in ruined leather armour, many barefoot or half-stripped. Their hands are bound with heavy manacles and their mouths are stuffed and strapped with painful-looking gags, many of them with defeated expressions, though a few still sport glares of defiance. Their tattered armour is rich and finely wrought, but useless to them now in their captivity.

Zeya gasps in horror, her cheerful demeanour a little lacking ever since they had reunited outside the barrier. Lavorra hadn’t wanted - and hadn’t had time - to push, but she places a hand over her friend’s, squeezing.

“Dark Elf Spellrangers.” Lavorra breathes, “Some of the strongest of the Houses’ warriors. This is not good. If they…” she breaks off, grimacing at the notion, “if the Daemons… breed with them, they’ll create soldiers of terrible power.”

“So we need to save them too. Okay.” Zeya breathes, clearly doing her best to suppress her rising panic. She begins to rummage in her bag, producing a series of clinking noises. “Okay, okay. Get inside, right? Get inside and find them. Find your friend.”

Lavorra nods. She cranes her neck, trying to find a weak point in the camps defences, a way for them to breach the Daemonic bastion. “But it’s so well guarded. I don’t know how we’re going to do this.”

“I do.” A deep, masculine voice murmurs at her side. Lavorra turns slowly. Eyes widening in shock as - where Zeya crouched - she sees a Daemonspawn warrior, dressed in a silken bodice and trousers that strain to cover his physique.