The Hag’s Arrival

The path between the druid stone circle and the defensive gate wound past a handful of makeshift shops—little more than tables and crates propped against the cliff walls where the tieflings had taken shelter. A few traders lingered, haggling quietly over trinkets and scraps.

Ethel’s stall looked almost regal in contrast. The same warped wooden table, draped in its faded green cloth, stood proudly amidst the drear. Her gray hair shimmered faintly in the morning light, framing that deceptively sweet smile she wore like armor. “My, my,” she cooed, her tone syrupy and gentle, “if it isn’t my favorite little troublemaker. Auntie thought you might’ve lost your way.”

“I’m punctual,” I said. “You brought everything?”

For a moment, I simply looked at her. This hag, this absolute menace wrapped in wrinkles and laughter, had become my most dangerous ally. Working with Ethel felt like juggling knives—one wrong move and I’d lose an eye, one big mistake, and it would be my life instead. But I needed what she could offer, and in lieu of my patron’s clear guidance she was the best option left to me. If this was the road to corrupting the Grove, then so be it.

“Of course!” She clapped her hands with childlike glee. “A promise made is a promise kept—Auntie Ethel never forgets a deal.” Her grin widened, grandmotherly charm and just a hint of too many teeth. “Though some might wish she would.”

Behind her, her collection waited in grim display. The petrified dwarf stood mid-scream, his face contorted in frozen terror. Next to him rested a humble wooden casket—plain and worn. The one that carried the body of Mayrina’s husband, the corpse Ethel had promised to restore to life for the sake of Mayrina’s unborn child. And then there was Mayrina herself—heavily pregnant now, her face pale and distant, eyes glassy and unfocused as she absently rubbed her swollen belly.

Trailing behind them were four of Ethel’s “helpers.” At first glance, they looked human enough—drab clothes, blank expressions—but the illusion faltered in their stiff movements and dull, lifeless eyes. Too white, too still. I caught a flash of their teeth when one smiled, sharp and wrong. Redcaps, dressed in borrowed skin.

“Quite the entourage,” I muttered.

Ethel beamed, fussing with her apron as though she were running a bakery instead of a walking nightmare. “Oh, aren’t they darling? Loyal little lambs, every one. Trim them right, and they stay obedient forever.” She reached up and flicked its ear; the creature didn’t even blink.

From her satchel, she produced a vial of shimmering green and gold liquid, small but potent. “And here we are, petal,” she said. “The potion of youth, pure as promised. Restores what time stole and gave, no curses, no tricks, no fun. Clean and pure.”

I took it, the glass warm to the touch, alive somehow. “Appreciated.”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, voice soft as honey. “Now then, you promised Auntie a little something in return.”

“Follow me,” I said. “We will meet with the archdruid—she’ll show you where to perform your ritual."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Ah, well. Business is business. Come along, boys—” she snapped her fingers, and the redcaps jerked upright in unnatural unison. “Careful with the garden-gnome, he’s worth more than the rest of you combined.”

The grotesque little entourage began to move, hauling the statue and casket with inhuman ease. Mayrina followed, silent and swaying.

Ethel hummed as we made our way through the meager market, weaving between tents and tieflings who instinctively stepped aside, even the boldest traders shrank back, sensing something deeply wrong in our strange little procession.

“You’ve done well, dearheart,” she said after a while. “Not many men could convince an old girl like me to pack up shop for a new audience. I do so love a good ceremony.”

I smirked faintly. “Something tells me this one’s right up your alley.”

Her laugh was soft and warm, but something slithered beneath it. “Oh, I do hope so.”

As we entered the Grove proper, the air shifted—crisper, cleaner, alive with the faint hum of druidic wards. Ethel paused, inhaling slowly, then exhaled with a grimace.

“Oh, how sacred,” she said bitterly. “I despise it.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, smirking. “That won’t last.”

She glanced at me, her smile returning—sweet, intrigued, and hungry. “You brewing schemes without telling dear old Auntie? As long as I get my prize, you can dance naked in the mud for all I care. But if you ruin my dinner, I will rip out that pretty tongue of yours, you hear?”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

She tittered behind me, her steps light despite her dark promises. “Oh, I doubt that, petal. But lead on now—I’m positively itching to see this little hollow of yours.”

The redcaps followed, muttering in guttural tones that didn’t belong in mortal mouths. Mayrina stumbled once, and one of them caught her—not gently, but with cold efficiency. The petrified dwarf and casket rocked with each uneven step.

Ethel sidled closer, lowering her voice. “And this druid woman of yours—what was her name again?”

“Kagha,” I said.

“Yes, her,” Ethel mock-purred. “She won’t be trouble, will she? Sounds like the self-righteous sort. We don't want that, now do we?”

“She has ****, she’ll play her part,” I replied simply.

“Mhmm,” Ethel mused. “**** hearts make such pliable allies.”

We reached the shaded archway leading toward the sanctum. As we descended together, the air grew colder with each step, as if the Grove itself knew something unholy was coming.