William stood in silent reverence within the grove, surrounded by animal statues that encircled the clearing.
These figures were not merely crafted from wood or stone, but from something far more ancient, perhaps memory itself.
Each statue pulsed faintly with blue veins of mana, their slow, deliberate rhythms drawing on the ambient magic like deep roots drawing water.
Whatever their hidden purpose, William sensed a presence observing him in return.
Nearby, Owlbert relaxed instantly, inhaling deeply as mist curled around his beak, the dense air somehow warm and welcoming.
His eyes closed, head tilted back in serene surrender, and he uttered a soft, approving "Chirp… kree" while nudging William's leg.
William chuckled quietly, promising to get him one of his own someday, and stroked the cub's head, fingers gliding through downy feathers even as his focus shifted.
At the grove's center stood the largest statue, a towering stag with antlers braided like living branches and eyes of pale moonstone that caught and held the light.
Blue mana coursed along its flanks in intricate patterns, converging at its hooves where glowing sigils were carved into the earth.
Several druids knelt in a wide circle around the statue, their chanting deepening into a low, resonant cadence that seemed to rise not from their throats but from the very roots beneath them.
William felt the vibration in his teeth and in the soles of his boots, the sound transforming into waves of pressure and light, as if the grove itself spoke in a language far older than words. With each swell of their voices, the mana along the stag's form glowed brighter.
The mist thickened, coiling into slow, deliberate eddies that swirled around their hands before being drawn toward the heart of the statue.
Owlbert edged closer to William's knee, his feathers rippling as the air grew dense with power.
His hoot shifted into a questioning trill, and for a moment, William forgot to breathe.
The druids did not lift their eyes, their expressions tranquil and composed, mouths moving in flawless, practiced unison as the grove listened in silence.
William did not pause.
The grove stretched ahead like a living passageway, shaping paths where none had existed moments earlier, roots curling aside in a manner that seemed to acknowledge his presence without fully welcoming it.
As they ventured deeper, the air grew denser, saturated with the scent of damp earth, crushed foliage, and an undercurrent of magic thrumming just beyond the edge of hearing.
Owlbert padded at his heel, still near but no longer quaking.
His curiosity had begun to eclipse his awe, his head turning constantly, golden eyes following drifting motes of light, ears twitching at whispers emanating from places that held no mouths.
Abruptly, voices broke through the stillness, sharp, urgent, and bearing the unsettling familiarity of fear.
William slowed his pace as they rounded a curve and came upon three Tieflings engaged in an intense argument beside a cluster of broad-leafed plants and a neat stack of crates.
A man with ash-red skin and curling horns paced restlessly, his tail lashing with a mind of its own.
"We can't stay," he snapped, voice sharp with urgency. "The goblins will regroup, the druids already don't trust us, and this place is one bad choice away from becoming a funeral pyre."
Across from him, another Tiefling, broader, with horns sawed short and arms locked tightly over his chest, shook his head with stubborn resolve.
"And go where? The roads are crawling with monsters. At least here we have walls, wards, and people who know which end of a staff to point at the enemy."
The third had been silent until now.
A woman with dusky-violet skin and swept-back horns tilted her head slightly, arms folded, though her posture was more measured, her gaze distant as if weighing the inevitable cost of either path.
"We're out of time no matter what," she murmured. "Staying could kill us. Leaving will."
The words lingered in the air like brittle glass, the argument sharp but unresolved.
Then William stepped into view.
All three stilled.
Not with theatrical drama or heroic pause, just… stopped.
Their eyes swept over him: the shock of white hair catching the thin shafts of light, the metallic tang of blood, and the fading trace of spell craft clinging to him like an unshakable memory. The dagger at his hip did nothing to ease the tension. Neither did the owlbear at his side.
The man froze mid-stride so abruptly his tail swung forward like it was trying to overtake him in protest.
"…Well," he mumbled. "That's… different."
The woman, however, was far too busy having her entire soul hijacked.
Her gaze had locked onto Owlbert with the intensity of a hawk spotting its prey, if the prey was made of pure joy and questionable legality in the realm of cuteness. In that instant, the rest of the universe politely excused itself.
Half a heartbeat later, she simply ceased to be "over there" and was, by some arcane sorcery of pure enthusiasm, crouched directly in front of the owlbear cub.
No footsteps, no warning, just teleportation powered by sheer emotional velocity.
Her hands clasped under her chin, eyes twinkling as if someone had just gift-wrapped destiny and put a bow on it.
"Oh my gods," she breathed, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
Hearts didn't literally pop into the air, but the vibe suggested they were hovering nearby, waiting for the cue.
Stars wouldn't have been out of place either.
Owlbert blinked. Slowly. Once. Then tilted his head, utterly unequipped for this level of worship.
"Look at you," the tiefling whispered, reverence wobbling dangerously close to an undignified squeal. "You're real. You're actually real. You're not biting. You're fluffy. You're… criminally adorable."
Owlbert responded with a small, uncertain hoot. Her entire face melted like butter on a hot skillet.
William froze mid-step, wearing the weary expression of a man who had seen this exact disaster play out in his mind three times already and had given up resisting fate.
The two tieflings gawked like spectators at the world's most confusing magic show.
"…Did she just teleport?" one ventured.
"I'm pretty sure she ascended to a higher plane," the other whispered, awestruck.
The woman crept forward with the reverence of a pilgrim approaching a holy artifact, her fingers hovering just above Owlbert's feathers.
"May I?" she asked solemnly, as though seeking permission from the feathery embodiment of law itself.
Owlbert stared at her with the inscrutable wisdom of one who has seen many strange things… then leaned in and gave her a gentle, ceremonial beak-boop.
She responded with a sound that could only be described as a cross between a squeak, a gasp, and the noise a kettle makes right before boiling over.
William exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping.
This was going to be a *very* long conversation.
The squeal broke free before she could stop it, high-pitched, shameless, and carrying the kind of emotional wallop usually reserved for baby animals in teacups or the first bite of a perfect croissant.
It ricocheted through the grove like an adorable alarm bell.
Heads swiveled.
Children materialized as if summoned by magic, starting with one small tiefling peering around a tree, horns the size of toothpicks, eyes narrowed in deep suspicion.
Then came another.
And another.
By the third gasp and fifth whispered "Is that real?", the air was thick with anticipation.
A pair of druids glanced over.
Then three.
Then a steadily growing army, all women, each armed with the lethal trifecta of curiosity, tender hearts, and zero resistance to cute things.
Every gaze locked onto Owlbert.
Time itself took a seat to watch.
Owlbert sensed the onslaught before his brain caught up, dozens of warm, intent eyes, radiating a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
Slowly, he turned to William, golden eyes shimmering with unshed tears, a tiny whimper threatening to escape as the crowd advanced.
This was not the danger of goblins.
This was far, far worse.
This was affection.
William lifted a hand in a small, rueful wave. "Be good for a bit," he said mildly. "Play nice. I'll be right here."
Owlbert's beak gaped open in sheer disbelief. That was it? No daring rescue, no dramatic last-minute save, no swooping hero to whisk him away from the pint-sized horde rapidly descending upon him?
The first child arrived, hands soft but buzzing with excitement, fingers sinking into his downy feathers like they were petting the world's most confused pillow.
Another followed, laughing as Owlbert emitted a startled hoot.
Then came the third, clambering onto his back with the fearless gusto of someone who had never once contemplated the concept of regret.
Owlbert squeaked, then bolted.
He tore through the grove in a feathery frenzy, paws pounding against the earth, laughter erupting in his wake.
Children surged after him in a giggling, shouting stampede, while Owlbert zigzagged between roots and statues, his terror quickly mutating into something suspiciously like fun.
One child hung on for dear life, arms wrapped around his neck like a tiny rodeo champion, cheering as the cub thundered forward with all the grace of a runaway couch cushion.
"Hold on!" the rider howled, cackling.
Owlbert hooted in protest, then surprise, then what could only be described as exhilaration.
Druids looked on from afar, hands over mouths, eyes sparkling, murmuring prayers to Silvanus that had nothing to do with nature's balance and everything to do with the injustice of such unbearable cuteness.
William leaned on a nearby tree, arms folded, white hair catching the dappled sunlight, wearing the weary smirk of a man who had seen stranger things but not many.
"Yep," he muttered. "Checks out." Owlbert barreled past again, leaves swirling, children shrieking, the triumphant rider punching the air.
The ancient grove, ever watchful, did not protest. If anything, it seemed thoroughly entertained.
William left the laughter behind, not from irritation but out of necessity.
The grove shifted subtly as he advanced, its winding paths curving back on themselves in deliberate, measured arcs, directing movement like a living roundabout.
This was neither the sacred heart where druids knelt in reverence nor the playful fringes where children chased drifting feathers in delight.
It was the guest quarter, a quieter ring shaped from roots and interlaced branches, where lanterns glowed with the muted luminescence of foxfire.
Temporary shelters rested between ancient trunks, where canvas, timber, and magic mingled, more a place of refuge than a consecrated shrine.
William followed the bend until the laughter faded into murmurs, then into a sound sharper and more unsettling, a snarl, low and ragged, quivering on the brink of breaking.
His pace slowed.
At the far edge of the roundabout stood a structure less organic than its surroundings: an old stone doorway half-consumed by roots, leading into what seemed a repurposed cellar or holding chamber.
The air hung heavy and stale, as if something unpleasant had been made to linger there.
The snarl came again.
Peering inside, William saw two tieflings just beyond the threshold.
One was a tall, lean male with horns swept tightly back along his skull, standing with palms open and body angled protectively, as though shielding something fragile from an imminent storm.
"Easy," he urged, voice taut yet controlled. "Easy. This isn't helping. Just breathe, alright? Don't do something you can't take back."
The other tiefling, a female, stood trembling, not from fear, but from sheer, unrestrained fury. Her tail lashed violently through the air, the spaded tip striking the stone floor with a sharp, whip-like crack.
Clutching her crossbow firmly with both hands, she had already loaded a bolt, her aim locked with unyielding precision and deadly intent.
Her unwavering focus was fixed entirely on a cage before her.
Iron bars etched with druidic runes framed the scene like some grim stage play. Inside, a goblin woman crouched, her green skin a patchwork of old bruises, shackles clinking at her ankles. Her grin was absurdly wide, like she'd just remembered the punchline to a joke no one else wanted to hear.
She blew a kiss.
Then another.
Then, with all the theatrical flair of a bad dinner show, she dragged her tongue slowly across her teeth, making the female tiefling's grip on her crossbow tighten until it might snap in half.
"Oooh," the goblin crooned, voice thick as spilled syrup and twice as sticky. "You gonna shoot me this time, horns? Or just stand there quiverin' like last night? I loved the tears. Added flavor."
The male tiefling swallowed so hard it was practically a standing ovation for awkwardness. "Stop," he managed, sounding less like a hero and more like someone begging the tavern bard to skip their third encore.
The goblin leaned closer, fingers curling around the bars with the enthusiasm of someone about to share a scandalous secret. "Aww, but this is my only hobby. That and my imagination, and you've been givin' me so much material."
The tiefling woman's snarl burst out, raw and feral, like she'd just realized the play she was in had no intermission.
The crossbow rose a little higher.
"Say one more thing," she hissed. "I dare you."
The goblin's grin somehow found room to get even sharper, like she'd just won the world's least comforting staring contest.
William strolled in like someone who'd been told dramatic entrances were an Olympic sport, and he was here to win bronze, subtle, but with just enough flair to make everyone wonder if they should start clapping.
Boots met stone with a sound that sliced through the air like a knife through overcooked spaghetti. Both Tieflings froze mid-action, like badly paused actors.
The male's gaze snapped to him first, relief flashing briefly before being smothered under a layer of "better not trust this guy yet." The woman followed, crossbow still aimed, her expression pure fiery rage with a dash of "who invited you?" Her eyes swept over William: white hair catching the dim light, relaxed stance, dagger at his hip, and that faint aura of "I have definitely punched someone in an alley" clinging to him like an old coat.
The goblin, catching on, blinked and said, "Oh. Well. Ain't you a tall drink of bad decisions." William ignored her entirely, gaze locked on the crossbow, the trembling bolt, and the girl wound tighter than a cheap watch.
"That's enough," he said, voice calm, steady, and carrying the kind of authority that doesn't need to shout.
The words weren't loud, but somehow the whole room leaned in to listen anyway.
The male Tiefling let out a shaky sigh, the kind you give when your patience has packed its bags and left town. "She won't stop," he said, as though announcing the weather. "We've tried everything, guards, magic wards, stern threats, interpretive dance. She just… keeps going."
William gave a single, solemn nod, the kind of nod that could have its own tragic backstory. Then, at last, his eyes moved. The goblin's grin, cocky as a cat in a cream factory, wobbled. Just a touch.
William stepped closer to the cage. Not menacing. Not chummy. Just existing in that deeply unsettling way that makes you rethink your life choices.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.
The goblin barked a laugh. "What else is there? Bars, boredom, and watching you lot pretend you're better than me."
William tilted his head, like a crow considering shiny roadkill. "You are antagonizing someone who is one broken shoelace away from total collapse."
The goblin shrugged. "Good."
William smiled, but his eyes didn't get the memo. "That tells me everything I need to know."
Behind him, the Tiefling woman's breathing stumbled, crossbow bolt trembling as something suspiciously like hope elbowed its way past the fury.
William raised a hand, not toward the weapon, but toward her. "Lower it," he said softly. "Let me handle this part."
The goblin snorted. "And what're you gonna do, pretty boy? Lecture me? Serenade me? Make sweet, sweet goblin love to me?"
William's gaze locked onto hers like a bear trap. "No," he said. "I'm going to make you stop talking."
Outside, the grove rustled. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed. And inside that narrow chamber, the air froze, as though even it didn't want to interrupt.
William's gaze darted to a nearby table strewn with the chaotic spoils of a writer's mind, parchments crumpled like failed dreams, inkpots standing at odd angles, and a lone quill sprawled on its side as if it had fainted from sheer boredom. A sly smirk curled at his lips, the sort of expression that suggested trouble was about to clock in for its shift.
From somewhere in that curious blend of calm and chaos, a wickedly gleeful idea pirouetted into being. Without uttering a word, he extended a hand, fingers curling with the lazy confidence of a man about to commit a very silly crime.
The quill rose, smooth and deliberate, like a cat pretending it's not about to knock something off a shelf. A whispered incantation later, Mage Hand became his willing co-conspirator.
The airborne quill glided toward the goblin, pausing inches from her ribs like a predator savoring the moment. She didn't notice at first, too busy stewing in a cloud of indignation that practically smelled of burnt toast. Then, with the delicate precision of a master prankster, the quill traced a featherlight path along her side.
A startled shiver shot through her body as if her skeleton had just remembered a joke from three years ago. "Ah... what..!" she yelped, twisting in her chains, only to find the quill hovering just far enough away to be infuriating. It darted in again, delivering tickles that were equal parts torment and comedy, utterly harmless yet devastatingly effective.
William's grin deepened into something quietly villainous as he let the quill work its merciless magic. The goblin jerked and wriggled, outrage and disbelief wrestling with the bubbling edge of helpless laughter.
"Stop! I... Ah! No!" she squealed, squirming so hard she nearly turned her chains into interpretive dance. The quill hovered, waiting, patient and smug, ready for round two.
The male Tiefling's jaw dangled like a tavern sign in a windstorm, teetering between scandalized disbelief and the kind of admiration reserved for witnessing sheer, unrepentant audacity. "Is he… seriously..?"
"Yes," William murmured, though the words seemed aimed more at convincing himself than anyone else. "Yes, I am."
Every flick of the quill was a masterclass in villainous slapstick, each stroke drawing the goblin further into a spiral of ticklish insanity. Her once triumphant grin had warped into a grimace of unhinged frustration, eyes darting wildly as her claws snapped at thin air. The quill danced with maddening precision, skipping here, swooping there, striking with the impeccable timing of a jester who'd trained at the school of pure chaos.
The female Tiefling, crossbow now sagging like a forgotten chore, blinked in rapid succession, torn between stepping in, applauding, or drafting a manual on "Advanced Quill-Fu."
The goblin's yelps ricocheted between outraged protest and giggles so intense they nearly dislodged the bars of her cage's composure.
William stood in sharp contrast to the pandemonium, the picture of serene mischief. There was no cruelty in his gaze, only the smug delight of a man watching a plan unfold with the elegance of a perfectly timed pratfall.
At last, after what felt like several comedic lifetimes, the quill hovered inches from its target. The goblin froze, chest heaving, eyes glassy with the aftershocks of relentless mirth.
"You… you'll pay for this," she spat, though the menace was thoroughly undermined by her breathless, near-giddy defeat.
William tilted his head, smirk sharpened to a razor's edge. "Oh, I know," he purred, voice smooth as a bard's best pickup line. "But for now… savor the lesson in humility."