William observed closely as Wyll submitted to a meticulous, non-invasive examination conducted by Nettie, the skilled dwarven druid.
Her movements were deliberate and assured, honed through years of tending to injuries both ordinary and extraordinary.
Overhead, a brilliant blue jay, fully restored from a past wound, circled with lively precision, its joyful energy sharply contrasting with the grim procedure unfolding below.
When Nettie requested that Wyll remove his stone eye, he hesitated only briefly before acquiescing.
As it came free, Nettie drew a sharp breath.
Within the empty socket, a slick, living mass pulsed, faintly glowing and weaving through the surrounding tissue with a slow, unsettling rhythm, replacing what should have been brain matter.
For the first time since William had met her, Nettie's calm demeanor faltered.
Her breathing quickened as her hand drifted toward a thorned branch nearby, fingers closing carefully around it to avoid the lethal toxin on its barbs.
"You're infected," she said in a low voice. "A particularly nasty tadpole, by the look of it."
Wyll swallowed hard. "Can you remove it? Can you save me before I… become one of them?"
The thought struck him vividly, an imposing mind flayer, alien and grotesque, tentacles writhing where a face should be, clutching a rapier in one hand and casting an Eldritch Blast in the other, its violet currents betraying psionic, illithid power consuming him from within.
Nettie's shoulders slumped slightly. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I lack the skill and tools to remove it safely. If Archdruid Halsin were here, he might have a greater chance if not a greater understanding."
But he has been missing for many hours."
The atmosphere in the medical chamber grew dense, the weight of unspoken words pressing down until nearby candle flames wavered in protest.
Unexpectedly, Nettie cleared her throat and, with a dry tone, remarked, "Well, drop your trousers and cough." Wyll froze for a moment, every muscle tightening, before Nettie's sudden, sharp laughter shattered the tension.
He released a slow breath, managing a faint smile in spite of himself.
As their exchange ended, the heavy wooden door slid open again.
Shadowheart entered first, her expression cold and as inscrutable as carved stone, the dim light accentuating the severity of her features and the distant steel in her gaze.
At her side was Astarion, a thin trail of fresh blood marking the corner of his mouth, his smile held in careful check.
Gale followed last, moving with deliberate slowness, his attention turned inward as he quietly absorbed ambient magic, keeping something perilous under control.
The quiet murmur of druidic voices ceased instantly.
From the dim recesses at the back, Kagha emerged, her presence commanding and immediate.
Her face carried a hardness that seemed older than bark or stone, shaped more by judgment than years.
Her eyes swept over the newcomers, resting a heartbeat longer on each than courtesy allowed.
Three rats trailed silently at her heels, their noses twitching as they tested the air.
"So," Kagha said coolly, "more survivors pulled from the wreckage."
Her gaze fixed on Shadowheart, sharp and probing yet unreadable, shifted to Astarion with a brief pause at the blood on his lips, and finally settled on Gale, whose measured restraint did not escape her notice.
"You carry more than wounds," Kagha said firmly. "Whatever afflicts you is not welcome in my grove."
One of the rats rose onto its hind legs, whiskers twitching, while another circled her foot with unsettling familiarity.
Kagha's staff struck the stone floor once in quiet emphasis. "This is not a matter for public discussion," she declared. "Come. We will speak privately." Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode toward the rear chambers, the rats padding after her, their claws whispering against the stone.
Whether the trio followed out of duty or curiosity was irrelevant; Kagha did not slow her pace.
A brief glance passed between them, an unspoken accord, and they moved after her.
As the door closed, William caught a fleeting glimpse of Shadowheart disappearing from view.
He exhaled softly.
"What a woman," he murmured, before turning his attention to Wyll and Nettie.
In Wyll's hands rested the thorned branch Nettie had held earlier, gripped with a reverence as if it were a sacred pledge.
"So," William said with a smirk, "what did the doctor say?"
Wyll cast a sharp glance at him before yielding, recounting all that Nettie had learned of ceremorphosis, knowledge borne from grim, firsthand encounters rather than academic speculation.
"We're going to need to find Halsin," William remarked with a theatrical sigh.
Stepping outside the grove, the atmosphere shifted, brighter, charged, as if the air itself thrummed with mana flowing through the ancient boughs, tinged with a faint trace of divine favor carried on the wind.
The sudden blare of horns shattered the stillness, their deep, bone-rattling tones echoing from beyond the walls.
Druids unbound by the Ritual of Thorns surged into action, joined by Tiefling warriors and spellcasters.
William and Wyll arrived at the wall last, where the scene below came into stark focus: at the vanguard stood a hobgoblin, gripping a bloodied man by the neck and holding him aloft in brutal warning.
Dror Ragzlin had arrived.
Around him swarmed goblins, some frothing with feral rage, others howling in anticipation, while massive spiders skittered at their flanks, their chitin glistening ominously.
William's fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger.
"Why did it have to be spiders," he muttered under his breath, as the reality sank in: war had come to their gates.
The javelin came first, tearing through the air like a hurled thunderbolt, tracing a savage arc between the battlements and the horde below.
Zevlor scarcely had a heartbeat to register the iron blur before it slammed into the wooden pillar beside him with a resounding crack.
The impact burst outward in a violent spray of splinters, the pillar shuddering and fracturing, perilously close to giving way entirely.
He staggered back, horns ringing, heart pounding, as wooden shards clattered across the cold stone.
Below, Dror Ragzlin threw his head back and roared.
The sound was more than loud; it was primal, dredged from the depths of his chest, a guttural bellow that rattled teeth and set nerves alight.
As his voice thundered, the sigil of the Absolute carved into his flesh ignited, flaring with a furious crimson glow that spilled across his face and tusks.
The horde answered at once.
Goblins surged in a frenzied tide, weapons raised and shields banging, while massive spiders skittered alongside them, their chitin scraping the stone with unnerving speed.
From the chaos, several goblins broke away, hauling a siege ladder, shrieking with manic glee as they dragged it toward the wall.
"Ladders!" came the shout from above.
The first ladder slammed into the ground, goblins scrambling to brace it, yet they never made it halfway.
From the wall, a blade of ice screamed downward, swift and unerring.
It struck the lead goblin square in the chest, exploding into a burst of frost that swallowed him whole.
In an instant, ice raced across his body, crawling outward to seize the ground beneath the ladder, sending the goblins behind him skidding helplessly on the frozen stone.
They crashed down in a tangled mass of limbs and snarled curses, the chaos swiftly followed by a deadly hail.
Arrows poured from above in a relentless storm, finding their marks in exposed throats, hollow eye sockets, and heaving chests.
The goblins shuddered once, then lay still, frost and blood pooling together in grim alliance across the frozen earth.
From atop the wall, a cheer surged like a wave, rolling along its length.
Dror Ragzlin threw back his head and laughed, a deep, resonant boom filled with teeth, menace, and unshakable promise.
"Again!" he thundered, thrusting one enormous arm into the air. "Climb!" Ladders surged forward once more, wave after wave pressing against the defenses.
The first had fallen, but it was only a single spark in the blaze to come.
The war had truly begun.
A small, but dense sea of verdant green and earthy brown was hurtling directly towards the defenders, its surface disturbed by the violent hooks of the ladders that were beginning to connect with the gaping crack in the wall.
The hooks, driven home with a loud, sharp crack, were digging into the rough wood and stone of the wall with increasing force.
Wyll's hand crackled with an eldritch aura as he called upon the blessing of his patron and then unleashed a devastating bolt of raw, pure force directly at the goblin archer just as it was poised to draw its bow and fire upon one of the defenders.
CRACKLE!
With a sickening crack, that bolt of metal struck its mark, driving a clean hole right through the goblin's abdomen.
The impact sent it tumbling forward, causing it to crash into another goblin standing nearby.
The spiders advanced next, not in a chaotic rush like the goblins below, but in a calculated, silent ascent.
They detached from the mass at the wall's base, their black forms gliding upward with disquieting grace.
Claws gripped fissures too fine for human hands, bodies elongating and compressing to navigate the stone, eyes glimmering with cold, predatory intent.
William saw their movement the instant it began, he had been anticipating it.
Before a single spider reached the parapet, he braced himself, inhaling air thick with smoke, blood, and the residue of magic.
The Weave surged through him in response, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Extending his free hand, fingers spread wide, he uttered the command inwardly, sending it into the shadowed recess between thoughts.
The Arms of Hadar responded.
From him burst a shadow made tangible, a violent bloom of writhing necrotic tendrils threaded with noxious psionic light.
The air itself seemed to scream as the spell's expanding sphere of cold annihilation engulfed the climbers.
Their cries were not mere animal chittering, but something keener, almost intelligent, as the darkness constricted and crushed.
Flesh shriveled, chitin charred and split; one spider halted mid-ascent before crumbling entirely, its severed legs clattering down the wall.
Another convulsed under the assault, rupturing into a spray of ichor and shattered shell.
When the magic dissipated, three lifeless forms plummeted.
One remained.
It clung to the stone with only two legs left, the others dangling uselessly and charred, its body split open and leaking dark fluid. One eye had ruptured, while the remaining ones blazed with raw, unfiltered hatred, mandibles snapping as it hauled itself upward, driven solely by murderous intent.
William staggered, the aftershock of spent sorcery weighing down his limbs and dimming his vision. He was empty, no Sorcery Points left, no refined solutions remaining.
He swallowed hard, raised his dagger, and braced himself.
All around, the battle erupted into unrestrained chaos.
Fire streaked from the walls as druidic flames cascaded into the crush of combatants below. Arrows shrieked through the air in thick volleys, some striking flesh, others vanishing into the heaving mass. A javelin spun upward before shattering harmlessly against the stone. Spells clashed mid-flight, bursts of frost and force erupting like violent fireworks against the night sky.
Weapons struck in both directions. A goblin corpse tumbled backward from the wall, crushing another beneath its weight. A Tiefling cried out as a bolt glanced off his shoulder, spinning him to the ground before a comrade dragged him to safety.
It was a storm, a collision of sound, light, blood, and magic compressed into a single deafening heartbeat.
Yet despite their numbers, the goblins faced an unrelenting disadvantage.
They had to climb.
Ladders groaned and swayed under the relentless hail of arrows, while iron hooks tore free from the stone walls.
Goblins tumbled from their perches, plunging into the chaos below with screams that were swiftly swallowed by the crush of bodies.
Each step upward was paid for in blood, as the defenders held their ground, striking down with the advantage of height and careful preparation.
Amid the din, William's focus remained fixed on the spider.
With a final, scraping heave, it hauled its bulk onto the parapet, legs quivering, its hatred refining each motion into something unnervingly deliberate.
It hissed, a wet line of ichor dripping onto the stone between them.
He did not yield.
Dagger poised and shoulders squared, he locked eyes with the creature, standing firm as the wall shuddered beneath the force of yet another impact.
The spider lunged with alarming suddenness, its blade-like limbs slicing through the air as it aimed directly for William's throat.
Reflex overrode failing strength; he twisted sharply, his back scraping against rough stone as one leg swept past his face.
In a swift, desperate motion, his dagger arced toward the creature.
Steel met chitin with a brief, ringing contact.
The shallow cut etched into the spider's limb was little more than a warning, but it drew a sharp hiss as the creature recoiled, rearing up on its remaining legs.
Before William could process the sound, its abdomen contracted sharply.
A wet snap reverberated through the space, and a thick, glistening ribbon of webbing erupted outward.
The sticky strand struck his arm mid-swing, coiling tightly around his forearm and wrist, wrenching his weapon hand violently aside.
His dagger was torn free as the web anchored him to a nearby pillar, the tension increasing with every futile struggle.
Grinding his teeth, William cursed under his breath.
The spider advanced at a measured pace now, savoring the encounter.
Its surviving eyes gleamed with a disturbing hint of satisfaction, mandibles clicking rhythmically as it closed in, not in a frenzy, but with the calculated patience of a predator toying with its prey.
It reared back once more before striking, driving a bladed limb deep into William's shoulder.
Pain erupted in a blinding wave as muscle tore under the piercing force, the impact pinning him hard against the pillar.
A raw, ragged cry escaped his throat, unrestrained and painful.
Then came the pull. The limb retracted in a violent wrench, tearing flesh as it withdrew.
A ribbon of crimson spattered stone and chitin alike, streaking the wall as William slumped against his restraints, breath ragged, the world collapsing into heat and agony.
He snarled, a sound forged from pain, fury, and an unyielding refusal to die without a fight.
His free hand scraped uselessly at the stone, while his bound arm quivered.
He had nothing left: no magic, no strength, no leverage.
The spider loomed above, mandibles spreading wide.
William closed his eyes.
A piercing cry shattered the air, high, furious, alive.
The impact followed instantly.
A blur of feathers and ferocity struck the spider's flank, the sheer force toppling it.
Chitin cracked as it skidded across the parapet, limbs flailing.
"Owlbert!" William gasped, shock cutting through the pain.
The young owlbear stood defiantly over the fallen creature, feathers raised, eyes alight with reckless courage far exceeding his small frame.
With another sharp screech, he lunged, beak snapping onto the webbing binding William's arm.
The silken strands gave way under the savage bite.
Heat and sensation flooded back into William's limb as Owlbert ripped the last of the webbing free, shaking it like a vanquished serpent.
The spider twitched, struggling to rise.
William let out a sharp breath, crouching to ruffle the soft fluff atop Owlbert's head.
The young owlbear responded with a deep, rolling hoot of satisfaction, feathers shivering under his touch as if proudly declaring, "Yes, yes, I *am* the best."
But then, somewhere in that pint-sized, feathery noggin, a thought landed with the force of a dropped anvil.
Owlbert froze, ears twitching, eyes narrowing in slow, dramatic suspicion.
His delight melted into scandalized betrayal.
"Hold on… isn't this the same human who abandoned me to those sticky-fingered children?!" his puffed-up feathers seemed to shout.
With a grand, offended huff, he yanked his head away, fixing William with a glare that could curdle milk.
"After everything I've done for you?!"
Before William could defend himself, Owlbert's attention swung to the spider uncoiling from the stone.
The creature radiated menace, but Owlbert was far too busy channeling his inner diva to care.
His chest inflated, wings flared wide, not in true aggression, but in the kind of outrage reserved for bad service at a fancy restaurant, and he let out a piercing hoot that sounded suspiciously like a snooty "tsk."
William, caught somewhere between laughter and concern, watched as Owlbert struck a wildly exaggerated battle pose: tail swishing, claws poised like he was auditioning for a heroic portrait.
The subtext was loud and clear: "This is your problem now, spider.
You'll be the first to feel my righteous wrath, because frankly, I've been *personally* insulted."
The spider paused mid-creep, perhaps baffled by the display, as Owlbert advanced with all the mock ferocity of a stage actor milking his big scene for thunderous applause.