Of Gardens and Glades - A Dungeons and Dragons Short Story
Art by Shan Egan
Dear Reader, H. here! Today, I am sharing something different: my own work! Calling this little piece work seems a bit overzealous. It was just a fun little story I cooked up as a prologue for a DnD campaign I ran with my friends. I hope you enjoy it too! -H.
The sweet songs of crickets and birds harmonized in the morning air as sunlight streamed through the open window of Willowind Lambsear’s tree hut. It was quiet. These were the only sounds to be heard for miles—no rooster to cry, nor townsfolk to mumble. He lived alone in a woodland glade lost to the world, lost to time, but forever cherished by him.
“Oh what a delightful day,” Willowind said to himself as he sat up from his bed and gathered his bearings. This wasn’t the first time he’d welcomed the morning with this mantra. In fact, this was how he had started every day for the last three-hundred years.
Well, perhaps not every day. There were one or two days when he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed—which is the reason he’d started sleeping in the center. You can’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed, if you don’t sleep on any side at all, he’d thought. It was a worthwhile adjustment to avoid being grumpy. He wasn’t sure why the side of one’s bed affected moods, but the books he’d read seemed pretty sure that it was a deciding factor—better safe than sorry.
He shrugged the covers to the side and rolled off the bed and onto the wooden floor of his home. He’d sewn the covers from an old military banner, and built this “tree house” with his own two hands. Willowind loved to create. It’s possible this passion came from the fact that he himself was created, not born—an automaton with a body of metal and glowing blue lights for eyes. But also, it wasn’t like there was much else to do in his lonely glade, and three hundred years is a long time. He’d created nearly everything in his home, from the thatch roof to the clay teapot.
As he put the kettle on the stove for his morning tea, a vibrant red squirrel climbed through the window, reminding him that perhaps this glade wasn’t so lonely after all. For all the quiet and isolation of Willowind’s life, he was grateful for woodland friends. The critter twirled and flourished, even more eager for the morning light than Willowind was.
“Good morning, Chester,” Willowind said. “How are you today?”
The squirrel chittered and chirped in the complex language of his kin. It was clear that Chester was trying to convey something, but Willowind didn’t understand a single word. That’s odd, he thought. He’s always been so articulate… Then, it struck him.
“Oh goodness,” he exclaimed. “I almost forgot to cast my Speak with Animals spell. Sorry!”
Willowind waved his hand, whispering words in an ancient language before a glowing blue light illuminated from his fingertips. It swirled and spun into a mysterious pattern, which vaguely resembled a beast, before shooting towards his chest and absorbing into his body. Suddenly, Chester’s words shifted from the incoherent babble of an animal to the familiar chiding words of a friend.
“Hello? Hello?” Chester exclaimed. “Willowind? Are you even listening to me? Can you understand me? It’s like talking to a statue!”
“I can hear you now,” Willowind replied, reaching out for Chester to claim his familiar perch on his forearm. “Good morning, friend!”
The squirrel climbed right up and looked Willowind in the eye. “Yes, yes, good morning,” Chester said—earnest but impatient.
“Do you want some tea?” Willowind asked, pouring himself a cup of chamomile.
“No, no, no,” Chester replied, swiftly shaking his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got big plans for the day—big plans, indeed!”
Willowing tilted his head. “Oh? What kinds of plans?”
“I’ve heard talk that there’s this new tree sprouted up in the middle of the Gildergrave,” Chester said in earnest. “They say it’s magnificent—glorious, even! I intend to scout it out, and gather as many acorns as I can carry. Do you wish to join me?”
Willowind smiled—or rather, at least, he opened his metal jaws and thought happy thoughts. “That is a very nice offer, Chester,” he said. “But I am pretty darn swamped with work in the gardens today—so much weeding to do.”
Chester scratched his ear with his hind leg and nodded repeatedly. “Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!” he replied. “‘Tis alright, then. I’ll just be headed up north. It’s not too far, and is supposedly easy to find. I should be back by mid morning, anyway. Wish me luck!”
“Good luck!” Willowind exclaimed. “I will see you later, my friend. I am most excited to see your haul of acorns, and hear all about the tree. Thrilling stuff.”
And with that, the squirrel saluted his friend and scurried off—out of the tree house and into the Gildergrave woods beyond.
Willowind spent the next few hours in the throes of battle, pulling weeds. This was his happy place, however. He loved kneeling in the dirt in the midst of fresh flowers and vegetables. Their life and vibrance never failed to inspire him. He prided himself in his gardening prowess—a skill he had mastered over his many years. Therefore, he could not abide weeds.
To Willowind, weeds were the dark shadows cast on a sunny day. In the most extreme sense, he was not a big fan. There wasn’t much drama to be found in his quiet glade, so perhaps that’s why he was so adamant about ensuring there were no weeds to strangle his precious plants. It kept things interesting, that’s for sure.
Willowind worked all day till the sun swayed from east to west. As he plucked the final weed from the garden bed, and stood to survey his accomplishments, he realized that Chester hadn’t come back to tell him about the great tree in the center of the forest. That’s odd, he thought. He is usually such a punctual fellow.
It wasn’t like Willowind was skilled at time management—300 years of isolation will do that to you—but he had gotten so carried away with gardening that time had passed without him knowing it. Chester wasn’t just late, he was missing.
Immediately after the realization struck him, Willowind dashed up the stairs of his tree house and grabbed his bow, his quiver, his short sword, and his rust-colored cloak. Though he preferred his peaceful existence, gardening, reading and drinking tea, he could never escape what he was created to be—a soldier.
He broke through the treeline, the shadows of the evening extenuating the darkening light of dusk. As he raced through the woods, he called out: “Chester! Where are you? Chester!”
Moments felt like hours, and soon hours felt like days. Night enveloped the world as he searched in vain. He felt his heart—or its equivalent—sink in his chest as no words returned his calls.
Then, finally in the distance, he spied what was certainly this great tree. Odd, he thought. It wasn’t grand, beautiful, or bountiful. But rather, though it was tall, it was haggard, rotting, and had an ill-favored way about it.
“Oh goodness,” Willowind exclaimed as he absently approached the tree. “Chester, what have you gotten yourself into…”
“Shh!” came a shrill, but familiar voice.
“Chester?” Willowind asked, tilting his head as he frantically searched for his friend.
“Right here!” Chester said in a harsh whisper. “Keep your voice down.”
The voice came from a small nook beneath an old tree stump. There, Willowind saw the familiar furry face and black nose of his friend. “You scared me half to death!”
“SHHHH!” Chester scolded. “They’ll hear you!”
Before Willowind even had the chance to ask “who,” a creaking, groaning sound echoed behind him. He turned around swiftly and saw the disturbing outlines of three spindly figures. As they stepped closer, a moon light which broke through the canopy illuminated the figures. They were as tall as men, but their bodies were made of twisted vines and twigs. Evil, sentient, plants—worse than weeds!
“What are you…?” Willowind cried in horror, but the creatures’ only response was swinging their wooden blades right at him.
He immediately dodged and sent an arrow right into the center monster’s chest. It screamed and wriggled before falling to the earth as nothing but a pile of debris. The other two looked at their fallen companion for a brief moment, before lunging at Willowind with vigor.
He drew his rusted short sword and parried every wild slash from both brutes. He was a soldier, he had the knowledge, but these creatures fought with fury and ferocity. He was outnumbered, and just when it seemed like he was outmatched, Chester began to throw stones and acorns in their direction.
“Now it’s a fair fight,” Willowind exclaimed before seizing the opportunity of their momentary distraction and driving his blade into one’s chest. It screamed, but before it even had a chance to fall to the ground, Willowind pulled the blade out and cleaved the other’s head from its shoulders. Within seconds, they were simple piles of twigs and vines. “I really don’t like weeds,” Willowind sighed. “Especially the ones that try to kill me.”
Their journey home was a quiet one. While Willowind was overjoyed to have saved his friend, there was something particularly unnerving about the monsters he had encountered. He had fought bears and wolves before, but these creatures took nature and made it unnatural—a concept which sent shivers down his metal spine.
As they arrived home, the sun’s light streamed down through the canopy. Willowind sat on a nearby stone in the center of the glade and Chester climbed to his forearm. “Oh what a delightful day,” he said to the squirrel. “Definitely much better than the night.”
“It certainly is—certainly, certainly,” Chester replied with an eager nod.
They let the words linger on the air. The glade felt extra quiet today—lonesome, even. The only sounds to be heard were mourning doves, crickets and… voices? Willowind tilted his head curiously. He could have sworn he heard… It was voices! He turned swiftly and froze as still as a statue.
In his glade, after hundreds of years, there were two visitors—and they weren’t squirrels. One was a blue woman with horns and a tail, and the other was a brown haired elf with silver at his temples. They seemed… kind—unlike the twig monsters from the night before. They spoke to one another as they looked around. Then suddenly, they walked towards him.
Things were changing. The forest had felt so dark the night before, but these folks? They seemed nice. Willowind was ready to make new friends—he had been ready for three hundred years. “Hello!” he exclaimed, his eyes bright and his tone cheerful. “I’m Willowind Lambsear!”
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