The road to Pinehollow was long and winding, lined with wildflowers swaying in the spring breeze. The air was warm and sweet, but as the trees grew denser, the sounds of the open road faded to the low rustle of undergrowth and the occasional creak of branches overhead. Nyra and Button walked in companionable silence, her satchel swaying gently with each step while the plushmonsters peered out like curious children. Every so often, Button's head would swivel toward the trees, his button‑eyed gaze fixed on some unseen movement. Once, a sudden thrash in the bushes made Nyra freeze—only for a startled hare to bound away. She let out a small laugh, but Button kept scanning, shoulders subtly tensing as if he could sense something ahead. The further they went, the more it felt like the forest was holding its breath.
It was midday when Nyra spotted something dark on the path — a small, irregular droplet. She crouched, touching it with the tip of her finger. "Blood," she murmured. More drops trailed ahead, vanishing into the grass.
They moved quietly, weaving between the trees until they found a man slumped against the roots of a great pine. His dark hair was a tangled mess, his travel‑worn coat torn at the side, and one gloved hand clutched his ribs as though holding himself together. When he looked up, his grin was tired but warm. "Guess I'm not the welcoming party you expected," he rasped. "Tovan Hale. Wandering adventurer."
"You're injured," Nyra said, hurrying to kneel beside him.
"It's nothing—" he began, but his breath caught and he winced when she pressed lightly against the wound.
Nyra dug through her satchel, producing a spool of shimmering magical thread and a fine silver needle. Button stepped up like a looming shadow, his button eyes fixed on Tovan.
"Hold still. This'll sting a little."
Puff waddled closer for a better look, then sneezed a tiny flame that singed the tip of Tovan's boot.
"Is that—was that—?"
"He's supposed to be on fire," Nyra replied matter‑of‑factly, as though flaming plush creatures were the most normal thing in the world.
Sprout slithered from her bag, the soft rustle of vines brushing against cloth, and looped a vine gently but insistently around Tovan's arm, holding him steady with surprising strength.
"Hey—"
"Don't fight it. Sprout's helpful. Mostly. And he doesn't take no for an answer," Nyra said, eyes fixed on her work.
Her needle worked swiftly, magical thread glowing faintly as it danced in and out, binding torn flesh and fabric alike in a seamless weave. Tovan could hear the faint hum of the magic with every pull of the thread, and the strange warmth that spread from the stitches made the pain ebb away almost instantly. When she tied the final stitch, the embroidery shimmered faintly, its delicate design looking more like fine jewelry than first aid, before beginning to fade — a magical stitch meant to hold until his body fully healed, then disappear without a trace.
That night, they camped under a cedar. After a day of travel and tending the fire, Nyra insisted on cooking, though Tovan's attempts to help quickly devolved into chaos. Puff "assisted" by puffing bursts of flame under the pot at all the wrong times, making the stew bubble like a witch's cauldron. Sprout kept stealing carrot slices with his vines, flicking them toward Biscuit, who devoured them noisily and demanded more. At one point, Button swatted at a drifting moth and nearly knocked over the entire cooking setup. Nyra just sighed, stirred the pot again, and muttered something about traveling with children.
When they finally sat down to eat, Button positioned himself behind Nyra like a great, protective wall, ensuring she had the biggest serving. Puff floated nearby, still giving the stew hopeful glances. Tovan tore into the bread with enthusiasm, shaking his head at the plushmenagerie around him. "If dinner's always this exciting," he said between mouthfuls, "I think I'll stick around."
Later, full and warm, Tovan leaned against the cedar trunk, the soft moss beneath him cradling his back. He kept testing his side in disbelief, finding no pain at all — as if the injury had never happened. The air was cool and scented with pine, the fire crackled cheerfully beside them, and the laughter from earlier still lingered in the quiet. He drifted off to the sound of crickets and the occasional pop of resin in the flames, while Nyra curled against Button's broad plush chest. The giant bear's stitched arms wrapped protectively around her as he sat in silent watch, unblinking button eyes reflecting the firelight like two tiny moons.
The next morning, Puff rolled far too close to the campfire, humming happily to himself before releasing an over‑enthusiastic fwoom that sent a jet of flame licking across a patch of dry grass. Button stomped it out in three decisive thuds, sending up a puff of ash, while Nyra scolded Puff, who sat puffing tiny smoke rings in unapologetic defiance.
Not to be outdone in the chaos stakes, Sprout decided to 'help' Tovan pack by snatching his bedroll with one vine, then another, and before long he had him hog‑tied like a prize roast. "I think your plant is trying to eat me!" he yelped, hopping in small, panicked circles and nearly tumbling into the fire pit. Button slowly tilted his head, giving the look of a long‑suffering schoolteacher about to hand out detention. Biscuit poked his head from Nyra's bag to deliver a muffled plush‑roar that was suspiciously close to laughter.
When they finally managed to get Tovan free, Nyra dished up breakfast—stew and bread from the night before. Puff circled the pot in proud guardian mode, occasionally leaning over to give the stew an extra puff of heat (and occasionally singe the ladle). Biscuit begged for scraps with big, glassy button eyes while Button stood sentry behind Nyra, looming just enough to ensure her portion was the largest. Between mouthfuls, Tovan shook his head at the living plush circus surrounding him and grinned.
Nyra, Button, and Tovan continued deeper into Pinehollow, the air thickening with the resin‑rich tang of pine sap and the loamy scent of damp earth. The dim light fractured into strange, dancing patterns on the forest floor, shifting as if the branches themselves were moving to watch them. A faint thrum, almost like a muffled heartbeat, seemed to pulse beneath their boots.
The undergrowth shivered, branches swaying without wind, before parting to reveal the Patchwork Horror — the very monster from the dangerous quest they had accepted. It was an unnerving amalgam of animal parts: a wolf's forelegs stitched crudely to the scaled haunches of a lizard, a deer's skull partially covering one side of its face, antlers broken and jagged. Thick, glowing magical thread bound the mismatched parts together, each seam pulsing in rhythm with that eerie heartbeat. The creature's jerky, unnatural movements made its joints pop in protest, and every shift of its limbs was accompanied by the faint hum of magic vibrating through the air. Its mismatched eyes fixed on them, one glassy and unblinking, the other rolling with a predatory glint. A low, wet growl rolled from its throat, ending in a rasp that made the hairs at the nape of Tovan's neck rise.
Button was the first to move, barreling forward in a blur of plush bulk to wrestle it down — but the beast twisted with shocking speed, flinging him aside like a discarded doll. His seams strained and his button eyes flashed in irritation as he rolled back to his feet, clearly annoyed at being tossed so easily.
Biscuit sprang from Nyra's bag in a burst of stitched bravado, wings flapping furiously as he launched a fearless charge. For a moment it looked almost heroic… until the Patchwork Horror contemptuously swatted him away, sending him tumbling into a bush. A faint squeak of indignation drifted up from the leaves.
Nyra's hands flashed to her magical thread, casting lines toward the creature's seams — but the glowing stitches pulsed violently in answer. The magic thrummed through the air, snapping her bindings like brittle twine and scattering sparks that fizzled out before they could latch on. The backlash made her fingertips tingle and sent an unpleasant shiver up her arms.
"Fall back!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the tension.
As they pulled back into the treeline, Nyra's mind was already racing — those seams weren't just holding the beast together, they were warding against her bindings. She would need a different approach… and likely a stronger anchor to reverse or unravel them. The Patchwork Horror remained in the clearing, perfectly still save for the hypnotic rhythm of its glowing seams, each pulse sending a silent promise: I'll be waiting.