The Harper Scouts — Into the Shadows ⟡
The two Harpers exchange a glance—silent, efficient—and vanish into opposite directions like twin lines of ink spilled across parchment.
One scales the broken stone wall beside the well, flipping over it with catlike precision.
The other melts into the thick brush, drawing a shortbow and vanishing into foliage so dense you swear she becomes the leaves themselves.
Within moments you can hear the faint rhythmic thumping of their signal-knocks in the distance, marking territory, coordinating observation angles.
They know these types of threats better than most.
Phase spiders thrive on ambush, and the Harpers thrive on denying ambushes.
⟡ The Druidic Knife-Fighters — Into the Roots ⟡
The twins—barefoot, tattooed in living vines—touch the soil together.
The ground answers.
A ripple of green light pulses outward, spiderwebbing through the earth with luminous threads. You feel the magic brushing the edges of your aura like curious fingers.
One twin whispers, "Flora displacement… heavy."
The other follows:
"Something below. Many somethings. Movement patterned, not wild."
Their eyes brighten, predator-sharp.
Then—no hesitation—they slip into the narrow crevice along the well's rim, bodies moving like serpents through stone and vine. Their daggers glint once before the dark swallows them.
They aren't seeking battle.
They're listening to the heartbeat of the forest.
⟡ The Myconid Spore-Scout — Into the Veins of the Earth ⟡
The spore-scout hesitates only long enough to pulse a respectful acknowledgment toward you—its caps expanding and contracting in a rhythmic shimmer.
Then it descends.
It doesn't climb the well.
It pours into it.
The fungal body collapses and slips through cracks too small for bones or flesh. Spores drift behind it like falling embers, dancing in a spiral as the Myconid moves deeper than light can reach.
Faint light flickers below—pale green bioluminescence marking its path.
You know that beneath the well, the Myconid is becoming everywhere at once:
Slipping under stones
Spreading along roots
Feeling vibrations
Reading pheromones
Sensing life-signs
If anything is alive down there, the Myconid will taste its fear before it ever sees its form.
⟡ Mamba — Standing Over the Well ⟡
You remain above, arms folded, watching the last drifting spore fade into the dark.
Around you, a silence settles—heavy, respectful.
The children peek from behind crates.
The ogre guards stay at a distance, hands on clubs, pretending they aren't terrified.
Your strike team shifts uneasily, the adrenaline still humming from the ambush.
Seconds pass.
Then minutes.
Your senses sharpen.
You feel the breath of the earth.
You hear the pulse of the caverns.
You smell the faint, acidic tang of planar residue.
This infestation is deeper—older—than the villagers realize.
And the queen below?
She's not just feeding.
She's nesting.
Gathering.
Expanding.
You can already feel the tremor of threads pulling tighter beneath the ground, the web growing…
And you know your scouts will return soon.
⟡ Your Order Given — and Obeyed ⟡
"Well done, all of you.
Scouts, twins—go forth and gather information.
Don't get over your head.
Report back the moment you have something.
Go. Now."
The echoes of your command still vibrate through the stone when—
—something shifts far below.
Not the rustle of spiders.
Not the scrabble of many legs.
Something bigger.
Deeper.
Older.
A queen waking up because her children screamed.
A soft, distant, resonant clicking trembles up the well's throat.
Your strike team freezes.
Eyes sharpen.
Hands go to weapons.
Breath thins.
Even the ogres step backward, instinctively.
And you…
You simply turn your head slightly, listening, your expression unreadable.
Because the moment that sound reached you—
You already knew exactly what it meant.
⟡ The First Scout Returns… Running ⟡
Grass rushes aside.
A Harper scout bursts out of the brush, skidding to a halt in front of you, chest heaving.
"Warchief—!"
Her eyes are wide, pupils shaking.
"There's… there's not just a nest…"
She swallows.
"…there's a lair.
A full hive.
The queen has—"
But before she can finish her report—
The well behind you exhales.
A long, low, chittering hiss.
The cavern doesn't hide her anymore.
The queen knows you're here.