You Are Kind

By the time the Wardens reached Mama Laran’s cottage for Wintershield lunch, the sun had climbed high enough to turn frost on the fields into a thin glittering haze, and smoke curled from the chimney in a pale, steady thread. Mama Laran was already outside waiting. “Well, looks like I judged your timing about right.” Her gaze moved across the group and came to rest on Veric with calm exactness. “My, you’re strong.” Veric studied her with plain, unguarded interest. “You’re a high elf druid.” Mama Laran smiled faintly. “Yes. Yes, I am.” “That’s unusual.” “Yes,” she said again, patient as weather. “Yes, it is.” Veric turned and looked directly at Zhale. “And your daughter’s an orc.” Mama Laran did not blink. “Yes.” Veric nodded once. “Hm. Well. That’s good.” Mama Laran stepped aside and gestured toward the door. “Well then. If you’re traveling with these people, you’d better come inside and eat.” “I can do that!”

Inside, the table was small and crowded and perfect. Hot buttered ale steamed beside the hearth, nutbread waited in thick fragrant slices, and for several minutes there was little speech beyond the ordinary sacred work of eating. At last Zhale set down her cup. “We closed Silent Patch.” Mama Laran nodded, thoughtful and pleased. “That’s good to hear. That place has been strange for a long time.” She leaned back slightly. “Just like Quiet Lake, come to think of it. It’ll be good to have the land healed a little more.” The words turned the meal back toward its purpose without spoiling the warmth. Tharad wiped ale foam from his beard and rose. “Well. We’d better get moving.” Alastra drained the rest of her cup. “Quiet Lake next.” XiuQing gave one nod, Veric followed without a word, and the Wardens stepped back into the cold Wintershield afternoon with the festival still on their tongues and work waiting beneath the trees.

The path to Quiet Lake grew unnaturally gentle as they approached, the ground softening underfoot as if the land had decided to stop resisting the world. Zhale slowed first, her brow tightening. “This isn’t like Silent Patch.” Tharad glanced around. “No. This feels like something’s missing.” The trees stood healthy, the air was clear, and the lake ahead lay perfectly still, but not peacefully; its stillness had the vacant perfection of a room from which motion had been removed and stored elsewhere. They reached the shore and stood without speaking, each sensing the absence before any of them named it. Zhale knelt, placed one hand against the water, then withdrew slowly. “It’s not sick,” she said. “It’s... withdrawn.” XiuQing stepped closer, studying the unbroken surface. “As if something that belonged here has been taken away.” “Not destroyed,” Alastra said. “Removed.” Tharad’s attention sharpened. “Like a piece of a mechanism.” Veric crouched beside them and peered into the lake. “So what do we do? Put it back?” “We don’t know what it was,” Tharad said. Zhale closed her eyes and reached through the land as she had at Silent Patch, but where resistance should have given her a place to work, she found only a hollow. “There’s nothing to push against,” she said quietly. “No imbalance. Just a space.”

They worked anyway, because helplessness was not the same thing as permission to leave a wound unnamed. Zhale began a slow ritual, invoking her version of druidism through Gaia. She offered not healing but invitation, her voice low and steady as she coaxed the land to remember its own shape around the missing thing. XiuQing followed with measured words in the native tongue of Shou Lung, grounding the moment rather than forcing it; Alastra searched for a magical pattern she could not find; Tharad moved the perimeter, mapping distances, angles, and absence in the private arithmetic of his mind. “Silent Patch wasn’t alone,” he said almost to himself. Zhale’s ritual sank into the soil like a seed. Then Veric suddenly yelled, shocking them all, “HEY, WAKE UP!” It was as if the duration of a Time Stop spell had come to an end: a breeze came in, rustling the leaves and shaking off the dusting of snow, rippling the water gently as it gained momentum; a whippoorwill sounded and a winter midge buzzed past. Veric was immensely pleased with himself, and the lake seemed normal again. Now that things had settled, Zhale returned the land to Gaia’s care. XiuQing pointed to an area he had found while talking to the lake: another rounded depression. Veric said, “Anchor.” Alastra responded, “Where one used to be, I think.” Tharad pointed back the way they had come, then toward the direction of Blackroot Ford. “This isn’t random.” Alastra followed his thought at once. “A pattern.” XiuQing inclined his head. “Then we follow it.” “I don’t think it’s a direction,” Tharad said. “I think it’s a shape... like a circle.” XiuQing, a skilled cartographer, paused in thought, then said, “It’s more like an oval.” Tharad turned toward Fox Gap, and the promise of more hot buttered ale.

Even at Mama Laran’s cottage, the Wardens posted watches through the night. When morning came on 2 Hammer and the last watch ended with the fire being coaxed back to life, Mama Laran noticed Tharad on the last shift and shook her head. “You know, that really isn’t necessary here.” Tharad tightened a strap on his pack. “I’d rather be paranoid than dead.” Veric, finishing a heel of nutbread, nodded with thoughtful approval. “Well. That’s hard to argue with.” After breakfast, the Wardens slipped into their usual rhythm, which by now had begun to look like ritual without anyone having decided to make it one. XiuQing stepped into the clearing beside the cottage and began his slow, flowing Zai Chi forms. Zhale joined first, then Tharad, each following the sequence with imperfect familiarity and growing ease. Veric watched until Tharad glanced over. “Well?” “Well what?” “Come on. You should join us.” Veric hesitated only briefly before stepping forward, his movements powerful but ungainly, all planted strength and late turns where the others flowed. XiuQing slowed the sequence at once so he could follow. Alastra remained off to the side, leaning against a fencepost with a cup of hot buttered ale in hand, watching with the faintly appalled dignity of someone witnessing voluntary serenity before highsun. “I refuse to do morning exercise that involves this much calm,” she said. No one tried to persuade her otherwise. When the forms ended, they gathered around the map, and Tharad tapped the next mark. “Ashwater Ford.” “That’s not far,” Zhale said. “We can reach it easily today,” XiuQing added. Veric peered over their shoulders. “And after that?” Tharad folded the map. “That’s the last of the three Mama Laran’s message gave us.” Zhale nodded, though the motion carried more concern than satisfaction. “Silent Patch, Quiet Lake, Ashwater Ford. After that, we ask wider.” “And maybe start filling in the gaps in the pattern,” Tharad added.

XiuQing and Veric walked in front on the road to Ashwater Ford, Veric still carrying Tharad’s greatclub as if the morning had loaned him a temporary place in the world, when an enormous owlbear stepped onto the path ahead. XiuQing moved first, quarterstaff striking, foot following, body already inside the measure of danger before anyone else could name it, while behind him Alastra raised her hands and gathered fire. Zhale’s voice cracked across the road. “Wait!” Everyone froze except Veric, who roared and charged forward in a surge of borrowed fury that had not yet learned to be useful. He could not quite reach the owlbear before it reached him. The massive paw came in an arc he saw plainly and still could not escape; it struck him squarely and knocked him sprawling across the trail. Zhale rushed to him, healing magic spilling from her hands until the worst of the wound closed, then looked up and pointed at the owlbear. “Don’t attack it. Just scare it off.” Tharad obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward, banging his crowbars together and shouting, “HEY! HEY!” The owlbear backed a step, not attacking again, not leaving either. Alastra held her fire ready and waiting. Zhale lifted one hand for quiet, tilted her head, and listened past the animal’s breath into the trees. “There.”

Down the short slope beside the trail, they found the reason: a pit trap, crude and effective, with a young owlbear cub trapped and frightened at the bottom. Zhale’s anger softened into sorrow without losing its edge. “Oh...” She knelt beside the pit, spoke the words of Speak with Animals, and lowered her voice. “It’s all right. We’re helping.” The cub slowly quieted. The Wardens worked with branches, stones, rope, and patience, making a way out that did not require more fear from a creature already overflowing with it, until the cub scrambled free and ran straight to its mother. Mother and cub touched noses once, brief and complete, then vanished into the forest together. Veric dusted himself off as if being swatted across the trail by an owlbear were an instructive inconvenience rather than a disaster. Tharad looked at him. “Why didn’t you dodge that? It was obvious.” Veric shrugged. “I tried. I saw it coming. I’m just... not very fast like that.” Tharad gave a slow nod and stored the fact. Alastra interrupted, “Are we going to ignore the fact that we just released a dangerous monster back into the woods? Are we okay with that?” “Not a monster,” Zhale replied. “Just a predator. If they never bother any people, we leave them alone.” “Seems like a monster to me,” Alastra said. “Well, the people of the Three Villages are scared of things too,” Zhale said, looking pointedly at Alastra and Tharad. “Like Waterdhavian nobles and Waterdhavian thieves.” “I believe that round goes to the druid,” XiuQing mused. A few minutes later, he stopped as they made their way along a narrow animal track. “Veric.” “Yes?” “I need you back here. Between Alastra and Zhale.” Veric frowned. “Why?” “We need someone strong protecting the spellcasters.” The explanation landed exactly where it needed to. “Oh. That makes sense.” He moved without another question, and the marching order changed around him as if a piece had finally been placed where it would be safe.

They reached Ashwater Ford in full morning light, the river spread shallow across worn stones, and for the first time since entering these disturbances recognition came before confusion. Zhale slowed with certainty. “This was one.” XiuQing’s eyes found the sign almost at the same moment, a faint depression just beyond the crossing, too subtle for strangers and unmistakable now to them. Alastra stepped closer, her voice tightening. “It was just here. The anchor.” Tharad crouched beside the mark without touching it. “And it’s gone.” There was no distortion, no absence like Quiet Lake, no resisting hum like Silent Patch. Only aftermath. Zhale closed her eyes and reached into the land, then exhaled. “We’re too late. Whatever was here has already been taken.” Veric frowned. “So... we missed it?” “Yes,” Tharad said, still studying the ground. “HEY. WAKE UP!” Veric yelled again, catching them all off guard again. Nothing happened. XiuQing pulled the flute from his belt and played a quick flourish. Nothing happened. Zhale cast Cure Wounds, Alastra cast Mage Hand. Nothing happened. “I can’t quite put my finger on what is strange here,” Tharad said. “Can any of you?” Everyone stopped and thought and listened. No one came up with anything. Zhale sighed in frustration. “Wait. Do that again,” Tharad said. She did, and this time they all heard the response; the ford had sighed back. After trying a few things, they stumbled into standing in a circle and breathing deeply together. Slowly the ford joined them, and then it gave a last big sigh, and the place seemed to settle back into natural rhythms. Zhale invoked Gaia. “Well, we helped another one,” she said. “Next time,” Tharad said almost to himself, “we won’t be late.” Then he announced that they would not be going back to Fox Gap, but instead would be heading to one of the three local villages for lunch.

Brindlewash was hardly a village so much as a widening in the road that had acquired cottages, a shallow crossing, and a smithy that looked like a shed with ambitions. Tharad spotted it immediately. “There it is.” Inside, the smith looked up from his anvil. “Afternoon all.” Tharad gestured toward Veric. “Got any armor?” The smith disappeared into the back and returned with a chain shirt, at which Veric’s eyes widened and his hand lifted before anyone else had quite understood the joke the world had made. “Huh! That’s mine!” The smith froze. “Your what?” “My chain shirt. The mercenaries took it from me.” The smith frowned. “Couple mercs sold that to me two days ago.” He looked between Veric and the shirt, then pushed it toward him. “Well then. Take it.” Tharad shook his head at once and drew out a purse. “No. You bought it fair. We’ll pay for it.” The smith hesitated, then accepted the coin with a shrug that suggested fairness remained pleasant mostly because it was rare. Veric pulled the chain shirt over his head with obvious satisfaction, standing a little straighter beneath its weight.

Tharad watched him for a moment and said, “Armor.” Veric nodded. “Yes. We just got me some.” “No. You’re not hearing me.” Tharad drew him a little aside, lowering his voice without softening it. “You’ve been fighting like a barbarian.” Veric blinked. “Well... I am a barbarian. I’ve always been a barbarian. I always wanted to be the best barbarian there ever was.” Tharad shook his head. “Look, buddy. You’re strong, but you’re not built to throw yourself at things and trust speed to save you. You saw that owlbear hit coming and still couldn’t get out of it. That means we stop pretending you’re supposed to move like someone else.” Veric frowned, troubled more by the attention than the criticism. “We’re going to get you proper armor,” Tharad continued. “Let the armor take the hits. We’ll train you to move differently.” Veric looked as if he might argue, then pointed across the shop. “That’s mine too.” A halberd hung on the wall. Tharad blinked. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” “Nobody asked.” The halberd came down, and once it was in Veric’s hands the earlier confusion changed. He held it with familiarity, not elegance, but recognition. Tharad watched him test the balance. “Alright. That part makes sense.” Then he turned back to the smith. “We need a full suit of heavy chainmail.” The smith scratched his beard and said he had none, but could send an order to Waterdeep. That would do. Payment would be finished when the armor was picked up.

Outside, Tharad nodded toward a clear patch of ground. “Alright. Let’s see what you can do.” Veric lifted the halberd, and they sparred until Tharad stopped the exchange with a lifted hand and turned to XiuQing. “Can you take him for a minute?” XiuQing stepped forward with his quarterstaff, and he and Veric traded controlled strikes while Tharad watched with narrowing attention. The pattern appeared slowly, not in Veric’s attacks but in how often the halberd became a shield. “That’s odd,” Tharad said at last. “You block with it a lot.” Veric nodded. “Well, yeah. If it’s there, I might as well stop people from hitting me.” “That’s actually a good instinct.” Tharad rubbed his chin. “What would you think about switching to sword and shield?” “No,” Veric said immediately. “I fight with halberd.” Tharad accepted that with a shrug. “Fair enough. You’re good with it. I’ve just never seen anyone use it like that before.” Then another piece bothered him. He looked at the chain shirt, then at Veric’s shoulders. “Something’s odd.” “What?” “I don’t get it. You should be more protected now that you’re wearing that than you are.” Veric shifted within the shirt. “It’s always kind of felt like this. Like it binds me up when I try to move. It’s supposed to help me, and it feels like it doesn’t help as much as it should.” Tharad nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s exactly the problem.” As they packed to leave, Veric added one final discovery by pointing to a bow on the wall. “Oh. If you want to know, that’s mine too.” The smith handed down the longbow, and at the archery butt behind the building Tharad said, “Let’s see it.” Veric’s first shot barely caught the outer ring. The second was worse. Tharad crossed his arms. “Alright. Well. Stick with the halberd.” Veric nodded cheerfully. “Good plan.”

They returned to Mama Laran’s cottage near sunset and brought the day inside with them, laying it out over supper between bread, cider, and the warmth of the hearth: the owlbear Mama Laran had warned them about, the trap, Ashwater Ford, and Veric’s recovered gear. The three sites named in Mama Laran’s message had now been found and tended as much as they could be: Silent Patch, Quiet Lake, Ashwater Ford. That should have felt like completion. Instead, it left the map looking more unfinished than before. Tharad set the marks down and stared at the curve beginning to form. “We need more eyes.” Zhale nodded at once. “The hedge druids. Neighbors. Anyone who knows ground that’s been strange too long.” Mama Laran listened with the grave satisfaction of someone hearing the right question finally asked. “I can put word out,” she said. “Quietly.” Alastra leaned over the map. “Ask for places that were odd before this began. Not new disasters. Old wrongnesses.” XiuQing added, “And places that have recently changed.” By the time supper ended, Mama Laran had sent the call through the local channels that belonged to hedges, farms, groves, birds, kitchen doors, and people who listened to weather because their lives depended on it.

The first answer came the next morning. Echoing Rift was not much of a name, Mama Laran said, but names often began as warnings and then hardened into maps. It lay beyond a cut of broken ground where sound carried strangely, where a shout could return from the wrong direction and footfalls sometimes seemed to follow a traveler half a pace late. A shepherd’s son had mentioned that the echoes had sharpened in the last few days, and a hedge druid who rarely spoke to anyone had sent back only six words: It is awake now. Come quickly. The Wardens left before what little remained of breakfast had cooled.

At the Echoing Rift, the pattern changed again. For the first time they could perceive an anchor still present, suspended like a column of bent light, hard to see, but there if you knew exactly where to look, tilted and swinging in a way that defeated simple geometry, with a yellowish-brown rift waiting to absorb it. Sound reverberated oddly as they worked, trying all the usual methods they had discovered so far. Their usual methods failed. Tharad could see that the anchor would soon be pulled into the rift. He stepped forward and reached out, seeing if he could grab it. His hand passed into something neither solid nor fluid, and when the motion pulled at him, he intuitively moved with it, matching the swing’s rhythm. The others gathered around in a circle again, this time matching Tharad and the pendulum-anchor’s movement. It spiraled and slowed more and more until it came to rest in its original depression. The yellowish rift that was also not really there went away for good. They could all feel it: the anchor was watching them. A sound seemed to form in their minds, then repeated. “Well hello,” Veric responded. Alastra stepped forward with Tongues active. “What can we do to help you?” After a long stillness, the answer came not as sound but as thought. “You are kind.” Something in Alastra opened. She felt a flood of warmth. She whispered back, “You are loved.” In that exchange, quiet as a hand placed over a wound, the anchor began to fade. Its edges dissolved, the column of bent light thinned into nothing. The Wardens stood there with tears streaming and understanding only half-formed. Somehow the event had been exhaustingly and movingly emotional. Once again, Zhale returned the land to Gaia. They then did something very un-Wardens and made their way back without formation, without vigilance, simply walking home distractedly because for a little while the world had become too tender to patrol. That night, the five of them were oddly exhausted from dealing with the incursion. Mama Laran launched into full mom mode and fed them thick, filling Maggie soup, named after the chicken that filled the pot, wrapped them head to toe in warm blankets, banked the fire, and sang them an ancient elven lullaby as they drifted off.