The Thornwood smelled of rot and old rain. Twisted oaks pressed close on either side of the narrow path, their gnarled branches interlocking overhead like the fingers of arguing giants. Somewhere deeper in the dark, water dripped from unseen heights — a hollow, rhythmic sound that made it feel as if the forest itself was breathing.
Kaelen, a broad-shouldered human paladin in silver plate dulled by days of hard travel, pressed onward without complaint. His blue-grey eyes swept the shadows beneath every root and stone. Behind him, Mirael the elven ranger moved with the silence of a hawk’s shadow, copper hair tucked beneath a green hood, her longbow half-drawn. She had not spoken in over an hour. That alone was a warning sign.
“The map says there’s a hamlet two leagues east,” muttered Grundar, the dwarf fighter, pausing to wring water from his rust-red beard. His studded leather over chainmail was soaked through; the battleaxe on his back glinted dully in the grey light. “If the map’s wrong again, I’m burning it.”
“Quiet,” said Zephyra, the tiefling warlock, her violet skin prickling as she scanned the mist. Her curved black horns caught a low branch, and she yanked free with an irritated hiss. Her amber eyes flickered — arcane light stirring behind her irises like embers. That was when they smelled it: woodsmoke. Sweet herbs. Something cooking.
Through a break in the trees, a small stone cottage crouched in a clearing as if it had grown there naturally, moss climbing its walls and chickens scratching at the mud before the door. A bent old woman stood at the threshold, waving with the vigor of someone greeting long-lost grandchildren. “Travelers! Oh, come in, come in — terrible weather for the road!” Her voice was warm as bread fresh from the oven. She introduced herself as Hilda. Her white hair was wound in a careful braid. Her eyes were filmy and pale, the way old eyes sometimes went. Her smile was gap-toothed and kind.
Kaelen felt the divine warmth in his chest — the inner sense his god had given him — and it told him nothing. No evil. No threat. He sheathed his sword and followed her inside. The cottage was impossibly comfortable: hanging bundles of rosemary and lavender, a fire crackling in the hearth, a pot of rabbit stew steaming on the hook. Hilda pressed bowls into their hands before they could protest. Grundar ate without hesitation. Zephyra did not.
She watched Hilda move. The old woman’s steps were too precise. Too measured. She never touched the stew herself — only refilled their bowls with a ladle that never quite entered the pot. When she turned to stoke the fire, Zephyra noticed how her shadow on the wall was not the shape of a stooped elderly woman. It was longer. Wider. Clawed at the fingertips. “Stop eating,” Zephyra said quietly. Hilda turned. Her smile had not changed. But her eyes — those milky, harmless eyes — caught the firelight and reflected green.
“Oh, my dear,” said Hilda softly, “you have always been the sharp one.” The stew bowls hit the floor. Kaelen’s sword was in his hand before the sound of shattering clay had died. Grundar lurched upright, battleaxe swinging, already feeling the heaviness in his limbs — the beginning of the stew’s slow poison. Mirael rolled behind the table and came up with an arrow aimed at the thing that wore Hilda’s face. What stood in the firelight was no longer stooped or frail. Morrga the Green Hag rose to her full height — nearly seven feet of gnarled green-grey flesh, fingers ending in yellow talons, her white hair writhing like seaweed in a current. The cottage seemed to press inward around her, the walls swelling, the fire going sick and orange.
“You were so hungry,” she said pleasantly, “and I was so lonely.” The fight was brutal and short. Morrga was fast — faster than something her size had any right to be — and her illusions lashed at the mind as her claws lashed at flesh. Zephyra’s Eldritch Blast took her in the shoulder. Kaelen took three deep gashes across his arm before driving his blade beneath her ribs. Mirael’s arrow, dipped in silver as a habit she’d never been mocked for, caught Morrga in the throat just as she opened her mouth to scream her drowning-curse. The hag crumpled. The cottage groaned, its illusion fraying at the edges — the herbs becoming hanging bones, the stew becoming something grey and foul. Even the chickens outside dissolved into the mist.
Grundar, still dizzy from the tainted food, stared at the ceiling while Mirael forced him to drink her antitoxin. “I want it noted,” he said thickly, “that the stew was delicious.” They found, in the crawlspace beneath the floor, a wooden chest containing the personal effects of at least a dozen previous guests — letters, coins, a child’s shoe. A single name was carved into the lid from the inside: Tobias, 1311. Someone had tried to leave a warning, once. They buried the chest beneath the oak at the clearing’s edge. Kaelen said a prayer for names he would never know. The Thornwood watched with its usual silence.
“She said she was lonely,” Mirael said at last, adjusting the strap of her quiver. “Yes,” said Zephyra. She did not look back.
💬 Would you have trusted Hilda’s kindness — or turned away at the door? And what would your party have done with the chest? Tell us below! 👇