Story 1143: A Cry from the Moss

The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the scent of wet pine still hung thick as velvet when four travelers stepped past the ruined mile-stone that marked Moonwood’s border.

Captain Sorrel Hart – mercenary turned smuggler, sword scarred and debt-driven.

Dr. Livia Marke – botanist, chasing rumors of plants that sing.

Brother Kel – runaway monk, clutching a brass censer that never cooled.

Pip – a pickpocket no older than thirteen, there for coin and whatever wonder could be carried in small hands.

They had not heard of the Watcher, nor of Marlen Keene’s new vigil. They sought only a shortcut to the coast and the promise of rare herbs.

The forest greeted them with silence so absolute it rang in their ears. Ferns dripped. Branches bowed. Thick carpets of moss glowed faintly, as though storing the last light of dusk.