Session 11: Gardening, the Hard Way

The plains stretched outward in every direction, a wide and unsettling openness beneath a washed-out sky. After the violence and fire of the previous days, the stillness here felt wrong—too quiet, too patient, as though the land itself were waiting. Somewhere within this emptiness lay the next piece of their grim errand: the blood gourd, fruit of the bone thicket. None of them liked the name, and less still the way the ground ahead seemed to darken and twist as they drew nearer.

At first the thickets appeared as little more than low, tangled hedges scattered across the grass. But as the party closed the distance, the truth revealed itself in sharp, cruel detail. These were not gentle shrubs. They were snarled masses of thorn and spine, rising from churned earth like grasping hands. Bones jutted through them—rib fragments, splintered limbs, pale curves half-swallowed by the growth. This place was no mere field. It was a graveyard, and the plants had claimed it as their own.

At the heart of several thickets glimmered something red and vivid, a startling splash of color amid bone-white and dull green. Elora studied the nearest of these growths with a druid’s eye, her instincts whispering warnings even as curiosity pulled her closer. The plant lived—of that she was certain—but it lived in a way that felt twisted, sustained by death rather than sun. Thorn noticed something else as well: faint paths in the dirt, subtle trails worn between thickets, as if something had moved again and again from one to the next. Whatever tended this place did not walk in straight lines, nor did it leave footprints.

Caution prevailed. Rather than plunge into the largest thicket, they approached one of the medium growths, circling it warily. Thorn tested it first, probing with a fallen branch guided by unseen force. The thorns resisted but did not strike. When the branch finally tapped the crimson fruit nestled deep within, the entire plant shuddered, scattering loose spines to the ground. More troubling still, nearby thickets quivered in sympathy, as though sharing the same pulse.

Steel answered doubt. Thorn began carefully cutting his way toward the gourd, severing branches with deliberate precision. The first true strike against the plant drew blood not from it, but from Elora. One of the neighboring thickets tore itself free from the earth and slammed into her with shocking speed, driving thorns into flesh and hurling her to the ground. The attack ended as abruptly as it began, the plant falling still once more, but the message was clear: the thickets were awake, and they defended one another.

Undeterred, Thorn pressed on, slicing through one of the thick, sinewy connections binding the gourd to its host. The reaction was violent. A storm of thorns burst outward, rattling the air like shrapnel. Maledurk and Elora threw themselves clear, but Thorn was not fast enough. Barbs tore into him, and a creeping numbness seized his legs, rooting him in place as if the land itself had claimed him.

Realizing brute force alone would cost them dearly, Thorn turned to guile and magic. An invisible barrier sprang into being—a wall without substance, yet stronger than stone—curving protectively around them while leaving just enough space for Maledurk to reach through with his blade. Again and again the dragonborn struck, cutting through the remaining bonds while smaller thickets hurled themselves uselessly against the unseen wall, their fury spent against unyielding force.

At last, only a single connection remained. Tempest, grinning despite the danger, slid her frying pan beneath the gourd with careful aim, ready to catch it. Maledurk’s final swing severed the last living tether. The blood gourd dropped free, landing with a dull, wet thump against iron.

The change was immediate. The thicket they had wounded collapsed inward, branches falling limp, bones clattering to the ground like discarded relics. Nearby growths followed suit, their unnatural animation snuffed out as though a heart had stopped beating. Only the largest thicket remained active, hammering itself against the invisible wall in a last, impotent rage.

They did not linger. With the gourd secured, Thorn prepared their escape—but his triumph turned sour when Maledurk tried to lift him and found resistance where there should have been none. Roots had wormed their way from Thorn’s feet into the soil, anchoring him fast. The earth itself refused to let him go.

Time pressed close. With the barrier fading and the great thicket still thrashing, Elora acted. Ice shattered the ground around Thorn’s legs, and Maledurk’s strength did the rest, tearing him free in a spray of dirt and severed roots. Pain followed, sharp and lingering, but there was no space for complaint. Thorn’s magic carried them away in a blink, the plains vanishing beneath them as the world folded and released.

They reappeared at the edge of the glade, safe at last. Thorn sagged with exhaustion, roots still protruding from his feet until Elora’s healing magic restored sensation and freedom of movement. The blood gourd lay secured, its crimson surface gleaming dully—a prize won at real cost.

They had survived the bone thicket, but the encounter left its mark. The plains had tested not just their strength, but their trust in one another and their willingness to adapt. One task remained, one final ingredient still beyond their grasp. For now, though, they breathed, bloodied but unbroken, knowing that the land itself had tried—and failed—to claim them.