On the north side of the twisted and smoking wreckage of Windchaser, Captain Morrison winces with each step. His left leg has borne the brunt of his desperate parachute leap from the dying airship. Pain is etched in the lines across his weathered face as he surveys the clearing where fate has deposited them, and he signals to Crewman Jones.
Jones moves with purpose toward the dense treeline that encircles their group. His blade works efficiently against a sturdy branch, carving away bark and smaller offshoots until he produces a serviceable walking stick for the injured captain. He hands it to the grateful Captain and steps back toward the treeline. Jones steps back into the shadows between the towering trunks, the filtered sunlight playing across his form until, without sound or ceremony, he simply ceases to be there at all. The forest swallows him as if he never existed, yet no one in the group notices his absence.
Meanwhile, the weight of Sergeant Bailey’s side eye grows too much for Istyher. Still wearing Grapalt’s imposing goliath, they stride toward where Gandalf picks through the steaming debris. The wizard’s methodical search through splintered crates yields little more than standard military provisions—uniforms and boots that are useless to the survivors of the Windchaser crash.
Then Istyher’s fingers close around something different. A narrow container, its contents promising. Inside, nestled in protective padding, lie the two halves of an exquisitely crafted javelin. The weapon assembles with satisfying precise snick, though it appears almost comically diminutive in Grapalt’s massive hands.
Emerging from the wreckage with their prize, Istyher catches Astrid’s attention. The bard’s expression shifts to puzzlement as she tries to read the strange intensity in what she believes are Grapalt’s eyes. Frustration boils over, and Istyher unleashes a torrent of Celestial, their borrowed voice deep with emotion as they question Astrid’s perception and rail against their inability to pierce through this maddening disguise.
Astrid recoils as if struck. “How could you say this, Grapalt? That’s so hurtful and unfair…” Her own voice rises in the ancient tongue, both confusion and hurt are in her features. The heated exchange draws curious glances from their companions, who understand the tone if not the words.
Without warning, Grapalt’s massive form seizes Astrid’s arm and pulls her behind the Windchaser’s shattered tail section, away from prying eyes. There, hidden from view, the transformation occurs—goliath melting back into the familiar half-fiend form of Istyher. Their explanation tumbles out in rapid Celestial, words falling over each other in their haste to clear the air about Sergeant Bailey’s suspicions and Istyher’s ‘disappearance.’
“Then it’s actually Grapalt that is missing from the group!” gasps Astrid. Istyher can only nod in agreement.
⚔
Unknown to either of them, their private conversation has an invisible audience. The true Grapalt, clueless that he is called Grapalt, stands motionless at the eastern edge of the clearing, his form unseen but his mind struggling against an impenetrable understanding. He comprehends every word the pair speak, yet the names and faces they reference remain frustratingly beyond his grasp. Even when the deep goliath voice shifts to a higher pitched one, maddeningly familiar to him, recognition refuses to come. But the fleeing Grapalt does note that the goliath monk has the ability to change into a much shorter tiefling with blond hair, dressed in completely different clothing.
While the group’s attention remains fixed on the muffled argument behind the wreckage, Nesquo slips away into the trees. The promise of ancient ruins and forgotten treasures pulls him into the forest, but almost immediately, the sensation of being observed prickles along his spine. The squabbling voices of Astrid and Grapalt fade behind him as he pushes deeper into the undergrowth, seeking escape from their incomprehensible bickering.
The forest closes around him. Nesquo moves between massive tree trunks, their canopy high above him is so thick that the world seems almost underwater. Then the sensation of being watched crystallizes into terrible reality. From every direction comes the sound that turns him cold. Loud, predatory snarls from unseen creatures seem to surround Nesquo.
Bushes shake with violent force as something large charges through the undergrowth toward him. Terror roots Nesquo in place as a reptilian snout emerges from behind a copse of young trees. The complete scaled head follows, revealing reptilian eyes, amber with vertical pupils, that lock onto him. The creature moves with deadly swiftness and purpose.
At the last moment, one three-toed foot rises with lethal intent, revealing the curved sickle claw on the middle digit that catches what little light filters through the canopy. It gleams cruelly as it descends toward the paralyzed druid.
⚔
The distant roars shatter the relative quiet of the clearing, causing heads to turn westward to the forest. The first growl receives answers from at least two others from somewhere in the dense woodland.
Then the air splits with an elvish scream of pain.
“Where is Private Nesquo?” Sergeant Bailey’s demand cuts through the group’s growing alarm. “Now we’re missing two soldiers! We need to find Nesquo AND Istyher!”
The invisible Grapalt bolts from his position at the first sound of attack, his feet pounding past the airship’s twisted tail. His movement, though unseen, creates enough disturbance to startle Astrid and Istyher from their hiding place, the call of “I found Istyher!” dying in Astrid’s throat. They emerge to find Bailey’s dagger whistling through the air where something had clearly passed, the blade embedding itself harmlessly in Windchaser’s hull with a metallic clang.
Fred’s keen senses also detect the passage of something substantial nearby. His examination of the ground reveals massive foot tracks pressed into the earth, leading eastward from their position. “Are we dealing with velociraptors that wear boots now?” he wonders aloud, his voice carrying an edge of dark humor. “Because if they’re invisible AND well-equipped, that makes them considerably more dangerous.”
At the mention of velociraptors, Gandalf goes rigid. The color drains from his face as recognition dawns. “I know these creatures! Pack hunters,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “What they lack in individual strength, they compensate for with speed, cunning, and coordinated attacks.”
The group absorbs this grim assessment in tense silence, broken by another agonized scream from within the trees. Three’s sharp ears pick out something familiar in that cry of pain. “That sounds like Nesquo!” Without hesitation, the diminutive figure scrambles up the nearest tree with surprising agility, ascending until he reaches a vantage point thirty feet above the forest floor.
From his elevated position, Three can make out the distinctive silhouettes of three large, bipedal predators moving rapidly through the western forest. One stands ominously close to what appears to be the top of Nesquo’s head. Cursing his lack of ranged weapons, Three drops from branch to branch with fluid grace before hitting the ground running, racing toward his endangered companion.
Gandalf is already in motion, his robes billowing as he charges toward the sounds of battle, though the dense undergrowth still conceals their reptilian adversaries from his view.
The forest that seemed so peaceful only moments before now seems deadly.
