Episode 21 – Kethys and the Mystic Jungle

Ashes and Echoes

Dawn broke not with light but with the lingering perfume of incense. Within the chapel, the air was heavy with sandalwood and frankincense, curling in smoky tendrils that seemed to whisper as they moved. The worn stone floors glowed faintly in the warm shimmer of morning, and at the altar knelt Theyr-Rha, robes pooled around him like water.

He chanted in a tongue older than the city, a rhythmic lilt that throbbed with unseen energy. His hands traced sigils above a shallow basin of smoldering ash and burning herbs.

Nayzungit stirred. The half-orc sat up slowly, the sound drawing him like a moth. He padded silently to the altar, Clementine slung across his back, tusks flexing as he squinted into the curling smoke.

In the coiling tendrils of incense, shapes began to form. Not illusion—vision.

He saw vines writhing, twining around a circle of broken stones. Trees with leaves shaped like eyes. He saw chanting Serpentfolk, some armored in bronze scaled plates, others naked but for ritual paint. In the center: a rift, a gash in the world itself, shimmering and violent.

An Unwelcome Visitor

Then, one of them turned.

Tall. Emaciated. Adorned with bone and vine. A staff clutched in clawed hands. The creature’s eyes found Nayzungit across the vision, and locked with his.

It saw him.

Its gaze pierced not just through flesh but through soul. A cold, wet slither crawled up his spine.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder. The smoke dissipated with a gust of wind. Theyr-Rha stood before him, wide-eyed.

“You looked too long,” he whispered. “The rift speaks. It feeds.”

Nayzungit gasped, staggered, and steadied himself. “It saw me.”

“Yes,” said Theyr-Rha, “and it will remember.”

They shared words then—hypotheses and fear. The portal was not merely a crack in reality. It was an invitation, a summoning space. If the Serpentfolk succeeded, something might come through from beyond.

The Gathering Crowd

As the others woke, rubbing sleep from their eyes and stretching, Nayzungit relayed the vision. Makhulim muttered darkly, “I don’t like it when things see you from dreams.”

Marcho inspected the edges of the room for residual magic. “What kind of portal exactly?”

Faylen whispered to Charm, whose spirit whispered something back too soft to hear. “If it’s the First World,” she said slowly, “then something ancient is shifting.”

Donning gear, tightening straps, and checking spell components, they stepped from the chapel into sunlight.

The streets of Kethys were changed.

People had gathered—scores of them, lining the narrow street, murmuring and murmuring. Some whispered prayers. Others bowed. A few reached forward as if to touch the adventurers but stopped short.

They parted before the party without a word. The crowd watched in silence as the four passed like omens. A child whispered, “Are they heroes?”

A woman replied, “Or curses.”

The Edge of the Jungle

At the end of the street, past the final low walls and the crumbling statue of a forgotten god, the Mystic Jungle began.

It was not green.

The trees were tall, yes—but their bark glowed faintly violet. Their leaves shimmered in shades of copper, aquamarine, and a strange shade of iridescent silver. Flowers bloomed like stars, pulsing softly with internal light. And from within, the wind blew out.

It was a jungle that breathed.

Marcho whispered, “I don’t like it. Wind doesn’t go the wrong way.”

Faylen closed her eyes. “The First World touches here. That’s not just jungle. That’s story.”

They stepped in together.

Tracks in the Vines

For hours they marched through tangled brush and glowing roots. The canopy overhead filtered sunlight through hues that shifted with each minute. Sounds came from nowhere—birdcalls that ended in chimes, whispers in languages none spoke, and laughter that echoed once and never again.

It was Makhulim who found the tracks first.

Massive, hoofed prints. Deep. Heavy. The jungle around the trail had been crushed flat.

“Something big,” he said. “And angry.”

They followed the trail.

After an hour, they came to a clearing. In its center, Serpentfolk circled a towering beast: a two-headed bull, its pelt shimmering purple-green, its eyes like suns. It snorted steam, struggling against alchemical chains, trying to gore its handlers.

Marcho whispered, “They’re trying to tame it.”

Faylen raised her hand. “We can’t let them.”

The Battle of Vines and Horns

The first arrow struck a Serpentfolk in the throat. Then Makhulim charged, axes drawn. This hissed with blue fire, That exploded into flame. The Serpentfolk reeled from the sudden ferocity, but quickly rallied.

Spells flew. A cloud of choking pollen was conjured to blind Faylen, who responded with a blast of thunder that sent bodies flying. Marcho darted between roots and coiled vines, emerging only to stab vital joints and vanish again.

The bull broke free. Roaring, both heads bellowed in unison and it charged blindly. A handler was trampled, bones crushed beneath its hooves. The party scattered.

A Serpentfolk shaman with coiling tattoos raised his staff and unleashed a bolt of necrotic energy. It struck Makhulim square in the chest, sending him crashing to the jungle floor, his waraxes slipping from nerveless fingers.

Nayzungit roared and sprinted through fire and thorns. He dropped to his knees beside Makhulim, pressing Clementine to the dwarf’s chest. The glow of divine energy surged forth, wrapping the dwarf in light. The wound stopped bleeding.

Makhulim’s eyes fluttered open. “You idiot,” he growled. “You should’ve let me meet Moradin.”

Nayzungit grinned. “Not today, brother.”

The two locked eyes—a moment passed between them, deeper than words.

The tide turned. With renewed fury, they felled the remaining Serpentfolk. The bull, bleeding and furious, turned and stampeded into the jungle, vanishing into the glowing undergrowth.

The adventurers, bruised and bloodied, sat in silence, breathing the heavy, magic-thick air.

Rift at the Roots

Their path took them deeper. Trees bled golden sap. Vines whispered secrets in forgotten tongues. Even Marcho grew quiet.

Then they found it: a grove warped by magic. The trees were bent inward as though bowing. A circle of mushrooms glowed blue and orange. And in the center, torn through the air, was the rift.

It shimmered, alive with chaotic motion. Beyond it lay the First World: impossible hills of silver grass, rivers of floating water, and a sky of swirling motes that laughed like children.

And before it, the sorcerer.

Tall, skeletal, wrapped in vines and bone. His eyes were hollow pits filled with starlight. His voice was not a voice but a harmony of grief and hunger.

He raised a long, jointless finger. Pointed at Nayzungit. Then lifted his staff, adorned with skulls of children, twisted roots, and fangs.

He began to chant.

Faylen, without hesitation, let loose a bolt of fire. It struck true—but the sorcerer did not fall. He screamed, a sound that bent branches, and hurled himself backward into the rift.

With a slam, the portal sealed with a thunderous clap that deafened the forest for several seconds.

Questions Without Answers

They stood for long minutes, staring at the air where the rift had been.

“What was that?” Marcho said.

“Something bad,” said Makhulim. “And something clever.”

Faylen knelt where the rift had opened. “The fabric’s thin here. He’ll return.”

“Then we wait?” Nayzungit asked.

“No,” said Faylen. “We return to Kethys and help them prepare.”

They turned and made their way back through the jungle. The wind was behind them now.

Return to Kethys

The city welcomed them with fewer words.

Theyr-Rha waited on the chapel steps. His face, lined with worry, turned pale when they told him what they’d seen.

He said only, “It begins.”

Then, slowly, he told them a story:

“There was once a time, long ago, when the Serpentfolk ruled these lands openly. One among them, Vazh-Othul, was said to be the ‘Speaker Through Bone,’ a sorcerer so attuned to death that he could whisper to ancestors not his own. He delved into the First World, seduced fey, bent dryads to his will, and used the skulls of gnome children to house spells that never faded.

“He was slain, or so the legends say. Cut down by a dozen holy men. But when his tower fell, his body was never found.

“Some say he waits. Others… say he walks again.”

The shadows in the chapel deepened.