Never forget
what happened
last session.

Dusk settled over the swamp-tree homes as Scribs and Pex woke hungry and drifted toward the communal fire, where Grandmother tended frog roast, snake kebabs, and a helmet-cauldron of bubbling soup. When Scribs tried to steal a taste, Pex slapped her hand away—“Ще не готова!”—and the old goblin finally spilled the tribe’s secret: the Red Fangs weren’t born to this swamp; they fled the plains from “pink-butts” and survived only by bargaining with The Witch. Now the debt was due. With a crude Bark-map pressed into their hands and a grim order to kill any humans they saw, the pair slipped into the grasslands under moonlight—Scribs steering by stars while Pex blundered half-deaf after jamming earwax deeper with a botched listen. They reached the windmill and ghosted past Hunter's Dog, then inside found patched sacks bearing their own tribe-mark—salt in the wound—before carefully flexing the mechanism and sliding free the heavy Millstone without bringing the tower down.

The escape nearly snapped when Human Hunter appeared on patrol, feathered hat sharp against the night, bow ready. Scribs flowed through the grass unseen, but Pex—burdened by the stolen stone—couldn’t keep it quiet; when the human turned toward the sound, Scribs saved them with pure audacity, meowing like a cat until the superstitious archer crossed himself and muttered about omens, then wandered off. At dawn they returned to Grandmother, only to realize the stone was plain gray, not the “precious pink” she’d promised—yet she hugged them anyway and shoved them onward to Witch's Hut, that stilted place in the swamp that always felt wrong. Inside, The Witch scraped powder from Millstone, chanted, and hurled it into her cauldron; white foam swallowed her whole, and when it cleared the “witch” was a red-haired human woman, shaking and pleading not to be exposed—then, in the same breath of panic, she blasted Pex in the back. Scribs answered with a lightning lunge and a perfect rapier thrust that pinned the spellcaster mid-cast; Pex finished the message by dropping the stolen Millstone onto the corpse. They looted what they could—an unreadable journal and a sweet Red Potion—then vandalism turned to catastrophe as the hut caught fire, erupting into multicolored, stinking magical flames that forced them to flee.

They ran home to a silence that didn’t belong: empty homes, scattered belongings, and Grandmother slumped by the fire with an arrow in her. With fading breath she confirmed the horror of what they’d done—killing the transformed “witch” had shattered the concealment spell that hid the swamp from humans—and she rasped a final warning about Human Hunter. Scribs forced herself into mercy, sharing the Red Potion to ease the old goblin’s pain and splitting the rest with the wounded Pex, then read the ground like a story and led the pursuit. They found Human Hunter on a rise with Hunter's Dog and a captured Goblin Girl pinned nearby; Scribs sprinted through muck, climbed, and rained arrows—one a brutal critical that staggered the man—while Pex met the dog head-on, refused to be dragged down, and beat it to death with savage, cook-hardened fists. When the hunter seized a young goblin hostage and put a dagger to her throat, Scribs shot his leg to break his balance and Pex charged, disarming him in a single violent motion before pummeling him into the mud with improvised cookware. Other goblins surged from hiding to finish the work in a frenzy of vengeance; they returned with Grandmother slipping away at last—smiling faintly—while the swamp’s protective veil remained gone, leaving Scribs and Pex staring at a future where hiding was no longer an option.