The dark roads of the Netherworld stretched endlessly — cracked, mist-choked, and lifeless. What little light existed came from the faint glow of fungi and restless spirits drifting aimlessly between dead trees.
Eryndor's cart creaked and rattled as it rolled down the uneven path. Gronk, was the one hauling it forward — slow but steady, its massive tail occasionally swatting the mud behind.
Krog clung to the side of the cart, his goblin legs barely hanging on with every bounce.
"Master! I swear this beast is trying to kill us!"
Eryndor, sitting cross-legged kept his calm — or tried to. "Gronk's doing his best. Look at him, so disciplined."
As if on cue, Gronk let out a thunderous belch that smelled like week-old monster meat.
Elara, seated gracefully despite the shaking, fanned her nose. "Disciplined? I think your mount just committed a war crime."
Krog gagged. "If I die from the smell, bury me far away from this lizard!"
Eryndor sighed. "He's an alligator, not a lizard."
"Doesn't matter when he's trying to gas us to death!" Krog snapped.
Even Xaren, who was busy studying his magic tome looked up, "Should I add air purification to my undead repertoire, Master?"
"Please do," Elara muttered, glaring at Gronk.
Behind the cart, the four captured Hound Tribe scouts trudged along in silence, bound and miserable. They had been fed the same monster meat Gronk liked — and were now regretting eating it.
"Remind me again," Raxor groaned, "why didn't he just kill us?"
"Because he's merciful," Morga answered bitterly. "Merciful people are the worst."
After several hours, the ground turned wetter and darker until it became a sprawling swamp. Thick mist swirled above black water, and the air smelled of decay. The luxurious cart wobbled precariously as the wheels sank slightly with every turn.
Eryndor took the reins, steering carefully. "According to Elder Mina, there's a hidden road beneath the swamp surface. As long as we follow it, we'll reach Whisperclaw."
Elara conjured a faint orb of white-blue light that hovered above the cart, illuminating the narrow trail between trees. "A road hidden in a swamp… creative."
Krog's eyes darted nervously. "Master, what if the road disappears? Or worse, if the swamp eats us?"
"The road doesn't disappear," Eryndor assured. "I think."
"You think?!" Krog yelped.
Before anyone could argue further, something huge rippled beneath the water. The surface bubbled — then WHAM! Gronk's massive tail slammed down, sending a muddy geyser skyward.
Everyone ducked as swamp goo rained down.
Eryndor blinked. "See? Problem solved."
Elara smirked faintly. "Your definition of problem-solving worries me."
---
Three hours later, the mist began to clear, revealing a crooked wooden gate half-submerged in the swamp water. Only three catfolk guards stood on watch, spears in hand, their armor rusted and patchwork.
Eryndor halted the cart and stepped down. "We come bearing supplies and a letter from Elder Mina," he said clearly. "I seek Elder Rishka of Whisperclaw Village."
The guards exchanged cautious glances. One disappeared inside. After a few tense minutes, an older catfolk woman emerged — Elder Rishka. Her black fur was matted, her robes threadbare.
She approached slowly. "You carry Mina's letter?"
Eryndor nodded, presenting the sealed letter.
She broke the wax with trembling fingers and read. When she looked up, her expression softened, a faint tremor in her voice. "You've truly brought help…? Food?"
"Plenty," Eryndor said. "Ten tonnes, give or take."
The gate creaked open. "Please," Rishka said softly. "Enter."
Inside the village, Eryndor's heart sank. The huts were half-collapsed, and the villagers — catfolk and ratfolk alike — were frail and starving. Many were sick, too weak to stand. The air was heavy with misery.
A little rat child tugged at his cloak, her eyes hollow. "Mister… do you have bread?"
Eryndor hesitated — then smiled faintly. "I have more than bread."
He reached into his spatial ring, and with a bright flash, piles of food appeared — meat, vegetables, fruits, and grains spilling out like an ocean of hope.
Gasps erupted instantly. Some wept openly; others clutched their children and prayed. The entire village gathered as Elder Rishka fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"You've saved us," she whispered. "May the spirits bless you."
Eryndor raised his hand. "Tonight, no one in Whisperclaw will go hungry."
That night, fires blazed across the village.
Catfolk and ratfolk ate, danced and laughed. Children played near the glowing swamp lights, bellies full for the first time in months.
Eryndor stood at the edge of the celebration, watching quietly as joy returned to faces that had long forgotten how to smile.
Elder Rishka approached him and bowed deeply.
"Your kindness will not be forgotten," she said softly. "To us… you are our Saviour."
Eryndor shook his head lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"I'm no saviour," he said. "Just someone passing by, doing what should've been done long ago."
Rishka smiled back, tears glimmering in her eyes.
"Even so… to us, that's what a saviour looks like."
The fire crackled between them as laughter echoed across the swamp, the night calm and full for once — a fleeting peace in a dying world.
Seeing them full, no longer hungry, warmed his heart — but the thought lingered that somewhere out there, another village still suffered the same fate. He couldn't stay here for long; he had to hurry.