The door to the major's longhouse creaks open as your towering frame fills the entryway. The air inside is thick with tension, woodsmoke, and the subtle tang of fungal spores drifting on the rafters—evidence of the Myconid scouts stationed here helping reinforce the village's natural defenses. Your strike team flows in behind you: the Harper scouts silent and sharp-eyed, the twin druidic knife-fighters like mirrored shadows, the tiefling archer scanning every corner, and the small Myconid scout humming a low, vibrating tone of alertness.
The civilian major, a rugged half-elf with silver-streaked hair and the posture of someone who has slept far too little, snaps to attention the moment he sees you.
"Warchief Mamba… I—"
He stops, swallows, and bows slightly, overwhelmed by the fact that the leader of the entire Snake Tribe came personally.
Behind him, scribes hurriedly gather maps and reports, clearing space for you as if the room instinctively reshapes itself around your presence.
You rest a massive hand on the table and lean slightly forward—enough to show interest, but not enough to intimidate. Your voice rumbles low:
"You sent out a distress call."
Your tone isn't accusatory or impatient.
Just steady.
Measured.
But everyone in the room can tell you already know the truth, that you've pieced together every detail before walking through the door.
Still, you want to hear their words.
The major nods stiffly and gathers a handful of parchment, his fingers trembling slightly. He pushes a map of the village and surrounding woods toward you. Militia marks, known traps, missing-person symbols—dozens of little carved tokens scattered across the board.
Your strike team steps closer, forming a loose semicircle behind you.
The major begins.
"It started with livestock going missing,"
he says, tapping a spot near the old well.
"Small animals at first. Chickens. Goats. We assumed wolves."
A Harper scout exchanges a look with the tiefling archer—wolves don't take goats without leaving gore behind.
"Then… villagers,"
the major whispers.
The room tenses. The druidic twins shift in unison.
"We posted night guards—your ogres stood watch faithfully, Warchief. But…"
He glances helplessly toward the map.
"…whatever is taking people is too small to fight them directly. It slips past them. Through cracks. Under floorboards. Down the old well."
A tremor ripples through the Myconid scout—its species' way of expressing alarm.
You fold your arms over your chest, listening without interruption. Your presence dwarfs everyone in the room, but you give the major enough space to speak freely.
He continues:
"We sent a small team to investigate the well. They never returned."
Behind you, one of the Harper scouts inhales sharply through her teeth.
"We sealed the well after that,"
the major adds, rubbing his forehead.
"But last night… we heard screaming beneath the boards of the stablehouse."
A map token falls over as his hands shake.
"She's nesting down there, Warchief."
He swallows.
"The Spider Matriarch. She must have followed the refugees from the Shadow-Cursed lands. Her brood… it's growing."
The druidic knife-fighters both lean forward, eager and deadly.
One of the Harper scouts murmurs under her breath:
"A matriarch this close to a civilian settlement is a siege waiting to bloom."
The tiefling archer lowers her hood, eyes blazing, jaw set in anger.
The major looks at you—truly looks at you—for the first time since you entered.
"I never expected you to come personally, Warchief. I thought you'd send a strike team. But… we are grateful. Your presence lifts the village's spirits."
He straightens.
"Tell us how to assist. Whatever you need—guides, maps, bodies—we'll give it."
Behind the major, children peek from behind a curtain—watching you with wide eyes, recognizing the Warchief who protects their home.
And your strike team stands ready.
Waiting for your orders.