Goblin Quest - Wolves and Warm Compresses

The collapsed wizard tower still breathed, in its way—every wall damp with the memory of magic, every floorboard creaking like a whisper half-heard. But while Gakk and Gooch descended into the earth beneath the shattered tower to claim what glinted below, other threads of the story frayed and pulled in the sick light of day.   Arnold Devy, all noble posture and shallow charm, paid a visit to the halfling Xmoek—though halfling was only the mask. The boy wanted closure, wanted to know if the heroes were finished with the manor. Xmoek, always blunt when it served him, peeled back his sleeve to show the spreading grey rot across his skin. The manor wasn’t done with them, he said. Arnold offered a cure, with coin strings attached.   Soon after, a soft knock at the door—Nilos, robed priest of the Shrine of the Seven Roses, bearing sweetness and concern like an offering. He named the illness: Grey Pox. Fatal, if left to fester. He asked Xmoek to come with him, gently, and the disguised goblin agreed. At the shrine, the warmth was thick, the incense sweet. Nilos offered a robe, soft and clean. A potion too, said to be medicine. Elixir of Love in truth—ineffective, though Nilos' spell was not.   When the charm wrapped around Xmoek like velvet rope, he removed his cap. The illusion fell away. Goblin skin. Real eyes. Nilos didn’t flinch. He applied the herbs, the compresses. He stayed up with Xmoek through the long hours, hands moving gently over cursed flesh. When morning bled in through stained glass, Xmoek awoke—cap once again on his head, the spots fading, strength returned. Nilos cast Lesser Restoration, but his words after cut deeper: he liked the other look better.   With that chapter closed—though not sealed—the Bayside Stranglers returned to the manor. They cleared out the final remnants: odd trinkets, bits of forgotten arcana, and a flying, screeching thing in the observatory—a baby with wings and hate in its eyes. They ended it quickly. The manor gave up its secrets. It was finished.   But a promise still remained: Maphae, prisoner from the Plane of Shadow, waited beneath Hunclay’s manor for salvation. The group turned their attention toward Hunclay’s hidden cave, searching for the artifact, spell, or scrap of power that might unravel her bonds.   They didn’t get far before the road turned cruel. The body of Mathezik—the one they had let flee, once steward of Hunclay’s home—lay cold and torn. No time for grief or celebration. The wolves came soon after. Starving things. Led by something larger, smarter. Alpha eyes filled with winter hunger. The battle cost them. Teeth tore. Magic sputtered. They lived, but paid.   When the dust settled and breath returned ragged to their lungs, the path still waited, darker than before. But they kept walking. That’s the thing about roads in stories—they only ever go forward.