Tipple usually took off on adventures singing a fun jig, but the last few hours of his trip had been eerily silent. The Dark Forest of Nightcap had a way of swallowing sound, wrapping the world in an unnatural hush that made even the bravest adventurers uneasy. And, perhaps more importantly, he could feel something watching him, though whether it was friend or foe remained to be seen.
He was almost relieved when a Ryecanthrope leaped onto the path ahead, its keg sloshing slightly in its left hand while the rye in its mouth hung precariously from its teeth. But instead of attacking, the creature put a finger to its snout, making an exaggerated motion to be quiet before carefully retreating into the woods. Tipple didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound.
Where there was one Ryecanthrope, there was usually a pack—but something about this didn’t feel quite right.
Rustling erupted on the other side of the path, followed by growls. Smaller shadows darted between the trees. Tiny paws skittered against the forest floor. Tipple tensed, gripping the strap of his lute. He knew better than to assume they were harmless.
Then came a voice— sharp, commanding, and laced with purpose.
“You can run all you want, but you won’t escape me.”
Tipple had heard many intimidating voices in his lifetime, but none had the distinct edge of Intoxica the Necromixer.
From the shadows, she emerged—her purple cloak billowing. Intoxica’s eyes gleamed with authority and amusement, a knowing smile playing at her lips. Tipple had seen this before. He knew Intoxica liked to play with her prey, and based solely on her demeanor, he knew: she was hunting. Behind her scurried a small litter of Ryecanthrope pups, all wide-eyed and eager, their tails wagging as they tried to keep up with her graceful stride.
Tipple cleared his throat. “Greetings, Intoxica. You’re looking lovely this evening. This wouldn’t happen to be a chase for sport, would it?”
Intoxica gave him a knowing glance. “Hardly, my dear friend, Tipple. That oaf is neglecting his fatherly duties, and I simply won’t allow it.”
Tipple followed her gaze to where the adult Ryecanthrope crouched behind a fallen log, holding its keg like a protective shield.
“What you see before you, dear bard, is a creature desperately clinging to his freedom, believing that a few stolen hours in the woods can absolve him of responsibility.”
The pups yipped, bounding toward their wayward parent, tumbling over each other as they reached him.
Tipple couldn’t help but chuckle. “What, exactly, did this one do?”
Intoxica crossed her arms. “Abandoned them. Said he needed a ‘break.’ Imagine that.” She tilted her head slightly, her sharp fangs glinting under the moonlight. “If I hadn’t intervened, these little ones would be left to fend for themselves.”
The Ryecanthrope father released a long, resigned sigh, finally setting down his keg. He gazed at the pups— his litter, his responsibility—and after a moment, something in his posture shifted.
“There it is,” Intoxica smirked, watching the interaction with satisfaction. “He knows I won’t leave until he does what’s right.”
The pups nuzzled against their father’s fur, the frustration in his face softening ever so slightly. Tipple supposed some creatures needed a little extra motivation to return home.
Intoxica turned back to Tipple, flicking her wrist. A rolled parchment appeared in her hand. Tipple’s parchment. “Since you’re here, I assume you have a party message pour moi?”
“How did you—” Tipple began, but stopped himself. “Never mind. Warlock secrets.”
Intoxica smiled as the scroll unrolled itself with a flourish. She skimmed the message, raising an amused eyebrow, reading about Absinthia’s enthusiastic use of enchanted arrows.
“Indeed. And it appears I’m still in charge of event logistics, whether I like it or not.”
Then, in a dramatic swirl of ink, she added her own reply:
She handed the scroll back to Tipple with a satisfied nod.
“There. Your group…scroll… text now has some proper authority. And more importantly, you now have a ride.”
The pups playfully pounced on their father’s tail, and with one last exasperated sigh, the Ryecanthrope finally stood, ready to lead them back home. But before he departed, Intoxica beconed him and the two had a long conversation in the woods where Tipple could not hear them.
When the Ryecanthrope returned, a carriage—most likely enchanted—was now hitched to him, filled with eager pups.
“Your carriage, my friend,” Intoxica said.
Tipple grinned. “You’ve got a soft side, Intoxica. Almost motherly.”
She scoffed, flipping her hair. “Hardly. I just don’t tolerate those who can’t keep their word. Contracts are very important to me.”
The Dark Forest seemed less ominous now.
With a new entry on the group text scroll, a Ryecanthrope family reunited, and an unforgettable encounter with Intoxica, Tipple continued his journey, humming a familiar tune as he rode in comfort, ready to meet the next person on his list.