Journal of Sara Clavin

Journal of Sara Clavin, Hazeltown Historian

Entry Date ? – my hand still trembles, the date can wait.

I have just awoken with ink on my fingers and ash in my hair.

Tom is gone.

There is no gentle way to begin this entry, no neat scholar’s preamble to soften the blow. I write this not only as a record of Hazeltown’s plight, but because I must anchor my thoughts to the truth before my memories unravel further. What I have seen, what I have felt, is already fading away like a morning fog lifting in the sun.

Sean Rabbit tasked Tom and me with a detour on our way to Axelholm. Drakebarrow, he said. Not far off the transit route. Just a quick stop. An ancient battlefield from the Age of Fire and Cold, not little more than a scorched field of death and shattered stone. No life lingers here.

There haven’t been active caravans through that cursed area for years. But rumors had begun to stir again–odd lights at night, tremors in the earth, howling that wasn’t quite the wind. Sean feared something was disturbing the ancient tombs buried there, particularly the central barrow rumored to house one of the old dragonic line.

We arrived with caution, but not enough. We were not alone.

The Ash Druids were already there.

Captured before nightfall. We were stunned and bound to ritual stakes, carved with runes both unfamiliar and terrifying. Tom, myself, and a third we did not recognize–three captives spaced evenly in a triangle around a ritual circle gouged into the blackened soil.

Between us stood three Ash Druids, chanting in a tongue that made my bones ache. And at the center, their leader, cloaked in ashen robes and blood. Towering over her, a Fire Giant was whipping other enslaved captives to unearth something enormous from the earth. I watched in horror as the ground rose of its own accord, guided by evil magic and sheer will. A tomb, long buried, lifted inch by inch.

And the ritual began.

The air grew thin and I could barely breathe. The earth hummed. Our life force was being sipohoned–drawn out like breath from a drowning lung. The third capture was the first to fall, reduced to a withered husk in moments. Tom–my husband–was next. His face pale, hands trembling, but never crying out. He looked at me, and I could only mouth his name.

And then, salvation. Or at least, vengeance.

Gr’dge’s Friends burst into the clearing like a thunderclap–Gr’dge leading the charge. Tess roared and crashed into the fray like a storm given form. Nigel, as ungraceful as ever, managed to hurl magic that felled a druid outright. Azreal, eyes wide and wild, unleashed chaotic powers that twisted the very air. I caught glimpses of Frederic, our stoic town ranger and Toblen’s guard, Gruntilda, diving into the frey.

They fought like legends. They saved me. But they could not save Tom.

The Druid leader was briefly subdued, but before anyone could extract answers, they case a final spell, some kind of curse. The ground cracked, and the tomb collapsed back into the earth. But not before splitting open, revealing what we now believe to be the remains of Cryovain’s mother: a massive white dragon corpse, chained and partially preserved in a frozen sarcophogus. The theory of her burial site–confirmed at last. 

And then the scream.

A pulse of psionic energy tore through all of us. I collapsed again, not certain what happened to the others. I remember hearing someone wail–it may have been me. As the tomb shattered and sank once more into the earth, a red glow lingered in the depths. Something ancient had stirred..

When I awoke, the wind was bitter. The hill was silent. The barrow was gone. 

We must warn Sean. The Ash Druids are not just meddling–they are resurrecting.