The Shadow of the Chondalwood Crypt
The Shadow of the Chondalwood Crypt The canopy of the Chondalwood was a suffocating weave of ancient, interlocking branches, thick enough to strangle the afternoon sun into a perpetual, eerie twilight. Down on the forest floor, the air was heavy with the scent of damp pine needles, rich loam, and something else—something sharp and metallic that tasted like old copper on the back of the tongue. Caspian Locke adjusted the heavy leather grip of his shield, his sharp gray eyes scanning the impenetrable underbrush. His chainmail clinked softly with each step, a sound he instantly regretted in the profound, unnatural silence of the woods. He was accustomed to the predictable, honest dangers of the Winding River caravan routes—highwaymen, hungry predators, the occasional desperate goblin raiding party. You could anticipate a bandit. You could negotiate with a smuggler. But the quiet of this forest felt predatory. He glanced back at the eclectic band trailing behind him. They had been tr...