The Foley Knoll Horror | Salt and Sanctuary Wiki

The Foley Knoll Horror is a piece of Story and Lore found in the Tree of Skill.

 The words that follow detail the 192nd ranging of the Coats 'n' Talons, Redbrow division of Liven, as carried out by me, Karmen Cran, division captain. I do hereby swear that all of the things I have claimed and chronicled below are true to the best of my recollection.

Our expedition began on the fourteenth day of the month of harvest, in the year of Olaresh 472. The purpose of the ranging was to track, hunt, and eliminate gnarlend constructs that had been terrorizing smaller villages to the northeast of Liven. There were 6 in our party. We were eached tasked with a specific role, but every man among us had been sufficiently trained in all aspects of ranging. I was to take point with whip and crossbow. Ajnders the Birian and Ellia Rum were strikers, equipped with glaive and javelin. Kazik Terman and his cousin Axemar would use bow and scout. And Todgy Longsmith was our chef, though he could crack a skull or two in a pinch.

We embarked on the Greengrove Trail, heading northeast from Liven. We would travel three days' time northeast, then head directly east into the woods to track gnarlends along Cliffendell Crag. We spotted our first sign of gnarlends not far after leaving the trail, with Cliffendell Crag only beginning to rise, still a half day's journey away. Kazik Terman spied a burnt-looking stump, and closer inspection revealed the unmistakable signs: a tree trunk rent as if by flashfire, shrouded in bits of charred, decayed flesh.

The origin of gnarlends is a thing of horrible mystery. What we do know is this: some forest tribes will place the corpses of stillborn infants inside the trunks of knotted trees, and as the tree grows, perhaps through some horrid magic, a gnarlend is born. Gnarlends are neither living nor dead, neither human nor plant. They are nightmarishly hideous, bearing misshapen, eerily infantile faces and viny, entangled skin. Fortunately, a gnarlend is killed like any other beast, though they usually take a bit more chopping-up. They have no hearts or lungs to pierce, but destroying their heads is a sure way to kill them for good. Fire is also a hunter's best friend.

Still, no man wants to face down a gnarlend. Something about their faces is haunting, terrifying, and paralyzing. I've heard of steeled men, armed to the teeth, yet frozen in their tracks at the sight of a granlend. Overwhelmed, devoured. If anything should get you moving in a showdown with a gnarlend, it's this: if they get you, they'll eat your eyes first.

There were no tracks around the hewn trunk, but it gave us some clues to go on, as well as confirmation of our quarry. In the day, gnarlends hide high in trees, twisting their writhing, misshaped appendages among the branches, rendering themselves almost invisible. There they draw from the trees' life force, basking in sun. They do it to replenish themselves, so that when night falls, they're ready to hunt.

We cautiously made our way to Cliffendell Crag, attempting the whole while to spot any gnarlends who may have hidden themselves carefully. Our search was fruitless, unsurprisingly, but we reached the crag and made camp in good time. When night fell, the hunt began.

We traveled in groups of two, or two-and-meat, as we called it: two men would hoist a torch-bearing straw dummy in front of them and range into the woods, never straying far from camp. The dummies, or “The meats,” were crude, but useful. The torches they bore made them better bait, illuminated our view ahead, and kept us hidden in shadow. We'd also slather them in the fluids of a dead rabbit for good measure. If a unit was attacked the other two would retreat toward the attacked unit, careful not to expose their backs as they did so. Gnarlends did not hunt in packs or coordinate attacks, but if the bait was sweet enough for one, the others would soon follow.

So, on this night, we began our ranging in formation: Kazik with Ajnders, Ellia with Axemar, and me with Todgy. Todgy was perhaps the bravest chef I knew, though he was certainly the most capable with a crossbow and cleaver. We moved slowly, carefully, me hoisting our torch-bearing “meat” two yards ahead of us. The straw dummy bobbed and swayed, its torchlight casting an eerily dancing web of light and shadow into the black wood. We both froze at the sound of frenzied scratching to our right.

I slowly panned our decoy toward the source of the sound, and saw it there, rapidly descending from the tree, more like a mass of spiders than a single creature. The threshing, gnarled limbs contorted and bent in rapid, unnatural motions, but its fleshy, infant-like face remained steadily fixed in our direction. Without hesitation I loosed an incendiary bolt from my crossbow. The flame bolt, ignited by the crossbow's lever mechanism, tore into the woods, finding purchase somewhere just below the gnarlend's head.

The creature shrieked a hideous wail, like a screaming infant choked by its own tears, and burst into flame. But I'd missed its head, and now it wanted mine. I drove the bait hoist into the ground, making a fixed sentry of our friend the meat. Then I unclasped my whip, a razor sharp blade-tipped steel chain weapon and lashed it at the monstrosity. I snapped the whip precisely, and the blade connected with a violence that was as elegant as it was visceral. A fist-sized chunk of the creature's head slapped hard onto the forest floor, the rest of the miserable wretch collapsing shortly after.

“Formation!” I hissed to Todgy, who had already begun to retrieve our bait. But then he vanished into a writhing shadow of gnarled limbs. They were dropping from the trees. When we had seen the first gnarlend descend, a thought had struck my mind: we're too early. Hunting gnarlends that are grounded is one thing, but the things dwell in trees! When they can drop in droves on unsuspecting hunters in the pitch of night, the odds shift dramatically toward despair.

• The Foley Knoll Horror, s. 1-25

All around me I could hear the wet, shivering thuds of gnarlends dropping from their perches. I started toward the others, but I had scarcely taken two steps when all four of them had one by one collapsed into shadows, amid human screams and unearthly, nightmarish wails. The torchlight was waning, and I could hear the skittering, gurgling cacophony of gnarlends bearing toward me.

I bolted for Cliffendell Crag. I ran desperately, knowing that any moment my escape could be cut brutally short. They were in the trees, they were everywhere. The woods were theirs. I arrived at our camp at the Crag. I had hoped that the gnarlends would avoid the clearing or the campfire. Perhaps I'd stored some herbs or an icon that would terrify the damn things. But the vile monsters pursued me through the camp, tearing through tents and stumbling over bedrolls, their terrible quickness not diminishing in the slightest.

In that moment, I spied an orange glow in the hill to the east. I raced toward it. Perhaps I was racing toward a brigand camp, but even a death at the hands of forest raiders would be better than to fall to my pursuers. As I ran, the distant glow drew into focus, separating and coalescing into the shape of two windows. It was a small cottage at the top of the hill. I sprinted toward the door, threw it open, ducked inside, and forced my back against it.

In the glow of lamplight before me I saw 5 stunned faces: a man, a woman, and three children. The man and woman had been sitting at an oak table; the children had been curled up on straw mattresses. They were certainly surprised, but it seemed like they sized up the situation faster than I'd expect them to. The man raced to the door and threw his weight into it beside me. An unearthly wail erupted from outside the door, then came scratching, clawing, thumping. The door gave under their weight once, twice, thrice, but we held fast. And then they were gone.

We heard the gnarlends' rustling shamble and nightmarishly melancholy chorus fade into the forest. The man, an Askarian by the looks of him, dusted me off and helped me to my feet. He wordlessly lumbered to the table, poured a flagon into a dented metal cup, and handed the cup to me. “Your health,” he grunted. “Hunter, eh?” he asked as I put the cup to my lips. I nodded. “Hunters always welcome here. Drive off th' demons, keep out th' evil.” I smiled and took a deep draught of the drink. “Always welcome...” he seemed to trail off. Then it all went to fog.

I came to, I believe it was the next day. I had been bound and stripped of my weapons and fine Redbrow armor and dressed in a plain canvas tunic and trousers. I was in a different dwelling: a great hall. The walls of the hall were adorned in banners that bore unfamiliar symbols.

Figures wearing dark cloaks milled about. But my attention was drawn to the great table at the center of the hall. It was strewn in butchered human corpses. Lined up at the table, hunched over the butchered slabs of human flesh, were a dozen cloaked figures. They were greedily poring over the slabs, cutting them, drawing them to their faces; they were eating them! On one of the slabs of human flesh I recognized a tattoo: a symbol of a long-disbanded sellsword company called the Brothers of Liven. It was Ajnder's. They had collected the corpses of my fellow Bloodbrows, butchered them, and were now committing the ultimate act of defilement upon them.

I was unarmed, unarmored, and bound. I had no hope but for divine intervention. But the old gods favor my sort over cannibals and abominations; would they listen? Still as a stone, I breathed the barest breath, mouthing with the most miniscule effort the words of faith that may have meant my deliverance. I remained still. The vile men dining on the remains of my countrymen continued their grim pursuit. I felt at the ropes binding my hands: tied tight. “Deliver me, Diadel. Deliver me, Devara.” A warm peace fell upon me. It was something I'd never felt before, and would never feel again. It was like a thousand bright and chiming bells became voices, each one whispering to me. “Don't lose hope,” they said. I felt as if something ethereal was softly brushing against the tips of my fingers, like a sea of feathers. The weave! The old gods had opened my eyes to the weave of Fire and Sky that surrounds us. I calmly felt the weave, touched it, embraced it, wrapped myself in it.

A hooded figure looked up from the table. Then another did. I had their attention now! The man seated nearest me withdrew a rusty knife from a mostly emptied torso and marched toward me. He was near enough now that I could smell his foul carrion breath, his grinning, yellow teeth bared. He let out a cruel, sickly laugh, raised his rusty knife to my throat, pursed his grinning lips. In my stillness, I felt a living heat welling up in my hands. Diadel! The Weave! The room erupted in flame. There was a flash, then wave after wave of searing, glowing heat emanated from where I stood, leaving brilliant arcs and tendrils of red and orange flame, engulfing dozens of the cloaked wretches in flame.

I stripped away my now-flaming rope bonds. The firestorm hadn't hurt my body, but patches of my tunic and trousers were now aflame, and my wrists had been badly burnt by the rope. I hastily patted the flames down, tearing away scraps of burnt canvas. The ground was strewn with burning bodies, and the air was thick with smoke. Some figures still stood, shrieking, dancing, desperately trying in vain to fight off the flames.

I wasted no time, grabbing a rusty cleaver from the table and hacking away at anything that still stood. In the smoke and chaos, I was lucky enough to spy a chest near the door. I kicked it open; sure enough, it contained our pilfered Bloodbrow equipment. The room was acrid with smoke, but I held my breath and quickly donned a Bloodbrow helm, jacket, trousers and boots: the Devil set. A table by the chest held some of our crossbows, but they looked to be in poor shape. A glaive leaned against the wall by the door, probably Ajnders'. I grabbed the weapon and stumbled through the door, into the open outdoors, gasping in the cold air.

The great hall roared in flame behind me. A dozen more cloaked miscreants stood before me. In the daylight, I realized that I was in a small village. There were maybe a dozen dwellings. I must have been captured in one of them. I raised my glaive. I could still feel the weave of Fire and Sky in my fingertips. Focusing on my glaive, I gently drew from the weave, somehow collecting tendrils of ethereal forces in a familiar yet alien process, building energy until my glaive glowed with celestial fire.

I slashed broadly at my assailants.The glaive cut through my foes as a hot knife cuts through buttercream. Their hewn forms flared in blood and fire, spraying sparks and gore, collapsing into smoking heaps of charred flesh. I slashed and slashed until just one man remained. He turned and ran. In a few steps, I was upon him, I slashed low with flaming glaive, severing one leg at the calf, deeply wounding the other at the ankle. He pitched forward in a shower of sparks, his bloodied torn trousers alighting in flame.

“You den of monsters,” I said as I kicked him over to his back, “Tell me why I should show mercy.” He was no man. I had butchered a woman, and that woman was with child. She began to laugh. “You wanted to kill monsters, hunter? Careful lest ye become one, eh?” she croaked, laughing. As she spoke, she crept away on mangled, burning legs. Prone, the shape of her swollen belly showed through her dark cloak. “You've killed mothers' children before, haven't ye?” she continued, “Go on, do it!” Did she see my melting resolve? Could she detect the doubt in my face? She began to shriek her hideous laughter, bearing crooked yellow teeth. “Do it!” she shrieked. I swung my glaive. What I had to do that day should have made me a monster; the cries I endured as I set about my task will haunt me to this day. And I shall spare you, dear reader, with many a gruesome detail.

• The Foley Knoll Horror, s. 28-56

 

I burned down the whole village, and set fire to the surrounding forest; the flames would spread for miles and last for days. Everywhere were trees ridden with sleeping gnarlends. By the grace of Diadel, goddess of sky, I was able to blot out the horrors of Foley Knoll and live another day. But the facts remain: I returned to Liven with a cart that carried six healthy, yet premature infants, and but those six, I left not a single soul alive at Foley Knoll. It is my sincere prayer that the lives I saved do not bear the curses of their ancestors.

• The Foley Knoll Horror, s. 61-62