Chapter II: The Marionette Magus Cap

The evening air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and moss as the Merchants of the Realm made their way through the Gloamwood. The forest was ancient, its twisted boughs clawing at the sky, draped in vines like the gnarled fingers of forgotten spirits. Tradehaven was still days away, and this shortcut through the wood—while unsettling—shaved valuable time off their journey.

“We should make camp soon,” Thrain Goldseeker grumbled, adjusting his pack. “Not a soul in sight, and I’d rather keep it that way.” 

“A shame,” Crick Faefiddler quipped, plucking a quiet tune on his lute. “These lonely woods could use a touch of my charm, don’t you think?”

“Only if you wish to serenade the wolves,” Batholomew Quickwits chimed in, spreading his wings for balance as he stepped over a rotting log. “Though I suppose even beasts deserve a performance.”

As if in answer, a light flickered in the distance, golden and inviting. A humble cottage sat nestled between the roots of a massive oak, its crooked chimney puffing lazy wisps of smoke into the evening sky. The sight was a welcome one—shelter and, perhaps, an opportunity for barter.

“A cabin, here?” Thrain frowned. “And just when we needed one. Suspicious.”

“A bit of luck, I say!” Batholomew clapped his hands together. “Come now, my friends. Who are we to turn away from such an invitation? We are travelers, are we not? And what is travel without a tale to accompany it?”

The three approached cautiously, but the cottage seemed harmless enough. The door creaked open at the slightest touch, revealing an interior bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. Strange trinkets lined the shelves—glittering baubles, ancient scrolls, and an assortment of peculiar dolls, their glassy eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

“This place feels… odd,” Crick murmured, his antennae twitching.

“And yet, look at all these fine wares!” Batholomew strode forward, inspecting the treasures with a glint of curiosity in his eyes. He twirled a golden ring between his fingers, examined a porcelain mask, and then—atop a carved pedestal—his gaze fell upon a cap.

It was a peculiar thing, woven of deep purple fabric with silver embroidery that seemed to shift in the candlelight. Despite the age of the surrounding relics, the cap looked untouched by time.

“Now this—this is a cap fit for a performer,” Batholomew declared, plucking it from its stand and giving an exaggerated bow. “Tell me, how do I look?” He placed the cap upon his head with a flourish.

The moment the fabric touched his scalp, the air in the room grew heavy. The candles flickered violently, and a low, whispering voice slithered through the cabin.

At last—another to carry my will.

Batholomew’s body jerked, his wings flaring wide as his limbs stiffened. His eyes, once filled with mirth, turned glassy and vacant. He straightened, his posture eerily rigid, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk that was not his own.

“Ahh, so much to do, so much to create…” His voice was his, yet it carried an undercurrent of something ancient. His hands lifted, fingers curling as if weaving unseen magic.

“Batholomew?” Crick stepped forward, concern flashing across his face. “Hey, now, if this is some new act of yours, I—“

“Silence, insect,” the jester snapped, voice laced with venom. “The work must continue.”

Without warning, Batholomew lunged, moving with unnatural grace, his motions sharp and marionette-like. With a flick of his wrist, invisible threads of force sent Thrain stumbling backward.

“He’s not himself!” Thrain shouted. “That cursed thing’s got him!”

Crick sprang into action, dashing between the furniture as Batholomew advanced, hands swirling with raw energy. The air shimmered, the room warping as reality bent to the will of the cap’s new master.

“This magic—it’s weaving itself into him! Crick called out, barely dodging a crackling bolt of force. We need to cut its strings!”

Thrain gritted his teeth, his mind racing. His eyes fell on the dolls lining the walls, their empty gazes watching, waiting. Then it struck him—the witch. She hadn’t merely enchanted the cap; she had split her soul among the many objects in this room.

With a roar, Thrain grabbed a heavy brass candlestick and swung it at the nearest shelf. The impact sent porcelain and glass shattering to the floor.

A terrible shriek filled the air, and Batholomew staggered, clutching his head. The cap’s embroidery flared, the silver stitching writhing like living veins.

“It’s working!” Crick whooped, his four hands sweeping through the air as he launched a flurry of projectiles, knives, vials, whatever he could reach, at the remaining trinkets. Each broken relic sent another wave of agony through Batholomew’s possessed form.

With a final cry, Thrain grasped the cap and yanked it free. The moment it left Batholomew’s head, a ghostly wail echoed through the cabin, and the hat convulsed in his hands, its fabric writhing. Then, silence.

Batholomew collapsed, gasping for air.

”Remind me”, he wheezed, rubbing his temples, “to be more selective about my wardrobe.”

Crick let out a laugh, though his hands still trembled. “Aye, and maybe next time, don’t go volunteering to wear the cursed artifacts, yeah?”

Thrain scowled at the twitching cap in his grasp. “This thing’s too dangerous to leave behind.” He reached into his satchel, pulling forth a thick iron lockbox lined with runes. “If it must travel, let it do so under proper care.” With careful hands, he sealed the cap inside, the runes glowing faintly as the magic within was contained.

As they left the cottage behind, the woods no longer seemed so inviting. The trees pressed in closer, and the wind carried the faintest whisper of laughter—though whether it came from the cap or Batholomew himself was a question best left unanswered.

And so, the Merchants of the Realm carried yet another treasure toward Tradehaven, another tale to recount on the road.

But some artifacts are not meant to be sold. Some stories are best left untold.

At least, until the right audience comes along.