Grega concentrated. Rain dripped inside his mask but he tried not to let it
distract him.The Irregulars around him spoke to each-other in low voices as
they checked and rechecked their gear, adjusted their masks and tried their
best to keep their handguns and powder dry.
Grega concentrated. Something was moving in the fields beyond the broken town
walls. It was hard to see through the sheeting rain and swirling fog, but
there were ominous shapes looming in the gloom. Moving slowly, but definitely
moving.
Grega concentrated. His mind reached out into the field. He could sense the
Root, malignant and angry. Bitter, twisted and hungry. A wave of hunger swept
over him and he felt angry too. He tried to force his will upon the root, as
he had done every harvest-time for his whole adult life; he tried to coax it
into the familiar comforting forms, to make it sweeter, softer, and more
palatable. But it was so angry now, it resisted.
Grega tried to concentrate. But he was furious now. The thought of all the
unnecessary destruction that the war of the Burning Winter had caused. The
loss. The pain. It knotted in the pit of his stomach. It twisted him too.
Smolek watched Grega struggling, shaking, straining. It was clear the
Rootmancer was out of his depth. Making a crop more edible was a very
different task to taming the Root, in the form it had become. This was not
going to help. They needed to light the lanterns, not battle the Root with
sorcery, especially when the risk to the sorcerer was so high. Grega was out
of his depth.
Something was moving in the fields beyond the broken town walls. Something…
big…
I made a monstrous root-thing from one of the 3 Trolls from the Hobbit, a load
of bits-box horns and greenstuff.
Some additional members of the Bolyany Irregulars I made as I was still in a turnipy mood!
Paluch the lantern lighter.
Turnip Johann
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