The fog shifted with the breath of the swamp, curling through knotted trees and hanging vines like a living thing. Every step Roa's squad took sank half an inch deeper than the last. The charcoaled cloth masks they wore kept the worst of the stench at bay, but the rot was in the air, in the water, in the roots. Witch's Hollow wasn't just named for folklore. It earned its title in every crooked shadow and unseen ripple.
The Vanguard combed the trail ahead, stabbing the soft earth with spear-tips, checking for pitfall edges and root-triggered snares. The Flankers were near-silent, circling out along the edges with knives drawn, eyes scanning above and below. The Support team moved with their heads down, tools out, collecting herbs and identifying trap-markings where they could.
Then, something shifted above.
"Hold," Roa whispered, raising a hand.
Leaves rustled.
A figure descended from the canopy, hanging upside down by a tangle of vines or ropes. Moss draped off his limbs like ceremonial garb. His mask was unlike the others Roa had seen in the Hollow—wooden, yes, but with carvings resembling a smiling beast with far too many teeth.
"Hello there," the figure said cheerfully, his voice filtered through the wood.
The entire squad froze, crossbows half-raised, breath held.
He swung slightly like a pendulum, then dropped gracefully, landing with a squish and a bow. His posture was loose, almost childlike in its theatricality.
"Hello there, visitors," he continued, spreading his arms. "What brings you to death's abode? You're far too armored for mushroom picking."
Roa stepped forward slowly, her eyes not leaving his form. "We're here for some recruits."
The masked man tilted his head. "Recruits?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief. "We've swallowed everyone who's come before. Bones fed the mycelium. Iron feeds the roots."
He took a step forward. Her squad tensed.
"And now that you've openly declared your intentions," he added, "we'll have to do something about it."
From the trees and mists, others emerged. Dozens. All masked. Some crouched on branches. Others stood half-submerged in water, shapes half-formed by the green-grey mist. Weapons were makeshift—curved bone knives, blowpipes, clubs carved from old stone—but their movements were coordinated.
Roa didn't flinch. "Or how about we go back peacefully?"
The masked man laughed. It was a musical, odd sound, like someone playing with the idea of laughter.
"So you can return with more bodies?" he replied.
"No," Roa answered. "But if you really want some assurance… you can give us all the trash you have."
He blinked, pausing.
"All of them?" he asked.
"Yes. Every broken tool. Every prisoner you've half-buried. Every wounded raider you don't want to waste water on. Every dead weight. Give them to us."
The air hung heavy. For a moment, only the buzzing of insects dared to speak.
A few of the masked figures exchanged glances. One leaned over and whispered something. Another giggled, hands over mouth.
Then, the leader's shoulders shook with soft, amused laughter.
"You're strange," he said. "You're like a dagger wrapped in velvet. I can't tell if you're bluffing or just absurdly confident."
He gestured for silence behind him, then raised a hand—three fingers, a circular wave.
Roa remained silent.
"Very well," he said at last. "We'll give you the trash. But I must ask… who's the fool betting on corpses? Who sends people here with orders like that?"
Roa shrugged. "I don't know his name. I've never seen his face. I just know he's doing this out of annoyance."
"…That's it?" the masked man replied, blinking behind his carved façade.
"That's it."
He stared at her for a few seconds longer, then chuckled again. "Then your fool might be smarter than most generals I've met. Annoyance is a hell of a motivator."
He turned and began walking back into the mist. "Follow us, carefully. Stay on the black roots or you'll lose a leg. Or a friend."
The masked crowd began melting away, turning their backs—a sign of dangerous trust or arrogant indifference. Roa gestured for her teams to follow, signaling a tight formation. Crossbows were lowered but not slung.
As they followed, she kept pace behind the masked leader. "You have a name?" she asked.
He tilted his head. "Many. I've been Mosskin, Wetwalker, Hollowshade. The newest one is Mudhost. But if you want something personal… call me Gullet."
"Gullet?" Roa asked, raising an eyebrow.
He tapped his mask. "We all have to swallow things, don't we? Names. Orders. Pride. Might as well name myself after the act."
Roa didn't reply.
Soon, they came to a clearing where half-rotted bodies lay stacked beside cages of shivering, wounded prisoners—some barely conscious. Rusted weapons, ruined tools, even bits of golem scrap littered the area.
"All the trash you asked for," Gullet said, sweeping an arm. "Though if you bring it back to life, I'd love to know how."
Roa scanned the pile, then gestured to her auxiliaries. "Separate wounded from dead. Check for poison."
She turned to Gullet again. "You'll leave us unbothered?"
"For now. Until we get bored again."
"You ever get bored of bleeding?"
Gullet chuckled. "Constantly. That's why I wear this mask."
He turned and vanished into the mist, his figure swallowed by the woods once more.
The rest followed.