Gardens are supposed to grow flowers.
This one grew zombies.
The yellow things pulling their strings didn’t last long. One good swing—lucky swing—and the tentacles stopped twitching. Turns out when you cut the brain out of a problem, the rest of it forgets what it was doing.
The garden went quiet after that. Too quiet.
We pushed deeper toward a patch of spider webs thick enough to make the jungle look tidy. MODMOS volunteered to go first. Not because he’s brave. Because he’s built for it.
Turns out the ground wasn’t ground.
Just more webs.
The kind you don’t see until they decide to see you.
He got stuck before he could say otherwise.
That’s when the swarm came.
Thousands of legs moving like a single bad idea. They poured over MODMOS, then over me. I didn’t even bother raging this time—sometimes rage is wasted on insects.
So I threw an axe.
Hit the swarm hard enough to remind them I was there.
That’s when the big one showed up.
A spider the size of a nightmare, crawling out of the dark like it owned the place. Which, to be fair, it probably did.
Balgus filled the air with a storm of blades. Bowmore added magic to the mix. MODMOS let his wand speak in missiles.
The spider didn’t last long.
Not everything does when the four of us agree something should stop breathing.
After the webs stopped moving, we searched the area. Found a folding boat and some gold. Nothing flashy, just enough to remind us the jungle eats people who carry nice things.
We added the gold to the community pile. Took a short rest.
Then MODMOS slipped ahead again, quiet as a bad thought, to scout the central temple.
The place looked like regret carved into stone.
Inside was a chamber with a statue overlooking a rain-filled pool. Its face had been scraped away like someone tried to erase a memory and didn’t quite finish the job.
Lori and I checked the walls.
The writing was in Giant.
Which meant it was meant to last.
“True love, faithful general, safe will you rest in Nangalore eternal. None will disturb you while I live. Such is my vow of penance, and for my sins I cannot die.”
Immortality is rarely a reward.
Usually it’s a sentence.
MODMOF crawled off to scout a balcony and found another pool outside. A shattered statue. Stairs leading into two pagodas like arms waiting to be opened.
We checked the courtyard.
Found a statue of a dragonborn frozen mid-crime, leaning over an urn.
A plaque nearby explained the situation.
Thief.
Justice in this garden seems permanent.
We opened the urn anyway. If you’re looking for a diamond, you don’t skip containers just because someone might be dead inside.
Turns out someone was.
Ashes. Giant ones.
Probably the general from the inscription.
We put them back as respectfully as a group like ours knows how.
No diamond.
Just another story about love that ended badly.
So we moved to the pagoda that looked the least broken.
Inside we found her.
A giant woman lounging like the whole ruin belonged to her—which it probably did.
She looked at us the way a queen looks at traveling entertainers.
And asked what boon we had brought her.
