The Garden was alive with the soft sounds of nature—crickets chirping, the rustle of leaves in the cool evening breeze, and the faint, melodic hum of glowing flowers swaying in the moonlight. Amidst this serene beauty, a figure scuttled through the underbrush: a rat draped in a ragged, patchwork hood. His name was Ragwort, and he had lived in this part of the forest for as long as anyone could remember—or cared to.
Ragwort wasn’t like the other creatures of the Garden. While others adapted to the forest’s mysteries, Ragwort clung stubbornly to his old ways. He foraged where the soil was barren, hoarded scraps that decayed faster than he could use them, and avoided the luminous paths that hinted at new beginnings. “Change,” he often muttered, “is for fools.”
Tonight, Ragwort was especially agitated. He had spotted a group of adventurers—newcomers to the Garden—carrying a Shard of Renewal, a glowing crystal said to grant rejuvenation to the land it touched. The shard’s light offended him, its very presence a reminder of growth and change, things he despised.
“They’ll ruin everything,” he hissed, clutching his hood tighter around his thin frame. “My stash, my burrow—it’ll all be… new.” The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ragwort skulked closer, his beady eyes narrowing as he observed the group settling down near a shimmering pool.
Ragwort crept toward the adventurers’ camp, his tiny claws silent on the mossy ground. He reached for the shard, but the sorcerer shifted, murmuring in their sleep. Startled, Ragwort toppled a pile of cooking pots, sending a clanging echo through the forest.
The rogue bolted upright, daggers in hand. “Who’s there?”
Ragwort froze, blending into the shadows. “Just the wind,” he whispered to himself, ignoring the absurdity of his own excuse. Thinking quickly, Ragwort stepped into the light, adjusting his hood to look as dignified as a rat could. “Greetings, travelers!” he squeaked, bowing low. “I am Ragwort, keeper of the ancient ways. That shard you carry—it’s cursed, I tell you. Hand it over, and I shall dispose of it for your safety.”
The cleric frowned. “Cursed? It’s literally called the Shard of Renewal.”
Ragwort blinked, faltering. “Ah, well… ‘renewal’ is just an ancient word for doom.”
The group exchanged skeptical glances, their hands inching toward their weapons.
Desperate, Ragwort darted forward, snatching the shard from its resting place. He bolted toward the underbrush, the shard’s glow illuminating his frantic retreat. But the rogue was quicker, pinning the rat with a well-thrown dagger that pinned his hood to the ground.
Ragwort thrashed, yelling, “This forest was fine before you came along! Fine, I tell you!”
Ragwort struggled to free himself, his hood askew, revealing his patchy fur and gaunt frame. He glared at the adventurers, his voice trembling with anger and fear. “You don’t understand! Change destroys everything. It ruins what was good, what was… mine.”
The adventurers hesitated. Was Ragwort merely a nuisance, or was his resistance a symptom of something deeper, perhaps a curse on the land? The shard glowed brighter, pulsing with energy as if reacting to the tension.
Would the players confront Ragwort to reclaim the shard, try to reason with him, or delve deeper into the mystery of his stubbornness?
