By the light of a harvest moon, Trollskull Manor’s unlikely heroes left behind leaking pipes and haunted hallways for something far older waiting in the fields beyond Waterdeep.

The Fields Beyond the City

For all its noise and lanternlight, Waterdeep grows quiet after midnight.

The city’s taverns dim. The market cries fade. Even the harbor seems to breathe slower beneath the moon. And beyond the walls, where the road bends toward Undercliff, the darkness feels different; wider, colder, and far less civilized. That was the road the party walked this session.

Their destination was Stoutfellow Farm, where frightened farmers had reported livestock mutilations, strange figures in the fields, and scarecrows that never seemed to stand in the same place twice. Melannor Fellbranch’s warning still hung over the group like mist over the vineyards: something unnatural had taken root in Undercliff’s harvest lands.

So, shortly after midnight, the party prepared for a stakeout. And, like every good adventuring party preparing for danger, they immediately settled into complete and utter chaos.

Kiril slipped into the vineyard shadows to scout ahead while Maple directed his owl familiar into the night sky above the fields. Raven and Clover argued quietly about whether anything good had ever happened in a field after midnight. Doc, meanwhile, volunteered himself as bait with the confidence only a barbarian can possess.

The Stoutfellow property stretched silent beneath the moonlight. Vines swayed softly in the cold breeze. The distant farmhouse lantern flickered faintly against the hills. And everywhere they looked, the scarecrows watched.

When the Scarecrow Turned Its Head

At first, nothing happened.

The party waited among rows of grapes and tangled fencing while insects buzzed softly in the dark. Somewhere beyond the orchard, wolves howled in the distance. Maple’s owl circled overhead while the group traded whispered theories about what exactly they were hunting.

“The thing stepped down from its post.”

Then the wind shifted. One of the scarecrows near the northern fence moved. Not much; just enough. Its head tilted ever so slightly toward the party.

The conversation stopped immediately. The thing stepped down from its post. What followed was less a prolonged battle and more a sudden eruption of panic, firelight, and flying straw.

The construct moved with unnatural purpose, dragging itself through the vines on twisted straw feet while ember-colored light burned behind its sackcloth face. When its glowing eyes locked onto Clover, the young bard froze.

For a heartbeat, the vineyard disappeared.

He stood instead beneath stage lanterns, lute trembling in his hands as unseen voices laughed from the darkness. Rotten fruit struck the wooden boards around his feet. The performance collapsed around him while the crowd jeered louder and louder.

“He stood instead beneath stage lanterns, lute trembling in his hands as unseen voices laughed from the darkness.”

Then the vision shattered. The scarecrow was still coming.

Fortunately for Clover, Maple arrived moments later carrying fire in his hand like a living lantern. The sudden glow spilled across the vineyard rows, illuminating the creature clearly for the first time, stitched cloth, jagged straw protruding from its sleeves, and a body that looked less built than bound together through hatred alone.

“Maple arrived moments later carrying fire in his hand like a living lantern.”

The party responded instantly.

Raven’s eldritch power cracked through the darkness in streaks of force. Kiril emerged from the vines with blades flashing silver in the moonlight. Maple’s magic bathed the battlefield in flickering orange light while Doc charged headlong into the creature with a roar that probably woke half the countryside.

And, in true Doc fashion, he ended the fight with subtlety roughly equivalent to a collapsing siege tower.

His axe carved clean through the scarecrow’s upper body, sending burning straw and embers exploding across the vineyard rows like sparks from a bonfire. For one brief moment, the entire orchard glowed gold against the night.

Then silence returned. The remaining scarecrows stood motionless once more. Watching.

“For one brief moment, the entire orchard glowed gold against the night.”

Ashes in the Orchard

Lanternlight soon appeared from the farmhouse. Jack and Mary Stoutfellow hurried into the fields wrapped in heavy cloaks, relief written plainly across their faces when they realized the party was still standing.

The halfling couple thanked the group profusely, though their gratitude carried exhaustion beneath it. This had not been an isolated attack. The fear hanging over Undercliff had become very real for farming families living beyond the city walls.

And worse still, the party quickly realized something unsettling: There had been more than one scarecrow in the fields earlier that evening.

Only one had attacked. Which meant that others may still be out there somewhere. Waiting.

Still, for one night at least, the Stoutfellows had hope again.

Before the party departed, Jack promised that a cask of Stoutfellow Reserve would be delivered to Trollskull Manor by morning, payment for their bravery and, perhaps more importantly, proof that the people of Undercliff were beginning to trust them. Not as wandering adventurers, but as neighbors.

“Not as wandering adventurers. As neighbors.”