Snagroot Glade

Ground, Boundaries, and the Lie of Welcome

Snagroot Glade sits in a sag of earth where the Vermosa roots break the soil and tangle into seats, spans, and low arches. Water crawls along shallow ruts and gathers into slick pools that hide nails and hooks. Old forager paths skirt the rim, where Wardens of Rootwatch keep dull-painted markers high on trunks out of throwing range. The glade is inside the Verdwood, but it does not move with the forest’s steady rhythm. It is a pocket of noise, smoke, and bait. Drums roll at dusk. Laughs carry through leaves. The Rootchewer goblins want ears on them because noise draws feet, and feet bring goods, and goods feed games.

The Council does not recognize the glade as a camp with rights. It is listed as a hazard. Rootwatch patrols do not parley there unless a writ compels it. Maps show a wide curve around the heart and three posts where a traveler can stop, check bearings, and choose a safe line. The Merchant Guild bans harvest within bowshot of the inner roots. Crews who break the ban lose licenses. The Seekers accept contracts to clean the outer trails, retrieve missing goods, and mark fresh traps after each festival night. Lorekeepers note that the ley runs shallow under the glade, but they keep their work to the edges and advise restraint. A hard strike on old wood can cause more harm than it solves.

The ground shapes the threat. Roots rise in tight stacks that block a clear charge and force single-file moves. Goblin watchers string thorn-wire at knee height and wedge spiked planks under leaf piles. The ogres, Doff and Murn, broke and bent heavier roots years ago to make lanes only they can use. When a fight starts, the goblins fall back through those lanes, and the siblings step in where the footing favors them. The glade makes small groups clumsy and large groups slow. Rootwatch keeps to the rim for that reason. The plan is to contain, warn, and wait for a legal cause. The plan has held, but it depends on steady hands and on Naath’s patience.

The lie of welcome sits at the center of the place. The Rootchewers sometimes beat a friendly rhythm and show a fire that looks like a cookpit. They wave with open hands and promise stew, songs, or trade. It is a hunt with soft edges. Travelers who come in without guard leave lighter, marked, and lucky to walk. Those who come in with guard are pushed toward the Rumblepatch, where the real face of the glade shows. No one should mistake noise for kinship. The goblins are cruel, quick, and tireless in small harms that add up to pain. They scheme, they snatch, and they laugh when a stranger falls. That is the law of their hollow.

The Rootchewer Band and Their Ogres

The Rootchewer Band holds the glade by noise, fear, and a simple chain of favors. Its leaders change often. A boss rules until someone trips him in a pit or poisons his bowl. The band keeps trophies: cut boots hung on pegs, coils of stolen rope, caged animals with branded ears, and jars with things no one names. They drill petty cruelties on young ones, teach them to sneak under canvas, and praise any trick that makes a victim look foolish. They use drums not for art but to set pace for raids and to chase quarry toward nets. When the band needs silence, they whistle through drilled bones. When they want a scene, they light pitch and shout lies about gifts.

Doff and Murn came from the north ridge and stopped here after a feast of rotten wine. The story says the goblins swore to brew more if the giants stayed. Now the pair act as uncles, judges, and hammers. Doff guards the Rumblepatch and enjoys the end of fights. He ends most of them by stepping on someone. Murn tends fires and turns hunger into power. Goblins bring him jars, marrow, and fungus to win a place near the heat. The band gives the siblings space and gifts, and the siblings give the band weight. When Rootwatch circles close, the ogres stand in doorframes of roots with clubs on shoulders and dare the wardens to take one more step.

Raiding is constant. The goblins prefer edge-work: snatch a cart pin and let the load spill; swap a road post to point toward a deadfall; set lures in the shape of a lost child’s toy; trail a caravan at dusk and creep under covers when the lamps go dim. They steal resin, food, tools, and lampstones. They foul skins and salt with powders that burn lips. They carve insults in the bark above shrine basins. They are not brave in a straight fight. They swarm, scatter, and call for Doff. Wounds on them do not end a cycle; they mark a score that they will try to even later with fire or sleep-cutters.

Naath answers with rules. Rootwatch escorts any large movement past the rim. Seekers take bounties on specific thieves and on recovery of named goods. The Merchant Guild pays quiet coin for the return of stamped crates. Lorekeepers warn against torching the whole place. Fire would jump to the canopy in a dry month and take good stands with the bad. The Council holds warrants for three named goblin heads and for Murn’s capture if a lawful strike ever opens. Those papers stay sealed until the glade makes a mistake that leaves proof in the open daylight. The city is careful. It will not start a war in the wood without cause.

Sites of Power and Risk

The Rumblepatch. The proving pit lies inside a ring of roots stripped of bark. The ground is packed hard and slick with grease and old blood. Posts hold low cages; platforms hold drums; lines of ash mark lanes for charges. Day to day, the Rumblepatch serves as court, yard, and arena. Goblins beat each other with sticks to settle rank. They throw captives in to run while knives flash in rules that change as soon as someone gains the upper hand. Doff watches from the rim. If a bout grows dull, he steps in and ends it. At night the pit turns red with torches, and the band dances in armor made from pots and scrap. The sound carries downtrail. Rootwatch uses that sound as a clock for trouble.

Murn’s Cauldron. Murn set his cook-work in a hollow where three thick roots meet. Iron rings hold chains for hanging pots. Stones crack from heat. The air burns the nose. He thinks he is a priest of soup and flame. He is a bully with a brand. He adds screaming mushrooms, beetle gels, and meat with tattoos still on it. Goblins treat the boil like a rite. They chant when he stirs. They hold down victims who must drink “reminder broth.” The stuff numbs tongues, shakes eyes, and leaves minds slow. Murn also throws powders into fires and watches the smoke. When the smoke turns green, the band calls it a sign to raid. Seekers who have fought near the Cauldron warn never to cut a hanging pot. The splash can blind a line of fighters in an instant.

The Masktree. The center of the glade is an old Vermosa with scars cut into spirals. The goblins peeled away bark, carved curses and crude hexes into the pale wood, and hung masks from every limb. Some are bark and bone with string hair. Some are leather with teeth. A few are worse. The band calls the tree a keeper of vows. They gather there to paint skin with sap and ash, howl out oaths, and set “hunts” for marked trespassers. Those hunts are real. Ogres stand behind the tree while goblins fan out in teams and push quarry toward nets, pits, or the Rumblepatch. Lorekeepers say the tree still lives, weakly, and that cutting it down would spread pain through nearby roots. Rootwatch does not strike it. They clear a ring outside arrow range and leave it under watch.

Other spots exist in smaller ways. There are crawl holes that lead to dry caves where loot is stacked. There are rope bridges hidden under mats of moss that collapse when a weight shifts. There is an old warden post, burned, that still holds a metal lockbox fused shut. There is a pool dark with tannin where the goblins drown game to tender it for Murn. Each of these places adds to the hazard. None of them offers shelter to a stranger. The glade is a trap built from the land and kept fresh by hands that enjoy harm.

Law, Response, and the Roads Around

Snagroot Glade shapes policy on its side of the Verdwood. The Wardens of Rootwatch maintain a ring-road with fresh barkstone, high posts, and wayhouses placed with a clear view of three lines at once. Patrols run staggered watches so no hour passes without eyes on the rim. Signals are simple: red cloth for “stop,” black for “armed,” and white for “safe to pass in a group.” Traders receive instructions at the Eldertree Gateways on how to speak, where to camp, and what to do if drums begin. The first rule is to keep moving. The second is to report each prank and loss. The third is to never chase into the roots.

The Naath Council handles the glade as a standing case rather than a single crisis. It authorizes limited pursuit when a marked caravan is attacked. It sets fines for guilds that cut rules to shave a day and lose a cart. It expands bounties for named offenders during hungry months when raids spike. The Council also consults Lorekeepers on the ley’s health. If the shallow flow dips, harvest near the rim pauses so the ground can settle. If it swells, Rootwatch shifts lines to avoid weak soil. The city’s restraint is not softness. It is a plan for lasting safety.

The Seekers play the flexible role. They go where a warden unit would look like a provocation. They bait traps, shadow raiders, and slip into the glade when a contract calls for a rescue or a strike on a target of value. Their notes in Ezra’s Tavern list practical truths: torches attract bugs and arrows near the Cauldron; chewed cords mark a drum team’s path; masks with black paint mean ambush to the east; the ogres hate whistles at a high pitch. The work costs. Names are added at winter rites for those who do not return. The city remembers them at the Fountain Pavilion when the Council posts a new season’s rules.