#baronyofthesilverwolf

The garden is quiet and sun-warmed, scented with thyme and damp earth. Gwen sits nearby, her rocky skin warmed pleasantly in the sunlight as she soaks in the stillness of the morning. A few paces off, Thistle crouches low in the grass, peering intently at a chimerical snail whose shell gleams like iridescent circuit board. It’s slowly making its way toward a patch of moss she’s already circled with chalk, in some sort of esoteric experiment or exercise in curiosity that is only known to her Nocker brain.

Across the path, they overhear the sound of a not-quite-argument. Dolph is speaking in a low, restrained voice, trying very hard to sound patient. “I’m not accusing you, I’m just saying—there’s no cabbage, and you were the last one through the gate.”

Bluebell retorts, her nose quivering, clearly offended, “Which should tell you how much I detest them! Honestly, the nerve… I’ve never eaten a cabbage in my life.”

“You helped me plant them.”

“That was a favor, and I regret it every day.”

Dolph sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “All I want is the truth.”

Bluebell huffs. “Then you’ve asked the wrong pooka.”

Gwen arches an eyebrow.

don't interfere, don't interfere The knight reminds herself.

Dear lord, Thistle is right. I maybe habitual She rises up "Everything okay?"

"Shhhh!!"

"Sorry sorry," Gwen sits down and mutters "I can't help myself, Thistle. You know about my condition."

"What condition?"

"Buttinkski Trolus chronicus"

Dolph’s mouth tightens as Bluebell crosses her arms and lifts her chin defiantly. “I’m telling you, I didn’t touch your cabbage. I have absolutely no interest in leafy green nonsense unless it's steeped in butter and shame.”

Dolph exhales sharply through his nose. “Bluebell, I know what you are, but that doesn’t mean I think you’re a thief. I just want to know what happened. That cabbage was—” He stops, visibly trying to keep his temper. “It was important.”

Bluebell’s ears flick back. “Well, maybe your precious cabbage just grew legs and walked away. Or maybe the hedgehogs unionized. Did you check the hedgehogs?”

“That’s not helpful,” he snaps, finally losing the calm edge in his voice. “You always turn this into a game when people need answers!”

Bluebell’s nostrils flare. “And you always assume I’m hiding something just because I don’t lie in your direction.”

She spins on one heel, flounces dramatically, and stomps off through the grass, tail bouncing with every furious hop. “I hope your next cabbage bites someone!” she calls over her shoulder.

Dolph groans and mutters something unkind under his breath, then glances toward Gwen and Thistle, clearly aware he now has an audience. He pulls off his cap and runs a hand through his hair, flustered.

Gwen twitches with the urge to help.

It is obvious boggan rearing has affected her.

Blink.

"What's the deal with the cabbage? You sell your firstborn to a witch?"

Then, finally, it slips out "Have you tried willow whispering the soil? It's not perfect for info but maybe it would help?"

Dolph rubs the back of his neck, visibly deflating now that Bluebell’s dramatic exit has left a silence in her wake. “Wasn’t for a witch,” he mutters, then sighs. “It was my best cabbage. I was growing it for the midsummer showcase down in Pine Hollow. Not a formal contest, more of a friendly gathering. Gardeners, brewers, goblin fruiters—bit of trade, bit of bragging rights.”

He gestures helplessly toward the empty patch of soil. “Thing was the size of a child’s head and twice as sweet-smelling. I checked it just yesterday. This morning—gone. No tracks, no chew marks, not even a snapped stem.”

The Boggan glances toward the path where Bluebell vanished, then back at the cabbage bed. “It’s not the prize, it’s the work. The care. That cabbage had… character.”

"Could Monobrow have eaten it? Do Unicorns even like Cabbage?"

Dolph blinks, clearly caught off guard. “I—huh. I hadn’t thought about Willow Whisper,” he admits, scratching at the back of his head. “My Primal’s a bit rusty these days. Been too long since I listened to the roots.”

He shifts awkwardly, eyes still on the empty patch. “And… well. Blaming a second probably-innocent person might not be the look I’m going for.” His voice drops a little, more sheepish than frustrated now. “That cabbage meant a lot to me, is all. Makes it hard not to start jumping to conclusions.”

"That sucks man. You try cursing the skies? Makes me feel better when I break greenware."

Dolph gives a soft snort, halfway to a laugh. “Haven’t tried that one yet. Might give it a go if the cabbages keep vanishing.”
He glances toward the patch again, then to Thistle. “Greenware, huh? Is that the unfinished kind? Before it gets all… fired and fancy?”
He shakes his head. “I swear, I understand plants better than I understand pottery. And that's only a side hobby I have next to carin' for the hoofstock.”

"I thought you cursing was how green ware GOT broken," Deadpan.

"I could try the willowshiper for you, Dolph. I dont' claim to be the best but I can give it ago. What would you like me to ask?"

"Yeah - greenware's dried, but ain't fired. Super delicate."

"Hooves, meanwhile..." Handwave. "Willie's shown me a touch of farrier (*^%$%$, but it's her trade."

Dolph chuckles softly at Gwen’s jab. “Well, maybe I should curse less and listen more.”

He straightens and nods at her offer. “If you’re willing, ask the soil if it remembers anything—footsteps, voices, or anything that seemed out of place around the cabbage patch before it vanished.”

He glances toward the empty earth. “Anything that might point toward what happened.”

The hostler gives a small smile to Thistle at the exchange about greenware and hooves. “Willie’s lucky to have you learning from her. Farrier’s a craft I’ve never quite mastered.”

SHe moves to the cabbage patch, and doodles some native American symbols into it. Then chants "Talk dirty to me." From a very old song.

She idly watches Gwen as she chats with Dolph. "For sure, and useful here. Willie ain't drek at it. But learning, you gotta be careful to mind toes an' egos."

Then she whispers "Soil, tell me what you recall of footsteps of voices that seemed out place before your last cabbages were taken, please?"

A faint voice, old and loamy “Soft, careful footsteps passed near the patch before dawn—quiet and not quite like any usual visitor."

Dolph chuckly wryly. "Don't I know it."

"You let BB get one good prank in after you apologize, she'll forgive you for losin' your top. She doesn't hold grudges that long."

Gwen whispers "what direction did they leave as they departed?"

"Oh, she's a good'un, and I should know she wouldn't have taken my produce, not if she wanted me to keep working on the heirloom carrots." Dolph admits, abashedly.

"They let slip the bonds of earth and drifted eastward, carried lightly on the whispering wind..." The voice of the soil fades away and it returns to stillness.

Well, that was her last answer, but she pats the earth anyway "Thank you." Then looks up "Dolph, it said soft careful footsteps passed near the patch before dawn... quiet, and not like the usual visitors. And then, when leaving, they flew or levitated or something, and went eastward carried by a whispering wind.. I think I got it right."

Thistle's face scrunches up. "Bird pooka?"

"Maybe, hot air balloon? Wait, who would walk into an area with a hot air balloon then steel cabbages with one?"

Dolph pipes up, "Not cabbages, cabbage... just the one, the big prize one I was going to take..." He chuckles and reddens a bit, "Well, maybe not the blue ribbon, but I was durn proud of it."

She pats Dolph's shoulder. "totally blue."

Belatedly, Gwen may realize that she hadn’t really taken in the cabbage patch before her hurried spellcasting. Her big, tromping troll feet have disturbed the soil.

HOWEVER...

A bit of a glimmer in the soil catches her eyes - something glittery, but it's hard to make out now that it's been disturbed. And as she peers closer now, near the edge of the patch, partially hidden by a tuft of grass, she spots something, a small indentation - rather, a pair of them, small, like someone with slenderer hands than her had pressed two fingertips into the soil... maybe?

Dolph notices her peering, and admits, "My eyes ain't what they were in my wilder days."

"Hey, Thistle? Need your help here you've got good hands."

"Huh?"

"I want to see if your fingers would fit in the same spot. I didn't investigate like i should have before hand."

"...Okay?" She trots over.

Thistle leans in, examining the small marks Gwen points out. As she studies them, she realizes they aren’t fingerprints at all, but tiny footprints. The shape is familiar—she’s seen that exact imprint pressed into her wet clay or fresh paint more times than she can count, always alongside soft, mischievous giggles that are as lovely as they are exasperating.

"Oh, farklesnart."

"You said it was sweet, huh?" A look at Dolph.

“Well, sweet like good produce oughta be—fresh, bright, bit of a bite if you steam it right. Not sweet like corn or fruit, mind you. Still a cabbage. Vegetables do what they do.” He shrugs. “But it had a nice character to it. Made me smile, I guess.”

He sighs and starts to gather up his gardening gear. "Well, there's always the rutabagas. Ain't so promising though."

She sits back on her heels. "I don't know which of'm did it. Might have taken a few working together."

Meanwhile a snail with a curious shell is racing across the garden... at a snail's pace. Alas, it will take weeks to return to the Magnet's side. Poor dear has now been relegated to... scene filling.