(Note: In this story, I shall be using actual folklore. So do not try and “correct” me on certain subjects without a source. For instance, a Kobold is not a lizard-like denizen of DnD, it is the German version of the Knockers, a Cornwall goblin that haunts mines.)
Prologue:
The wind billowed around the old elderwood trees, shaking their thorny branches violently in the early morning fog. It was a cold autumn morning, and nothing moved save for the swaying branches. Nothing, that is, except for two small figures stealing quietly through the wood, tears of fright and exhaustion streaming down their faces.
One of these, a boy of about fifteen years, looked sharply back over his shoulders, making sure that no one was following them through the desolate glade. He was of a thin stature with wild hair, and his gaunt eyes peered fearfully into the dark behind him.
“Never once must we speak of this. Not once.” He whispered hoarsely to his companion, a small girl covered in ash from head to toe.
He repeated this to her, and she nodded solemnly.
“Not once, brother. Or the hags will find us again.” She answered softely.
Naught saw them save for those that do not matter…
Yet.
1. The village
Jack ran through the marketplace, scampering between the legs of the taller villagers, much to their protest. Despite being of the age of seven, he was still at the short stature of 3’ 6”, and was ridiculed for this many times by his schoolmates.
He scratched at the band concealed under his black tangled hair, and thought with dread about the tasks that awaited him that day.
It was Sunday. And Sunday meant going to church.
Oh, how he despised it. The stiff clothes, the hard benches, but worst of all was the prattle of the priest.
He did not know why, but for some reason every time the priest gave a sermon he felt the uncontrollable urge to laugh out loud, cry, and cringe in terror at the same time. He disliked this surge of emotions, and thus he had volunteered to get water for his family so that he could clear his head.
With this in mind, he jumped over the stile at the end of the road, an impressive 2 feet tall, and stumbled up to the river bank on the other side of town.
Humming to himself a tune he heard in a dream, he slowly watched as the rushing water filled the bucket in his hand.
Suddenly, someone finished the tune for him.
He looked up startled to see a grinning girl of four years, shorter even than he was, wearing a cloak of scarlet and prancing about on the stile.
“Oh. It’s only you, Rachel! For a moment I was worried.” Jack sighed in relief. He had heard stories of water creatures like the dreaded Peg Powler, whose sole delight was to drown and devour little children.
“Heya, cuz! What’cha doin?” she asked, half giggling, half speaking, always prancing about in an almost hypnotic fashion.
“Getting some water to douse your silly hood with, little Red!” he laughed, gesturing the bucket toward her.
She immediately frowned severly, trying not to smile, and said with a pout, “Don’t call me that!”
He laughed, and started to prance around her, flinging water with every step.
“Little red! Little red!”
She squealed, and started to pelt Jack with acorns.
Suddenly, a clatter from the stream froze them in their tracks. A green head, adorned with shells, surfaced from the water.
In a dry rasping voice, it spoke. “Hello, children. Would you like to go on an adventure?”
It leered at them cruelly.
What should Jack and Rachel do?
