Table of Contents:
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
Chapter 1 - Sir Pubbleglum’s Glimpse of TimberMist
Chapter 2 - The Haunting Calls – With Company
Chapter 3 - The Sort-of-Quest to Mount Crumble
Chapter 4 - The Whispering Crimson Arrow
Chapter 5 - Mysterious Mist Archers Revealed
Chapter 6 - The Unsteady Truth on Mead
A glimpse of a metallic Crimson like object
Sir Pubbleglum's Birds Eye View of TimberMist
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
Sir Pubbleglum’s Glimpse of TimberMist WAX NFT
“I have news to discuss at the Order’s secret meeting room.”
Sir Pubbleglum glanced at Sir Flailwild and, receiving the approving nod he sought, addressed the gathered members of the Order of the Backwards Plume. Sir Yokel, seated beside him, was so eager to hear what Pubbleglum had to say that he nearly toppled backward off his chair as he leaned in, ears sharply attuned.
“Aye,” Sir Pubbleglum grunted. “A blur beneath the clouds—nothing more. But the trees were too neat, the mist too quiet… and I swear something was staring right up at us.”
He turned to the knights of the Order. “During our flight back to Clumsalon after rescuing Princess Eláfine,” he continued, “as the Kingdom of LightningAir soared through the skies, I spotted a dense, mist-covered forest below. The thick fog hid most details, but there was an unusual stillness in the treetops—and a faint crimson glimmer, like moonlight catching on bows—before we sped past too quickly to be sure.”
Sir Toppleberry squinted like a man staring at a map upside-down, valiantly attempting to connect the dots in Sir Pubbleglum’s damp, meandering tale of a phantom kingdom or realm hiding in a Clumsalon forest.
He tilted his head, nearly toppling his helmet. “How… how would one even see such a kingdom, eh? From the ground? From above? With a spyglass made of buttered turnips?”
Sir Yokel the Younger spoke up. “I think Sir Pubbleglum means the time he and Sir Flailwild rode LightningAir to save Princess Eláfine. As the flying kingdom drifted over a misty, uncharted forest, Pubbleglum spotted something—stillness, structures, maybe the glint of bows. But it vanished too quickly as they sped past. Was it real… or just his imagination?”
Sir Toppleberry took a huge swig of mead, wiped his mouth with a cartoonish SQUEAK of his gauntlet, gave a very wise nod…
…and then gravity betrayed him completely as he missed the chair by half a thumb’s width and crashed straight down—taking Sir Flailwild with him like a startled domino.
After a dignified pause and one enormous hiccup, he looked up from the floor and declared:
“Ohhhhhh.
Got it.
Thank you, Sir Yokel.”
Still sprawled on the floor—having been unceremoniously yanked down by the great Commander-in-Chief himself—Sir Flailwild propped himself up on one elbow and grinned at Sir Pubbleglum. “Spot on, Puddle—that’s precisely what you said!” he cackled.
Glancing over at Sir Toppleberry (mug still heroically steady, dignity in pieces), he added with mock solemnity:
“Oi, Sir Toppleberry—perhaps lay off the mead for a bit, eh? Before you go and invent gravity all over again!”
After three valiant (and wobbly) attempts—and with Dame Clattercrash swooping in to haul him upright—Sir Toppleberry finally regained his feet. He held out his hand and said:
“I have an idea!” he announced. “Let’s gather volunteers to charter an expedition and locate this mysterious, mist-shrouded forest. If it exists, we will find it. It’s within Clumsalon’s lands, so we shouldn’t encounter any unwanted Gloomfen or IcingSnow forces, should we?”
“I’ll send word to Perfectia,” he continued, “and see if they have any knights eager to join this exciting venture. For now, we keep this among the Order. Nobody speaks to the King until we’re certain the place exists.”
Sir Yokel and Sir Flailwild immediately volunteered to lead the expedition. Sir Pubbleglum opted to stay behind. “I’ll remain in Clumsalon to rest,” he said, “but I’ll draw you a map of what I saw. As we passed Lake Monster and Mount Crumble, there it was in the distance—the densest place in Clumsalon. You wouldn’t know it unless you saw it from above. It lay southeast of Mount Crumble, nestled within mountainous peaks.”
Crimson Blood Moon viewed through the Lopsided Spyglass
Secluded Camp Site off The Haunted Trail
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
The Haunting Calls – With Company WAX NFT
Sir Yokel and Sir Flailwild, fully packed for a journey that could well take weeks, ventured off into the Clumsalon forests. They traveled north toward the Haunted Trail, which would lead them straight to the mountains and near Mount Crumble. Their plan: to make camp just off the trail, far enough to monitor it from a distance without being noticed, where they would meet two Perfectian knights sent to aid in their quest.
A few days later, they reached the Haunted Trail. As they set up camp just off the path in a hidden, secluded hollow among the thick trees, Sir Yokel peered down the trail. “Hey, Sir Flailwild—what’s that bright shine down there?”
They spotted familiar polished armor approaching: Sir Thundersnack, munching on a massive snack mid-march (living up to his name as always), and Sir Bearingsmere the Gentle beside him, calm and polite, carrying an absurdly heavy pack without a single complaint. The pair waved cheerfully at the Clumsy Knights.
Sir Thundersnack grinned through a mouthful. “Ah, Yokel! Hello, Flailwild! Heard you lot were poking around for misty nonsense. Brought snacks—want some?” He begrudgingly extended a half-eaten pastry.
Sir Bearingsmere the Gentle inclined his head with a gentle smile, though his eyes scanned the Haunted Trail warily. “We were dispatched by Sir Perfechia. Word reached our Order of the Perfechian Guard of Shearmelstrom of your… expedition. We offer our aid, should the need arise.”
Night fell, and the camp felt as cozy as if the four knights were snug in their beds. The campfire roared gently, keeping them warm against the chill.
Sir Flailwild woke to a strange sound drifting from the Haunted Trail. He peered through the thick treeline from their secluded spot and wondered, What is that? He nudged Sir Thundersnack to rule out another stomach growl.
“Yes? What? Oh, it’s you, Sir Flailwild,” Sir Thundersnack yawned. “What’s up?”
“I’m hearing a weird sound on the trail,” Sir Flailwild whispered. “Trying to make it out quietly.”
Sir Thundersnack knelt to listen. “Hmm… that ain’t any animal I know. Maybe someone traveling?”
As both knights stared straight onto the Haunted Trail, their serpentine swords gave off a very faint glow. Sir Thundersnack gulped. “Oh no,” he said frantically. “Look at your sword, Flailwild!”
Sir Yokel, who had been silently listening, quickly covered both their mouths. “Shush,” he hissed. “Look—do you see?”
Sir Flailwild gestured with his arms. “See what?”
Sir Yokel whispered, “This is the same or similar shadowy mist we saw at the Lopsided Courtyard welcome incident.”
Sir Thundersnack’s face lit up (then dimmed). He pulled away from Sir Yokel’s hand. “Yes, I remember! I was eating Clumsalon’s custard pies—yummy. Oh great, now I’m hungry again.”
Sir Bearingsmere woke in the gentlest way possible. “Hey, guys… what’s happening?” he asked in a soft, gentle voice.
Sir Thundersnack couldn’t wait. “It’s the same shadow we saw at the Lopsided Courtyard welcome!”
Sir Bearingsmere met his eyes. “Say what? Oh no… you don’t think it’s… um… Redsfear and that cold demon, do you?”
Sir Yokel waved his hands to calm the group. “We’re safe here. Whatever it is, they haven’t spotted us.”
He turned to Sir Flailwild. “If it’s that shadow sorcerer Redsfear, he’s going to be very mad at us for embarrassing him in our last encounter at the Lopsided Courtyard.”
Sir Flailwild quietly told the group to stay silent and get back to sleep—they had a long journey ahead. “I’ll take first watch for a few hours. Sir Yokel, you can take the rest until dawn.”
The knights all nodded in agreement and settled down, though they kept one eye open. Sir Bearingsmere the Gentle lay back, thinking to himself, What is happening with the moon and these red skies above? He struggled down into his sleeping sheet, uneasy.
As Sir Flailwild kept watch, he noticed the shadowy figures pause momentarily before continuing to glide along the Haunted Trail until they vanished from sight. Relief washed over him; the glow of his sword slowly faded, but that bright red moon did not.
He raised the lopsided spyglass once more and gazed up at the crimson blood moon. This is going to be a long night, he thought.
The Lopsided Spyglass
Sir Pubbleglum's Map Locating the Mist Forest
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
The Sort-of-Quest to Mount Crumble WAX NFT
“The night felt like it would last forever,” Sir Yokel muttered as he took over watch from Sir Flailwild.
As the sun brightened the early morning sky, the knights stirred one by one. Sir Bearingsmere brewed coffee over the campfire Sir Flailwild had relit before bed, while Sir Thundersnack busied himself preparing breakfast for the group.
They drank, ate, and shared quiet laughs before packing up and pressing on along the Haunted Trail toward Mount Crumble.
“Days seem short in these parts,” Sir Yokel observed, rubbing his nose absentmindedly. Sir Bearingsmere kept a watchful eye behind them, Sir Thundersnack scanned left and right as if expecting an ambush, and Sir Flailwild walked beside Sir Yokel, calm as ever.
“Sir Yokel, what’s wrong with your nose?” Sir Flailwild asked.
“Well,” Sir Yokel replied, “it’s good at detecting danger—but it can also give us away if I sneeze. Sometimes uncontrollably. Had it since I was born, apparently.”
Sir Flailwild gasped. “That’s… interesting. I knew you were a sneezer, but I never knew it detected danger.”
The knights continued until Mount Crumble loomed ahead. Sir Yokel raised his lopsided spyglass and scanned the horizon, hoping to spot the Giant. No sign. “Maybe he’s out and about,” he mused. “Or perhaps he’s helping the young King of Avalorthington.”
“Well,” Sir Flailwild said, “we can’t wait to find out. We need to keep moving—with or without him.”
Sir Yokel nodded. “Let’s press on. Once we reach the base of Mount Crumble, we can study the map more closely.”
They arrived at last. Sir Flailwild unfolded the map Sir Pubbleglum had drawn, and the four knights huddled around it.
Sir Yokel traced a line with his finger. “This is what we’re looking for—a trail or pathway running between mountains, through thick, mist-shrouded forest.”
“That’s strange,” Sir Flailwild said. “I’ve never seen such a place in Clumsalon. It’s a testament to how vast these lands are—how much remains unknown.”
Sir Bearingsmere gently pointed to two X marks. “I wonder which one marks the area we seek—or if both do.”
Sir Flailwild explained, “LightningAir was moving fast across the sky. I’m surprised Sir Pubbleglum managed such detail. He caught just a glimpse—then tried to grab my face to get my attention while I was talking to the Princess. He looked away for a split second… and poof, the misty forest vanished.”
Sir Thundersnack nodded. “Impressive. Good to know.” He paused. “When are we stopping for food, anyway? My stomach sounds like a moaning cat.”
“We’ll eat while we travel,” Sir Yokel said. “We need to pick up the pace to find our next safe campsite.”
Sir Flailwild asked with a sarcastic grin, “Where on earth do you put all that food, Thundersnack?”
Thundersnack giggled. “Ask my stomach—this thing can’t go a second without eating.”
The knights exchanged amused glances, silently agreed, and continued southeast from Mount Crumble, following the map toward the dense, forested valley hidden between peaks.
In the shadows, about 800 meters away, Sorcerer Knight Redsfear and his companion waited, listening intently.
Sorcerer Knight Evensburdge whispered, “This is perfect—another hidden kingdom we can conquer.”
Redsfear replied quietly, “It’s not that simple. This place lies within Clumsalon’s borders, judging by what we’ve heard. It’ll be challenging.” He paused. “Remember, brother—they defeated me once. I won’t make that mistake again. These knights are foolish, yet crafty—masters of unintended calamity. I don’t know how they do it… but I’m about to find out, with your help.”
He turned to Evensburdge. “You command water at will. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage when the time comes.”
“Agreed,” Evensburdge said with an evil grin. “We’ll stay in the shadows, follow them to this promised land—and when they reach it, we’ll strike. Take them prisoner, as our Order commands.”
“Prisoners?” Redsfear hesitated. “Hmm. Very well. Whatever the Order commands.”
The Clumsy and Perfectian knights pressed on, unaware of the eyes watching from the dark.
They continued on, following the mysterious path Sir Pubbleglum had sketched on the map. They traveled southeast from Mount Crumble, making their way toward a vast, thick forest terrain hidden between towering mountain peaks—just as the map depicted.
“I think we’re in the right place,” Sir Yokel said, his enthusiasm growing.
Sir Flailwild nodded. “Agreed. We should make camp soon—find a secluded spot that’ll hide us well from any prying eyes.”
Sir Bearingsmere quietly agreed but added a soft warning: “I suspect we’re not alone.”
Sir Thundersnack’s stomach growled like a cat in distress. “Umm, guys—let’s make camp fast and get that campfire going. My stomach demands it,” he giggled.
They set up in a well-hidden clearing deep within the thick, misty green forest. The campfire roared to life, food sizzled on the flames, and Sir Thundersnack grumbled that he hadn’t been fed quickly enough—his stomach now loudly demanding dessert.
Above View of the Crimson Arrow
Mysterious Crimson Arrow Inches from Sir Yokel
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
The Whispering Crimson Arrow WAX NFT
Sir Yokel stirred as the first pale light filtered through the mist. He rubbed his eyes, stretched—and froze.
There, sunk halfway into the thick trunk of the ancient oak mere inches from where his head had rested, was an arrow. Its shaft was dark wood, fletched with striking deep-crimson feathers that almost seemed to shimmer faintly in the dawn glow. No sound, no movement—just the arrow, perfectly placed, as if planted there by spirits.
His nose twitched involuntarily. Danger? Or just pollen? He leaned closer, heart thumping. The arrowhead was buried so deep that the bark had cracked around it like a surprised mouth.
“Oi… Flailwild,” he whispered urgently, not daring to shout. “Wake up. Slowly.”
Sir Flailwild cracked one eye open, saw the arrow, and went very still. “That’s… not one of ours.”
Sir Thundersnack, still half-asleep and clutching a half-eaten pastry from the night before, mumbled, “Is it edible?” Then his eyes widened. “Wait—someone shot at Yokel’s head? While we slept?”
Sir Bearingsmere the Gentle rose smoothly, hand on his sword. “Not shot at. Placed. A message, perhaps. Or a warning.”
The knights exchanged looks. Sir Yokel’s nose gave another warning twitch—this time unmistakable.
From the mist-shrouded trees beyond the clearing, no sound came. But the air felt heavier, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Sir Flailwild examined the scene. The crimson-feathered arrow from this hidden realm—now known as Archers—confirmed a new threat, he thought, as he spoke aloud.
Sir Bearingsmere spoke up, remembering a fairy tale that described events similar to what was unfolding around them. “According to the Perfectian fairy tale,” he said in a calm, gentle tone, this realm is not merely a myth, but a reclusive, highly skilled society of marksmen who guard their Mist-like Realm. The tale speaks of their crimson-feathered arrows—they are never fired in haste. Each shot carries meaning.
This one—spared Sir Yokel’s life but left a warning—suggests the Archers are testing us, and perhaps not yet declaring war.”
“Well, whoever they are,” said Sir Yokel, “that warning shot almost took the wind out of me. But I’m hopeful we can find common ground with them. They’re within the Kingdom of Clumsalon, and I’m surprised they’ve remained so well hidden for so long.”
As the Clumsy Knights and the Perfectian Knights further examined the map Sir Pubbleglum had drawn for them, within the shadows, Sorcerer Redsfear and Sorcerer Evensburdge observed from afar—both amazed that an arrow of such precision had struck the oak tree.
Evensburdge couldn’t believe a hidden kingdom within Clumsalon might exist. He looked at Redsfear with wide eyes.
Sorcerer Redsfear wasn’t so easily convinced. He studied the arrow and the four startled knights, then whispered to himself, “I bet this is another trick by those pesky Clumsy Knights.”
Sorcerer Evensburdge turned to him. “This is real. Could one of their own have fired an arrow so close to their companion? There are archers in these lands—well hidden, perhaps even spotting us despite your shadow magic, Redsfear. We must proceed with caution, brother.”
Redsfear looked at Evensburdge and nodded. “I trust your gut, Evensburdge. We will continue to shadow these four knights until we have the evidence we need—before we attack,” he said silently.
Evensburdge quietly agreed.
As the Clumsy Knights examined Sir Pubbleglum’s map, Sir Bearingsmere, intrigued by the mysterious arrow embedded in the tree, pulled Sir Thundersnack aside. “Sir Thundersnack,” he said, “I need you to take notes while I examine this fascinating arrow.”
Sir Thundersnack quickly pulled out a parchment in one hand and a custard pie in the other—then, with a smile, replaced the pie with his quill and ink.
Sir Bearingsmere began to study the arrow. “The dark-wood shaft may be carved from Mystic Oak, a tree said to grow only in the Mist Realm’s outer ring, according to the Perfectian fairy tale. This remarkable wood absorbs sound and masks movement—that’s how the Archers remain undetected. The crimson feathers could symbolize a blood oath or forbidden passage—though I don’t remember exactly. But what I do recall is that this was a warning shot, indicating we are nearing their sacred ground.”
“Sir Thundersnack, did you get all of that?” with custard smudged on his face, Sir Thundersnack replied, “Umm, sorry—I was busy pleasing my stomach.” Sir Bearingsmere, in a gentle voice, said, “It’s alright. I remember what I need to, so I can help us navigate through this place.”
The four knights once again packed up their camp.
Sir Yokel addressed the group: “Now that we’re aware of the Archers’ presence, we must decide: press forward and risk ambush, seek parley if we meet them face to face, or use Sir Pubbleglum’s map to find another way around and avoid their territory. I’m all ears.”
Sir Flailwild said quietly, “I believe we should follow Sir Pubbleglum’s map. If these archers wanted us dead, they wouldn’t have given us a warning.”
“Sir Bearingsmere? Sir Thundersnack?” asked Sir Yokel. Both Perfectian Knights agreed to press forward, following the drawn-up map.
Mysterious Mist Archer #1
Mysterious Mist Archer #2
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
Mysterious Mist Archers Revealed WAX NFT
All four knights followed Sir Pubbleglum’s hand-drawn map, moving at a steady pace through the thickening forest, eyes scanning every shadow.
Sir Bearingsmere the Gentle spoke in his softest voice. “Is it just me, or is the mist growing thicker the deeper we go into this never-before-seen, mysterious woodland?”
Sir Thundersnack glanced around nervously and nodded.
Sir Flailwild called over, “Are you hungry?”
Sir Thundersnack grinned. “I already fed my infernal stomach, so I should be good for now.”
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of,” Sir Flailwild replied, suspicion creeping into his tone. “Then what’s that grumbling noise—if it’s not your stomach?”
Sir Yokel tilted his head. “I hear it too. It’s coming from behind us. I’ll drop back to investigate—you three keep moving.”
Sir Yokel stepped back, eyes sharp, watching the shadows. Then something streaked past Sir Flailwild—fast enough to knock him off balance. His armored boot caught a root; his left strap snagged Sir Thundersnack’s chainmail. Both knights tumbled to the ground in a clatter of metal and muffled curses.
Sir Flailwild scrambled up. “What was that? Something flew by so fast it changed the wind around me—I couldn’t stay upright.”
Sir Thundersnack lay on his back, custard smeared across his face from the pie he’d been secretly devouring. He looked utterly clueless. Sir Bearingsmere extended a gauntleted hand to help him up.
Another swift shape sliced through the mist. It missed Sir Yokel (still searching the trail behind), then struck Redsfear’s shadowed cloak, pinning it to a tree trunk. Sir Yokel jumped, stunned—he hadn’t scented the sorcerer at all, hidden as he was by shadow magic.
Without warning, Sorcerer Evensburdge materialized from thin air. Redsfear’s cloaking shadows began to dissolve. The three knights rushed to Sir Yokel’s side. Sir Thundersnack’s and Sir Flailwild’s serpentine swords flared to life. Sir Flailwild leveled his crimson-fire blade at Evensburdge; Sir Thundersnack pointed his flaming blade at Redsfear—all while absently licking custard from his lips.
Redsfear sneered, drew his shadow blade in a blur, and slapped Sir Thundersnack’s weapon from his sticky grip. “I’ve had quite enough of you pesky knights.”
His blade swelled with writhing darkness—only for two crimson arrows to flash from the mist. One struck Redsfear’s sword, the other Sir Flailwild’s, knocking both weapons free. The shots were precise: not to wound, but to warn.
Sir Yokel’s nose suddenly went numb. He let out an enormous sneeze—so loud that birds erupted from the evergreens like startled prey. Sir Bearingsmere calmly handed him a cloth. Sir Yokel wiped his face, grateful; his sense of smell had returned.
A crimson glow bloomed in the thick mist. Two Mist Archers stepped forward, bows drawn, arrows nocked. Their armor shimmered in bright green, blue, and crimson, reflecting the sky like polished glass.
“You have entered our sacred lands—TimberMist,” one said, stepping closer. “We are the protectors of the Realm of Archers. Leave immediately and never return.”
Sir Yokel stared in awe. Sir Pubbleglum had actually found it. Sir Bearingsmere, however, looked puzzled. He raised a hand in polite request. The Mist Archer shifted his aim slightly. “You may speak.”
In the gentlest voice known to man, Sir Bearingsmere asked, “The Kingdom of Perfectia has storybooks of a place remarkably like this—drawings that look just like you. How can that be? How does a fairy tale become real?”
The Mist Archer’s expression softened just a fraction. “We know of those tales. Our people created them—based on our own mysterious race—to keep outsiders away.”
As they spoke, Sorcerers Redsfear and Evensburdge exchanged a glance. Redsfear gave the slightest nod. With a flick of his wrist, Evensburdge drew moisture from the mist, shaped it into a quivering water bomb, and hurled it toward the group.
Chaos erupted. Sir Yokel slid into Sir Thundersnack; both went down in a heap, another half-eaten custard pie squashing into Sir Yokel’s face. Sir Bearingsmere gently tackled the nearest Mist Archer, an apology already forming on his lips. Sir Flailwild swept the other Mist Archer’s legs, causing a crimson arrow to fly wide and embed itself in a tree inches from Redsfear’s breastplate.
All four knights and the Mist Archers became a tangle of limbs and breastplates, swords forgotten on the ground amidst scattered custard pies.
“Hey Thundersnack, these custard pies seem to follow you everywhere!” Sir Yokel sputtered, doing his best to clear custard from his eyes. “How on earth can you carry so many?”
Before Sir Thundersnack could answer, Sorcerer Redsfear snarled, “Quiet, all of you,” while conjuring a shadow entanglement spell. “You pesky knights will not get away this time.”
“You are all our prisoners,” Evensburdge added, nodding.
Sir Yokel, still tangled with Sir Thundersnack, was too busy wiping his face to respond. Sir Thundersnack stared mournfully at the wasted pies on the soaked ground. Sir Bearingsmere recited an apology to the archer he was pinning, while Sir Flailwild strained to reach his serpentine sword, just a foot out of reach.
“Ha! We got them!” Evensburdge crowed.
Redsfear surged forward, shadow magic amplifying his speed. In moments, he bound the tangled heap with writhing tendrils of darkness.
“What now?” Sir Yokel asked dryly, trying to keep morale from collapsing.
Redsfear’s shadowed eyes gleamed. He had captured not just the knights, but two living legends of this hidden realm.
Then more crimson glows appeared in the mist.
The knights froze. Redsfear’s shadow tendrils tightened instinctively. Even Evensburdge’s smug grin faltered as the erratic, wobbly glows bobbed closer—too clumsy to belong to disciplined archers.
A familiar, damp voice wheezed through the fog: “I-I-I followed my own map! It loops! I’ve been walking in circles for hours and—oh dear, is that custard on Sir Yokel’s face?”
Sir Pubbleglum the Soggy stumbled into the clearing, clutching a dripping parchment and a jar of glowing fireflies, with several more jars strapped to his breastplate.
He blinked at the tangled heap. “Oh! Hello, everyone. I appear to have arrived at an inconvenient moment.” He held up a jar proudly. “But look—I brought light to help navigate this never-ending mist. And… um… some moral support?”
Suddenly, Sir Pubbleglum stepped right onto Sir Flailwild’s serpentine sword. He tripped, sending his firefly jars scattering directly into the faces of Sorcerer Redsfear and Evensburdge, distracting them just enough to loosen the shadow bonds.
The tendrils flickered in confusion, as if even the darkness wasn’t sure how to handle such absurdity.
Sir Flailwild seized the moment, freeing himself from the Mist Archer, and dragging the remaining writhing tendrils that were looped around his arms with him. He quickly untangled Sir Yokel before helping Sir Pubbleglum up from the soggy ground. Sir Bearingsmere disentangled himself in the gentlest way possible, extending a hand to help the archer to his feet. Sir Thundersnack, half-buried under a squashed pie, let out a delighted snort that sprayed custard flecks.
“Sir Pubbleglum! You absolute legend!”
“Oh, Sir Flailwild, let me assist you, old chap.” Sir Pubbleglum picked up the serpentine sword and handed it back.
Redsfear stared, aghast. “What… is this?”
The distraction shattered his focus. The shadow bindings loosened just enough for Sir Flailwild to wrench an arm free and elbow him in the greaves. Sir Yokel sneezed again—right in Redsfear’s face—and the sorcerer recoiled as if struck by holy water.
The two real Mist Archers, who had been watching the chaos after being freed, finally stepped forward. One lowered his bow a fraction, eyebrow raised. “These… are the invaders?”
The other sighed. “Apparently. They can barely stand up straight.”
Sir Bearingsmere, ever polite even while partially bound, inclined his head toward Pubbleglum. “Sir Pubbleglum, your timing is, as always, impeccably soggy.”
Sir Pubbleglum beamed, oblivious to the tension. “Thank you! Now, shall we continue our journey before the mist decides to eat us all?”
Sorcerer Redsfear snarled, already backing into the shadows with his accomplice Sorcerer Evensburdge the Grey. “This isn’t over, knights. Enjoy your little circus—we’ll return when the clowns are gone.” As the sorcerers melted into the fog, the Mist Archers exchanged a long look, then slowly lowered their bows.
One turned to Sir Bearingsmere. “You travel with… this one?” He nodded at Sir Pubbleglum, who was currently trying—and failing—to untie a shadow tendril that was bound to nothing with his soggy map.
Sir Bearingsmere smiled gently. “We do. And somehow, he always finds us when we need him most.”
Sir Thundersnack had been watching everything unfold beside his squashed custard pies on the ground. Now finally on his feet and wiping custard from his chin, he clapped Sir Pubbleglum on the back so hard the last firefly jar he kept securely nearly flew from his hands. “Welcome to the party, Soggy. You just saved our hides with bugs and bad navigation.”Sir Pubbleglum blushed. “I-I just followed the map. It said ‘loop back to friends.’ So… here I am.”
Somewhere deeper in the mist, the trees seemed to rustle with quiet laughter.
The Mist Archers introduced themselves and asked who was responsible for locating their realm. Sir Yokel pointed to Sir Pubbleglum. “He is the one who located this mysterious forest of mist and legends.”
One archer tilted his head, pondering how anyone could achieve the unachievable without an ancient map. Then his gaze sharpened; he remembered the flying Kingdom of LightningAir drifting overhead and the fleeting moment when a certain clumsy knight had looked down and made brief eye contact. Understanding dawned. They now knew exactly how their hidden realm had been found.
Sir Yokel handed a parchment to one of the archers. It read:
Your realm lies within Clumsalon’s Kingdom. We would like an alliance with your kind. You do not have to accept, but know this: you will always remain under Clumsalon’s protection unless you act hostile toward us. The choice is yours.
Signed,
Sir Toppleberry the Unsteady
The Mist Archers accepted the parchment with a polite nod and asked the knights to leave at once. “We must reform the mist and the trees to our will,” one explained, “and scrub away all evidence of your presence.”
Before vanishing into the fog, they left behind a special parchment marked with the symbol of a Crimson Bow and Arrow. They moved without leaving a single footprint, thanks to their soft-soled boots crafted from the hide of the Shadowhoof deer—a creature that sheds its skin once every three years, or so Sir Bearingsmere recalled from the old stories.
Sir Flailwild sheathed his sword with a satisfied clank. “Let’s get back to Clumsalon before the mist decides we’re still trespassing.”
Sir Thundersnack patted his stomach. “And before I run out of pie.”
As they turned toward the trail, Sir Yokel tucked the parchment deeper into his satchel. Somewhere above the canopy, a single crimson glow flickered once, then faded.
The Realm of Archers was real. And now, Clumsalon knew it.
A Flagon and Several Goblets of Mead
The Kings Study
TimberMist: The Hidden Realm of Archers
The Unsteady Truth on Mead WAX NFT
The journey back to Clumsalon was mercifully uneventful—mostly. Sir Pubbleglum’s map looped more times than they could count, once depositing them at the very custard-stained tree they had passed a day earlier. Sir Thundersnack declared it the work of "the growling hungry stomach" and promptly produced yet another pie from deep within his satchel. Sir Yokel’s nose twitched at every shadow, but the lingering scent of Redsfear had faded into the damp earth and trees.
Sir Bearingsmere kept watch at the rear, quietly reflecting on how he might have handled the Mist Archer even more gently. Meanwhile, Sir Flailwild kept a hand near his sword, just in case Redsfear’s shadows decided to follow them home.
When the crooked spires of Clumsalon finally rose above the trees, the knights let out a collective breath of ease.
Sir Toppleberry the Unsteady was waiting in his lopsided tower, perched on a stool that wobbled in perfect sympathy with its owner. The moment the four knights—along with Sir Pubbleglum the Soggy—stepped through the door, the room’s furniture seemed to sigh with relief, as though it had been waiting to be sat upon.
“Well?” Sir Toppleberry asked, his voice trembling only slightly as he glanced at a cup of mead on the nearby table. “Did you… find it?”
Sir Yokel stepped forward and placed the parchment on the unsteady table. It slid an inch to the left; Sir Toppleberry caught it before it could escape.
“The Realm of Archers exists,” Yokel said simply. “We met their guardians. They are real, and they are wary. They gave us nothing but this parchment… and they took our message.”
Sir Toppleberry’s eyes widened. He read the parchment twice, lips moving silently, then looked up at the knights as though seeing them for the first time. “I knew,” he whispered. “I mean—I suspected. The flying kingdom sightings, the old storybook sketches, the way the mist always seemed to… watch. But I couldn’t tell the King until I was certain. Fairy tales don’t start wars, but half-truths definitely do.”
He stood—wobbled—then steadied himself against the wall. “You’ve done more than I dared hope,” he said. “Come. The King is in his study. He must hear this from all of us.”
The King’s study was surprisingly cozy: mismatched cushions, a fireplace that crackled too loudly, and shelves groaning under the weight of half-read books. The King sat waiting, eyebrows raised, a half-eaten scone in one hand.
Sir Toppleberry bowed (nearly toppling), then gestured to the group. “Your Majesty,” he began, his voice steadier than the floor beneath him, “these four—along with Sir Pubbleglum—have returned from the mist with proof. The Realm of Archers is no fairy tale. It is hidden, guarded, and very much alive within our borders.”
The King set the scone down. Sir Thundersnack took a quick peak at the scone, then Sir Toppleberry gave him the LOOK. The room fell quiet, save for the crackling fire.
Sir Bearingsmere stepped forward. “They are a people of stories, sire. They wove their own fairy tales to keep the world away. But they listened to your offer of alliance. They call themselves Mist Archers, and their realm is known as TimberMist—The Hidden Realm of Archers.”
The King studied them for a long moment. Then he smiled—the slow satisfaction of someone who has waited years for a positive rumor to prove true, unlike the dreadful Kingdom of DragonSwolf, which had once been a fairy tale come horribly true.
“An entire realm of archers,” he mused, “living inside stories we told our children. And we’ve just discovered them right here, within Clumsalon’s own lands.” He rose and gestured to a side table across the room near a window where a flagon and several goblets waited. “Before we decide what comes next, let us drink to the unsteady truth.”
He raised a goblet. “To hidden realms, and to the clumsy knights brave enough to find them.”
The knights drank. The mead was strong and heady, leaving a warm glow in their chests—like hope mixed with just enough uncertainty to keep everyone honest.
Sir Pubbleglum, still clutching his nearly empty firefly jar, took a tentative sip and coughed. “It… loops nicely, sire.”
The King chuckled. “Then keep following those loops, Sir Soggy. We may need more before this tale is done.”
Outside the tower windows, the distant mist line shimmered once against the evening sky—like a promise, or a warning. The knights had found a hidden realm. Now the realm knew they existed—and so did Clumsalon.
The End
Quick Links
Part 1: Tales of the Clumsy Knights
Part 2: The Clumsy Knights Saga Continues
Part 3: The Clumsy Knights Meet New Foes
Part 4: The Clumsy Knights and the Seven Kingdoms
Part 5: The Clumsy Knights and the Alliance
Part 6: The Clumsy Knights and the Hidden Kingdom
Part 7: The Clumsy Knights and the Abandoned Castle
Part 8: Chronicles of the Clumsy Knights
Part 9: Adventures of the Clumsy Knights
Part 11: The Famished, the Yummy and the Clumsy Knights
Part 12: Trolls, Sorcerers and the Clumsy Knights
Complete Story Guide: The Clumsy Knights: Complete Story Guide
The chronicles are still being written. Somewhere in the castle tonight another knight is oiling his armor, polishing his sword with butter, and preparing to save the world by tripping over it tomorrow.
The Clumsy Knights NFT Collection Site(s):
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NFTHIVE Collection Page
vIRL WAX NFT Collection Page
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