Deep within the twilight marshes of Dreomere there once dwelled a small and secretive band of Shrumlings. Unlike their kin in the safety of Thalorien, these wanderers lived on the borderlands, where the mists are thick and shadows stir with older hungers. Few now speak of what befell them, only that a nameless creature rose from the marsh — and by dawn, the little tribe was no more.

Yet not all were lost. Hidden among reeds and fallen caps were their children: tiny beings who had not yet learned the art of disguise. Their small forms, with wide eyes and trembling limbs, could not yet pass for mushrooms or blend with forest growth. Alone, they would have perished.

It was Farryn, the woodsman of the Fauknir, who first heard their faint cries. Wandering the border of Thalorien in search of rare timber, he stumbled upon the abandoned young. Farryn had a habit of bringing home wounded birds or other small forest creatures, tending them with the same quiet care he gave to his axe and hearth. So it was with the Shrumlets. Though he knew little of their kind, he could not abandon them. He carried them back to the Fauknir village and did his best to see them fed, but the little ones refused all offerings and seemed to wither before his eyes.

It was then, by rare fortune, that a group of Vhalandir of the Thaeryx tribe arrived for their annual trade. Among them traveled a scholar, who upon seeing the fragile wards felt both wonder and sorrow. Skilled in the lore of the Shrumlings of Thalorien, she asked to take the young into her care, promising they would find a safer home beneath the ancient forest.

There, beneath the tall trees, the Thaeryx tend them as they do Rootlings: watering their mossy beds with morning dew, singing old songs at dusk, and placing small foraged caps upon their heads so they might learn the art of mimicry. The Shrumlets never speak, but their leaves and little fingers twitch at every note, as though remembering the music of their lost kin.

When the Shrumlets have grown strong enough to stand on their own, the Vhalandir will carry the young ones back into the deep woods, placing them gently among their Thalorien kin. There, beneath the ancient trees, the Shrumlets will learn the ways of the forest and the old craft of disguise that marks their kind.

The Vhalandir speak of them with quiet reverence, for every Shrumlet returned is not only a life preserved, but a small victory wrested from the tragedy of Dreomere. In their moss-lined pots and humble baskets they carry a story of loss transformed into hope — a reminder that even in the shadow of grief, new roots can be given the chance to grow.