Mibbet and Rosalind were still processing the horrifying thought of the mother of all sqwoomphs when Trundles finally drew close to the fungal forest (with Addy still watching it closely for signs of sentience. She still didn’t really get the concept of anthropomorphism, and in her mind anything with eyes bore keeping a close eye on.)

The forest was made up of massive twisted fungus stalks in an eye searing array of colours, and caps twice as big as the carriage by themselves. After a moment Sir Leeroy called a halt.

“Wear these,” he said, pulling out a number of weird hooded masks. “You really don’t want to breathe in these spores, I even had one made for the Owl-bear, because spontaneous fungogenisis is not an experience you want for your body.” (He didn’t mention it much but he was a huge mycology nerd, and was fairly sure this mushroom trip would secure him bragging rights in the club for years. After all how often does one get to brag that they took a trip through giant mushrooms?)

Everybody pulled on their spore hoods (except Rascal who due to being partially fire definitely got a saving throw vs. the spores, but was to be kept in the carriage for the entire leg of the journey, because unconfined spores plus fire equals woomph, and woomph is not happy happy fun times for anybody involved. Except the cat, who would soon be very unhappy too without anybody left to feed them due to unexpected mushroom cook-off.)

So the journey continued, albeit slowly, because as you can imagine the engineers who cut the path were somewhat wobbly and figured that maybe cutting down the stalks would not be the brightest idea, (they were right, even if the competition was soap flavoured toothpaste, inflatable dartboards, or no more tears shampoo (which we all know is a filthy, filthy lie, as that stuff burns like acid.)

The end result was that before long they found themselves crossing over paths they had already driven down, despite being perfectly willing to swear that they were going in as close to a straight line as the trails allowed.

So they stopped to get their bearings, and Mibbet slipped out (wearing a tracking amulet of course, she really had zero desire to get lost in this mess) with Sir Leeroy as an escort to explore. Turns out he was as happy as a pig in muck to be here, and produced with excitement she had never seen from him before unless he was neck deep in a fight, a large selection of specimen collecting jars. Even collecting a few of an edible type to fry up with butter, if, or rather when (he was very specific on that point and even seemed to have the beginnings of a plan,) they finally got through here.

Well they didn’t have to wait long it seemed, as a brief exploration had them leaving the forest, on the exact same bloody side they came in on. This was not part of the plan.

After a little swearing, a lot of shouting, and the worlds worst game of marco polo they were joined by the others. Then Errol gave them a gentle nudge.

“I know a way we can get through,” he mumbled quietly, “but please everybody promise not to tell anybody how we did it once we get out of this mess.”

“We promise Errol,”

“swear it in Wannashowa’s name please Princess.”

There was some angry grumbling from Sir Leeroy at this, he was less than pleased at that oath because if it was violated it could lead to excommunication.

“Why would you make her swear like that?”

“Because it’s really, really, really embarrassing.”

“Fine I swear on the condition everybody else gives me their word too, we need to get through here no matter what right?”

There was a series of nods.

“But why is it embarrassing Errol?”

“You know how expensive under-armour is right?” Errol asked with a blush.

“Not sure how this relates to the subject, but I guess it must be.”

“Well Princess, this may surprise you but I don’t come from a well off family. Most of my gear is inherited.”

Mibbet carefully policed her expression as she looked at the piecemeal suit of armour Errol was wearing, bits of which varied in age from five years out of date to eighty five, some of it was so old it had Rosalind’s great grandfathers colours. “You don’t say,” she replied flatly, trying and failing to convey surprise (nobody could ever accuse Mibbet of being an actress.)

“Well armour is one thing, I don’t mind old armour as a hand me down, but I am NOT wearing big bro’s under-armour, it smells like six month old cheese, and for obvious reasons grandpa’s is right out.” He suppressed a shudder at the thought. “So I solved the problem in my own way, now nobody laugh please.”

Everybody remained stoic, Sir Leeroy looked like he was about to open his gob and say something, but whatever it was was quickly crushed by the patented Rosalind Von Harmsworth glare. (He wisely kept all comments to himself at that point, he did after all like his teeth where they were, and the Princess had a mean right hook, and he knew for a fact she was not in fact right handed, so he really did not wish to find out the difference.)

What came out of the bag was a set of knitting needles, crochet hooks, and a number of balls of yarn.

“So you knit?”

“Cheaper than buying under-armour from the stores, since my mum sends the wool.” Errol replied with a glare daring anybody to snicker even once, and promising with a look if they did they would have to find a way to extract an edgewise wedged crochet hook from each nostril.

“Makes sense” Mibbet replied (frogs don’t really do that gender roles nonsense, after all hard for a species capable of sexual dichromatism to get hung up on such pointless stuff.) “but maybe when I get back I should see about making sure guards get better allowance to buy gear.”

So a piece of yarn was tied to the them by the road, and after a time they headed inwards, it took them quite a while before they discovered the string had been cut.