Shadow Aerin grabbed for the front of Butch’s vest, but the kobold easily sidestepped her attempt. “This isn’t over, Weimaraner,” she rasped in her newly dead voice. “I will get the human.”

“We’ll see,” Butch told her, and darted into the poisonous cloud blocking the way to the door to the courtyard. As soon as he was through, still coughing from the fog, he motioned for his waiting friends to help him shut the door. Once closed, Fuerte knocked over the pillars on either side, blocking Shadow Aerin’s escape. Without any further hesitation, the group rushed outside to the foot of the mountains.

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Most of the gossip at the Glacier revolved around two events: a new civil war among the orcs, and an incursion of the fairies into halfling territory. After hearing the odd tidbit that the warring factions of orcs were both being led by generals named Keth, our heroes decided to investigate the strange behavior of the fairies. Aerin informed the party that fairies don’t rise up and invade places; their settlements are based around elemental hotspots which they dislike leaving. So that the fairies of Sheresar were making war on the halflings was more than odd: it was unprecedented in millenia of Serinor’s history.

Butch directed the Herds Against the Seagull to sail for Amunash, but everything around the halfling city seemed as tranquil and idyllic as ever. Mayor Rose Turner informed them quickly of the problems: the Great Plains beyond the void mountains to the south were burning. All of them.

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The trip back through the caverns was much less traumatic than Fuerte remembered, even though the caravan guide was not nearly as talented as Marty. Fuerte could follow the direction of their travel and even keep track of the passage of time in the eternal darkness underground. All in all, things were much better on the return. At least, until he got back to the High Temple at Gelaham to collect Chance.

“Can we help you?” the paladins outside the Temple asked.

“I’m looking for my friend,” Fuerte told them. “The shadowkin I came with last time.” Things went downhill from there, until the lizardman was told to wait at the Journeyman’s Rest at the foot of the holy mountain until tomorrow.

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The journey to the foot of Mount Dream is harrowing. Nearly every step of the way, you are harried by rogue spirits, hungering after the warmth of life, the light of a soul. Your dagger seems to have no effect on them, and when you try to call upon the might of your ancestors, the magic runs wild; sometimes your calls are answered, sometimes they are not, and sometimes you teleport yourself 30 feet straight up instead of closer to the mountain. You’re just glad you didn’t end up 30 feet stright down. Night falls, and you don’t stop to rest, as the spirits grow even thicker as the world grows darker. Dawn finds you sprinting the final miles over the rough ground to the foot of the mountain.

Finally reaching the mountain brings little respite. The attacks from the spirits stop immediately, but you know you cannot rest here. Whatever is driving magic to run wild in the surrounding plains has its root here. Even the physical world seems wrong, and you’re afraid your dagger might start behaving strangely. But even more, you sense a dreaming mind might wander off and lose its way back completely. The dangers facing you are no longer physical, though they could slay you even more quickly.

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The walk through the storm is as harrowing as ever. You spend an entire day trudging through the wind and rain, struggling to keep your footing on the slick ground and straining to keep from being blown away. Your robe snaps in the howling gale, and somehow, underneath it, a pulsing roar you don’t think you’re hearing with your ears.

The towers of Banaedoor are just as you left them at the eye of the storm. Rubble is strewn about from the few shattered towers, and the wreckage of the elven airship still lies, broken, at the foot of Luke’s Tower. The pulsing roar of what you expect must be magic grows louder as the howling of the wind slackens, and you begin to feel the tranquility at the eye of the spiritual storm you felt first on Blacknose’s ship.

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So a shadowkin and a lizardman walk into Gelaham. The problem with this is that situations like this don’t have punch lines. Or happy endings. Lizardmen portend an invasion, and shadowkin are an abomination of the Light.

Skirting the foot of Holy Mount Gela for some way to ascend without being seen leads you to a small, hidden camp in the shadows of the eternal noon that bathes the mountain. Home to those not welcome in the temple – thieves, wizards, unbelievers – you find a human messenger willing to convey word of your arrival to the High Temple. You browse through the eclectic array of goods in the local black market while waiting for your messenger to return. By nightfall – irrelevant on the mountain itself, of course – you have your reply: the High Priest is expecting you.

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So a shadowkin and a lizardman walk into Gelaham. The problem with this is that situations like this don’t have punch lines. Or happy endings. Lizardmen portend an invasion, and shadowkin are an abomination of the Light.

Skirting the foot of Holy Mount Gela for some way to ascend without being seen leads you to a small, hidden camp in the shadows of the eternal noon that bathes the mountain. Home to those not welcome in the temple – thieves, wizards, unbelievers – you find a human messenger willing to convey word of your arrival to the High Temple. You browse through the eclectic array of goods in the local black market while waiting for your messenger to return. By nightfall – irrelevant on the mountain itself, of course – you have your reply: the High Priest is expecting you.

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After loading the remnants of the dragon hoard, you returned to the Glacier triumphant. Second Mate Spaniel convinced you that it was safer to sail the Herds Against the Seagull into harbor from the air, as a ship of such obviously elven design might get sunk before anybody had a chance to see who was sailing her. For both the theatrical flair and to completely unnerve the crew, Butch took the helm as the Seagull flew into harbor and managed to set it down next to Blacknose’s flagship with barely any damage to either ship.

Your interview with Blacknose was as nuanced and subtle as any you’d had. Hack Weimaraner’s body, wrapped in the preserving embrace of gentle repose, was covered and loaded onto a ship which left harbor immediately. It was listed on the cargo manifest as waste that needed to be taken ashore and burned. Blacknose wouldn’t say which shore specifically it was being burned upon, but you suspect it was Araline, where Hack’s treachery first started. Hack’s name was never once mentioned.

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