World of Endless Cold

The scent of charred wood and scorched earth still lingers in the air. Smoke curls into the night sky as the embers of Vernes, once a village thriving in the twisted realm of the Feywild, flicker like dying stars. The village is gone, reduced to smoldering wreckage, and with it, a part of something that can never be restored. Manasa stands near the ruins of a collapsed wooden bridge, his hands trembling, his knuckles bloodied. His breath is ragged, his body still fueled by adrenaline and the whispering presence of the great serpent coiled within his soul. The echoes of the past few hours still rage in his mind—the chaos, the screams, the smoke-cloaked massacre. A lone figure approaches through the haze. Faeriel Moonshadow. Her face streaked with ash, her eyes wet with unfallen tears. She does not falter in her steps, though grief and fury battle for dominance in her expression. She stops a few feet from him, her shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. "Why?" Her voice breaks as she speaks, barely above a whisper. "Why did you do this? Why did you kill him?" Manasa clenches his jaw. "I did what needed to be done." Faeriel’s hands curl into fists at her sides. "Your brother, Manasa! Atlas! That was your own blood, and you—" She chokes on her own words, shaking her head in disbelief. "You didn’t even hesitate. You—" "He was weak," Manasa interrupts, his voice colder than the air around them. "The past is just a weight dragging me down. He was nothing more than a reminder." Faeriel steps closer, her grief giving way to fury. "That’s a lie," she spits. "I know you. I see you. You carry so much pain, but you refuse to face it. You think giving yourself to that thing—" she gestures at the spectral coil of the Patron Snake barely visible around him, "—makes you stronger? It’s eating you alive, Manasa. And one day, there won’t be anything left." Manasa’s eyes darken. The serpent’s Ashki influence seeps into his voice, a slow, insidious drawl, like the sound of scales sliding across stone. "You don’t understand, Faeriel. You never did. The Manasa you thought I was has never existed. Sorry." She doesn’t step back. She doesn’t break away. Instead, she reaches forward and grips his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his scorched sleeve. "Then fight it. Seek help. Find a cleric, a paladin, someone who can save you before it’s too late. You still have a choice. You still have something worth saving." Manasa exhales sharply, shaking her off while painting a blood tear onto her face. Faeriel’s breath shudders. She looks at him for a long moment, searching his face for something—anything—that isn’t the void staring back at her. When she finds nothing, her shoulders drop. "I pity you, Manasa. More than you’ll ever know." Without another word, she turns and walks away, disappearing into the thickening fog. Manasa watches her leave, but he does not call after her. He does not stop her. He does not look back. Behind him, the last remnants of Vernes crumble into the ash-covered ground, consumed by the darkness of the past.

Greg’s senses return in fragments, the dim glow of lanterns swaying in the great medical tent casting flickering shadows on the stretched fabric above him. His body is slick with Ghost Oil, the viscous substance seeping into his pores, binding him to something deeper than the surface. He does not feel the biting cold of the True North. It is as if the magic itself wraps him in an unnatural warmth. A rustling sound. Footsteps. The soft clink of glass bottles. Azara, a Magen nurse, moves with practiced precision, searching through the rows of neatly arranged potions. She catches sight of Greg and hesitates. A smile flickers across her metallic lips. "You’re awake. Good." Greg shifts slightly, but the sensation is foreign—his limbs sluggish, weighed down by the thick layer of oil. Azara steps closer, unfurling bandages. "Stay still. You need these, so the oil doesn’t slip from your body." Her voice is calm, friendly, yet tinged with a curiosity she cannot quite suppress. As she works, carefully covering his arms and torso with the cloth, she finally asks, "Why did you and your friends kill the Magen soldiers?" Greg’s throat is dry, but his voice is steady. "They wanted to take us." Azara pauses, her fingers stilling for a moment before she resumes. "Take you? For what?" "Does it matter?" Greg mutters. "They had to die." She finishes wrapping the last of the bandages, but Greg notices the slight tremor in her hands. She says nothing more. Meanwhile, the rest of the party—Manasa, Weneon, Mycha, and Kilijan—wake in the dimly lit basement of Tallmud’s cabin. Their bodies, like Greg’s, are slick with Ghost Oil, the substance staining the sheets beneath them. A faint clicking sound echoes in the small room, followed by a muttered curse. Fed, Tallmud’s assistant, is hunched over a table, tinkering with some delicate piece of machinery. At the sight of the party stirring, he scrambles to his feet and rushes upstairs. Moments later, Tallmud descends the creaking wooden steps, his expression unreadable. He carries a stack of parchment and, without a word, begins layering the thin sheets over their bodies, preventing the oil from seeping further into the bedding. "You came to me for guidance," he says at last. "I told you to speak with the Magen first, to understand the sickness of forgetting before you wandered into the depths of Silverfall. But instead, you acted rashly. You killed Magen trappers in the woods." Kilijan rubs his temple. "And that was six days ago?" "Yes. And in that time, I’ve watched you kill hags for Auril, question the myths of this land, and make decisions without a proper plan. You do not even remember two of your comrades?" The room falls into silence. No one speaks. No one has an answer. Tallmud sighs and folds his arms. "You need a plan. A solid one. If you go back out there without understanding what you are up against, you will not return." The party exchanges glances. For the first time in a long while, they choose caution over impulse. They will retrieve Greg. They will speak with the Magen. And perhaps, this time, they will listen."

Greg is summoned to Mazleth, the leader of the Magen tribe. Outside his tent, Soso stands guard, barely sparing Greg a glance as he enters. Inside, Greg finds himself in a dimly lit space adorned with metallic-blue tapestries depicting abstract constellations. The air smells faintly of ghost oil, a scent Greg is becoming disturbingly familiar with. Mazleth, a Magen elder in his seventies, sits on a raised platform, his form impossibly still. His metallic blue skin glistens faintly in the dim light. When he finally speaks, his voice is deep but measured, each word carrying a deliberate weight. “You are awake. That is good.” Greg remains silent, watching as Mazleth studies him. "Your friends," Mazleth continues, "do you believe they will come for you?" Greg doesn't hesitate. "Yes." Mazleth tilts his head slightly, as if weighing the truth behind Greg’s words. Then, without warning, Greg feels a probing force against his mind—a spell. He recognizes it, but rather than resisting, he lets it in. For a moment, Mazleth's pupils dilate. He is seeing, sifting through memories. The battle against the Magen soldiers. The desperate fight in the snowy woods. Faeriel Moonshadow—except she is not there. Mazleth blinks, pulling away. "Oh, I see," he murmurs, almost to himself. "They will come. I am certain of that." Greg exhales slowly, unsure whether this is good or bad. Before he can ask, Soso enters the tent. Mazleth gives them a nod. “Take him to work. He must earn his keep while he waits.” Greg is brought to the outskirts of the Magen encampment, where he is ordered to stack firewood beneath a metal awning. The sky above is a swirling mix of dark clouds and eerie green light. The True North is colder than Greg remembers—but strangely, he does not feel it. Greg doesn't know what to say to that. Instead, as he takes a crude blade to a block of wood, he begins to carve—not just to pass the time, but with purpose. A holy symbol begins to take shape in his hands. Meanwhile… The rest of the party—Manasa, Weneon, Mycha, and Kilijan—trudge through the great white nothingness. The blizzard surrounding them is suffocating; the landscape is nothing but an endless, shifting void of snow and wind. They do not know how long they have been walking. Hours maybe. Then, through the storm, a shape emerges—a mausoleum, half-buried in the snow, its surface encrusted with frost. The moment they approach, three Frost Sentinels materialize from the swirling blizzard, their forms shifting like living ice. Without hesitation, the party dives for cover, pressing themselves against the ice-covered stone of the mausoleum. Their breath is quick, misting in the cold air. Manasa, Kilijan, and Weneon manage to stay hidden. But Mycha stumbles—his foot crunching through the ice. The nearest Sentinel turns, its hollow eyes locking onto him. A guttural, hollow voice echoes through the storm. “YOU TRESPASS. PROVE YOUR WORTH.” The Sentinel raises a massive frost-covered shortsword, and Mycha does not hesitate. He steps forward, challenging it to a duel. The fight is brutal. Mycha’s blade clashes against enchanted ice, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he deflects blow after blow. His hands are numbing from the force of each strike. At the final moment, he ducks under the Sentinel’s guard and drives his sword deep into the icy ghouls core. With a terrible crack, the Sentinel shatters—and as it does, the other two dissolve into the storm, vanishing as if they had never been there. In the sudden silence, Manasa steps forward, kneeling beside the broken pieces of the fallen Sentinel. Half-buried in the snow beside the remains, he finds a shortsword and a set of armor—old, well-crafted, and imbued with a lingering magic. For a moment, none of them speak. The storm rages on around them. Then, without a word, they step applaud Mycha's skill and faint into the snow.

Greg is still at the firewood stacks when Chissaya finds him again. She doesn’t waste time with greetings. “You will travel with Soso,” she says. “A task has come up.” Greg blinks at her, but she offers no further explanation before turning on her heel and walking away. Soso watches her leave, then sighs and steps closer. “Here,” he says, handing Greg a small satchel. Inside, Greg finds three healing potions. “We leave in an hour.” Greg looks down at the crude holy symbol he has been carving from a block of wood. He grips it tightly for a moment, then tucks it into his belt. Meanwhile… Manasa, Weneon, Mycha, and Kilijan press forward through the great white emptiness. The storm has swallowed the horizon. Time has lost meaning. Then, through the swirling snow, they see it—a vast frozen lake, its surface fractured by deep cracks. Beneath the ice, there are people. Figures, dark and shifting, moving upside down beneath the surface. Some press their hands against the ice. Others stumble in endless circles, their faces twisted in silent, pleading expressions. The party does not stop. They do not speak. They walk on. Then, a voice—soft, hollow, full of sorrow—echoes across the frozen air. “Do not leave us here. Do not turn away. Or you will suffer like all the others.” The ice groans. The wind shifts. A shadow moves beneath the surface. A moment later, the lake shatters as a massive ice-caterpillar bursts through, its segmented body twisting into the air, frost and shattered ice cascading from its form. Then, it attacks. The battle is brief, but brutal. When the creature finally collapses, its frozen remains shattering into the wind, the lake stills once more. And the souls beneath the ice turn their heads upward. For the first time in what may have been centuries, they see the sky. A woman gasps, clutching her daughter. “Are we free?” But they are still there. Still trapped beneath the ice. The mother’s breath catches. Her fingers tighten around her child’s wrist. She looks up at the party. “We’re still here,” she whispers. “We… we are dead.” Her daughter does not cry. She only stares at the ice beneath her feet, as if understanding it for the first time. The mother trembles. “I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know how to make this easier.” Kilijan steps forward. He kneels, placing his hand against the surface of the ice, feeling the arcane weight pressing against it. A Hallow spell. A prison. He draws a breath and reaches out with his magic, unweaving the ancient spell that has bound these souls for so long. The air crackles. The runes hidden in the lake’s surface fracture. The spell breaks. One by one, the lost souls begin to ascend towards a light at the bottom of the lake. The mother does not let go of her daughter, even as their forms begin to dissolve into the ether. For a moment, the girl is afraid. Then, slowly, she smiles. And then, they are gone. A final ripple moves across the lake, and from the broken ice, something rises. A crown, gleaming with frost-kissed metal, its surface etched with ancient symbols. A relic of the Ice King.

Greg follows Soso through the bitter cold of the north, trudging through knee-deep snow until they arrive at what looks like a bunker, its entrance a thick steel door embedded into the frozen mountainside. Snowdrifts have piled up against it, but even beneath the layers of ice, Greg can see the arcane runes carved into the metal. The door is sealed shut. Soso stops beside him, staring at the structure with a strange expression. “The others back in Silverfall,” he says, “they will come for you. I’m certain of it.” Greg looks at him sharply. “You spoke with them?” Soso nods. “Before they left Silverfall, yes.” He exhales, his breath forming mist in the cold air. “Unlike the others in my tribe, I am not a fanatic. But the rest of the Magen—” He hesitates. “They believe your party must be sacrificed to open this door. Before I left I talked to Kilijan. I told warned that the rest of the tribe will be aware of their arrival. I warned them in advance.” Greg narrows his eyes, stepping closer to the structure. His fingers trace the runes along the doorframe, feeling the lingering magic woven into the metal. “This isn’t just any seal,” Greg murmurs. “It’s incredibly strong.” Soso watches as Greg begins clearing snow away from the lower portion of the door. Beneath the frost, an inscription reveals itself triggered by Greg's magic. The words are ancient, but still legible: “For the safe harbor of me and my daughter. —Elminster.” Greg exhales. He had suspected something strange about this place, but seeing Elminster’s name carved into the steel changes everything. “The Magen believe opening this door will lead them to salvation,” Soso explains. “That only a sacrifice from the Material Plane will break the seal.” Greg’s eyes darken. “They’re wrong.” Soso folds his arms. “Perhaps. But they also know Elminster’s daughter is in the Feywild.” Greg stiffens. “They already know?” Soso nods grimly. “Yes. That’s why I brought you here first. Because once your friends arrive, the Magen will have everything they need.” Meanwhile… Manasa, Weneon, Mycha, and Kilijan struggle through the storm, the winds cutting through their cloaks like razors. The world is white nothingness, broken only by the looming shape ahead— A massive skeleton protrudes from the ice. The bones of an ancient beast, its ribcage collapsed, its skull half-buried in snow. Fangs the size of a warhorse protrude from a gaping maw, frozen in a silent snarl. The party moves toward it, searching for shelter from the relentless wind. As they press forward, Weneon stops. He frowns, the air around them humming with something unnatural. “There’s magic here,” he mutters, scanning the frozen remains. The bones radiate a strange energy, pulsing just beneath the surface of the ice. Kilijan watches as Weneon steps toward the edge of the magical aura, studying its boundaries. Then— He sees it. A small snowman standing alone in the wasteland, half-buried by the storm. Weneon’s breath catches. He approaches cautiously, brushing away the frost. The snowman is crude, hastily made—and sticking out from its center is a parchment. He pulls it free and unfolds it, his fingers shaking against the cold. A message from Soso. "Greg's belongings are stashed near the skull of the ancient beast. Smuggle them in when you reach the Magen camp." Weneon looks back toward the massive skeleton, realization settling over him. Greg had been here. The party returns to the bones, finding a small stash of equipment hidden near the massive skull. Weapons, armor, supplies—Greg’s gear. They take shelter in the creature’s remains, huddling beneath the arching ribs of the long-dead beast. At the Bunker… Greg and Soso sit in silence, the wind howling outside. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” Soso mutters. "If somebody asks, we confirmed the mamoths have migrated further north." Greg looks at him, then slowly pulls out the wooden holy symbol he carved. Soso stares at it. “What is that?” “A reminder,” Greg says. “That not everything is worth sacrificing.” Soso exhales sharply, running a hand over his face. Then, his expression hardens. “When the Magen bring your friends here,” he says, “we ambush them. Take them out before they can make the sacrifice.” Greg nods, then whispers a spell under his breath—a sending spell. A moment later, his voice echoes in Manasa’s mind. "Soso is on our side. When you arrive, be ready." Back at the Skeleton… Manasa barely reacts as the voice of Darius, his patron, whispers into his mind. “You have done well,” Darius says. “The victims of the drowning you saved have been at peace for many eternities.” A pause. Then, in a voice that almost sounds warm, he adds— “I am proud of you.” Manasa’s breath catches. A memory flickers through his mind— A voice, soft and familiar. Faeriel. She was smiling at him. It was after Darius freed him from the grip of Ashki, his former patron. “I’m proud of you,” Faeriel had told him. The memory is brief. Fleeting. But it lingers. As the others prepare for their long rest, Manasa quietly pulls out his lute. Before he starts playing, he finds a note stuck inside of it. A letter from Faeriel. He plucks a melody after reading it. A song Faeriel always talked about. A song she heard once, long ago, in Silis’ corner of the Penthouse in Oeble. The wind howls outside, but the melody drifts softly through the ribcage of the ancient beast, wrapping around the party like a whisper from the past.