The Chosen and the Forgotten

The high winds of God’s Plateau carry Lena’s voice as the statue gazes upon Weneon, Kilijan, and Faeriel, the last remnants of Malcer’s legacy standing before her. "You embody Malcer’s spirit. The Cape of Leaves belongs to one of you—choose." Weneon scoffs, turning away without a word. His boots crunch against the frost-covered stone as he disappears down the slope. Faeriel watches him leave, then hesitates. Her hand brushes against her bow, her eyes distant. “I don’t think I’m ready to be chosen.” Kilijan studies the tattered fabric draped over Lena’s stone hands. “I am.” His voice carries no hesitation as he takes the Cape of Leaves, fastening it around his shoulders. Faeriel grips her bow, inhaling deeply. Without another word, she raises it to the sky, drawing an arrow at a perfect right angle. She lets it loose. A sharp whistle cuts the silence as the arrow ascends. It reaches its peak, hovers for a fraction of a second, then plummets. Faeriel closes her eyes. Before the arrow can reach her, Kilijan activates his artificer reflexes, iviciertaing the arrow midair, deflecting it safely away. Faeriel opens her eyes, the wind tangling her hair. She looks at Kilijan—then smiles and leaves. „Tommen was right about you,“ she says.

Back in the present, the winter winds of Silverfall cut through the streets, rustling the banners outside the Shattered Lantern Inn. Manasa finds Melya, the librarian of Whispering Pines. He invites her to the Solipsism Festival, where he will perform. Melya hesitates—her heart bound by a fear she does not name. Later, Manasa explores Hollow Song Woods, its dense, frostbitten trees whispering ancient melodies. There, he meets Alfonso, another bard, their words flowing like poetry. They exchange thoughts and songs, debating what truly makes a true bard. Alfonso argues a bard has to create his own instrument. Manasa finds a tree branch and starts cutting it to make a custom mandolin. Kilijan argues with the Silverfall guards, his frustration bubbling over. They don’t trust his tinkering, his insistence on improving his gear near their barracks. The exchange escalates—Kilijan almost finds himself in chains, ordered by Gavir Melron Stjenoglav, the guards' leader. Mycha purchases six vials of Ghost Oil, its iridescent shimmer shifting in the lantern light. The apothecary tells him that she does not know the properties of the oil, but that the Magen use it for increasing their spellcasting abilities. She suggest it can be used for bargening with them. Weneon visits Gurag Plot’s Armory, securing a new set of armor, its plates etched with strange glyphs. Protection against what? Gurag never says. He is stranegly obsessed with being seen as a dwarf, but is obviously a halfing.

The party stands at the edge of oblivion, staring into the void known as the Great White Nothingness. With each step into the unknown, the air grows thinner, sound dissipates, and the world feels less real. A Para-Elemental emerges from the mist—a being of ice and wind, its form constantly shifting. They battle the spectral entity, their weapons cutting through its ephemeral body until it dissolves into the void. Greg and Soso face a separate horror. A distorted yeti, its flesh warped by aberrational forces, looms in the fog. It does not charge—it stares, whispers, and watches. The two trap him and successfully defeat him. Kilijan stops. The void ahead feels wrong. Unknowable. He turns back. The others follow.

Their journey back leads them to Tallmud’s cabin, an old scholar’s retreat nestled in the woods. On the way, they encounter Fed, a dwarf tinkerer hunched over scraps of metal—Kilijan’s designs, stolen and repurposed. Kilijan confronts him. Fed laughs and denies stealing anything. Kilijan doesn’t pursue the argument further. Tallmud greets them before they can knock, his eyes too knowing. "I have been waiting for you." He leads them inside. In Tallmud’s basement, the air is thick with Ghost Oil’s scent. A music box rests on an old wooden table. Kilijan’s breath catches. At its center, a figurine of Faeriel stands frozen, bow lifted, aimed at the sky. A song begins to play—the Hollow Song, the melody twisting between reality and memory. A memory stirs within Kilijan: He stands atop God’s Plateau, the Cape of Leaves freshly draped across his shoulders. Below him, Thur Valley stretches in endless green and gold. Faeriel sits on a stone, watching him with tired, amused eyes. "It suits you," she says, voice light, teasing. "But don’t let it go to your head." And then she smiles. The memory shatters like glass. Back in the basement, Kilijan’s hands tremble as he opens a hidden compartment in the music box. Inside, a letter from Faeriel waits. Greg and Soso at the Mageni Village Far from the cabin, Greg and Soso reach the hidden village of the Mageni. Soso demands aid for Greg, the tribal healers hesitant—but then the leader steps forward. Mazleth, the tribe’s elder, watches Greg with piercing, otherworldly eyes. "The others will come for him," Soso explains to the leader and the healers carry Greg away to take care of him. Ghost Oil’s Embrace Tallmud opens a cabinet of alchemical secrets, retrieving a vial of Ghost Oil. Its liquid shifts between phases—solid, gas, liquid—at once. He smears it across his hands, the ethereal mist curling into his skin. "Step forward," he beckons. "Let me anoint you." The party hesitates. The Hollow Song plays on. Chosen