True North

The party finds themselves in the abandoned opera building in Thur, fresh from their battle with the modron statue. While Kilijan and the rest of the group are eager to investigate further, Faeriel is insistent that they should leave. She pleads with Mycha, urging him to reconsider. "Please, Mycha. We shouldn't be here," she whispers, her voice filled with unease. Mycha, trying to reassure her, tells her that she is stronger than she believes. But then Faeriel meets his gaze and says something that stops him cold: "I have the same feeling now that you did when you felt compelled to investigate your father's office and found out what Myscha was really about." A chill runs through Mycha. He hesitates for only a moment before making a snap decision. Without another word, he smashes a window, grabs Faeriel, and leaps onto the streets of Thur below. The rest of the party quickly follows, but Kilijan is furious, yelling at Mycha for abandoning the mission. Mycha shoulders the blame, keeping Faeriel’s fear a secret from the others.

Back in Kilijan’s room, the party enters the safety of the Rope Trick space. They gather to discuss their findings about Silverfall. Kilijan hands out earplugs, remembering Faeriel’s warning about the song. Greg reveals that he has spoken to Moroz, but before they can get too deep into their discussion, they are interrupted by an unexpected visitor. An old dwarf enters, his voice trembling slightly. He asks them to come out—he needs their help. Curious but cautious, the party follows him into the cantina of the Shattered Lantern Inn. There, the old dwarf introduces himself as Elder Vaross of Silverfall. He explains that something urgent is happening at the bridge leading into Silverfall. As they approach the bridge, Vaross hesitantly tells them that the Magen want to speak with them. The party’s eyes narrow in suspicion. When they arrive, they see the Silverfall guards have barricaded the entrance. Standing imposingly on the other side is Go—a gargantuan white-furred minotaur-like creature—holding two Silverfall guards in his massive palm. Beside him stands a female Magen, Chissaya, her stance poised with authority, clearly a lieutenant. Behind them, twenty Magen soldiers stand at the ready. Voss, visibly nervous, states that Go is ready to release the two captives. The party is confused. Chissaya smirks, pleased that Vaross followed through on his end of an unknown agreement. Without hesitation, Go tosses the guards back over the barricades and into Silverfall. Rather than plummeting to their deaths, the guards glide gently downward, as if touched by Feather Fall. As this unfolds, four Magen guards approach the party. Manasa, however, is absent—off investigating potential songs for the Solipsism Festival in Silverfall. Greg and Kilijan, sensing a trap, refuse to be tied up. Weneon, ever the instigator, taunts one of the Magen soldiers, mocking him for taking orders from a woman. The insult lands, and tempers flare. A fight erupts. Magen bridge fight The initial clash is brutal. The party takes down three guards swiftly. Weneon, with a quick flourish, disarms the one in front of him. But the Magen forces retaliate with terrifying efficiency. The remaining twenty soldiers combine their power, summoning a powerful beam of crackling lightning. Mycha is caught in the blast, his body convulsing before he collapses, unconscious. Greg, enraged, rushes forward, but Chissaya steps in, casting Force Cage to isolate him from the others. As the shimmering walls trap the rest of the party, Chissaya’s voice cuts through the battlefield. "We only need one of them from the Material Plane. Let it be this one." Go, moving with surprising swiftness, grabs Greg, and the Magen forces begin their retreat. The party, wounded and outmaneuvered, is left behind, standing on the bridge with the disarmed Magen soldiers as their only company. The fight is over, but the battle has just begun.

Once the battle ends and the force cage loses its grip on them after a few minutes, Kilijan runs to the garrison that leads from the frozen wastelands onto the Silverfall bridge. He sees a shattered gate, most likely destroyed by Go, with Silverfall guards trying to pick up the rubble. Kilijan climbs the walls and uses his father's looking glass to catch a glimpse of where Chissaya and her battalion have gone. He spots them traversing the great white snowfield to the north. In one instance, however, the Magen disappear into the snow below their feet as if using a kind of teleportation, and only Go is walking normally paced into the wild. Kilijan starts berating the Silverfall guards for letting the Magen escape. One of the guards looks especially ashamed as Kilijan continues his outburst. However, the guard tells him that they are not soldiers, only guards. "You guarded nothing," Kilijan snaps. Mycha arrives and inserts himself into the conversation. He asks the ashamed guard to take them to their captain, Gavir Morlo. None of the guards, however, seem to have any recollection of that name or title in their ranks. Kilijan demands entry into the garrison to search Gavir's office, where they had spoken to him that morning. The ashamed guard hesitantly leads them into the office. Kilijan hands Mycha a dagger, and Mycha starts poking the furniture, wary of mimics. Kilijan finds a written letter of arrest on the desk. He recalls seeing it that morning—signed by Gavir. However, when he looks at the space where Gavir had signed it, there is only a smudge instead of a signature. The ashamed guard, growing frustrated as Mycha continues defiling the furniture, finally stands up to them and asks them to leave. Kilijan steps forward, getting in his face, and notices the name tag pinned to his armor: Melron Stjenoglav. Kilijan turns and walks out. Mycha gives a final jab at a cabinet with his dagger before following suit.

Weneon stood with arms crossed, his gaze shifting from Vaross to the unconscious Magen soldier lying beside them. The frozen ground beneath their feet bore the signs of the recent skirmish, footprints and dragged marks scarring the snow. The bridge loomed behind them, silent and still. The village beyond was quiet, the distant lanterns flickering like stars in the cold night. Vaross exhaled, his breath visible in the chill air. "Well, I appreciate you sorting this out," he said. "Would've been a bigger mess otherwise." Weneon studied him, sensing the weight behind his words. Despite his gruff exterior, Vaross seemed genuinely concerned for Silverfall's safety. His tone lacked accusation, but Weneon knew the implication was there—this trouble, the Magen’s aggression, it had only come to Silverfall because of them. "Has this ever happened before?" Weneon asked, gesturing toward the unconscious Magen. Vaross shook his head. "No. The Magen are strange, sure, but they don’t bring destruction. They trade with us, keep to themselves. Never caused trouble before now." That only deepened Weneon's concern. Something had changed. The Magen weren’t mindless attackers, nor were they without purpose. If they were here, there had to be a reason. "Listen," Vaross continued, his voice lowering, "I’m not blaming you or your friends, but this didn’t happen on its own. Something drew them here, something changed. And I’d rather not let Silverfall be caught in the middle of it." Weneon gave a slow nod, understanding. Vaross wasn’t accusing them outright, but he believed the party’s arrival had shifted the delicate balance. It made sense. Too much had happened in too little time. "That prisoner," Vaross nodded at the Magen soldier. "Keeping them at the Shattered Lantern? Bad idea. The town doesn’t need that kind of trouble." Weneon frowned. "Then where do we take them?" Vaross reached into his coat, pulling out a small iron key. "Hunter’s Lodge. Belonged to one of our own. He won’t be needing it tonight—got himself arrested earlier. Place is empty. You and your friends should stay there for the night, keep things quiet." Weneon took the key, feeling the cold metal press against his palm. "Understood." Vaross gave a curt nod. "Good. Less attention, the better." Weneon knelt beside the unconscious Magen, hoisting him up with a grunt. The soldier was lighter than he looked, yet still an awkward weight. He had barely taken a step when Mycha arrived, his expression darkened with suspicion. "We’re moving him?" Mycha asked, his eyes flicking to Voss. "To the Hunter’s Lodge. Safer there," Weneon replied. Mycha didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward, slipping under one of the Magen’s arms to take some of the burden. Together, they carried the prisoner toward the lodge, leaving the bridge and its lingering tension behind. Kilijan, meanwhile, lingered at the crossroads. He watched them disappear into the dark streets before turning on his heel, making his way toward the Shattered Lantern Inn. He needed answers, and there was only one place left to look tonight.

Greg shivers as he regains consciousness, his body curled against the biting cold of the stone floor. The dim cavern is silent, save for the occasional drip of water echoing through the empty space. He tries to move, but his muscles are stiff, his exhaustion overwhelming. The iron bars of his cage are slick with frost, his breath forming pale clouds in the air. Beyond the cave’s entrance, he hears faint voices—the murmured conversation of soldiers, and the guttural grunts of Go. Then, a familiar voice cuts through the stillness. Chissaya. “I’ll check if the prisoner’s awake,” she says, her tone casual but laced with something sinister. Greg barely has time to compose himself before she steps into the cavern. The swirling glow of her dancing lights casts eerie shadows across the rough walls, making the flickering glow appear almost alive. She saunters forward, looking him over, and then smirks. “Well,” she says, her gaze flicking downward to Greg's manhood, “guess the cold is hitting you harder than most.” Greg exhales sharply, suppressing a chuckle despite himself. She snorts but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she crouches near the bars, her expression shifting to something more calculating. “Let’s get to it, then. How did you come from the Material Plane?” Greg keeps his face blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She clicks her tongue. “Wrong answer.” He exhales, letting his mind work quickly. If she wanted the truth, she wasn’t getting it. “Fine. You ever hear of Oble?” he asks, invoking the name of a city from stories he’d heard the party mention. “That’s where I came from. Material Plane, but I arrived here… oh, about two hundred years ago. Spent a long time finding my way around.” Chissaya narrows her eyes, studying him. He can tell she half-believes him, but there’s doubt lingering beneath her expression. She leans in slightly. “You’ve been in the Feywild for two hundred years?” “Time is weird here,” Greg says with a shrug. “Hard to keep track.” She hums in consideration. “And you wouldn’t happen to know how to get back to the Material Plane, would you?” Greg meets her gaze. “Not a clue.” Something shifts in her expression. The curiosity fades, replaced with irritation. She sighs, standing up and dusting off her hands. “Well, that was a waste of time.” Greg watches as she turns away, but before leaving, she glances over her shoulder. “How likely do you think your friends are to come for you?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. “On a scale of one to ten?” Greg smirks despite himself. “Maybe… a two or three.” She nods, either amused or satisfied, before stepping out of the cavern. The glow of her dancing lights disappears with her, plunging Greg back into darkness. At the Shattered Lantern Inn, Kilijan sits at the bar, facing Orin, the innkeeper. The counter is lined with neatly packed belongings, prepared as if for a journey. “Vaross told me you'd be leaving,” Orin explains, noticing Kilijan’s gaze on the bags. “Figured I’d pack up for you.” Kilijan nods, digesting the information. “What about Manasa?” Orin sets down the mug he’s been cleaning. “Was here earlier. Went to the Hollow Song Woods, drawn in by some old lore—a song echoing through the trees. I have to say, he’s got quite the ear for it.” Orin smirks, crossing his arms. “Impressed me enough that I offered him a spot at the Solipsism Festival in two days.” Kilijan files that information away before asking, “And Melya? The librarian?” Orin’s expression turns thoughtful. “Melya? She’s always been a part of Silverfall. Feels like she’s been around longer than I have—like she was here before I even remembered my own past.” Kilijan frowns slightly, considering the odd phrasing, but moves on. “What about the Pale Mill? And Rorik?” That earns a scoff. “Rorik’s a drunk. His brother Walion isn’t much better. Rorik’s banned from the inn, actually—talks too much, scares off the guests. Always going on about that damn fiendish gear his grandfather got from a deal with a devil. Claims the mill runs because of it.” Kilijan processes the information and then stands. He thanks Orin before stepping out into the cold air and making his way toward the Pale Mill. As he approaches from the cliffside, a chill crawls up his spine—but it’s not from the cold. Something is here. A fiendish presence lingers in the air, unseen but unmistakable. Hunters lodge Meanwhile, Mycha and Weneon haul their Magen prisoner into the Hunter’s Lodge. The interior is warm but cluttered—decorated with an assortment of mounted animal heads and furs. Campy. Kitschy. Their prisoner, Soso, does not seem impressed. Weneon kneels beside him, pulling a potion of healing from his pack and holding it out. “Here. Drink this.” Soso blinks, then cautiously accepts, downing the liquid. Color returns to his artificial face, and he exhales, focusing on them properly for the first time. “So,” Weneon says, “you got a name?” “Soso,” the Magen replies, his voice slow and uncertain. He glances around the room. “Am I… a prisoner?” Weneon shrugs. “That depends.” Mycha crosses his arms, stepping forward. “We have questions.” Soso exhales sharply. “Figures.” “Tell us about the Magen,” Weneon presses. “Where’s Greg?” Soso hesitates, then leans forward slightly. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” he says, voice calm and measured, “if you promise to let me go.”

Soso sat on the wooden bench inside the hunter's lodge, wrists loosely bound, his artificial skin cracked at the joints where the cold had bitten deep. The flickering lantern light cast sharp shadows across his angular features. His golden eyes, eerie and reflective, surveyed Mycha and Weneon with something between amusement and pity. "You wish to know about the Magen?" he sneered. "Our legends tell of a purpose—one we have long forgotten. We were made for something. But the hands that forged us, the voice that commanded us..." He trailed off, rolling his shoulders. "Lost. Time eats all things, even memory. But our prophecy is clear: one day, we will cross the veil and return to the Material Plane. We are bound to this fate." Weneon and Mycha exchanged glances. Soso, for all his talk, seemed less devout than they had expected. His smirk deepened as he caught their expressions. "You think I believe in that nonsense? The others call it destiny. I call it chains forged of old words." Soso’s gaze drifted toward the frost-rimed window. "But if you want a true warning, hear this: north of Silverfall lie the snowfields we call the Great White Nothingness. An endless void of cold and death. No Suner—that is, someone without Magen skin—can survive its bite." The door creaked open, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop further. Kilijan entered, his piercing stare locking onto Soso. The Magen prisoner’s confidence wavered, only for an instant, before he chuckled dryly. "Ah, the metal-clad one. You look like you bite." Kilijan stepped forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He loomed over Soso, his mere presence pressing down like an unseen force. "Talk." Soso grimaced, then turned back to Weneon. "He’s got the posture of someone who only wants to take. I think I’ll speak to you instead." His grin returned, though weaker than before. "There was a man, once, a former elder of Silverfall. A scholar of your kind. He spent two whole years with the Magen, studying us. His name was Tallmud. But how he survived the White Nithingness? I do not know." Weneon leaned in. "And the Frozen Spring? West of Silverfall?" Soso’s demeanor shifted, his body going rigid for the first time. "The Magen do not go there," he said, voice lower now. "The spring reveals one's truth. And we are not meant to know our truth—not yet. Not before the time comes. We only venture to Silverfall to trade animal skins for food and ghost oil." "Ghost oil?" Kilijan asks. "Yes. Concentrated ectoplasm. Silverfall makes them. Our spellcasters use it like you use your bodily energy to cast spells. We cannot replenish our powers otherwise, but it last much longer than the frail bodies of a Sunner. No offence. A silence settled over the lodge, thick and heavy, before Soso exhaled sharply and leaned back. "A few days past, six outsiders form the material plane attacked our soldiers near Silverfall. A scouting troupe. Killed them. So when we heard that Silverfall had visitors from the Material Plane, well... Chissaya was sent to retrieve you. Seems it didn’t go well for her." Kilijan studied him. "You’ve told us all you know. What do you want now?" Soso shrugged. "I’d like to leave. A dead prisoner tells no tales, and I’ve shared all I have." For a moment, there was silence. Then Kilijan stepped forward, cutting the bindings with deliberate precision. He reached into his satchel, pulling out a barely serviceable scimitar and a wrapped sandwich. "Take these." Soso raised an eyebrow but did not refuse. "A blade and a meal. You’re either very kind or very foolish." "Go." Soso got to his feet and stretched. Before leaving, he turned toward the map pinned to the lodge’s wall. He scewed it to the side, revealing true North orientation. "This is better." His finger traced a worn spot, tapping it twice. "Tallmud’s cabin. If you want more answers, the old man might have them." With that, he stepped outside. Kilijan followed. The snow crunched under their boots as they neared the bridge where the fight had taken place. Silverfall’s guards were clearing debris, repairing what they could. Their eyes flicked toward Soso and Kilijan as they passed. Soso chuckled, the sound barely above a whisper. "Tell me, Kilijan... Are they watching me? Or are they watching you?" Kilijan did not answer. They reached the outer gates. Beyond lay the frozen wilds. Soso stopped at a deep patch of untouched snow. He turned back one last time, the golden gleam in his eyes sharper now. "Whatever you decide to do next, know this—my troupe will know you're coming." As the words left his lips, he took a single step forward. The snow swallowed him whole. In an instant, he was gone, leaving nothing but a faint disturbance in the white. And a smirk that lingered in Kilijan’s mind long after he had vanished.

Kilijan returned to the Hunter's Lodge where the rest of the party had already settled in for the night. Mycha and Weneon had prepared bedrolls, their exhaustion apparent after the day’s events. Kilijan joined them, his body surrendering to sleep almost instantly. But the night did not grant them peaceful rest. A song crept through the walls of their shelter, slithering into their dreams. It was a melody both sorrowful and alluring, laced with something unnatural. A shared nightmare gripped them, their minds struggling against an unseen force that sought to devour pieces of their memories. They fought against the creeping darkness, but one by one, their resistance wavered. Only Kilijan held on, straining against the tide of erasure—but in the end, even he could not stop what was taken. When they woke, a feeling of unease sat heavy in their chests, yet none could place why. The name Soso no longer held meaning to them, nor did the conversation they once shared with him. All that remained was the lingering whisper of something lost. Deep in the cave, Greg could not sleep. The cold gnawed at his flesh, biting deeper with every hour. His body trembled, but his will remained unbroken. He had survived worse. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a white hare, silent as snowfall, leapt onto the edge of his cage. Greg, despite his frostbitten limbs, gathered his remaining strength and conjured a small meal for the creature. It nibbled at the offering, unafraid. Then, the voice of Auril filled the cavern, echoing like ice cracking upon a frozen lake. A presence materialized before him, taking the form of a pale owl wrapped in a cloak of ever-falling snow. "Why did you fulfill your promise and slay the hags," she asked, "only to breathe life back into one a day later?" Greg opened his mouth to answer, but the goddess already knew. She gazed at the rabbit, then back at him, her expression void of warmth. "Your kindness is killing you." She reached out, her fingers trailing through the air, and Greg’s cage froze over in an instant. Then, with a mere flick of her wrist, the ice shattered, the bars crumbling to dust. "Go outside," she commanded. "Turn your back to the north. Run. Scream. Once you are save and united with the others, get rid of that what has befallen Silverfall and our wagers will be even." And then she was gone. Greg staggered out of the cave, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. He turned away from the north and ran, his voice rising into the night, a cry lost to the wind. Mycha stirred, his senses sharpening before his eyes fully opened. The Hunter’s Lodge was still shrouded in the dim light of early dawn, but something was wrong. The door stood wide open, a chilling breeze slipping through the gap. His pulse quickened. A dagger was embedded in the wood of the doorframe, pinning a letter in place. He reached for it, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the parchment. It was from Faeriel. The words urged him to fight for her, even if he did not remember her. She wrote of a conversation they once had before entering Thur Valley—one that now meant nothing to him. She had confessed to lying. She was not afraid of the Opera. She had wanted to step into the Fey, drawn to it as if something within her longed for its touch. But Mycha remembered none of this. Only the weight of the letter in his hands told him that, once, it had been real, asking him to hunt down that which erased her from this world. Greg ran. For three hours, he ran. His cries rang through the vast white expanse, his feet sinking into the snow, his body screaming in protest. Silverfall lay somewhere beyond the horizon, its warmth a distant memory. And then, something shifted in the snow. A figure emerged, his breath misting in the frozen air. A battered scimitar hung at his belt, nearly unusable, its edge dulled by time and hardship. "It’s you," the Magen said. "I’m here to help. Kilijan sent me." Greg’s vision swam with exhaustion, but when the man pressed something into his hands, clarity returned. A sandwich. Kilijan’s sandwich. Recognition flared in Greg’s eyes. He believed him. The man—Soso, though Greg could not know his name—draped a coat over Greg’s shoulders and sighed. "But you’re running the wrong way. That’s north." Greg blinked, his mind struggling to process the words. Soso adjusted his grip on Greg’s arm, steadying him. "We need to go the other way." And as he turned Greg to face True North, he matched his pace to the stumbling cleric’s steps, guiding him forward. Into the Great White Nothingness.