The sickly sweet taste clung to Lucia’s tongue, a forbidden pleasure laced with the metallic tang of corruption. The ancient tree’s sap pulsed with a dark energy as she drank, a secret indulgence that both thrilled and chilled her. With a furtive glance around the shadowed glade, she filled her wineskin, the viscous liquid sloshing ominously within. The Raven Sister silently thankful her friends were too busy cleaning the remnants of the battle from their clothes to notice her weird actions.
Soon after, as they crested the hill, a plume of greasy black smoke marred the twilight sky, rising from the direction of the ranger Elsgreave’s hut. A knot of dread tightened in the party’s stomachs. They quickened their pace, the forest floor a blur beneath their feet.
The scene that greeted them in the village was one of chaos. The heavy incense miasma that had clung to the air was gone, replaced by the sharp scent of woodsmoke and the strident voices of angry villagers. Homes smoldered, their timbers still glowing redly. At the center of the commotion stood the old blacksmith, his face a mask of grim determination as he oversaw the construction of a crude gallows. Several villagers, their eyes wide with fear, were already bound.
“We brought your daughter home,” Kristov announced, his voice cutting through the din. “The druid… he planned to sacrifice her. Blacksmith, what in the name of Mog is going on?”
The blacksmith turned, his gaze hard. “The incense lifted,” he growled, his voice thick with rage. “The madness… it’s gone. And now we see what these… these thralls have done.”
Sturmberg stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “But were they truly responsible? They were under the druid’s influence.” He gestured to the bound villagers. “This town is built on honesty, you said so yourself. These are your neighbors. They’re still good people.”
His words, delivered with a fervor unusual for the drunken warrior, held a kernel of undeniable truth. Slowly, Sturmberg managed to sway the blacksmith, the raw fury in the man’s eyes softening into a weary resignation. The gallows remained unfinished, replaced by the more sobering sight of newly erected stocks.
“Whatever you decide,” Sturmberg declared, his gaze sweeping over the assembled villagers, “you all have to live with it. Sometimes decisions made in rashness are not always the best.”
The blacksmith, though grateful for their intervention, pressed them to stay, to help rebuild. But the air of the village felt tainted, the trust shattered. They declined. Lucia, however, managed to convince the young halfling druid, Mimo, to remain, offering her protection and encouraging her to learn the old ways of forestry from Elsgreave.
With two new companions, Gunter and Diana, a pair of seasoned hunters they hired with their meager silver, the party turned their backs on the troubled village. They had also managed to persuade the townsfolk to reconsider some of their harsher, fear-driven laws, a small victory in the face of the lingering darkness.
In the days that followed, Kristov, ever restless, dedicated himself to training his ambidexterity in his hammer fighting. Lucia, haunted by the taste of the sap and the unsettling power she felt stirring within, honed her defensive skills, her instincts sharpening. Sturmberg, true to form, found solace in the ale he was gifted by the village innkeeper, the clinking of tankards a constant soundtrack to his evenings. Yet, even in his inebriated state, he took the time to instruct Kristov in his own unpredictable form of combat.
Along the way to Stonegarden, the mountain air grew thin and biting as they ascended. Their path was rugged, strewn with loose scree and jagged rocks. It was Kristov who first noticed it: a large cairn of heavy stones, stacked with deliberate care.
“An Alderlander of some renown lies beneath,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the weathered surfaces. “But little else can I discern.”
“I don’t know that we need to turn into grave robbers,” Lucia said, a flicker of unease in her voice.
Kristov chuckled, a touch of melancholy in his tone. “Faus would be so mad right now. He’s missing his chance. I got so used to traveling with him, I have not the best instincts when it comes to the dead.”
Sturmberg, however, felt no such qualms. “Let’s see what trinkets our forgotten prince has taken with him.”
As they disturbed the ancient stones, a groan echoed from within the cairn. The earth trembled, and a figure clad in rusted armor erupted from the burial mound. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent blue light, and a spectral chill emanated from its decaying form. The Forgotten Prince, a Death Knight awakened from his centuries-long slumber, raised a corroded broadsword.
“I didn’t want to fight this poor man,” Lucia sighed, drawing her own weapon.
Amidst the clash of steel and the Death Knight’s chilling wails, the party held strong and vanquished the ancient warrior. It was the druidess — Lucia the Raven Sister — that dealt the final blow. Her magical sword, Narsika, cleaved the remnant’s skull in two.
Resting from the heat of battle, Lucia looked down at the skeleton and noticed that while the rest of his garb was torn and tattered, the knight’s boots were in perfect condition. Pondering over the oddity, the group realized that these were a powerful magical artifact made for their bearer, the prince Irilia. Kristov wagered that not only would they boost Lucia’s endurance, but the filigree on the leather indicated some resistance to poison as well.
That night, making camp proved difficult. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick with Lucia’s simmering frustration at their reckless greed. Gunter and Diana, their new hirelings, watched the silent animosity with wide, apprehensive eyes, wisely choosing to keep their own counsel.
The following morning, the arduous climb continued. The path narrowed, clinging to the near-vertical mountainside. Stone parapets and menacing eyes loomed above, silent watchers of their progress. Finally, they reached Stonegarden. Passing through the massive stone gates, flanked by stern-faced dwarven warriors, they were met by a breathtaking sight: the splendor of the Stone Gardens, a testament to dwarven artistry carved into the very mountainside. Yet, they were quickly informed that these were merely the guest quarters. The inner halls of the Canides, they were told, were a privilege reserved for dwarves alone, a rare honor even amongst their own kind. The journey to Stonegarden had begun, but the secrets held within its stone heart remained shrouded in mystery.
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