Cutting through the vast stretch of lava is the respite of an islet, where a lone blue figure disrupts the bleak nothingness of the dwarven stove. Twin spires create an intimidating archway above him, framing the vomiting stone head of a giant serpent in the midst of spilling her firey guts into the lake below, and suddenly he feels weary when he looks up at them. "This channel feeds the furnaces," the mercenary - Logue, a kind gentleman ...

When Oswyn rises from the depths of the chasm, Merlin is there waiting for him. But so is someone else. The mare regards him with a sense of disgust that immediately puts him on the defensive. She's clearly poised to help; there's a crude rope in her mouth, fashioned together with thick vines in a weaved fishbone pattern. Oswyn doesn't understand how it would help or the logistics of getting him out of the pit with one single rope, but he gets the feeling this mare knows a lot m...

When the rocks tumble under his scrambling feet, Oswyn goes down with them. If it were not the hungry mouths of the large plants, then let it be the dark chasms themselves that lay claim to what little life he has. Ismere's desperation is evident by the way it darts down after him, its vibrant blue glow lighting the way until it disappears completely. The rubble is abrasive against his skin as he rolls down the incline. There will surely be wounds to treat, scars to carry, a path...

When he turns away from her grave, there's a shadow waiting for him at the cavern entrance.Oswyn believes it nothing more than an echo of the past. Generations of Coursers have passed through here on their travels, in their neverending quests for riches and recognition; it would come as no surprise to him if his mind, weary as it is, has conjured up a piece of ancient history. He stands steadfast and waits for the apparition to move on."Um," the specte...

The jagged rock walls are marked with centuries of Coursers before him; the chilly breeze that blows through the passageway brings with it memories that don’t belong to him, of warriors and vagrants both searching for something he cannot define, and the phantom drum of their hooves follow him to the mouth of where he began. A nest of moss lay dying in the middle of the cavern, illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the cracks above. Sprouting from the blanket are the weary bon...