Fields of yellow flowers had haunted the surface and the Dungeon alike.  Olwen caught herself checking each bloom for a likeness to her father. She did not know what that meant. A tilt of the petals, maybe, the way he used to hang his head—or a familiar scent among the pollen. She knew she was looking in vain, though. The Harvesters fields grew in the echoes of ancient battles, gourds arrayed like battalions. Her father had died in his bed. He should have been there am...

Sir Averny, as was his responsibility, took the lead. Behind him trailed three others: his squire, yet hapless and hesitant; Lady Olwen, who had insisted upon coming and whom Averny couldn’t deny; and the Lady’s handmaiden, Snowdonia, who Averny couldn’t trust. In her wake thumped a strange construct of her own creation that made the entire party conspicuous and slow. ...