Sohala

The first guard squinted down at them, his expression an odd mix of bravado and uncertainty. "Three days—?" he started, only to be swiftly interrupted by his companion. "A day and a bit," the second guard corrected with a dismissive huff. The first one frowned, thrown off-balance. "But the messenger said—" "He said some died," the second guard cut him off again, his tone exasperated. "It was Ivirune who counted them dead, not the messenger." He folded his arms in a manner that suggested he was tired of repeating himself. Still not satisfied, the first guard defended himself, "Well, the messenger told us first—" but he didn’t get far before the second guard turned on him with a sharp glare. "And if we went 'round guessin' what everyone meant, we'd be doin' a piss-poor job of it, now wouldn’t we?" His voice dropped in volume, and their bickering descended into a quieter but no less heated exchange. The clinking of metal and the vague sound of scuffling hinted that this was a well-worn argument between the two, their voices muffling as they tried to keep the squabble from escalating further. Meanwhile, the third guard, who had been trying to recover from the shock of seeing the group alive, suddenly let out a yelp of terror. He had been tapped on the shoulder—where no one was standing—but in his already rattled state, it was enough to send him into a full panic. He stumbled back with wide eyes and bolted down the ramparts, his panicked footsteps echoing as he disappeared further into the wall’s inner passageways. The first two guards paused mid-squabble, turning to look after their fleeing companion with expressions of bewilderment. "What got into him?" the first guard muttered, scratching his head. They returned their gaze to the group below, their expressions wavering between suspicion and wariness. "You're not ghosts, are ya?" the first one called down, his voice holding a faint tremor. "Or... somethin' tryin' to sneak in?" The second guard scoffed, rolling his eyes. "If they were, why would they tell you, ya nitwit?"

Branor’s face twisted slightly at Davon’s words, as if he'd bitten into something sour, but he held his tongue, his jaw working subtly. Shane let out a huff and crossed his arms, his frustration apparent. "Come on, we’re owed at least one favor after all that, right?" His tone carried a hint of exasperation. Summer gave a fervent nod, her agreement written plainly in her determined expression. Rick gave Samuel a quick look and nodded in agreement. "Let’s get moving," he said, his tone clipped and eager to get going, clearly done with lingering on the issue. Branor gave a nonchalant shrug, dropping the matter as he shifted his weight. "Don't feel much like going for the walk, right now. Y’all have fun though." He then pivoted slightly, his gaze settling on Kael with an unexpected thoughtfulness. "Lad, got time to talk?" Kael hesitated, his eyes flickering between Branor and the group before he nodded, a slight reluctance in his voice. "Yeah… alright," he agreed, his tone uncertain but willing. He turned to the others, offering a quick wave. "I’ll catch up with you all." With a parting nod from Rick and a bit of wary curiosity from the rest, the group moved on, leaving Kael behind with Branor. As the group pushed onward toward the city, the fading light of the sky casting long shadows across the road, they moved with purpose, not wanting to lose daylight. The familiar view of the outer walls were beginning to show through the growing twilight when a familiar, hulking figure appeared in the distance. The gnoll from the market sat astride her rhino-like mount, the creature plodding slowly down the road. Her back rested against the large bundle of goods strapped tightly to the beast's back As they drew closer, they noticed her entire posture shift. She stiffened visibly, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto the group with a sharp intensity. The air between them felt tense, thick with a wary silence. Her hands tightened slightly on the reins of her beast, but she didn’t say anything. She simply watched. No one bothered to speak. The group kept walking, determined to make the city proper. The gnoll’s yellow eyes followed their every movement, and even as they passed her by. Only when they were well out of sight did the tension seem to ease. As they finally neared the lower gate, the familiar walls of the city loomed ahead, silhouetted against the darkening sky. The twilight cast an uncertain haze over everything, making shapes blur and shift at the edges of their vision. It was just bright enough to see by, but the dimming light played tricks on the eyes, casting shadows that danced and moved as if alive. A loud shout broke the quiet, causing the group to halt. "Hold! State your business!" A voice boomed from the gate, sharp and authoritative, cutting through the gathering gloom. The clinking of metal and the faint scuffing of boots echoed as figures moved into position atop the wall. Slowly, the guards became visible, pulling out torches that flared to life, their warm glow casting long, flickering shadows down onto the road below. The guards peered down at the group, scrutinizing them from the safety of their elevated position. One guard leaned forward, squinting down at them. His eyes darted from one face to the next, and then his brows furrowed as something seemed to click. "Hey, don't they look familiar?" he muttered, mostly to himself. "Weren't they with... uh, with that one—uh, wha’s her name again? Ivur… uh—" Before he could finish, another guard elbowed him with a huff, cutting him off. "Ivirune, you dolt," he corrected sharply. "Yes, they were with her." A third guard, who had been watching the group with a puzzled look, suddenly snapped his fingers as if a realization had struck him. "Wait a minute... we was told you lot were dead!" His voice held a note of disbelief, his eyes wide as he regarded the group as if they were ghosts risen from the grave.

His was specifically Nature. Geography would also fit in the same vein. Architecture and engineering, along with Dungeoneering would have lesser impacts.

And to clarify, replacements should be of the matching skills, assistance can be from a broader selection at your choice.

I believe other than my extra, self-imposed, fluff, she is ready for review. Eh, I think the blessing came out good enough.

[Officially closed.]

As the group's questions faded into an uneasy silence, Thorne clapped his hands, signaling the end of the discussion. "Right then, make any last preparations for the morning," he barked, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the lingering tension. The crew moved with purpose, knowing the morning would come all too soon. That evening, Gloria ladled out their meal with her usual brusque efficiency, the stew heavier than usual, as if she was trying to give them one last solid meal before whatever awaited them. Each group member received their own fish head, its glassy eyes staring back from the bowl. “Protein,” she muttered, her eyes daring anyone to complain. The fish was tender, the broth rich—filling, if a bit too salty. Surprisingly, sleep came easily, the steady rocking of the Driftwood lulling them into a calm despite the impending danger. By the time they were roused, the first colors of dawn had begun to creep across the horizon, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. The boat was moored in the quiet of a branching river inlet, the thick foliage of the jungle pressing close, casting long shadows over the water. The air was thick with humidity, a lingering mist rising from the shore as the group gathered on deck. The porters were handed tightly packed bundles of food and heavy containers of water, their faces grim but focused. Each took up their load with practiced ease, knowing the weight would only get heavier as the day wore on. Thorne stood before the group, his arms crossed, eyes sharp. "You’ve got this," he said, his voice low but firm, as if sensing that words wouldn’t do much to quell the mix of nerves and anticipation. He gave them a curt nod before stepping aside. Klisck, was already leading the way down the gangplank, his movements fluid and deliberate. The porters followed, spreading out between the tavern-goers like a well-rehearsed unit. The jungle loomed ahead, dense and teeming with unseen life, the rustle of leaves and distant bird calls adding a layer of tension to the morning stillness. [Your guide will be making a series of skill checks to reach the temple. You can choose to either assist or attempt to replace one of their rolls. You are each* allowed two rolls in total, so please specify which skills you're using and whether you're assisting or replacing a roll. Feel free to choose any relevant skills. The effectiveness of your roll will be adjusted based on how applicable the skill is to the task at hand. Examples: Diplomacy likely isn't going to help, Survival would. Move Silently/Hide would reduce encounter chances, and so on...]

Do you have a specific approach you want to take? For example, do you want to try to directly barge in, get an appointment, or maybe do something via a proxy?

Or have any specific things you would like to prepare, or think would be commonly available on a boat that could be supplied?

Last Call Lirael and the ursine feasted on the defeated Kraivath, the rich, salty flesh filling their bellies. The taste was surprisingly satisfying, almost decadent after such a grueling battle. They ate not just for sustenance but in reverence for their fallen kin. Portions of the crustacean’s meat were laid beside the bodies of their dead, a final tribute—a feast for both the living and the departed. After the meal, the group rested, some carving away at the creature’s impenetrable stone-shell for trophies, while others simply lay back, their bodies spent. But Lirael couldn’t rest. Something about the chamber, and the staff now in her hands, tugged at her curiosity. She set off to explore further, one of the ursine trailing behind at a protective distance. In her haste earlier, Lirael had pulled the staff free from its glowing socket without much thought, severing it from its place of power. The glow now faintly illuminated the island, but it flickered in a slow, rhythmic pulse, like the beating of a distant heart, or the ebb and flow of the great waters beyond. Holding the staff in her hands, she noticed it was in perfect synchrony with the glow—the crook at the top seemed to wink in and out of existence, perfectly timed with the dimming light. As she moved closer to the source, tiny wisps of the glow began streaming toward her. They drifted through the air like fireflies, drawn to her, before vanishing the moment they touched her skin. The chamber gradually darkened as the glow was siphoned away, each wisp of light absorbed by her. With every passing second, the room grew darker, the comforting illumination of the island shrinking into an ominous void. Lirael felt a strange sensation course through her—something otherworldly. She knew she should pull back, retreat from whatever this was... but her feet remained rooted in place, the odd sensation compelling her to stay. The ursine noticed the deepening darkness and began to move toward her, concern evident in their posture. They were curious, but above all, they were protective. And then, the last tendril of light vanished. The chamber plunged into absolute blackness. For a brief moment, nothing stirred. Lirael’s breath was shallow, her pulse quickening in the stifling darkness. Slowly, the bioluminescent growths clinging to the far-off walls began to brighten, casting a soft, eerie glow. But the island—where Lirael stood—remained shrouded in darkness. The staff in her hand pulsed gently, alive with power, and Lirael felt it settle deep within her. Something had awakened. The entity that watched over the dungeon, had observed the aspirants with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Their passage had been more like a faint tickle against its awareness, a distant hum that had gradually grown louder as they pushed deeper. The trials and traps they had faced were designed to be difficult, but not impossible; each one had sent a thrill through it. These aspirants had exalted themselves in glorious combat, one after another, proving their mettle. But the interference... it had been unwelcome. The arrival of the Staff—that was not a part of the trial... Still, the aspirants had prevailed, claiming the boon that the entity had guarded. It had been patient until now, allowing them their victories, observing how they adapted and overcame. Their victories had been enough, and though it admired their resilience, it felt an urgency to have them gone. Their being here, lingering in its domain, unsettled it. The aspirants were no longer welcome visitors—they had become an intrusion... It flexed its will, and the dungeon began to stir. The ground beneath the group rumbled ominously, a low growl that quickly grew into a full-on tremor. The stone and dirt beneath their feet shook violently, dislodging chunks of rock and dust from the cavern ceiling. The water rippled and churned, responding to the tremors. For a few moments, the shifting chamber confused everyone, but as the walls visibly began to close in, it became undeniable. Cries of alarm went up around Lirael. "The wall is moving!" "This one too!" "The ceiling's coming down!" "Is the cave collapsing?!" Fearing the worst, Lirael squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding. Desperation clawed at her mind—there had to be a way out, some means to light the area, to see an escape. Around her, the ursine growled in alarm, their deep, guttural noises blending with startled gasps. But despite their clear concern, there was no outright panic. Opening her eyes, she was momentarily blinded by a sudden, sharp light—the staff in her hand had begun to glow fiercely, casting a radiant, clear light over the entire shrinking chamber. The walls continued to fold in on themselves, slowly but inexorably, reducing the available space with every passing second. The water surged around them, splashing over their feet as the chamber collapsed. Yet, as the chamber grew smaller, the island they stood on shifted, tilting slightly as if being moved by an unseen force. With each movement, the space around them opened just enough for them to keep moving. The ground tilted upward, and they stumbled, barely able to keep their footing, often leaning on each other for support. Dust coated their fur, the constant motion keeping them unsteady, but it seemed the light from the staff illuminated a path. Wherever it pointed, there was always just enough room to move forward. Moments passed in a whirlwind of motion and disorientation until a small break appeared in the distance—a familiar opening. The original entrance. Together, they moved toward it, the island carrying them to the threshold just as the last bit of open space disappeared. Stumbling out of the entrance, they turned back to see the cave they had just escaped; a solid stone wall was a few feet inside. It'd sealed behind them without any other sound. Lirael's senses prickled, and for just an instant, she felt something—an irritated presence, as though the dungeon itself had let out a huff of annoyance. But the sensation was fleeting, and she wasn't sure where it had come from. Looking around, she breathed a sigh of relief. The living among the group had all made it out, their numbers intact. In addition to their survival, they had brought with them several large shell pieces from the crustacean. Brontis stood a few paces away, his massive form still poised in a battle-ready stance, though his muscles gradually relaxed as he scanned the group. His eyes met Lirael’s for a moment, and an unspoken understanding passed between them—something deeper, something she couldn't quite put into words... Change Comes Brontis stood at the mouth of the cave, his nose twitching and his hackles raised, sensing something deeply unsettling within the shifting stone behind him. The air carried an oppressive weight—a pressure, a quiet expectation of danger that kept him tense. His powerful muscles coiled, ready to spring at whatever might emerge from the cave's dark depths. But instead of a threat, he watched as the group was gently expelled, as if the cave itself had tired of them. They stumbled out onto the rough stone floor, dusted and bruised, and the entrance sealed behind them without so much as a whisper. His hackles slowly lowered, his tension melting into curiosity as he took in the sight of the group. His sharp eyes rested on Lirael. She had changed. She was larger, her form more commanding, and there was a strange authority that now clung to her like a mantle. His gaze traveled to her tail, and he tilted his head—was it flatter? Something about her felt... altered. Not just physically. It was more than that—something intangible, a connection that hummed in the air between them, like a faint echo of the bond he shared with Rykarth. It gave him pause. The feeling was familiar, yet alien. It wasn’t the cave, but rather something deeper, tied to the pulse of the world and, somehow, to Rykarth himself. It wove through Lirael now, that much was clear. The realization left him curious, wary even, but above all, respectful. Brontis stepped forward, his massive frame towering over the group as they collected themselves. His voice rumbled like distant thunder, carrying the weight of both authority and pride, though even he wasn’t entirely sure where the words came from. "You have returned, and the lands speak of your victory," he said, his deep eyes sweeping over each of them before finally settling on Lirael. "Sister." The word hung heavy in the air, deliberate and full of meaning. He hadn't used it lightly. He felt a kinship to her like he had never before. His gaze lingered, the connection between them still palpable. "Rest now," he added to the group, with a softer, yet commanding tone. "You have earned it." The ursine barely made it a few meters from the cave before exhaustion overtook them. One by one, they collapsed into makeshift beds, too tired to even speak. Their trials had left them weary beyond words. Soon, only Brontis and Lirael remained standing, left alone in the quiet. Together, they walked towards where Rykarth was bound by the mass of plants. The towering tree-like growth had only expanded, its roots digging deep into the frozen ground, drawing life where none seemed possible. Its canopy stretched high into the sky, vibrant and lush, a stark contrast to the harsh, frozen landscape around it. The sight of it, so alien in the ice-covered world, was almost unsettling. "No signs from him?" Lirael asked, her voice soft but tense. Brontis shook his head slowly. "Not even a twitch," he rumbled. Lirael stared at the base of the enormous plant before slowly letting her gaze drift upward, craning her neck to take in the sheer height of it. "Do you think..." she began but trailed off. Something inside her stirred, a faint twinge that made her pause and close her eyes, focusing on the sensation. "No," Brontis interrupted firmly. He didn’t know exactly what she was going to say, but he could sense the worry behind it. "Rykarth still lives. I can feel it—" "I-I can feel him," Lirael cut in, her eyes snapping open in surprise. She turned toward Brontis, a look of confusion on her face. "I can feel him... how do you...?" Brontis placed a massive, reassuring paw on her shoulder, and she shivered at the touch. "Since I changed, I can’t fully explain it," he admitted, exhaling deeply through his nose. "With your change, you must have..." He paused, noticing the confusion still etched on her face. "My change?" Lirael's tone was sharp, defensive. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering behind them. Brontis hesitated, realizing she hadn’t yet noticed. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Have you... looked at your tail recently?" Lirael started to respond, speaking as she turned her head, "Why would I need to look at my—?" Her voice cut off abruptly, replaced by a sharp, startled shriek that echoed through the stillness, piercing the sleep-dazed silence of the ursine around them. Lirael settled down after her initial shock, conjuring a pool of water, on instinct, to see her own reflection. She gazed into the rippling surface, her reflection looking back at her with features that were... different. She was smaller than the others, more compact, with different distinguishing details. The transformation wasn’t just in her body; it had permeated deeper, she felt certain of that. She had seen how the others had changed too—not just physically, but in their very essence. The realization weighed heavily on her, and she leaned into Brontis for support. His touch, warm and firm, comforted her, and the connection they now shared brought a measure of peace. Brontis noticed the water she had conjured and pointed it out, his voice gentle but firm. "Not all changes are bad," he said, trying to show her that what had happened wasn't just a loss of what she knew but the gaining of something new and powerful. Lirael's eyes softened, though doubt still lingered in them. A Parting Days passed, and with them, Lirael felt a growing sense of urgency. Despite their survival, sustained by the Song and her newfound ability to conjure water, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were stagnating. The land around them seemed to still, waiting for something. Brontis remained behind, his ever-watchful eyes on Rykarth, bound by the now towering tree. Though she hated leaving him, Lirael knew she could not remain. There was a pull, a beckoning, something calling them forward. Respectfully, with a heavy heart, she left Brontis to his vigil and led the group onward, following the strange sensation as if it were a siren's song pulling them back the way they had come. Their journey took them down from the frozen mountains and tundra highlands into more temperate lands. The air warmed, and the snow gradually gave way to greener fields and valleys. Yet the tune remained with them, growing in strength. It was as though the very wind carried its melody, urging them forward. Talk of making boats arose when they reached the edge of the lands, where rivers ran deep and wide, but a look from Lirael silenced those thoughts. Her impatience was palpable, a barely restrained tension that drove her forward. She didn’t want to waste time constructing vessels; she needed to move. Their journey was not without hardship, but they found food sporadically, their hunger lessened by the tune that enveloped them. Strangely, despite the great distances they crossed, time seemed to pass differently. They moved faster than they should have, covering several leagues in only a matter of days... Trials of Their Own The sealkin volunteers found themselves tested beyond measure as they navigated the treacherous descent from the wintry heights. Though the river's current aided their journey, the task of managing more than three times their number in boats was overwhelming. Each stroke of their oars and each adjustment of the rudders became more arduous as the hours stretched on. Bone-weary and sleep-deprived, the small group lacked the numbers to rotate shifts properly, leaving each sealkin struggling to stay awake. The first few nights back in the warmth of the lower lands were a welcome reprieve. The air was warm and fragrant, a stark contrast to the frozen mountains. For those first nights, they collapsed gratefully on the shore, falling into a heap of exhausted sleep, feeling for the first time like they might finally rest. But soon, dark clouds gathered on the horizon, heavy with the unmistakable weight of an incoming storm. The air felt charged, the pressure in the skies palpable, familiar to their senses from the storms of their ocean homes. In a rush, they hurried to secure the boats, tying ropes to trees and rocks, preparing for the worst. At first, the rain was a welcome relief, cool and refreshing, washing away the weariness and the sweat of their toil. It wasn’t long before the storm took a turn. The rains fell harder, the sky darkened further, and hours passed with no sign of it letting up. The river’s waters rose at an alarming rate, creeping higher with each passing moment. The sealkin scrambled to reinforce the anchor points, but it wasn’t enough. The river swelled beyond its banks, flooding the camp, and soon the boats—once secured—were now afloat again, tethered by ropes that strained against the relentless surge. Without warning, the anchor points gave way as one. The boats, bound together in a desperate attempt to keep them secure, were torn from the shore and dragged into the river’s powerful current. The sealkin leaped into action, drawing on their experience from the open seas to maneuver through the surging waters. But the river was narrow and unforgiving, its natural twists and turns leaving little room to navigate. The group fought valiantly, but the storm-swollen river was relentless, and their strength, already depleted from days of labor, began to quickly wane. Their fate came swiftly. In the darkness, the boats were dashed against jagged rocks along the banks, the wood splintering under the force of the impact. The sealkin were thrown into the water, scrambling to survive. Some boats became lodged in the twisted roots of large trees, offering temporary refuge. Others were not so fortunate, reduced to little more than scattered debris floating downstream. As the floodwaters eventually receded, the sealkin gathered on a narrow strip of land where the trees had caught what remained of their fleet. Two boats, though damaged, had survived mostly intact, while the rest had been reduced to driftwood and shattered remnants. The group worked in silence, hauling the larger pieces of wood from the water, feeling the weight of their loss settle heavily upon them. The feeling of mourning hung in the air. These boats were more than just vessels—they had been living companions, entrusted to their care. And now, with most of them gone, the surviving sealkin felt the pain of their failure deeply. Setting up a small camp along the battered shore, they began the painstaking work of repairing the damaged boats, but they all knew it would take time. The boats beyond repair were a loss that could not be replaced. Disheartened, they sat under the darkened sky, wondering what would come next. A Reunion of Piligrams The sealkin volunteers went about their daily routine, their movements slow with the fatigue of survival in unfamiliar territory. Today’s singer was tending to the battered boats, mending the larger of the two first. It had been days since the storm had swept them downriver, and though progress was slow, they were getting closer. With any luck, in just a few more days, one of the boats would be ready for the water again. A pair of sealkin were foraging near the water’s edge, checking snares and fishing traps they had set the day before. The group was efficient in their survival tasks, falling into a rhythm after days of hardship. But today, something felt different. The animals, usually wary but present, had gone silent. The birds, which filled the canopy with their calls, were absent. The wind through the trees seemed to carry an unknown tune on it. The sealkin noticed the change immediately. They straightened, alert, as they glanced around the makeshift camp. Their ears catching the change. Then, there was movement. A slow, deliberate stirring in the underbrush. The foragers froze in place, eyes wide, their hearts pounding in their chests. When the first of the massive ursine appeared from the treeline, their eyes widened further, muscles tensing as they prepared to flee or fight. They had never seen creatures like these—towering beasts with thick fur, powerful limbs, and an air of dominance that left the sealkin feeling small and vulnerable. Fear rippled through the volunteers as they instinctively drew back, not knowing whether the creatures were friend or foe. Lirael led the ursine through the dense underbrush, her eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the camp they were being drawn to. The trek from the mountains had been lengthy, yet unexpectedly swift, the pull of the beckoning tune never far from her senses. As they crested the last rise, relief and excitement briefly flared in her chest at the sight of the sealkin camp—but that quickly sank into sorrow. The volunteers had survived, yes, but the two battered boats resting by the river's edge told a story of hardship. One still lay in disrepair, while scattered scraps of wood littered the downstream shore like the remnants of fallen giants. The foreign wood, once vibrant and part of their living vessels, now stood starkly against the natural landscape of the riverbank. Sadness and anger stirred within Lirael. She had entrusted the sealkin with something precious, and now the wreckage of their efforts lay in pieces before her. The sealkin, still wary, recognized her despite her changes. Lirael’s stature had shifted—she was larger than before but more compact than the towering ursine beside her. Her presence carried a sense of undeniable authority, and even her tail, once slender and sleek, had changed, now flat and wide. But despite the physical differences, the sealkin knew her. She was still Lirael. The tension in the camp eased as recognition spread among the volunteers. One by one, they cautiously approached, their wariness fading into relief as they realized the new arrivals, despite their strange forms, meant no harm. The reunion unfolded slowly, the sealkin still unsure of how to react to Lirael’s transformation and the presence of the ursine. "You're alive," one of the volunteers said in awe. "We didn’t know if we would ever see you again." Lirael nodded, her voice soft yet weighed down by all they had endured. "We survived," she said, casting a glance over the remnants of the boats and the debris scattered along the shore. "But I can see that you’ve had your own trials. I’m sorry... to see what we’ve lost." The sealkin recounted their journey since the separation—enduring the cold, the treacherous storm, and the rising floodwaters that had torn away the boats they had worked so hard to protect. Apologies flowed freely, laced with regret as they explained how they had fought to save what they could, but the forces of nature had been too much. Lirael listened in silence, her expression softening as she took it all in. Finally, she raised a hand to calm them. "I understand," she said gently. "There’s no need to apologize. You did what you could, and you survived. That matters." She shared the story of their own journey—the bitter cold of the heights, the transformations of Brontis and the others, and the trials they had faced within the cave. As she spoke of her own transformation, the sealkin stared in awe. The realization dawned on them: these massive ursine before them, with their imposing forms and powerful presence, were the same sealkin they had once shared the waters with. A Dual Rebirth Walking along the shore, Lirael felt the heavy weight of loss with each broken piece of boat she passed. The remnants of what once was clung to the riverbank, stirring a deep ache within her. She felt a familiar pull at the edge of her awareness—a faint, elusive tune. It whispered to her, beckoning her toward something more, something she couldn’t quite grasp. Almost without realizing, she began to hum, her voice low and soft at first as she continued her walk. The hum built into something fuller, a resonance within her that begged for release. With each step, the Song inside her grew louder, her voice gaining strength until it filled the air around her. Lirael stopped and planted her staff firmly into the ground, gripping it with both hands. The Song broke free, her voice echoing through the stillness of the riverbank in a full-throated, powerful melody. The staff seemed to amplify her voice, sending it reverberating through the earth and water, a call to life itself. The magic in her Song wove through the air, subtle at first, but undeniable. Drawn by its pull, the sealkin slowly gathered around her, their eyes wide with awe as they recognized the melody. One by one, they began to hum along, then sing in harmony with Lirael’s voice. Their voices rose higher, weaving together with hers, and soon the deep, resonant tones of the ursine added a rich counterpoint to the melody. The ground beneath their feet trembled in response. The water of the river vibrated, churning as if alive with the power of the Song. Broken pieces of wood and debris along the shore began to stir. The earth around them shifted and swirled, as water and soil coiled together, rising and circling around Lirael and the sealkin. The Song filled the air, and the magic within it grew stronger. As the Song reached its crescendo, the broken fragments of the boats began to change. The lifeless wood, once shattered and discarded, now started to sprout new life. Tendrils emerged from the splintered pieces, digging into the earth and taking root. The branches stretched upward, small shoots growing rapidly, infused with the magic that flowed through the Song. The trees, though smaller than the majestic living boats they had been, were unmistakable. They grew along the riverbank, a grove of lesser but recognizable kin to what had been lost. The once muddy mess of the shore cleared, the water retreating back to the river as the new trees stood tall in their place. The sealkin looked around in wonder, but something more had happened. As the Song faded into the quiet of the new grove, Lirael looked upon them and saw that they, too, had changed. No longer sealkin, they stood tall, sturdier—more of her kind now, their forms transformed by the magic and elements that had enveloped them. Lirael’s heart swelled with a bittersweet emotion, as she took in the sight of the grove and the transformed beings before her. What had been lost was, in part, restored—though different, it was still beautiful. Show this

[Ruins or Tribe?] Thorne’s lips curled into a slight, smug grin as he spoke, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. "Both, actually." He jerked his thumb toward Klisck, nodding at the lizardfolk guide before his voice returned to a more neutral tone. "Klisck here says they’ve got some kind of religion about the place. That’s why you won’t be too out of place going in as a group," Thorne added, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You should look the part—like you’re bringing tribute, or maybe making a pilgrimage." His eyes flicked sideways to Klisck, who remained impassive. "Or whatever they call it," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. [Method] Thorne shrugged, his matter-of-fact attitude returning as he continued. "That was our best guess. It’s not just getting in, though. You’d raise a fair number of questions if you were seen hauling things out instead of bringing something in, even with the disguises." He shrugged again, more nonchalant this time. "But you’ll know best when you’re there. Slip in quietly, or get the drop on them. It works the same in the end. Kill 'em if you want," he said, gesturing once more at Klisck. "Big guy won’t mind either way, right?" Klisck, as expected, gave no reaction. Thorne pointed at him with a smirk. "See? Told ya." [Timeline] Then came the inevitable question: how long would this expedition take? Thorne scratched at his beard, his expression turning a bit more serious. "Working off the descriptions... we figured it’d take about half the day to get there." His tone carried a rough confidence, though it wasn’t exactly an ironclad estimate. "Once you get to the entrance… digging through the debris, quietly, well…" He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly less sure about this part. "We don’t really know how thick the blockage is," he admitted, his confidence wavering just a touch. His eyes flicked over to Klisck again, seeking a silent confirmation. "If Klisck is right, maybe an hour to clear it. After that, there’s a slow procession to keep up appearances. What, maybe a third of that time, maybe less?" Thorne shrugged, his hands spreading as he spoke. "The disguising effect lasted about that long on me when I tried it." His tone was casual, but there was a hint of underlying discomfort as he remembered the experience.

[We've moved to Q&A for mission details, so you have a couple of days still. Hopefully someone gets freed up.]

Cook'e stood on the tavern floor, his eyes squinting in concentration as he carefully watched Sprout—a fluffy, floating creature—hover near the job board. Occasionally, Sprout let out a chitter, prompting the little lizardfolk to shake his head or mutter a soft "Nope," or "Nuhuh," or "Nex' one." At last, something caught Cook'e's attention. He perked up, a grin spreading across his face as he tried to signal to Sprout. "'Is one, Sprout! Go back!" he urged, waving his arms a little to guide his pet. Sprout, however, had other ideas. One paw pointed decisively at a different posting while it floated backward, seemingly indifferent to Cook'e's instructions. After a moment of fumbling and confused gestures, they appeared to reach a sort of agreement—or at least, Cook'e thought so. With a satisfied chirp, Sprout drifted forward and marked the job... but Cook'e failed to notice it wasn’t the one he had in mind. Statblock

[Going in blind] Thorne’s serious gaze lingered on the halfling, who looked visibly uneasy at the mention of the dangerous relic and the perils that lay ahead. The dwarf’s expression softened, just enough to show that beneath his gruff exterior, he wasn’t without some reassurance. A slight, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Ah, but you’re not going to be searching blind, lad," Thorne said, his voice steady yet kind. "Klisck here is going to take you right to it." He gave the lizardfolk a hearty, well-meaning tap on the upper arm, the kind of gesture that suggested confidence in their guide's abilities. Klisck gave a low grunt of acknowledgment, his yellow eyes narrowing, but he didn’t speak. [Flask] With a short, thoughtful cough, Thorne cleared his throat and reached into his coat, pulling out the flask again. "They call these ‘Disguises in a bottle.’ Don’t ask me how they work exactly, but I’ll tell you this," he paused, fidgeting with his beard, "it did something alright. I used one myself, just to test it. Damn thing made me look... well, not like me. And made my beard itch, too. Was mighty disconcerting staring in a mirror and seeing scales staring back." Thorne shrugged, letting the oddity pass with a wave of his hand. "Anyways, these’ll help get you past any guards you might run into. You won’t need to worry about sticking out like a sore thumb." [Previous expeditions] He began to pace slightly, his hands moving in small gestures, as though weighing his thoughts aloud. "Can’t say how many groups have tried to get their hands on the Diamond, mind you. Only one let it slip to me that they were even looking." He made a motion with his hands, as if the number of attempts was an abstract thing he was trying to grasp. "But I can guess I’ve ferried more than that over the years. This jungle’s vast—and secretive. Doesn’t exactly have the best survival rates." Thorne’s tone shifted as though to smooth over the grim reality with a strange sort of reassurance. "But hey, most groups do end up with at least one survivor!" He smiled at that, though it was hard to tell if it was meant as encouragement or just the dry humor of a man who had seen too many expeditions go wrong. [Whitepaws and Vresh’tal] Thorne’s expression turned a little more sour as he cast a sideways glance at Klisck. "Someone’s been a bit chatty, I see," he grumbled, his eyes narrowing into a half-serious glare at the lizardfolk guide. "So, you gonna tell 'em everything, eh?" The silence stretched for a moment as Klisck appeared to ignore him entirely, focusing on the jungle ahead as though nothing had been said. Thorne shook his head and turned back to the group with a resigned sigh. "Wasn’t trying to hide anything," he said, his hands rising in a gesture of patience. He gave Gelfin a nod before continuing, "The elf was close. The Whitepaws—local catfolk tribe. Not exactly the friendliest sort, but they respect the neutrality of the river. That’s good enough for me." He nodded, more to himself than anyone else, as if reinforcing his own logic. "Now, the Vresh’tal, you got pegged..." Thorne pointed toward the jungle with a thumb, "Superstitious bunch, according to Klisck. Stubborn, set in their ways, but that works in our favor—'cause he doesn't want to leave empty-handed." At that, Klisck let out a low, dangerous hiss, a sound that made the dwarf scowl in response. Thorne glared back at him but moved on. [Hazards] Without missing a beat, Thorne began to tick off the hazards they might encounter, counting on his stubby fingers as he went: "Traps, snares, quicksand, sinkholes, carnivorous plants, 'gators, swarms of bugs, local predators… oh, right. Are those cats speckled or striped again?" He muttered to himself, but quickly continued. "Snakes, definitely snakes. And carrion feeders—mostly bugs—if you get wounded. And don’t even get me started on the leeches if you’re wading in the water. Giant ones. Eels too... wait, no, those tend to stick further downstream. Thank the gods for sharks and spearfishers keeping 'em away from here." [Hidden realms] Thorne paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he gave a half-hearted shrug. "Depends on who you ask, really," he said, his voice carrying that familiar waffling tone of someone who’s heard more than his fair share of tall tales. "I’ve heard stories—plenty of 'em. Some say it’s the key to a hidden paradise, a place where you can live forever in peace and plenty. Others talk about it as if it’s the gateway to enlightenment, a realm of pure knowledge where the mind expands beyond all mortal limits." He shifted his weight, his boots creaking against the wooden deck of the ship. "Then, there are the ones who swear it leads to the home of the Ancestors—some sacred realm where their spirits linger, watching over us." He chuckled, though it was dry and dismissive. "The list goes on. If I had a gold piece for every story I've heard about something hidden out there in these jungles… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be ferrying folk like you into this gods-blessed place." Thorne's gaze swept over the group, his expression unreadable. "But stories are just that—stories. What I do know is that whatever the Diamond of Al'Aloth is really for, it’s enough to get someone to pay us to go after it." He gave a dismissive wave, as if brushing aside centuries of myths with that single gesture. "Best to focus on what’s real in front of you. The jungle, the danger, and the job you’ve been hired to do. Everything else... well, you can figure it out if you survive."

Despite their best efforts, the group couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every flicker of movement among the dense foliage had them on edge. Aravari, the sharp-eyed scout, was the first to catch a fleeting glimpse—a mere black blur darting through the underbrush. It was so fast, it was gone before she could react, leaving her second-guessing whether she had seen anything at all. Gelfin’s ears twitched, catching the faintest rustle of leaves, the whisper of footsteps far too deliberate for just another forest creature. The rogue’s eyes narrowed, scanning the jungle with suspicion, but without any visual confirmation, he was forced to concede it could’ve been a figment of his heightened senses—or so he told himself. Klisck, being observant, noticed the group's shared tension and the way their eyes lingered on the shadowed edges of the riverbank. When someone finally voiced their concerns, he made to explain. "Whitepaws," Klisck hissed, his gravelly voice carrying with it a strange reverence. He lifted his scaled hands and held them parallel to one another, indicating the direction the group was traveling. He gestured to the right side of the river first, his clawed fingers sweeping over the dense green of the jungle. "Whitepaw's," he stated simply, as if that word alone carried an unspoken weight of history and danger. Then, with equal emphasis, he pointed toward the opposite side of the river. "Vresh’tal’s." His gaze lingered there, eyes narrowing slightly, as if to warn of something even more ominous beyond the verdant curtain. Finally, he clasped both hands together in front of him, his long fingers interlocking like a trap. His claws clicked as he held his hands over the river, the stretch of water that separated the two sections of jungle. "Shared," he added, his voice lowering to a near whisper, letting the final word hang in the air like a warning. Thorne stood beside a hastily sketched map of the area, spread out across a weathered wooden table. The map, more a patchwork of vague landmarks and guesses, was clearly drawn from second-hand descriptions, with thick lines representing rivers and faint markings for terrain features that may or may not exist. The dwarf's thick fingers traced the jagged edges of the paper as he addressed the group. "You lot," he began, his voice gravelly yet commanding, "are to keep the porters safe." His gaze swept over the adventurers, lingering for a moment as if weighing their resolve. "Klisck will lead you to an abandoned entrance to the temple." Thorne’s eyes flicked toward the lizardfolk guide, who gave a sharp nod, his expression unreadable beneath the flicker of torchlight. Thorne paused, letting the weight of the mission settle in. "The porters," he continued, "can help clear whatever debris is blocking the way. Just make sure they stay in one piece." His voice carried a note of caution, one that hadn’t been there before. From one of his pockets, Thorne produced a small flask, sleek and meticulously designed. The surface shimmered under the dim light, its iridescent finish reflecting a cascade of colors as he turned it over in his hands. It was small, almost unassuming, yet the way he held it suggested it was far more important than its size suggested. "Once inside," Thorne continued, holding the flask up for the group to see, "you’ll be using these to get through. They’ll buy you enough time to get there," He lowered the flask, eyes narrowing with a warning. "But if the big lizard's right about the haul, these won’t last long enough for you to get it all loaded up." Sensing the unspoken question on their faces, Thorne sighed and pocketed the flask. "Before you ask," he grumbled, "it’s what they were willing to pay for." His tone held a hint of frustration, but the decision was clearly out of his hands. In the snippets of conversation the group had overheard over the past few days, one thing had become clear—every soul on this boat was tied to a contract, bound to an unknown third party whose interests had never been made clear. As the group mulled over the plan, Thorne folded his arms across his broad chest, the flicker of doubt in his eyes quickly masked by his usual gruff demeanor. "Get in, get the relic and anything else you can grab. That’s the job." "What is the relic?" one of the group asked, his brow furrowed as if realizing a crucial detail had been overlooked. Thorne’s expression froze for a brief moment, a slight furrow appearing between his bushy eyebrows as if he, too, had momentarily forgotten. He gave a small, sheepish grunt before reaching into his jacket. "Ah, right... that," he muttered, fishing around in his inner pocket before pulling out a worn piece of parchment. Unfolding the rough paper, he revealed a faded sketch—a meticulously drawn, many-faceted orb. It shimmered with an unnatural gleam even in the crude representation, its sharp edges and brilliant cuts giving it an almost otherworldly appearance. "The Diamond of Al'Aloth," Thorne said, his voice lowering as if the very name carried weight. He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Legend says it ain’t just a diamond... but a key of sorts. Some say it can unlock hidden realms..." He paused, glancing at the group to gauge their reaction, his thumb rubbing the edge of the parchment absentmindedly. "Whatever the truth is, people have died searching these jungles for it." Thorne folded the parchment with a quick flick of his hands and shoved it back into his jacket.