“…or it could have started a fire.”
”Usually they just sparkle,” Leif assures, returning the bow to his back. He is invited to join the others by the fire. There, he names Dahlish as his hometown. He explains that he was raised by a gnomish family. They, like most of the townies, have fled from the endless winter. “Oh…” hums Erling, “So it was like… an ‘Elf’ situation?” He references the legendary folk hero, Buddy the Elf. “How did you fit in their buildings?” Before Leif can answer, the two-man circus begins. Mort takes center stage with his clubs, juggling wildly. Armus is captivated by this and begins to clap. “Ooh, ooh! Juggle fire!” Mort heeds his request and sets the clubs aflame. A blazing ring encircles him, lighting his face in orange. At the same time, Vasilles steps out onto his slack line. Everyone “ooohs” and “ahhhs” as he jumps and balances. A tightrope cartwheel warrants a burst of applause. Vasilles and Mort prove themselves true carnies, with flair and finesse to spare. The Flying Quazit lands with a flourish, bowing deeply once back on the ground. Laughter and cheers flood the camp.
Dinner is served by Abernathy, who’s boiled the first of his chickens. Ladlefuls of meat and broth are dispensed. Vasilles finds a place beside Leif, where the two make acquaintance. Leif introduces himself as an aspiring actor, having left Dahlish to seek his fortune. “…you’ve never met anyone like me,” he grins.
Vasilles sucks in an astounded gasp. “Have you been reading my oracle book?” he asks.
Leif frowns. “…I don’t think so?”
The Quazit holds up his book, smacking one hand on the cover. “This is the book the oracles gave me, describing how my life will unfold. Today, it says I will meet someone “new” and “dramatic.” That has to be you!”
Listening in on this, Keelan begins to chuckle. “Wow, an actor! We already have a juggler, a fiddler, and a trapeze artist! We should start our own circus!” Vasilles looks deadpan at this suggestion and shakes his head in a slow “no.”
Keelan looks to the professor next, placing his fiddle across his lap. “Abernathy! I’ve been working on another song. It’s still in the early stages, so I may need more help from your thesaurus.”
Armus turns to him with a smile. “You’re writing songs again, boy?”
“Yes!” Keelan raises the instrument to his chin. “Would you like to hear?” He begins by playing ‘The Friends Song,’ which describes the party and their quest for Dahlish. Armus nods approvingly, agreeing that it is “…good to be friends with friends.” Keelan sings his new song next, prefacing it with a few disclaimers. “I’m open to constructive criticism,” he says, having completed only the first two verses. The song starts out slow but begins to rise in both tempo and aggression.
“Let me tell you the tale
of Dillan M’Kale,
a lying… deceiving… TOAD!
He’ll smile to your face,
then hit you with a mace,
steal your girl
and then he’ll hit the road!
OH!
Dillan M’Kale
should really be in jail—
he stabbed me in the chest!
*What?*
I wanna kick him in the head,
‘cause he thinks that I’m still dead,
but now I’m here
and I just feel depressed!”
He ends the ditty with a shrill note on his fiddle. Everyone sits in uncomfortable silence, glancing sideways at each other. “Well,” coughs Armus, rubbing the back of his neck. “…that one hit a little close to home.” He admits to having liked Dillan and never suspected him.
“I bet he comforted you when I was gone,” Keelan growls, suddenly in poor spirits. He tosses the fiddle aside and burrows into his bedroll. “…and you probably made him leek soup. Oh… I wanna egg him *so* *bad.”*
Professor Abernathy looks up from his supper, reminded of his recent literature. “I’ve just heard of a warlord,” he says, keeping with the topic of magical murder. “…who refused to let his opponent die. He kept killing him and resurrecting him, over and over and over. Now that—“ he points a finger, “…is a nasty punishment.”
Armus purses his lips. “He must have really hated him, cause’ that shit’s expensive.” He locks eyes with the professor. “Did he also stab him in the chest with a hairpin, dump his body in a lake, and trick his family into thinking he was dead for thirty-five years?”
Abernathy blanches and tugs at his collar. “Uh… he… he didn’t have that power, no.”

The next morning, the wagon rolls onwards towards Atha’s temple. The party discusses their plans for a second visit. Zoe is hoping for a ferret encounter, while Erling and Abernathy ponder the crypt room. “I’m ready to take on anything…!” Armus cheers, his raised arm shaking like a tree branch.
“I think we’re gonna sit this one out,” counters Keelan, placing a protective arm around his father. “This has been my first adventure and Brandy’s spine split in half. I can’t say I’d rate it ten out of ten.”
Leif looks intrigued. “Split in half, you say? How did that happen?” His eyes narrow in thought. “From giving a blowjob? I’ve heard of that happening.”
Armus scratches his chin. “Well, it’s possible. What he needed was rootweed oil— it loosens the muscles. That way, you can fold over yourself.”
Keelan looks between them with a frown. For all his years of alchemical training, he can’t seem to remember this oil. “Dad, do we even sell that?” he asks.
The apothecar blushes. “Your mother has been gone a long time, Kee. I haven’t been… selling it, per say…”
Keelan is sorry he asked. Tugging back his arm, he drops his face into his hands. “TMI, Dad. TMI.”
Vasilles looks the old man up and down. “Have you even been on an adventure before?” he asks.
Armus shakes his head. “I learned a trade when I was young— I was smart. I didn’t have to do any of this bullshit.”

It is agreed that the O’Callahans will wait outside with Renith. The others return to the ruin, making a beeline for the crypt. “This place went to shit real fast,” observes Leif, looking around.
“Mostly because of us,” admits Vasilles.
Leif’s face brightens. “Oh! Well, good job, then!”
Despite previous efforts to seal the door, the crypt is once again wide open. Finding this rather dodgy, Zoe, Erling, and Leif creep inside. Vasilles oscillates, recalling his earlier impalement. He reluctantly moves to join them, leaving Abernathy and Mort to guard their backs. A wooden bench is upturned beneath the portcullis, intended to catch should it fall. Inside, the group finds burial alcoves and sealed sarcophagi. A plaque beneath each one reads: ‘All Honor to the Solar Disc.’
“That’s a better saying than ‘Praise the Sun,’” notes Vasilles.
“Nuh-uh!” Abernathy objects.
They comb the room, searching for ancient artifacts. Suddenly, the door drops behind them with a *kercrasshhh!* The bench splinters into pieces, doing nothing to slow the fall. Vasilles tailspins into an honest-to-god freakout, pounding his fists on the door. “Let us out!” he screams, “We’re gonna diieeee!”
Zoe quirks an eyebrow. “We have a light,” she assures. “We’ll be fine.”
“…but we’re in here with *mummies!”*
As if on cue, the sarcophagi begin to shift. Stone scrapes against stone as the lids start to open. “Get on top of them!” Zoe yells, bearing down on the nearest sarcophagus. She uses her weight to keep the box shut. Erling follows her lead and does the same. Leif readies his bow. Vasilles, on the other hand, runs about screaming and flailing his arms. It is unclear whether he fears the creatures, the darkness, or the claustrophobia. The first sarcophagus wriggles open, revealing an emaciated hand with clawed fingers. Leif drives a magic arrow into its palm, scolding “Down! Down!” They can only keep the lids sealed for so long, before the mummies send them tumbling sideways. Three creatures emerge, withered and swathed in white gauze. Oversized tongues hang limp from their jaws. “…huahuahuahuaHUA!” chortles the first, maniacally swinging his tongue. “…food.”
“How was this not consecrated ground?!” cries Erling. “These priests were *bozos!”* It is surmised that the forever-winter may have disturbed them. Leif looses an arrow at the beast, who ducks left with surprising speed. The arrow embeds itself in one of the alcoves. Mort overshoots with a pair of clubs. Enraged by the priest’s incompetency, Erling raises his club. Lunging at one of the mummies, he brings it down hard overhead. The skull erupts like a watermelon, but Erling doesn’t stop there. The mace swings further, crushing the jaw and severing the tongue. The neck snaps with a *craaaaack!* and the clavicles shatter. It buckles to the floor, annihilated. Erling swipes at the second mummy, snapping at him to “…cut it out!”
Zoe’s hand closes around her symbol. She raises it skyward and invokes the Morrigan. “You cannot thwart your destiny forever!” she hisses. A hot, white light pours from the icon, blinding the mummy with terror. It stumbles backwards from the paladin, screeching and baring its claws.
Back in the hallway, Professor Abernathy is hard at work on the door. He realizes that the lever has lost traction, likely result of a low-level enchantment. He withdraws his collapsible pole, muttering that he’ll have to put it “…waaaaaaay up there.” He’s able to hook the loose chain and pull it towards the latch. Needing more muscle to finish the job, he rushes off to find Moscow the Mule.
Mort has upgraded to flaming torches now, which flood the chamber with smoke and mummy-stink. Leif withdraws a wand from his pocket, casting a spell with a flick. The second mummy evaporates into an ash pile. “Hey, good job!” he cheers, raising a hand for Mort to high-five. The jester returns the gesture in slow-motion, having to really think about it. “Okay, that’s… good enough,” Leif concedes.
Continuing to panic, Vasilles runs directly into the final mummy. It paralyzes him with but a look, turning his muscles to stone. Terrible mummy-cramps riddle his frame and a sweat breaks out across his brow. At this, the creature looks quite pleased with itself. It chomps down on Vasille’s shoulder, cleaving free huge chunk of flesh. Strings of Quazit-meat dangle from its jaw, dripping red beadlets across the white jaw. The mummy has come to the same conclusion as Keelan O’Callahan— Vasilles’ blood is a tasty treat. Before it can lunge for a second bite, Erling hews it in half with his club. This is the second time a spine has split within Atha’s temple. Erling searches for mummy stragglers. “We must check the other sarcophagi!” he insists, shoving open the lids. “In case there are more ghouls hiding!” Zoe is more concerned with the still-burning torches, which have begun to asphyxiate the party. She hurriedly stomps them out and tries to wave off the smoke.
Vasilles is still standing like a statue, with hot blood gushing down his shoulder. Zoe is first to attend him, ripping a spool of bandages from her belt. “This is the best I can help…” she says, hurriedly patching him up. The paralysis slowly begins to dissipate, returning the Quazit’s voice. “Ohhhh…” he groans, crumbling down onto his bum. “I told you I didn’t want to come in here… did we at least get to loot the place before Abernathy?”
“You should pocket some bone dust as loot,” Leif suggests. “That way you can throw it in people’s faces and dramatically exclaim: ‘magic!’”
“Magic…!” agrees the Quazit.
Zoe and Erling complete their mummy-check, finding no further threats in the crypt. The remaining corpses are too broken to reanimate. Rooting around in one of the sarcophagi, Zoe finds a curious flanged mace. It is gilded with filigree flames and sunbursts. She instantly recognizes it as a masterwork item. “Seems like fair compensation,” observes Leif, “…given that they tried to eat us.” Zoe agrees and fastens the mace to her belt. Leif begins to inspect the mummies, which have been mostly disintegrated by Erling. He wonders aloud if ghoul teeth could be used as crossbow bolts. “…or perhaps in a sling?” he wonders, miming use of a slingshot. “You there, man with the leather gloves. Can you help me?” He beckons Mort to his side and the two begin harvesting teeth.
“This was really gross, guys…” whimpers the Quazit.
At last, the portcullis begins to lift. Abernathy’s rube Goldberg saves the day. Everyone flees to the hallway, where Leif sucks in a deep breath. “Boy, it sure was stale in there. At least we got some teeth out of it.”
“That’s disgusting,” grimaces Abernathy. “Anything of historical significance?”
“Coffins are historical,” Vasilles suggests, but the professor isn’t interested. He seeks lighter, more salable pieces of history.
The party heads to the wine cellar next, with Zoe leading the way. Mort busies himself with the defrosted wine, which has taken on a strong vinegar undertone. Zoe eventually locates her ferret friend, using Cliff’s jerky to lure it out. She feeds it strip by strip, cooing and praising all the while. By the end of the meal, it has laid out across her lap. It takes Zoe’s hand in its mouth, not biting, but leading. It guides her to its barrel home, where it curls up for a siesta. It never releases her hand, holding it tight like a dear friend. Zoe lifts it from the barrel, very slow and cautious-like. She cradles it baby-style in her arms, triumphant.
After a quick walk of the property, Erling is relieved to find no residual traces of worm.

Armus whistles as the group returns from the temple. “They look like they got the crap kicked out of them,” he observes.
“It wasn’t ‘the crap kicked out,” corrects Zoe, glancing to the wounded Quazit. “It was just a nibble.”
Vasilles staggers towards Keelan, one hand keeping pressure on his shoulder. “Wanna see a ghoul?” he asks, smiling in an unsettling manner.
Keelan’s eyes drift between Vasilles’ face and his blood stains. “…no. I do not.”
Erling notices the ferret, which has curled itself around Zoe’s neck. “Oh, you’ve got a stole,” he says, mistaking the animal for a shawl. “Wait— it’s alive.”
Keelan claps excitedly. “You found your ferret! What’ll you name it?”
Zoe says she isn’t sure yet, but the title ‘Athena’ is top of her list. Erling suggests the name ‘Stole,’ “…since it isn’t the only thing we’ve stolen from the temple.”
Armus mumbles something unintelligible into his scarf, catching the attention of Vasilles. “What was that, old man?”
Armus starts. “Oh! Uh, sorry. I was just… thinking about dying.”
“Must run in the family,” notes Erling, side-eyeing the fili.
Armus turns to his child. “Kee… your friends tell me you’ve been thinking about… eating people?” His voice quiets. “That’s pretty fucked up, son.”
Keelan gasps. “That was completely subjective, Vasilles! I wasn’t *trying* to eat people!” Since returning from Lough Cairbee, Keelan’s tastebuds have gone feral. He explains that everything cooked has tasted terrible, including his once-favorite leek soup. After Vasilles was stabbed in the temple, Keelan’s hands had been bloodied. He’d tasted them quite by accident, trying to brush a hair from his mouth. “…and you tasted really good.”
“See!” cries the Quazit, pointing an accusatory finger. “Your son was drinking my blood!”
Armus stands between them, bobbing his head in understanding. “Well, you see…” he begins, “…there comes a time in every man’s life when he gets his blood wings.”
Vasilles is quiet for a moment before erupting into laughter. He bowls over clutching his gut, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. The pain of his shoulder is temporarily forgotten, overruled by the sheer hilarity. “…and Keelan… got his… from a *man!”* he wheezes. The fili looks mortified and covers his face.

A strawberry breeze greets them on the path to Bellenis. Now closer to home than ever, the Quazit shakes with excitement. City guards exact a toll at the gates, extracting one gold from the townies and two gold from the outsiders. This is more of a scam than an official rule, but nobody thinks to argue. “I’m sure this money does much to maintain the city,” Keelan decides, happily paying his fee. Vasilles laughs and tugs him along. “Even the guards would laugh at that! Have you ever been to Bellenis before?”
“No. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from Wicklow.”
“Oooooh!” The Quazit grins from ear to ear. “Then you’re in for a real treat!”

The doors to the Screaming Jay burst open. “Honey, I’m hooooooome!” calls the Quazit, standing in the doorframe. “I’m hooooome!”
Illyana looks up from the bar, warmth and relief flooding her features. She smiles and releases a long-held breath. “…you little bastard.” The couple reunites between the tables, embracing. They stand forehead to forehead, drinking each other in. “Why are you so warm…?” Illyana whispers, feeling the heat on his brow. “Feels like the beginning of a fever.” Vasilles ensures her of his wellbeing, shrugging off his potential ghoul disease. Instead, he shows off his fine new cloak… and most of his missing shoulder. In restoring his wife’s arm, he’s nearly lost his own.
“So, how many free drinks do I get?” interrupts Mort, weaseling into their embrace.
Professor Abernathy chimes in from across the room. “He can have my drinks,” he offers.
*”No!”*
Illyana quickly composes herself and smiles. “What I meant to say was… Mort deserves some beer. I’m sure he was a great help.”
The jester chuckles. “I really wasn’t.”
Vasilles recounts their adventure, bringing his wife up to speed. Keelan and Armus step forward to introduce themselves, with the fili shaking her hand. “Hello, I’m Keelan! Vasilles said I could be your son!”
The Quazit blanches. “I was going to tell her *after* she got her arm back…!”
Armus looks similarly put-off. “But you’re my son,” he says. “…this is awkward…”
“Now I’m everyone’s son!” Keelan jokes, but the jest doesn’t land. Sensing Armus’ discomfort, he pulls his father into a hug. “I’m still your son, Dad. Always and forever.” He gives him a squeeze. “…but Vasilles offered, so I said yes. This way, he’s never getting out of it. He’ll never be rid of me now.” He gives a mischievous grin.
Illyana takes this announcement in good spirits, happily welcoming her new “son.” “That certainly does sound like my Quazit,” she chuckles, looking to her husband. She begins to describe his past investments, which include various scams and strange promotions. Most notable of the bunch is a ‘portable egg cracker.’ “I’m not saying everything you do is dumb,” Illyana assures. “But sometimes… things might translate into *less* *dumb* if you just… checked in with another person first.” Her eyes flick to the jester, who is chugging a tarrasque-sized ale. “…and I don’t mean Mort.”
Once a their flagons have been emptied, it is time to get down to business. “Are you ready to get you arm back?” asks Vasilles, eyes aglitter with hope. Illyana beams and gives him an invisible thumbs up, raising her stub in his direction. The Quazit notices that her braid is off-center, having been set with a single hand. He volunteers to fix it, tugging loose the ribbon. “Ow… ow!” she yelps, “Don’t pull so much!”
“I’m not pulling!”
“You’re pulling!”
Keelan grows misty-eyed watching them, believing this to be true love. Once Illyana’s hair is arranged, the time finally comes to fetch her arm. “Bar’s closed!” thunders the Quazit, turning out the stragglers. “That means you too, Mort! You’re coming with!” He grabs the jester by the collar, dragging him towards the entrance. Mort only belches in response. Vasilles carefully locks the door behind him, forgetting that the Screaming Jay still has a gaping hole in the wall. The party departs for the River Marr, where the Circle druids maintain their court. A group of tortles meet the banks, offering passage in their flat-bottomed boats. They row with quiet grace and lanterns in hand. Erling takes this opportunity to fish, reeling in a pan fish and a speckled blue gill. Renith chows down on the catch-of-the-day.

Nested in Marr’s littoral land, the Circle operates independently. Their leader, Priestess Hypathia, stands to welcome the group. “Well, well, well…” she smiles. “If it isn’t the questionable Quazit.”
“Questionable?” huffs Vasilles, momentarily indignant. He presents his wife Will Smith style, bending one knee and spreading his arms wide. “We are here,” he announces, vibrating with nervous jitters. “We are heeeeere!” His anxiety turns musical, sweeping into a tune. “We’re ready! We’re here! And we’ve ended the winter!” Hypathia schedules Illyana’s re-armification for the following dawn. She has to lead Vasilles away before he jumps clean out of his skin.

Leif begins searching for an alchemist, seeking someone to process his ghoul tooth. Hypathia is reluctant to help, seeing alchemy as “overkill against nature.” Regardless, she directs him to one of her druids, who just so happens to be polymorphed. The woman appears as a blue heron, standing with one leg raised. She has dusty blue feathers and a bright orange beak. “Merp,” says the heron in greeting. “Merp.” It transforms into a gnomish woman with a Cockney accent. Leif explains his idea and offers to pay, but soon strikes a bump in the road— the Circle doesn’t accept coin. He offers “entertainment” as an alternative payment, which the woman appears to consider. She decides that three months of performance would be suitable. This is too long of a commitment for Leif, who has only just struck out for adventure. He politely declines and promises to return with a better trade.

Keelan and Erling are next to approach Hypathia. “Excuse me,” calls the fili. “Are you the Circle person?”
The priestess smiles. “A circle has no end.”
“…is that a geometry joke?” Keelan explains his father’s condition and how nothing could be done for him in Wicklow. Erling confirms his ailment as the Black Lung. “A treatment does exist,” says the priestess, “…but it would be dangerous.” A portion of Armus’ lungs would have to be removed and regrown. Keelan plans to discuss this with his father. “If we do decide to move forward,” he goes on, “…how can I pay you? I’ve heard from my companions that gold isn’t the way of things here. If you have an endless summer somewhere, or fall… or any season you want ended, really. Hell, I’ll extinguish the sun if you’d like. I’ll give you everything I have.”
Hypathia gives him a kindly look. “Go and speak with your father. We can discuss more later.”

Erling stays behind with the priestess, watching the fili scamper off. He reveals the winter worm jar, which swirls like a snowglobe. He recounts their adventure in Dahlish. Hypathia studies the worm beneath a furrowed brow, identifying it as an “alien from a distant dimension.” The being is inherently opposite of nature, embodying everything the world is not. She describes a realm beyond comprehension, populated by mind-breaking beasts and beings. According to Hypathia, all otherworldly-intruders should be exterminated post haste. She places a hand on Erling’s shoulder, smiling in spite of the ominous news. “I’m proud of you, Erling. Of what you’ve accomplished here.”

With a captive audience at his disposal, Mort moves to put on a show. Taking stage by the fire, he begins a gut-busting comedy routing. The druids eat it up, whooping and hollering between each line. He tells one joke about ‘September,’ which no one understands. September, much like the winter worm, hails from an alternate plane.

Zoe locates a ferret expert amongst the druids. She learns all the basics of ferret keeping and training. Fun facts! Ferrets can spend up to eighteen hours of the day sleeping! Ferrets are incapable of sweating! Ferrets can share in humanoid diseases! The more you know! Finally beginning to trust her in full, the ferret settles across her lap. It accidentally claws her along the way, but she smiles through the pain. “Worth it,” she grimaces.

Come dawn, the druids begin their ceremony. Vasilles and Illyana stand beneath an arbor of trees. The sky is a watercolor of pinks, purples, and the palest of blues. The breeze off River Marr is honey-sweet. The chanting begins low and slow. Illyana’s arm begins to reform, weaving sinew across bone. A brand new, baby-white arm takes place of the stump. It is a stark contrast to the rest of her heavily-freckled complexion. Illyana flexes her fingers, tears beginning to well in her eyes. Testing the new limb, she claps her hands together. “…I can hug my little Quazit with two arms!” she exclaims, grabbing Vasilles in an embrace. The party breaks into a slow clap, which snowballs into full-on cheering. Annoyed, the druids roll their eyes. “Why are people so weird…?” grumbles one of the casters. Keelan is full-on crying at this point, but no one notices because he’s already so moist.

A week passes by in a flash. Vasilles has “lots of two-handed fun” with Illyana, who puts her new limb to good use. The Quazit also seeks out Brandy’s family, the Hansons. They operate ‘Hanson’s Handy Spirits’ in Bellenis. Vasilles returns the body and promised salary, upholding his end of the bargain.
Keelan goes rock-hunting along the banks of the River Marr. He begins a new collection of shiny pebbles. Armus decides to undergo the Black Lung procedure. Keelan refuses to leave his side, lingering close through his recovery. The operation is a success, literally granting Armus “a breath of fresh air.” Having promised to do anything for the druids, Keelan owes a tremendous debt. They say that they’ll “let him know” when the time comes to pay up.
Zoe returns the Dawning Sun amulet to Atha’s care. This necessitates a pilgrimage towards Dahlish, where she locates a surviving parish. After generations lost in time, the relic is finally home.
The party is invited to Brandy’s funeral, which is hosted beyond the city gates. The rogue is burned on a pyre with the Hansons at his side. A brandy toast is made in his honor. Afterwards, the party returns to the Screaming Jay for a private dinner. Everyone solemnly picks at their meals, until Illyana breaks the silence. “I know this is usually a day for remembrance,” she says, setting down her utensils. “…but a business opportunity has arisen and could involve all of you. Have any of you heard of Pyriginian?” Abernathy recognizes this as failed Ezerite colony to the east. It survived independently for a short period, then collapsed after the Pythian Revolt. According to the professor, it was too isolated from trade to possibly succeed. Illyana shares that a noble family has funded a new expedition, hoping to “…renew and rebuild. They left nine months ago and talk of treasure is filtering back. Now, they’re seeking to expand.” In a shocking investment, the Meridia family emissary has offered to buy the Screaming Jay for triple the price. Vasilles and Illyana will also receive free land in the colony. The catch is, the land will require “cleaning out” before they can take up residence. The Cracked Rock Mining Consortium has already sent prospectors to seek out new veins. There is much to be done and untapped resources galore. Abernathy is first to volunteer, taken in by talk of an ancient Salidar city. He is eager to seek the ruins for fame and fortune. Vasilles turns to Mort next, cheering him on towards adventure. “Come on, Morty! Mort! Mort! Mort!” The jester finishes chugging his ale, slams down the flagon, then agrees. Leif follows suit. Keelan looks uncertain, twiddling a braid through his fingers. He wants to go along, but wouldn’t dare leave his father behind. “Well… I don’t belong in Wicklow anymore,” he admits. “…and I’m restless. But I’ll have to talk with my dad.”
Zoe says that she’ll have to “think about it,” then steps away for prayer. She questions the Morrigan about Pyriginian, but receives ominous silence in response. There may be some element of fate on the island, she surmises, but it may not be a good one.

Keelan seeks out his father, who is upstairs in the Screaming Jay. He explains that the party is going on a “boat trip,” which causes the old man to smile. “Oh,” he replies, “Like a day trip? A three hour tour?”

© Katherine Steffeter