The night in the "Warm Place" smelled of spices and that thick, sticky exhaustion that usually settles in right after the adrenaline evaporates. The Score had been returned. Leliana thanked us briefly and professionally: warm food, clean water, and lodging on her account for "as long as needed." Music resonated through the settlement, and it no longer stumbled—even those who couldn't sing began to find the beat instinctively.
I, however, felt as if I’d been put through a rock crusher. And it wasn't because of the dragon or Leliana. My thoughts paced in circles like sentries on a fortress wall, and all of them were anchored to one object.
The Shield. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard a dry, authoritative strike in my head: "Take it. It’s yours. Hold it." I hated that whisper because I understood it wasn't just magic; it was my own core resonating with the metal currently warming beside the Leonin.
The Shield lay at the foot of Priorin’s bed. It "stood" by itself, vibrating slightly in the gloom, as if it needed no supports or laws of gravity. Priorin slept deeply and silently. I rose from my bed, careful not to creak the floorboards. A few steps in the dark—and the cold metal seemed to lean into my palms. The whisper in my head silenced immediately, replaced by a feeling of fullness, as if I had finally found bread after a long hunger.
I didn't take it. I just lay beside it on the floor, the Shield an inch from my face. The muscle aches and that grueling mental itch receded, washed away by a wave of warmth. I didn't sleep until dawn; I just listened to the heartbeat of the artifact. By morning, I put it back. Priorin hadn't moved. But I knew: I was drained not because Leliana was insatiable in her gratitude, but because all night I had been mentally stealing from a friend what the Shield had already offered me itself.
I came down to breakfast looking lead-grey. The coffee tasted like tinted boiling water. Priorin pushed aside an empty plate and spread the map on the table.
"So, gentlemen," the Leonin swept his gaze over us. "Time to choose where we drag our hides. We have two roads."
He poked a finger at the northern part of the map.
"Option one: Akolis. The Erthrusian Paladins said the Temple of Ilmater is hidden beneath the stones of that former capital. If the Black Wolf’s artifacts or Trudius’s 'batteries' are hidden anywhere, it’s in those vaults."
"North is stone and memory," Gellia frowned. Her light no longer warmed; it reminded me of the glint on sharpened steel. "But the Paladins are right: such places don't remain empty. What we hunt may lie there, but the price will be high."
I looked at Flint. The Krauser inside him clearly had an opinion, but Flint simply spun his coin in silence.
"And the second option?" I asked.
"The Island," Flint answered before Priorin could. "The Black Wolf’s city. Dylan was singing praises about my 'heritage' yesterday. Rumors say the Wolf’s personal effects still 'live' there."
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Priorin leaned heavily on his elbows.
"Listen. Formally, the goal is met—the old Wolf is dead. But his gang hasn't gone anywhere. These 'Reds,' the 'Blues,' the strays on the roads... they are like metastases. If we just leave for the north, we leave a festering wound behind us that will turn into a new army tomorrow."
"Priorin is right," Gellia clenched her fist. "I can't just abandon these people. Yes, the Alpha fell, but the lair remains. As long as the Island stands as a bastion of banditry, there will be no peace. My oath won't let me pass this nest by. We must destroy the very possibility of this pack's rebirth."
"The Island first," Priorin cut in. "I don't want to crawl through the ruins of Akolis knowing we left a whole city behind us that can field a regiment at the lieutenant's word. We will burn this lair to the ground."
I looked at the Shield in the corner. It answered with a low hum that only I felt.
"The Wolf's City... if there are artifacts there, I want to see them. I want to understand what music they actually play. And if we must raze a city for that—so be it. Order requires sacrifice."
"It’s settled," Priorin slapped the map. "We head to the coast. We find a boat to the Island. We kill the root, and the branches in the north will wither on their own."
The harbor of the "Warm Place" didn't smell of sea salt—here, deep inland, it smelled of stagnant river water, wet wood, and sharp pine resin. By noon, a ferry pulled up to the pier, sitting heavy in the water. It was a squat, wide vessel, looking more like a floating fortress than a transport.
We laid our loot on the counter by the pier. The spoiled hides of the Deep Singer, still reeking of silt; a scattering of dull coins; and a few trinkets found among the bones.
The merchant—a woman with eyes far too knowing and a cold stone at her collarbone like Leliana’s—priced them quickly.
"A hundred for the mace," she tapped the counting board. "Two dozen for the purification stone. Dragon dust is valued, but we have plenty lately. Seems you aren't the only ones who decided to tease the Deep Singer. The wastes are generous with suicides these days."
"Is all this junk enough to take us to the Wolf's lands?" Flint asked. He was watching the ferry, his fingers spinning the coin—fast, nervous, almost aggressive. His eyes held that feverish glint of a man who had decided to burn his bridges but hadn't yet crossed his name off the list of the living.
"Enough for a ticket," the merchant nodded, sweeping the coins into a leather pouch. "To 'drop you at the Island'—that costs extra. It’s a detour, and the waters there are restless. The Black Wolf’s bandits are jumpy; they shoot at anything floating without their colors. The Captain doesn't like risks, but he loves gold."
The Captain indeed turned out to be a man of high market values. He was a dwarf with a smoke-stained beard and a face like dried sole-leather. He gave us a quick, evaluating look. His eyes lingered for a moment on Priorin’s hovering shield and Gellia’s cold, frozen face.
"Fifty extra for the risk," he grunted, spitting into the water. "And if a scuffle starts, you aren't cargo—you're a combat unit. Deal?"
Short phrases followed, a heavy sigh from Flint’s purse, and one decisive nod from Priorin. We boarded the swaying ramp. Gellia went first, her step rhythmic. She didn't look at the merchant or the sailors; her gaze was fixed beyond the horizon, where the lair she had sworn to destroy waited. The panther in her pocket, I’m certain, was being squeezed to the breaking point.
As the ferry pulled away, I looked back at the "Warm Place." The settlement was dissolving in the valley’s haze. The music we had returned still reached us—a faint, harmonious background that seemed infinitely distant now.
We were leaving the silence for the epicenter of the storm.
"The Son returns," I said quietly, approaching Flint at the railing.
He didn't answer, only gripped his coin tighter. The water growled beneath us, and the ferry set its course for the Island. Ahead lay only the unknown and the scent of ash, which already seemed to drift from the shores of the Black Wolf.
Burning Bridges and Strongholds.
The Island. Priorin and Gellia are choosing the path of the soldier—seeking to cut out the rot at the root. But as we see with Flint, "returning home" to the Island is a double-edged sword. He’s carrying the name of the Wolf into the very place where that name still carries the weight of a crown.
Key Analysis:
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Faurgar’s Obsession: This is a chilling look at how the artifacts affect the mind. Faurgar isn't a thief, but he is "mentally stealing" the Shield. He feels more at home on the floor next to a piece of metal than in a bed.
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The Ferry to the Abyss: We’re moving into a nautical phase. In D&D, travel is rarely just "travel." The Island is a fortress, and the waters around it are a graveyard.
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The Merchant's Warning: "The wastes are generous with suicides these days." It's a reminder that while our squad feels powerful with their artifacts, they aren't the only ones out there hunting for Milather’s leftovers.
Questions for the readers:
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The Choice: If you were in the squad, would you have pushed for Akolis or The Island? Is it better to find the "Master Key" (the Gloves) or destroy the bandit army?
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Faurgar’s Sanity: Is Faurgar still the "Function" of the group, or is he becoming a liability?
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The Captain: What do you expect from a Dwarven ferry captain who views the squad as "combat units" rather than "cargo"?
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DM Vault this week:
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The World Map: An overview of the Black Wolf’s stronghold.
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Lore: The Republic vs. The Pack. The ideological divide between the "Blues" and the "Reds."
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