"Fate has taken you deep beneath the surface of West Kruna."
The numbers correspond to the map below:
The God of the GoblinsEdit
- 2. God of the Goblins 1
- 3. God of the Goblins 2
- 4. God of the Goblins 3
- 5. God of the Goblins 4
- 6. God of the Goblins 5
Story of the SwordEdit
The Will of the Sapphire KingEdit
- 12. The Will of the Sapphire King 1
- 13. The Will of the Sapphire King 2
- 14. The Will of the Sapphire King 3
- 15. The Will of the Sapphire King 4
Nature of the OrocsEdit
Optional Boss Encounters
- Fight Node 1.
- Pass Node 2 without fighting.
- Fight Nodes 3 and 4 to defeat Node 5 Lurking Horror obtaining Lurking Horror Essence.
- Fight Nodes 6 and 7, or use alternate path defeating Node 11 Erakka-Sak (see below). It is possible to pass above node 6, may take many tries.
- Pass Nodes 20 and 15 without fighting.
- Fight Node 14 Xarax the Impaler to obtain Chunk of Oroc Crystal.
- Defeat Node 20 Final Boss Sapphire King.
This path should use 18,965 energy total on Normal.
Some enemies can Banish:
- Goblin Hunt Leader in Nodes 3 and 6
- Goblin Witch Doctor in Nodes 4 and 6
- Goblin Trapper in Nodes 2, 4, and 6 on NM (and Hard?)
- Oroc Crystal Gazer in Nodes 10, 14, 16, and 18
Alternate path: The most courageous players can skip Nodes 6 and 7 by defeating Node 11 Erakka-Sak. Pros : Assuming you win one of the first three attempts, you save 2325, 1325, or 325 energy, for a total of 16,640/17,640/18,640 on Normal; save more energy on Hard and Nightmare because Nodes 6 and 7 have more HP. You gain a Magic Lamp talisman (100% drop) and eventually Sarax the Unstoppable on NM. Erakka is not difficult with the correct cycle deck (Heartbreakers + Blood Bond/Malice/Sympathetic Slaughter for basic decks or Torment locks for advanced ones) and the proper strategy. Cons : Erakka isn't totally safe and you need a bit of luck to avoid his banish NPC when you can't counter them. Even if you manage to block 4 NPC he has at least 2 more (not a major pain if you soulbound him).
NOTE: Most energy efficient path(assuming no defeats) is going through Node 1, Node 11(Erakka), Sneak above Node 7, sneaking above node 6 and defeating Lurking Horror, defeating Node 14 Xarax, and finally defeating Sapphire King Node 20.
Boss Card RewardsEdit
- Burst of Light (Xarax the Impaler)
- Holy Illumination (Lurking Horror)
- Incendiary Flask (Sapphire King)
- Rakshara's Retaliation (Sapphire King)
- Magic Lamp (Erakka-Sak, 100% Drop Chance)
- Sarax the Unstoppable (Erakka-Sak, NM Only)
A gust of wind blows across the landscape, probing the rocky outcrops as though surprised to find her force thwarted and dispersed by such ancient barriers. For this is Caelnarn, and over many dozens of miles she has been allowed to dance and whirl, rush and buffet, with majestic impunity. She's drifted across the vast plains, rustling the grasses and shrubs, lending her breath to the wings of eagle and falcon - allowing them to echo her magnificence in the elegance of their flight. She has tickled the fluttering manes of the steppe people's horses, and stroked their arrows with her playful caress.
Yet now this elemental spirit finds her path impeded by the bones of her earthen cousin. Crags and stony hillocks rise up from the grassy mantle like unsightly bumps marring the neatness of a laid-out garment, forcing her gusts to work their way between them and over them - leaving little patches of space unblessed by her touch.
The wind sweeps over this upstart terrain for several more moments before withdrawing. Perhaps displeasure has brought an end to the journey which would have taken her into the forests of northern Rhynhart, and she will instead return to her sisters with tales of their cousin's insolence in so challenging their imperium.
But her departure seems welcome to those below at least, to the men and women who march in single file up the steep gradient amidst the protruding mounds of earth and rock. Under her scrutiny they had pulled their purple cloaks close around their mail-clad bodies, shielding themselves from the regal vexation of her tongue with the thick furs. The dark magenta dye which suffuses those garments with its elegant richness marks them out as official military issue - tokens of King Crenus' generosity or else a quartermaster's concession to the rugged environment into which duty has propelled this band of soldiers.
The haughty whirling away of the wind sends one final gust over them, the swaying skirts of her ethereal garb leaving a grand swish of female aggravation in their wake. After that the soldiers relinquish the furry cocoons, and the cloaks open to reveal the tabards below - each marked with a golden dragon's head. Their mouths open at the same time, words finding space in the air now that the aggrieved element's voice no longer fills it.
"I hate this place..." one of the women says.
"We all hate it," a male soldier grunts. "It's a damned wasteland."
"I volunteered for Caelnarn because I know how to ride. Thought I'd be put in one of the cavalry patrols."
"Ha! Every bloody recruit who's been in the saddle thinks they can get one of those jobs, and just ride all day."
"Should have tried seducing the commander," another man suggests. "I heard some girl from Stromhamre got out of scullery duty that way."
"That was me." A raven-haired soldier sighs. "He told me that if I had that much energy I could spend it on patrol duty instead."
The warrior at the front of the procession, a captain from the markings on his helmet, stops in his tracks - nearly causing the man behind him on the slope to plant his head in his superior's hindquarters. He turns around, and glares at the column below.
"Stop that chatter! When you're wearing the king's colors, I expect you to uphold military discipline! Gods, what if civilians heard you lot whining and moaning like a load of schoolchildren?"
"We're in the middle of nowhere, captain," the raven-haired woman says.
"Yeah," the would-be cavalrywoman agrees. "Who's going to hear us?"
"That's not the point! When you're in uniform you should imagine that the king himself is watching you all the times - and conduct yourselves accordingly!"
"What, all the time?"
"Yes, damn it!"
"Even when I'm using the latrine?"
"Yeah!" one of the men chimes in. "That would just be... awkward. I don't reckon I could go if I thought the king was watching me. I mean, who would take a piss in front of the king?"
"At least you could turn your back and maintain a scrap of dignity," the raven-haired Stromhamren replies. "What about us? Besides, any man who spied on me when I was using the latrine would get my gauntlet in his face - king or not!"
"I think that counts as treason..."
"I don't care!"
"Shut up! Shut up, all of you!" the captain yells. "I swear, one more word out of your mouths and I'll have every single one of you flogged when we get back to the camp!"
He whirls around, a dramatic gesture somewhat ruined when his boot slips against the slope - and only a timely propping up from his nearest subordinate's arms stops him from toppling backwards. Then he continues marching up the incline. The other soldiers follow, their voices dropping into inaudible mutterings and whispers.
But their progress reaches a second terminus when they near the top of the hill. The captain looks skyward as a tendril of smoke snakes its way into the heavens. His upturned nose twitches, tantalized by an incredulous scent - a smell which should by all rights have no place in this lonely stretch of rugged borderland. The soldiers behind him do likewise as the odor reaches each of them in turn. A collection of raised nasal organs wriggle and sniff at the air in comical harmony, until each proboscis is forced to accept the reality of the seemingly impossible sensory input.
As though not to be outdone their ears next challenge their brains as those aural appendages capture the sound which now drifts upwards and outwards along with the smoke and smell. It's a voice lifted in song - albeit off-key and more enthusiastic than melodious - bearing the unmistakable accent of distant Titar. The song itself is as Titaran as its singer, a famous chant heard whenever feasting and fun are had by that land's denizens.
"Who ate all the pies?
Who ate all the pies?
You fat bastard!
You fat bastard!
You ate all the pies!"
The soldiers look to one another, amid much shrugging of shoulders and expressions of befuddlement. Their thoughts are writ upon their faces and mannerisms as plain as the text of a tome. Perhaps the scent alone could have been the work of mere fancy, desire leading to delusion. But it's hard to imagine anyone's fantasies involving that particular musical accompaniment - much less that the same hallucination would have veiled the senses of the entire band. Thus they're forced to accept the evidence of their noses and ears, as outlandish as that might be.
It's the captain who moves first, running up the remainder of the slope and emerging onto the little plateau at the top - a space loosely encircled by spires of rock like the prongs of a crown. The others aren't far behind. They come up moments later to feast their eyes on the same unbelievable sight.
"Morning, lads and lasses. Sodding grim up north, isn't it?"
The question goes unanswered, met only by blank stares. This doesn't seem to perturb the speaker, however - a fellow of middle age and extensive girth, with a red and cheery face. He hums the same tune which he sung a moment before, whilst tending to his work.
Numerous military eyes watch the scene in astonishment. The fat man sits atop a chunk of weather-worn rock, alongside a tall, broad barrier of similar material which forms a natural wall and shelter. Before him is a campfire, its jovial flames no doubt shielded by that ancient aegis from the recent pilfering fingers of the wind. The hinged legs of a simple metal frame surround it, supporting a thin, flat tray above the flickering tongues of fire.
As the soldiers look on, the man removes an oblong object from a voluminous knapsack and places it alongside others of its kind on that warm tray - the source of the enticing smell.
"First lot should be nice and warm enough." He glances up at the gold and purple crowd. "And there's plenty more where these came from."
The captain finds his voice first.
"You there! What do you think you're doing?"
"What the bloody hell does it look like? Digging a ditch?"
"He's warming up pies, captain," the would-be cavalrywoman 'offers.
"I can see that!" The captain glares at her, causing the woman to avert her gaze and murmur something presumably unflattering under her breath.
His eyes return to the rotund pie man.
"Why are you here?" he demands.
"Came to sell my wares, didn't I? Best steak and kidney pies in all West Kruna, if I do say so myself. Why, a bloke once told me that my pastry was-"
There are no travelling pie men in Caelnarn! The very idea is-"
"Exactly!" The pie man taps the side of his nose. "No point in setting up in a big city where there's a twerp with a tray hanging from his neck on every blooming corner, even if your pies are better. The buggers will all be full up by the time they get to you. So I came up north, where there ain't a good pie to be had for love nor money. I bet even the Great Khan himself couldn't have laid his hands on one. It's the law of surprise and demand."
"Supply and demand," corrects a smooth, eloquent voice - which happens to emerge from the pie man's mouth.
The soldiers stare at him. '"Sorry about that," the man says, once more speaking in his rough Titaran accent. "Had myself a spot of education as a boy. Nasty stuff learning - never quite leaves you. A bit like a bad case of kidney stones. Pops back up just when you don't bloody want it to. Anyway, down to business. You look like a hungry lot. Been marching since first light?"
"I wish," one of the men replies. "The commander had us leave when it was still dark. What's the good of patrolling in the dark anyway? Not like we could have seen anyone. Could barely see a few feet in front of our faces."
"Silence!" the captain roars.
"And I know your rations aren't up to much," the pie man says, apparently unmoved by the officer's glare. "I've tasted some of that salted meat they give you. Whatever animal it was, I think it was luckier than the blokes what have to eat it."
The raven-haired woman sniggers, though she manages to muffle the noise before the captain turns round and sweeps his subordinates with the same glare. Finding no military victim to fasten upon, that glare falls back on the strange civilian and his tray of comestibles.
"So, how about we get to business? Just a gold piece each."
"A gold piece?" the captain repeats, speaking the words as if that particular coin of the realm were some strange and hitherto unimagined artifact. "For a pie?"
"Surprise and demand."
"Supply and-" the educated voice begins.
"Where else are you going to find a pie around here, I'd 'like to know?" the Titaran voice interjects, muffling its more sophisticated counterpart. "Besides, what are you going to do with your stipends up here? Nothing else to sodding buy, is there? You'll probably just lose it all playing dice at camp."
"He's got a point, captain," the Stromhamren says. "And they smell delicious. I'll take one!"
She reaches into a leather pouch at her belt, from which emerges the clinking noise so dear to a merchant's heart -- the joyful chorus of legal tender which is about to change hands.
"For you, liebchen, I'll throw in a second one free, gratis, and for nothing."
She giggles, perhaps both pleased by the man's generosity and amused at hearing a term of endearment in her regional tongue emerging in a curious form through the filter of his Titaran accent. The woman steps forward to complete her transaction and secure her meat-filled pastries.
But the captain smites the air with his gauntlet, and the imperious gesture brings her to a stop.
"You seek to gouge the king's men?"
"I'm a woman, captain..."
"When you wear the gold dragon you're no longer a woman!"
A murmured discussion at the back of the purple-cloaked band follows this curious pronouncement, though its biological, social, and philosophical implications are lost amidst the continuing bellow of the captain's voice.
"You should be ashamed of yourself, sir!"
"Not forcing you lot to buy them, am I?"
The captain's mouth opens wide, as though his cheeks are about to birth another torrent of anger. But it subsides into an unpleasant grin.
"I'm going to give you a lesson in doing your patriotic duty." He turns to the would-be cavalrywoman and the man who earlier lamented the early start to their patrol. "Marcia, Jonas, seize his pies."
Marcia smirks and moves forward. Jonas frowns and stays still.
"Oi!" The pie man scrambles to his feet and places his rather sizable body between the soldiers and his pastry treasures.
"I'm commandeering these articles in the name of the king," the captain declares, "in accordance with military law and custom."
"We can't do that!" Jonas says.
"We're permitted to secure nourishment from the people of West Kruna! That includes pies."
"But that's only if we've run out of supplies," the raven-haired Stromhamren says. "We have our rations."
"Our rations aren't fit for the dogs. This man said as much himself."
"So I bloody well did, but that doesn't mean you can just come along and take what ain't yours!"
"You're welcome to petition the king for recompense." The captain gestures at his followers. "Take them!"
"I'll have no part of this," Jonas says.
"Me either," says the woman from Stromhamre.
"More for us then," Marcia replies.
The other soldiers advance.
"This isn't fair!" the pie man moans. "The last patrol paid for their pies like honest blokes! They didn't try to rob a poor cove!"
The captain holds up his hand.
"Wait! Last patrol?"
"The one that came through here a couple of hours ago. Handed over their coins and got their pies. Decent fellow, their captain."
"There are no other patrols in this part of Caelnarn."
"We're the only soldiers for miles around in this godsforsaken wasteland, you lying fool!"
"Oh. Well, that's really all we wanted to know."
It's then that the captain turns to his right, and gazes up at the crags overlooking the hill. His startled expression is clear enough to read: he's beginning to think that this is an ideal site for an ambush. His fears are realized in the same moment, when you and your companions step out from your places of concealment. But they die a moment later when Tessa looses her arrow and takes him through the eye, scattering his consciousness upon the tides of oblivion.
You leap, spitting out the final word of an incantation at the same instant. Weight seems to slough away from your thews, as though gravity has reached out for you but succeeded only in snatching some strange simulacrum. Your light, almost buoyant body carves its trajectory through the air and lands next to Hugh with eldritch softness. It's a leap which should have left you broken, even if you had succeeded in making the distance. Instead it's placed the soldiers' destruction before them.
The would-be cavalrywoman's sword makes a valiant attempt at finding your heart. But it meets only steel, stronger and more artful than its own, and is beaten aside. A riposte sends it falling from lifeless fingers.
Arrows land around you, selecting gold and purple targets. There are few archers whom you'd trust to fire at your foes whilst you're embroiled in a whirling melee. But Tessa Tullian is one of them.
On your right the raven-haired woman makes a nervous, almost desperate chop at Hugh. His left hand, enveloped in cyan flame, clasps the descending blade.
"Don't worry," he says, pulling the weapon from her hand. "Just leave this with me."
The fighting is over soon enough. The suddenness of the ambush, the unpreparedness of the soldiers, and the swift brutality you wielded were too much for them to resist. Red, gold, and purple bodies litter the hilltop. Others lie below at the foot of the slope. Only Jonas and the raven-haired Stromhamren are left.
The woman stands weaponless, gazing at you and Hugh in turn with wide eyes like those of a frightened child. She fumbles at her coin pouch with clumsy fingers.
"No need for that, liebchen," Hugh says. "We're not bandits. We're... Well, don't know exactly what we are, but not bandits."
"Revolutionaries?" Brachus suggests.
"Ooh... I like the way that sounds. Sort of heroic, isn't it?"
Her fear yields in some small measure to confusion and curiosity as she watches Hugh apparently converse with himself.
As for Jonas, he still holds his sword -- though the point quivers in the air. It will do no killing, not in his trembling hand. He seems to realize this as well. He sighs, and lays it down on the ground.
"You're both conscripts?" you ask.
The Stromhamren nods.
"I was brought here to work in the scullery. The commander sent me on patrol because I tried to get out of my duties."
"I... I volunteered," Jonas says.
"How're you liking military life then?" Hugh asks.
"It's not great." He looks over at the tray of pies. "If you're going to kill us, can I have one of those first?"
"Don't think it'll come to that. But you can have one."
Hugh stows his cleaver away, takes a pie in each hand, and offers them to the two soldiers. They accept the comestibles with words of gratitude -- even the specter of potential doom isn't enough to banish courtesy in those who were brought up well -- and commence nibbling.
They're still eating when the rest of your companions appear, having worked their way down from the higher crags, and help themselves to more of the meaty pastries. In moments the scene seems remarkably like the intermission of an athletic contest, regardless of the corpses strewn on the ground.
You wait for them to wolf down the last morsels before you ask your first question.
"What do you know about the way north?"
"The way won't be easy," Lady De Chauntallion said. Her elegantly manicured fingertip hovered just above the parchment map, tracing the path of the black line which bisected the inked continent. "My contacts at court tell me that the king's men have blockaded the upper reaches of the Malovar River, and his spies are monitoring all vessels which pass along this stretch. You'll have to travel by land."
"That's a lot of bloody walking. Don't suppose we could borrow horses?"
A faint smile crossed the noblewoman's face. For reasons somewhat beyond the periphery of your comprehension, Bluselle's mayor seemed to find Hugh's moaning and grumbling charming. Perhaps it was his accent...
"That can be arranged. But even so, Nordent's border is well guarded with makeshift fortifications and encampments. Infiltrating it may prove difficult."
"If Crenus is that keen on keeping people out, the trouble must be bad," Tessa said. Her eyes gleamed as they met yours.
The orc warlord's words rang in your mind once more, as they had ever since you woke from the maze and its music, and learned what Lady De Chauntallion had discovered.
"Kill you here, be made general when I go to fight in north."
"War coming. Big war."
Information was difficult to come by. With revolts in the west to contend with, it seemed that Crenus was anxious to keep news of the troubles in Nordent from spreading across the length and breadth of his kingdom. But Bluselle's mayor still had her contacts at his court, albeit outside of the king's innermost circle of trusted aristocrats. Thus you heard the rumors which were passing around the capital city's more opulent environs. And the tale gladdened your heart. They said some of the Nords had risen up in revolt, that the hardy denizens of that harsh tundra realm had even gone so far as to slaughter one of the local garrisons -- forcing new legions to be dispatched north to battle them.
Tessa was right, as usual. If royal soldiers were going to such pains to secure Nordent and prevent southlanders from learning the truth, it couldn’t have been some minor uprising -- a flash of civil strife easily suppressed. It was a war...
A perfect opportunity for you and your companions.
Jonas and Ada, the Stromhamren, become less nervous when they realize that they aren't going to be hacked to pieces. The liberal and generous hand with which Hugh hands out pies also helps put them at their ease. After a little hospitality and reassurance, they seem to have no qualms about telling you what they know about the movement of royal troops in the area.
What they have to say isn't encouraging. It seems that there are a great number of mounted patrols -- both to help cut Nordent off from the southlands and to act as a bulwark against the Caelian tribes of the steppes, whom Crenus' generals fear might become more of a nuisance if the discontent to the north is permitted to spread.
Nevertheless, the information they provide is useful. And you detect no deceit when they tell you that they each plan to desert rather than returning to camp if you allow them to go free. So you acquiesce, even going so far as to conceal their disappearance by incinerating the dead soldiers' bodies. If their remains are found, no one will know that a man and woman from the patrol survived the attack.
The gods alone know how many of Crenus' men and women you'll have to slay before either you lie dead or he's been yanked from the throne. Both volunteers and conscripts will perish by the hundred. Such is the grim reality of war. But the darkness on the horizon is no reason to create your own in the present. Thus you take satisfaction in watching Jonas and Ada begin their journey south, to seek anonymity and safety in Rhynhart. Then you turn back to the north, and continue your own odyssey towards the snowy wastes that are as yet so far distant.
Luck fails you at last after many miles of riding across the windswept plains.
A horseman, in the distance. Dressed in gold and purple that are robbed of their regal majesty by the oppressive grey light of an overcast sky. Not a Caelian tribesman, but one of the royal army's scouts. He's too far away for you to make out his eyes. But even so, you sense their scrutiny.
He gallops off long before you could hope to reach him, with too great a lead to make catching him a possibility. Thus all you can do is keep riding, knowing that he'll carry word back to his comrades -- that you might soon find a cavalry unit descending upon you.
All your gazes scour the landscape as you travel, expecting at any moment to see signs of the enemy. There's no cover to be had out here on the open plains, no way to avoid detection if and when they come in search of you. But by the same token, your foes won't be able to come unannounced. If there's fighting to be done, you'll be forewarned long before the steel flashes.
However, if luck deserted you before, she seems content to favor you now -- or at least to amuse herself by extending your trepidation.
When the gloomy skies deepen into evening, and your horses' fatigue forces you to slow your pace to a trot, you remain alone upon the steppes.
"Kurgans," Tessa says.
You follow her gaze. On the left-hand portion of the horizon, defying, mocking, or envious of the flat plains which roll before them, stand mounds of earth surmounted by spires of rock. Burial mounds, in the ancient manner of Caelnarn -- before such funerary fashion yielded to cremation.
Small hills loom among these manmade cousins, perhaps looking on in approval at seeing themselves imitated so -- or else frowning at the audacity.
"We won't find any better cover around here," you agree.
You turn your steeds towards the rising earth and stone, and are soon trotting among them -- looking upon monuments so weather-beaten that the hand of human sculpture is almost entirely obscured, defaced and reclaimed by nature. It's as good a place to make camp as any, a location where you can achieve some measure of concealment. And the terrain should ruin the charges of hostile cavalrymen.
So it is that you dismount in the shade of a rocky hillock, its face overgrown with moss and other hardy plant life.
"Want me to warm up some more pies?"
"I don't believe indigestion will prove of benefit to us," Brachus replies.
"No cooking fires," Tessa says. "No sense in giving ourselves away."
"Who needs a bloody fire? Can just use a bit of demon magic to do the job."
"I didn't rekindle my arcane powers for the purpose of heating your pastries."
You halfheartedly listen to the demon and his host argue as you take your kit down from your horse. Considering that the animal did all the hard work, you feel surprisingly weary -- and your hindquarters bear a slight ache from spending so long in the saddle. It's been some time since you last rode so far without pause.
You lean your shield against the hillock, then reach for your bedroll. But that latter task is destined to go uncompleted.
Voices fall silent. Your horse whines and backs away, his hooves clattering against the hard ground. All faces, humanoid and equine alike, stare in wonder. Each is bathed in a soft aureate glow.
A slender column of golden light bisects the hillock, a neat line that splits both rock and moss with perfect equanimity. The glow which pours from the narrow strip floods over you and your companions, throwing back the shadows of deepening dusk.
There's a grinding noise, an immense sound of stone scraping against stone. The rock face... collapses. No, not collapses... It falls inwards, but it’s a neat, precise motion -- splitting in half like a pair of opening doors, parting to reveal a cave. Within its gloom is a passage, an angled path that descends downwards into blackness.
Somewhere, whether in the vast reaches of heaven or the deepest recesses of your soul, destiny laughs.
"If we needed proof," Tessa muses, "I think this would suffice."
"It would," you agree.
A psychedelic mélange of light plays upon the tunnel wall, warding off the darkness which engulfs most of the passage's length and breadth. Patches of glowing lichen cling to the stone, emitting a soft fuzz of red, green, blue, purple, and yellow illumination. Beside them are chunks and outcrops of crystal, embedded in the rock. These throb in the same hues, as though either mirroring the curious flora or else lending them their mysterious power. Across this entire eclectic palette of luminosity flows a white-blue incandescence, cast by the globes you conjured up to light your path -- which now bob and float above your head as though waiting for further instruction.
But all this radiance, however weird and wonderful, pales before the significance of what it illuminates.
Sculpted into the rock, looming above you from the ancient stone, is a dragon. The monster stands in profile, sitting atop its haunches -- one of its clawed forelegs raised up as though grasping for something. The beast is magnificent. Its scales and contours must have been shaped by the hands of master artisans, worshipful craftsmen who sought to depict the subject of their work in all its fearful glory.
There can be no doubt. You're walking in your ancestor's footsteps once more. But this time the whims of fate have chosen to make it literal.
"If the stories are true," you say, "we've found our way north."
Tessa nods, her eyes -- like yours -- still fixed upon the stone-scaled visage from millennia past.
"We can pass right under all of Crenus' armies and fortifications," she says. "Let's fetch the others."
The two of you make your way back up the winding, sloping path -- your globes of light hovering along with you like a litter of loyal puppies. You left the rest of your companions outside the cave mouth while you scouted the way, but in truth you knew what would transpire the moment the rock face opened.
The threads of fate continue to ensnare you, binding and dragging you towards whatever murky future lies beyond your sight.