Shore of Apparitions
The surf hissed against black stone as the party arrived on the Bifröst shore—and there, for a breath, they saw her: the Lady Blackstaff, a pale silhouette casting something into the sea. Spray took the vision and the beach fell empty. They scoured the rocks and foam for signs—runes, residue, a footprint—nothing remained. Whatever they witnessed left no trace the world was willing to keep.
Parting of Paths
Weighing the omen, Fafnir decided the truth lay beyond their immediate reach. He would consult Albion Dusklight and study the vision’s shape. “Five days,” he said. “Midgard. I’ll meet you there.” With Albion’s Key, he opened a door of blue-white wards and stepped through.
Vadi eyed her boat’s scraped hull. “Too many rules in Midgard’s docks. I’ll berth at Muspelheim,” she grinned. “Then on to Nidavellir to drag my master, Volundr, home by his ears if I must.” She pressed a carved Alfar seal into their hands. “Show this—folk will treat you less like strangers. And avoid that little peninsula—Pufflin burrow. Mostly harmless… until they’re not.”
Road to Midgard
Between Midgard and Muspelheim, the party chose the northern road. To speed their travel, Nithgrea summoned a steed; the earth shuddered and out of the woods stepped a tamed Geyserhorn, steam wreathing its crown of stone spouts. She named it Geisje, and the beast snorted warm mist like a traveling hearth.
Feeling of Being Watched
Every now and then, the party feels like they are being watched from afar.
They spot a large horned owl-like creature in the distance, staring at them even though it seems to be lacking any eyes.
The Weavers’ Cabin
Dusk found a solitary chimney smoking in the wilds. Three sisters—the Weavers—welcomed the travelers to their lonesome hut, fingers busy spinning downy strands of Fluffokka fur into cloth. Supper was simple and kind. The air, however, carried a prickle—like static before a storm. The party set watches.
During Quertex’s vigil, a single thread hung from the rafters. When he tugged it, letters knit themselves along the fiber, sentence by sentence:
“One which parted with the night.
Only your stars remember.
What was broken must not be made whole.
Beware the sun of nothing.”
By morning, the thread was only thread again. They thanked the sisters and moved on.
Crabs, Catapults, and a Grand Beak
Farther along the coast, shrill screams cut the wind. They found a smaller Widowcrab locked in a losing battle with a towering Queen. Something in the smaller creature’s posture—clicks like pleas—spoke of help rather than hunger. The party waded in.
In the fray, Quertex—ever the innovator—cast Catapult using a single shoe as ammunition. The impromptu missile struck the Queen like a slap from fate. When she finally fell, the smaller crab shimmered and changed—revealing renowned explorer Irwin Fauna. He stammered thanks and a breathless explanation: research for his next book had gone very sideways.
Ambush! A barrage of net-stuffed snowballs exploded around them—Pufflin warriors of the Snowjabber tribe swarmed, chittering triumphantly. One Pufflin snatched Quertex’s launched shoe and donned it as a helmet with sacred gravitas. Irwin blinked, then whispered, “Buy me time.” He vanished into a cave and emerged moments later as a towering, penguin-like Grand Beak. The Pufflins froze, then fell into prostrations. Reverent and delighted, they escorted their “god” away into their burrow.
Before departing, “the Grand Beak” pressed a signed note into the party’s hands—thanks for the rescue, and a promise to study Pufflin culture (from a safe, divine distance).
Gates of the Capital
By late day, Midgard’s wind-carved palisades rose from the tundra. The gate-warden eyed them warily until the Alfar seal flashed in the light; the gates opened with a groan. They were greeted by Harbard, the Lamentor and second to the Jarl—a tall shadow draped in ritual somberness. He informed them that today was Auril’s Blesstide.
To Tinnitus, the name was familiar—Waterdeep celebrates it as a hymn to Auril. Here, the festival worked like a warding—a communal refusal, a rally of warmth and firelight to keep the Frostmaiden’s spirit at bay.
Market Misadventures and Music
They explored Midgard’s wards, gathering supplies. Quertex attempted—to no one’s surprise—to acquire a single shoe via stealing. The shopkeep’s stare was granite; coin changed hands. Shoe obtained. Balance restored.
At dusk, they joined the throng in the square. Jarl Vingthor addressed the people in a low thunder of words, then summoned the party to his hall on the morrow. Later, Tinnitus tried to introduce the people of Midgard to the music from his flute; confusion became curiosity, then clapping, then dances spun wild and warm beneath the cold sky.
Day’s End
They closed the night in a Goliath tavern, heat of hearth and stew easing the road from their bones. Outside, festival braziers burned against the dark. Somewhere far off, the sea muttered to itself—and the threads of the Isles pulled tight around the travelers who had come to mend what perhaps should not be made whole.