Blasted sand! Gets in me boots, me beard, and places I’d rather not mention! Aye, I’ll not shed a tear leavin’ this forsaken shore. Shredder, the Tortle who found us camped out, is leadin’ us north through a sparse forest toward his camp at Galloway. As we march, we pry some more about this Nimfudge fellow. Last he saw of ‘im, the lad was babbling nonsense about stone gates. Stranger still, no one saw him arrive nor leave. That was weeks ago, and the whole thing reeks of trouble.

We near the camp, but Shredder’s face twists with concern—it’s empty. Says at least one of his kin should be here to guard it. Istrum, ever the paranoid one, wonders if we’re caught in some arcane trap—claims there’s no wind stirrin’ the trees. That gets us all lookin’ around warily. To test his theory, we tie our ropes together, then lash floatin’ Icarus to a tree like some overgrown festival balloon. We haul him up, he flings a spell into the air… and naught happens. No invisible walls. No cursed bubbles. But the lad’s got a weak stomach, and soon enough, we’re dodgin’ his breakfast rainin’ down from above.

Shredder’s been fair with us so far, so we offer to track down his kin. We poke through the camp—no signs of a fight, no mess, no blood. Even the cookin’ pots are neatly put away. Then Shadowstep, ever the clown, suggests it’s all just a surprise birthday party. Before I can clip him upside the head for his foolishness, we hear the twang of crossbows.

Bandits!

Shadowstep is on ‘em like a rabid wolverine, slicin’ one open with his daggers while shoutin’, “Well, this is a shite birthday party!” The boy might jest, but he’s deadly. Istrum lights two of the bastards ablaze, leavin’ naught but ash. I see my chance, plant me feet, and hurl a handaxe right into some poor fool’s chest before closin’ the distance and takin’ his head clean off! Aye, I’ve missed this!

I spot another bandit makin’ to flee and raise me axe to split him in twain, but just as I swing, Istrum’s damnable magic missiles rip through him first. Robbed me of me kill, that wily bastard!

We pick through the corpses, findin’ their mouths sewn shut. Aye, Gerhard and Istrum recognize ‘em as part of the Silent Order of Bandits—a nasty lot, spread all over like vermin. Shredder mentions they have a camp in the heart of the island, but that’s a problem for later. First, we find his kin.

Tortle tracks lead us back south toward the shore, then veer toward a cave mouth. Shredder says it leads to the Abandoned City—same one marked on our maps. Seems like our best bet. It’s a two-day journey through the tunnels, but there’s a camp halfway, so we press on. Me an’ Shadowstep take the lead while Gerhard lights his fancy shield so the others don’t go trippin’ over themselves.

Deep inside, we find strange runes carved into the walls. Not dwarven, I’ll tell ye that much! Shredder recalls Nimfudge rantin’ about such marks. I sketch a few down for later, seein’ as we might need ‘em. Istrum squints at ‘em, recognizin’ the rune for Gate, but there’s others—ones scrawled in some oily black ink. Magic, no doubt, but none of us know their purpose.

Then, Shadowstep, the cursed fool, touches the bloody thing!

The runes shimmer, then burn themselves right into his arm. The lad howls as they climb up his skin before settlin’ there, glowin’ faintly. He tries to cast one of his spells—but naught happens. By Moradin’s beard, what have these young whelps got us into now?!

Up ahead, there’s a flickerin’ light. Hopefully, it’s the halfway camp. Aye, I could use a stiff drink after all this!