The Great Plague of the Old World still haunts what few members are left of my grandparents’ generation. Approximately 35 million people perished, with less than 500,000 successfully emigrating to the Ironlands without affliction. All 500,000 represented different houses, settlements, factions, and circles of the Old World and, as such, the population distributed somewhat evenly among the land. Some, for example, cannot withstand the harsh climate of the northern regions, while others seek solace in the icy bite of winter’s cruel winds.

Recently, an affliction has creeped into Wolfspire. It started minor. It started slow. Inflammations that our healer, Hirsham, could easily mitigate with herbal poultices. No one in our circle feared a new plague at first. Some of the elders took extra precautions; still traumatized by the Great Plague. But since Hirsham had everything under control, we carried on our days with nary a negative thought. Soon, the symptoms became noticeable and severe. Unchecked inflammation turned to fever; fever turned to coma; coma turned to certain death. All within three or four days. Thankfully, the disease is incredibly rare. Usually, inflammation turning to fever required extra attention that was nothing Hirsham couldn’t reverse within a week or two, but this affliction is more complicated than anything he had experienced before. A fever turning to coma? Unheard of in the Tempest Hills where the summer air is chilly enough to stave off even the strongest of fevers. But this? It was truly concerning.

I don’t pretend to be any sort of clairvoyant — I scoff at the notion — but ever since the Sickness started to spread through my village my nights have been cursed with intrusive dreams. One intrusive dream, in fact — a recurring one. I am in a pristine chapel with walls carved out of the finest white stone, rows of seats crafted with the finest mahogany, an altar elaborately decorated with sparkling jewels and adorned with roses and candles. Chapels like these do not exist in the Tempest Hills as far as I have experienced. I’ve told Father about the chapel in my dreams and I was met with a snort as a response. “Sounds like the kind of hedonistic decadence they enjoy in the Havens,” he said derisively. “I expect no less from a land full of lazy vagabonds and plump nobles. Send any of them anywhere even slightly north of Hinterlands and watch them wither away to nothing just at the possibility of a day’s hard work.”

Did the chapel in my dreams exist somewhere on the Ironlands, perhaps in the Havens as my father suggests? Surely not one just like it, I would hope. Next in my dream, a High Priest stands at the altar. His grizzled beard extends to his chest, his streaked gray hair tied back in a loose braid, his dark gray hat and matching robes smoky in contrast to the brilliance of the white room. Before he speaks, his eyes burn a blazing red. Standing perfectly still, his mouth unhinges in a terrifying gape as several demonic tongues at once echo into the large, open expanse of the nave. The priest then arches his body forward, lifts his head up to the Heavens, and shrieks a noiseless cry. White mist from his mouth floats to the ceiling as his eyes continue to burn, back impossibly arched back, creating a gnarled shadow on the wall behind him. The earth starts rumbling as the demonic tongues continue to groan, moan, and whisper around the nave. Behind the priest an iron pillar rises out of the floor as if pushed upwards by a tremendous force. In the back of the nave to the right, and in the back of the nave to the left, similar pillars rise out of the floor. Girth like a tree at the base, tapered at the top, all three pillars rise and do not stop at the ceiling. They continue to push upward, upward, eternally upward. They grow more radiant by the second, until suddenly all three stop. The rumbling of the earth stops, the echoes stop, the mist stops swirling to the ceiling.

Suddenly, with a deafening bang, beams of light connect the middles of the three pillars in a glorious, holy triangle. For a moment everything seems to have been solved, to have been clicked into place. Then the walls begin melting. The air gets hazy and hot. And red. Fire ignites the seats and altar; the High Priest is like a statue as he himself is engulfed in flames. The beams of light shine brighter and brighter as everything around them appears to be sinking into a pit of Hell. The last thing I see before I bolt up in a cold sweat is a horrible, laughing red face. As if the Devil himself. It feels so real every single time. And it never deviates. The dream is exactly the same every single time.

Main Quest
Synchronize the Three Blighted Pillars of the Ages

I wake up one morning sweating and exhausted. Weeks and weeks of the burning, melting altar have left me rattled and sleep-deprived. I swear that if I ever leave Wolfspire and find myself in the Havens I’ll be seeking out this mysterious chapel. If it’s even there in the first place. There must be a reason for my recurring nightmare and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it drive me absolutely stark raving mad.

Completely malcontented with my current predicament, I decide that morning to cross the village to visit Hirsham for a remedy. Any remedy will do, I care not what it contains or how it may feel on my skin or taste on my tongue. A dreamless sleep for even one night would be bliss. When I arrive at Hirsham’s quarters in the castle, I am met with a disposition of fear and panic. “Hello Lady Jane, what a pleasant surprise. Are you unwell?”

The look on Hirsham’s face was unsettling to me. It didn’t seem appropriate at the moment to complain about bad dreams. “What’s wrong, Hirsham? Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, Lady Jane! Unless you are in dire need of healing, I’m afraid I can’t assist you this morning. Five more townsfolk have fallen ill to the Sickness!” Hirsham motioned to the adjacent room where the beds were full. “I cannot watch more of our friends and family fall deep into comas from which they can never return! I just can’t!”

It was unlike the usually level-headed Hirsham to be so frantic. I wanted nothing more than to soothe his anxiety. “Hirsham, I swear it. I will do anything to help!”

“Lady Jane, there is nothing I can ask of you that will be appropriate of a young woman of your station. My aides are far too busy with the ill to help me with what I will admit is a very poor chance to reverse the Sickness, but I do not know who to turn to with everyone so busy with preparing for the upcoming winter. Based on my recent research in my medical journals, I have discovered a potion called the Draught of Healing Miasma that is purported to clear a fever and pull the stricken out of a coma. My hopes are that this will stave off death and bring the ill to an eventual recovery. I don’t know if it will work for the Sickness, but I’m left with no other recourse.”

Daught of Healing Miasma? That name makes no sense. Miasma is illness in of itself. I wasn’t going to argue with Hirsham or his medical journals, but this sounded like a fantasy to me. “Again, do not make me stomp my feet! What can I do to help you? If it means leaving the village I will do it! The circle means the world to me, and I too will not witness another one of our people succumb to an early, needless death!”

Hirsham looked astonished, but he also betrayed an expression of insight. “Yes. Yes, of course you can help, Lady Jane. Of course. Are you aware of the nearby settlement of Winterwood to the northeast? This is where I spent seven years studying the arts and sciences of healing. If there is any place in the Ironlands where one could find a Draught of Healing Miasma, it would be Winterwood. Are you absolutely sure this is a mission you would like to embark upon?”

I looked Hirsham right in the eye. “I swear an iron vow, Hirsham. I will help you find this draught.”

Quest #1
Retrieve the Draught of Healing Miasma

Hirsham’s face lit up. “Oh, gods. Lady Jane, this is truly an altruistic act! Thank you! Again, this is entirely conjecture, but it is better than doing nothing. I will need to stay and tend to the ill, and I do not wish to pester you, but haste is key! Northeast, my girl! Thank you! Oh gods, thank you!”

I stand there smiling wanly. Northeast, sure? But where exactly? Am I to acquire a map? Do I need supplies, a companion, a weapon? I never have left the village, how am I to brave a journey such as this when the road could be replete with beasts, bandits, rapers, or other dangerous obstacles? I decide to ask the people I trust and wanderers what I can expect.

One of my older brothers scares me. On purpose, no doubt. He speaks of terrifyingly large wolves and man-eating wildebeests. My usual snarkiness eludes me as he grabs a bow and quiver from a closet in his quarters. He shoves them at my chest. “Here, enjoy yourself.”

A particularly insightful wanderer warns me of packs of wolves on the road to Winterwood and warns me to sharpen my bow skills. I do not have time, and I pray to the old gods that I can get by on my years of archery training (that I never became very proficient at).

I understand that my journey will no doubt be dangerous. Quiver and bow at my back, I set off alone.

Click here for all the boring game-related notes! On second thought, don’t bother!