The eve before, a feast fit for the halls of kings graced my table: breast of pheasant, kissed by flame and seasoned with the secrets of the wildwood. Each bite was a rapture, a savory enchantment that lingered long upon the tongue—a repast worthy of legend and song. Unfortunately, we could not stay beyond that day, though we wanted to. Very much so, in fact.
With a lingering gaze, I beheld the House of Wonders—its halls still shimmering with the echoes of explosive magicks—before releasing a weary sigh. Together with my companions, I set forth once more, our path winding toward yet another mountain. This peak, mercifully, bore no threat of fire or molten wrath (thanks be to Juneauh), and so we pressed onward beneath its shadow, spirits tempered by adventure and relief.
It didn’t take lo
