The party sidled carefully against the rock, Osa doing her damndest despite her long, snaky form not allowing for much in the way of sidling. Caliz motioned for them to hold off, snuck ahead, cracked the smaller double-doors, and peered inside. Inside the doors were, as the rough map stated, stables. Piles of hay flanked them, steeds rested in their little homes, and a large cage sat empty. Caliz assumed it used to contain guard animals of some kind. Dogs or something.

She tended her garden well, as she always did. This was her forest, her plants, her garden, her trees. It surrounded the tree she called home, the tree her soul was linked with, the place she could never leave, and could never imagine wanting to.

A train blew its whistle, screeching into the hot, stagnant air of the East Skyside Station, sending pigeons on its roof into harried flight. The horrible sound sliced through a sheer lace curtain and bounced around the room beyond. Quite suddenly, from the beauty of sleep, dream, and peace, Kroweth was painfully, horribly awake.

Caliz sat on the log beside the fire while one of the Nojern he’d forgotten the name of wound bandages around his shoulder. His armor and shirt were cast aside, leaving him in nothing but the tightly-wound cloth around his chest. Everyone at the camp was polite enough to not ask about it.

Our Cohort awoke upon their first Moonday in the Magaambya, safe within the thick stone walls of the Spire Dormitory, with the pattering rain against their windows and ceiling, and all met in the common area, decorated with colored tessellated tiles, comfy couches, and tapestries.

The carriage rumbled down the path past our party of three, the driver headed to drop their belongings at the guild hall and ask for backup, while the rest walked to Akala’s camp. It was small, a collection of tents with a fire in the trees, and a Nojern woman stood to watch them approach.

“Lost.” Caliz tore his eyes from the scenery to look at his companion pointedly. He hadn’t been in Vol’Tyr since he was quite young, and had never been on this side of the continent. The trees and fresh growth had captured his many eyes for quite a while before Osa distracted him. “We’re not lost. We’re on a bleeding path.”

Some call me Kannoran. Others, Dral’gathach. Others still, Bassant. I don’t belong here.

Deep within the city of Nantambu, in the rain of the greatest school for the magically-inclined, ancient and impressive in its scope and structure, known everywhere as The Magaambya, a band of five brand new students met at a campfire in a pleasant glade. These five students, of wildly different backgrounds, homes, and personalities, were here to attend this magical school, all bound to be a Cohort, a group that would protect, help, and be there for each other.