It has been a perilous journey north, but somehow, between Burt’s perpetual whining and Allard’s penny-pinching, your party has made it as far as the Northern Creek, which winds through the countless misty valleys of the mountain ranges. You had spent a cozy night at the Hawk’s Beak Inn a few nights ago, but the strength you had gained from its comforts has been all but sapped away by the vicious climate.

I still think about him. That fat fool of an old whisker. No matter how bad a day he was having, my father would always come home with a grin plastered on his face and greet me. He would prattle on about the wares he had sold and items he had acquired throughout the day, which I hardly cared for, but at the end, he always said, “As surely as the sun goes down, your father will always come home to you, Andromadus.”