…in front of you stands a giant frog, though calling it such is a gross understatement. It is impossibly tall and built more akin to a mountain than an amphibian, with limbs the width of grain silos. Its hide is mottled with lumps the size of huts and there are all sorts of aquatic plants and trees that grow from its skin. You watch in terror as its throat bulges like a hot air balloon, and the creature unleashes a croak so devastatingly loud that the ground shakes and you are left with a tinny ringing in your ears.

“So, your mother’s artifact is a heron’s egg?” Burt asks, gingerly lifting the hem of his cloak as he treads through mud.

“Well, that’s what Maeflorian thinks,” Soraya replies. She alone seems unbothered by the oppressive humidity and ankle-deep quagmire you find yourself traversing as the party makes its way east of Maeflorian’s treehouse. “And not any old heron’s egg. Hers was the egg of the Skullpicker. Maeflorian seems to think that the hatching of the egg will bring great fortune to the bearer.”