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All things red, even herrings

She knew the taste of frustration. She belonged to the generation that had fought over and over again at Crausaar’s lair. Patiently starting over, regrouping, leaving town once again, with the hope of a better outcome. She should be happy - this trip announced nothing but good news. Either they would find their King, or they would find nothing at all, in the best case scenario. No deaths foreseen, no suffering ahead. She had only forgotten to account for frustration. But she knew it well.

“Captain Rigg,

Amere and I, helped by a generous group of adventurers, have failed to confirm the rumours. We have visited every single island in the South, and found no sign of King N’eroth. We had hoped that, at least, D’Arkk Lyver’s old shack would yield some indication. An empty bottle of rum, a collection of sea shells. But no. Nothing.

Please, do let us know if you think it is worth keeping this search. And Mirith owes her thanks to the clerics Rosina and Juffer, to the wizard Malthaen, to the druid Yendu, and the rogue Juffilops.

Meanwhile, it would probably be important to call for a meeting of the Vanguard with the authorities in charge, so that we can draw a plan to look for the King, if that is to be our course of action.

Waiting for further information,

Cassandra, wizard of the Mirith Vanguard”


  • Farn Rigg didn’t waste time. When the ranger mentioned the King might have been seen somewhere in the southern isles, he issued immediate orders to the scouts. “You, Jennus – ‘op it to Marali. See what yer can find out, they know something. Meet McTyr if yer can.” Then who to entrust with the search? Only one choice: he scribbled a quick note to the Vanguard, and set out himself.

    He was a sailor. Swift winds brought him south, and he searched. Rum bought him some cheap talk in the right taverns, but no more than the usual fantasies of drunken sailors by way of information. He weaved his way between serpents and waves as he landed at this island and that, old maps and old refuges proved fruitless and empty. He journeyed to the utmost south, braved the waters of the atoll lagoon and the sands of poisoned beaches. Nothing to suggest N’eroth was more than a memory.

    At length, brined and bedraggled, he rafted slowly north, tacking against the wind – and upriver to Mirith. 

    “You’d better read this, Sir.”

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