The scrying orb rippled, its milky surface clearing to reveal the subterranean roots of Anam-Lorn. The stranger leaned forward, a slow, calculated smile spreading across their face as they watched the six figures huddled in the dim light of the barrows.

“Look at them,” the stranger murmured to the empty room. “So eager. So desperate for the rare treasures I promised.”

The orb zoomed in on the party, who had just navigated a brutal hallway of traps. Above them, the living tombs created from the tree’s ancient roots pulsed with a faint, necrotic rhythm.

“Ah, December,” the stranger chuckled, noting the Blueberry of the Vale. “Returned from your disgrace, stripped of your gear and coin, yet fool enough to sprint right back into the meat grinder. I hope the borrowed kit I provided fits well enough to die in. Such a fun a little pawn she has turned out to be.”

The view shifted to the frontline. Ryum and Yum were already covered in fresh scars, laughing as they pushed their Trollish regeneration to its absolute, horrifying breaking point just to clear a path. Nearby, Silas—the newly arrived Paragon—wiped a spray of dark fluid from his blade. His knife-work had been surgical, a beautiful display of lethal efficiency.

Then there was the magical core. Midas the Warlock stood apart from the others, his patron's light humming around him. The stranger wrinkled their nose. “A welcome addition, Midas, truly... even if you do stink of that insufferable celestial radiance.” Beside the warlock, Bony Alice was already at work, her pale fingers twitching as she meticulously cultivated her growing army of the dead from the tomb's loose detritus.

In the center of the group, held tightly in a grime-covered hand, gleamed their first mystery: a Golden Key, pulled from the heart of four intricately trapped chests. They had survived the opening gambit.

But now, the real test began.

The scrying orb showed the party standing at a crossroads in the crypt of Malakor the Unshriven. To the north lay a narrow hallway, completely blocked by the quivering, translucent mass of a massive Gelatinous Cube. What was past that the Stranger could not see for magics blocked his veiw.

To the east, the air grew thick and damp, leading toward the sound of a large pool of stagnant water—the very place the stranger had explicitly warned them never to go. The place where the Amhuluk waited in the deep. Should they visit him they would learn a secret about Douxel Vale. A secret that would haunt them to their grave.

The stranger picked up a glass of wine, raising it toward the orb.

“Now, my brave little pieces,” they whispered, watching the six adventurers debate their next step. “Which way will you bleed? Do you face the ooze... or do you test the waters?”