“If it leaves tracks, it can be learned. If it can be learned, it can be killed.”
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Lantern light spills across three shrouded dead as the marsh answers in their voices. Hybrid, level 5: finish the rite before the light claims someone.
In the hydra-hide halls of Zharessin Oasis, brass dragonborn Bharash Kilnbrand smelts desert ironstone with his own breath and fits every weapon to the hand that will carry it. He stands behind everything he sells.
Every night the wind howls past the black rock ring around Zharessin Oasis, and Oshenne Zephrain, an air genasi elder of the council of shamans, tilts her head and listens. She gives the sound first, what she thinks it asked second, and never claims to know who is speaking.
