A single majestic tower rose against the sedate Stormhome skyline. This single massive docking tower was equipped to deal with all of the city’s airborne visitors. During the city’s time as an Aundairian military outpost, most of Stormhome’s structures had been built with an eye for simplicity-squat and close to the ground so that they might weather the frequent sea storms. When House Lyrandar took command of the settlement and transformed it into the hub of their vast merchant network, they added the tower for docking their fleet of elegant airships. Dozens of colorful burning rings pierced the dense morning fog around the tower, the idle energy of the elementals that held the Lyrandar fleet aloft. Captain Pherris Gerriman’s eyes fixed nervously on a familiar ring of pale blue.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Dalan said, clapping the old gnome on the shoulder. “The Dawn isn’t going anywhere without us.”
Pherris’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Am I so obvious?” he said wistfully. He looked back at the path ahead, following the others as they walked through the busy street. “We only just put her back together. I would hate to lose her in a place like this.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Dalan said, winking. “The Lyrandar will keep a close eye on the ship while we’re here, if only to make sure we don’t cut in on their business. There’s no watchdog quite as keen as a sailor who thinks you might be after his share. Aeven is still there as well. I pity any thief that tries to sneak on board.”
Pherris shrugged. “I know,” he said with a sigh. “I’m a silly old man sometimes. I just can’t bear to be away from her.”
Dalan looked down at Pherris for a long moment, wondering if the old gnome was talking about his ship or the dryad. He changed the subject. “We need you here, Captain,” he said. “The Frostfell is a perilous frontier. We need your expertise if this journey is to be successful.”
“I meant to ask you about that, Dalan,” Zed said. “I know almost nothing about the Frostfell, and I hate not knowing what we’re getting into. I know it’s cold, it’s on the far side of the ocean, and no one ever comes back. That’s about it.”
“I think you know a great deal more than most,” Dalan said. “The Frostfell is a low priority for most explorers. Most deem it far more trouble than it’s worth, considering the profit to be had in less dangerous and more accessible areas.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Pherris said, grumbling under his breath. “I don’t recall ever hearing of a successful voyage to the Frostfell.”
“There was only one large expedition that ever journeyed into its depths and returned,” Dalan said.
“One known expedition,” Tristam corrected, looking back over his shoulder at Dalan.
“Quite,” Dalan said, nodding. “I am not surprised to learn that my uncle apparently made his own secret forays into that land, but if we wish to follow, we must seek the wisdom of those who made their exploits popularly known.” Dalan paused, surveying the streets around him. A small grin split his broad features as he found the building he sought-a small, two-story home surrounded by a low fence. “Masters Ijaac and Lemgran Bruenhail are friends of the family. They both accompanied Lord ir’Dayne’s expedition into the Frostfell. If we wish to journey there safely, we should seek their advice.”
“Do you need me for this?” Gerith asked. The halfling shifted from foot to foot, looking at Dalan and Pherris with an anxious expression.
“What’s got into you, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked, offering Gerith an irritated look.
“Me?” Gerith asked, feigning surprise. “I’m not up to anything.” He looked around sharply, eyes moving from one thing to the next with an eager intensity. “It’s just that I’ve never been here before. I’ve heard a lot of stories about this place. I want to see it.”
“Stormhome has a reputation as a den of spies, pirates, and debauchery,” Dalan said with some amusement. “Your curiosity fails to surprise me.”
Gerith shrugged lamely. “I guess maybe I was a little curious,” he admitted, “but I thought I might start looking into gathering supplies. Frostfell is a long way away.”
“Good idea, Master Snowshale,” Pherris said. “I doubt in your current agitated state you would add much to this meeting.”
Gerith grinned.
Pherris smiled. “Take Omax with you, just to be safe,” he said.
Gerith frowned.
The warforged looked down at Gerith and released a metallic sigh.
“You don’t really expect to carry all those supplies by yourself, do you?” the captain asked.
Gerith pursed his lips in an annoyed pout. “I guess not,” he said. “Come, Omax.” The halfling walked off toward the docks, shoulders slumping slightly. The warforged loped along behind him, blue eyes scanning the streets for danger.
“Remind me to apologize to Omax for any trouble Master Snowshale topples down upon them,” Pherris said, watching them go.
Dalan laughed as he opened the gate and entered the small garden beyond. There were few plants; the garden was mostly fine stones of black and white, placed carefully upon the earth and combed in intricate patterns. A stocky little man knelt on the path near the house, smoothing the stones with a long-handled rake. He peered up as they approached. His wizened face was framed by thick gray brows and an explosion of salt-and-pepper beard.
“D’Cannith,” the old dwarf said, rising and carefully leaning his rake against the house. He erupted in wet, hacking coughs for several moments before composing himself and eyeing Dalan shrewdly. “How did I know you’d come?”
“I need information, Lemgran,” he said. “I will pay.”
“Oh, you will,” the dwarf agreed. He looked at the rest of them with a cautious eye, then turned and opened the door, gesturing for them to follow.
The inside of the house was dark and smelled richly of incense. The walls were adorned with faded maps and dusty hunting trophies. Half-eaten plates of food sat stacked about the bookcases and furniture, discarded and forgotten. The old dwarf led them to a low table surrounded by overstuffed chairs and a long couch. He sat down heavily and watched them enter in keen silence, muffling a cough behind his handkerchief.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Dalan said, settling on the couch across from the dwarf. “Allow me to introduce my associates …”
“No,” the dwarf said, eyeing Zed Arthen warily. “No names. Your friends have the look of people I’m better off not knowing. Just ask your questions, d’Cannith. You’re here about the Frostfell?”
Dalan nodded. He looked around the room thoughtfully. “Your brother Ijaac has gone there, hasn’t he?” he asked.
“Why do you say that?” Lemgran asked, his voice rough as he stifled a new fit of coughing.
“Your brother was always the tidy one,” Dalan replied. “By the looks of your home he has not been here in weeks.”
Lemgran scowled. “Ijaac’s a fool, and he always has been,” the dwarf said. “Always running off on any stupid adventure, Bruenhail honor be damned. I told him the Frostfell was no place for an old dwarf, but he was too stubborn.”
“Has Norra Cais been here?” Dalan asked.
Lemgran nodded. “She was the one who wrapped him up in promises of adventure,” he said. “Ijaac left with her weeks ago on a ship bound for the north.”
“But you stayed here?” Dalan said.
“I don’t regret our adventures, but I put them behind me,” the dwarf said sadly. “Ijaac was always hungry for one more trip, but the Way finder Foundation never really needed us. They have plenty of young fools to die on their trips to Xen’drik, Argonnessen, and Q’barra. Sure, we have experience, but nobody ever wants to go to the Frostfell.”