When the blood trail vanished into the sewers of Drowning Wallace, the party descended into the ancient arteries of the city with steel drawn and spells at the ready. Blueberry, ever cautious, stayed above with Tom, where surface horrors soon met their match in the old stableman’s bare-knuckled defiance. Below, amid ancient brickwork and eerie magical light, the others faced a tide of ghouls.

What might have been a death sentence became a masterclass in collaborative combat. Scorn’s Slow, Aldric’s Flaming Sphere, Ipid’s protective duels—their spells wove a net of control and precision. In the midst of blood and breathless spells, they found Rose Thorne, calm amidst chaos. She had not fallen, but followed, her interest in their search as deep as her secrets. She vanished with a portal, leaving more questions than comfort.

And then the fog broke.

After weeks of gloom, Drowning Wallace burst into revelry. Banners unfurled, music filled the air, and the wine flowed like the long-denied sun. Yet even as joy spilled into the streets, the party prepared for darker dealings. They sought audience with Lacassism, the vampire general of Bloodbarrow.

At his towering manor, Scorn met a ghost of his past—Elspeth. Half-elf, half-vampire, all business. The weight of unspoken memories passed between them like a held breath. When Scorn returned her old academy diploma, Elspeth did not weep—but her stillness told the tale. She now served Lacassism as enforcer and warlock, her pact with her undead forefather lending her power and poise.

Led into a subterranean library, they found the truth: Lacassism had fought the Baradur cult millennia ago and failed. The cult had hidden their temple by collapsing a portion of the city—a scar Lacassism buried beneath prestige and denial.

In the slums of the Shutter Sprawl, the party met an ancient blacksmith with soot-stained hands and a soul older than stone. He forged for them a glowing coal-stone, hot as vengeance, key to the buried temple. Rose, upon learning of its location, transformed into a monstrous crow and vanished into the sky.

Before night fell, they aided Elspeth in purging a den of rogue wizards—vain alchemists clinging to youth through potion and pretense. A misplaced Fireball ended their spell-slinging aspirations, and Elspeth finished the job with cold efficiency. The tavern burned. The city cheered.

At the Lost Legging, Scorn performed The Ballad of Blood and Fire, a song that turned memory to myth and silence to silver. Rose and Tom drank together, a moment that crackled with intimacy and danger, as much about shared sorrow as celebration. Somewhere in the revelry, a line was crossed, and the party felt the weight of what lay ahead.

Beneath the veils and varnish of festival joy, the temple of Baradur waits.

And it is not sleeping.