In the haunting expanse of the Marrow Stretch, where time itself seemed to stand still, an assembly of enigmatic figures convened under a sky painted in haunting shades of twilight. The landscape around them was a tapestry of desolation, scarred by the memories of ancient, cataclysmic battles. Each figure, draped in shadows that seemed woven from the very essence of the land, was a sentinel of age-old secrets and power.

These silhouettes, more akin to living myths than mere beings, were as indelibly tied to this land as the dark, ominous clouds that churned endlessly above. The air around them hummed with a tension that spoke of formidable wills clashing silently in the void. Their forms, undefined yet palpably potent, blurred at the edges, merging with the shifting shadows cast by the twisted, barren trees that dotted the landscape.

This was no ordinary gathering. Here, in the heart of a land that bore witness to eons of strife and forgotten lore, these figures—each a master of their own dominion—spoke in tones that resonated with the wealth of centuries lived. Their words, though spoken softly, carried through the air like ripples across a still pond, imbued with the gravitas and cunning that only beings of such ancient provenance could possess.

In this place, where the past and present melded into a singular, timeless moment, their council would decide the fates of realms far beyond the reach of mortal ken. The Marrow Stretch, with its lingering echoes of sorrow and loss, served as the perfect backdrop for deliberations that shaped the very fabric of their world.

A hunched shadow spoke first. "Reymand is nearly within our fold," it murmured. "Soon, that name will belong to us, a prize long awaited."

A taller figure, its presence commanding and vast, responded, its voice deeper and resonant, "Yet we cannot forget our losses. Grenn, fallen at the hands of the Sea Warden. A balance must be struck; retribution is not just our right, but our duty."

“There will be time for that,” said the hunched shadow. “But, mine own ears call to the attention of the Boglands. Rumors? Truths?”

“The Utvandring,” said another, who’s voice scraped like old branches against stone. “It is a truth. Trask’s heir has returned whole and hale to Drelore.”

“Why must we fixate on this?” said a malicious voice. “This is not a concern.”

“Because, they say the welp of Trask has begun the Trial. Another Knight—another Warden, is a concern.”

“A poor one,” spat the malicious voice.

A younger shadow, its form less defined than the rest, queried with a hint of impatience, "How could this have happened? We have poisoned the Boglands with our eyes."

One amongst them, cloaked in deeper darkness, responded with a tone of reassurance, "It is being sorted."

The malicious voice, cold and calculating, declared, "If the Trial has begun, we must let it run its course. We can do nothing while it stands. Though, it may resolve this predicament without further intervention. Blood for the Bog."

The younger shadow groaned, frustration evident in its ethereal tone. "If only you lot were not so bound by age, other tactics could be employed. Ones more flexible."

Its words betrayed a hunger for more direct action, a desire to shape events more forcefully.

"The Trask is a Seedling," it continued, a hint of a plan forming in the shadows. "Vulnerable to certain… influences."

The deeper darkness, a figure of authority and ancient knowledge, reiterated firmly, "We are handling it." The finality in its voice suggested no further questioning.

The figures slowly dispersed, their forms blending back into the shadows of the wasteland. Each carried their own thoughts, schemes, and anticipations for the unfolding events in the Boglands and beyond. As the last of them vanished, the desolate landscape of the Marrow Stretch returned to its silent vigil, the twilit sky witnessing the departure of powers old and enigmatic.

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Stepping out of Hvísla, the swamp's familiar embrace felt oddly comforting and foreign all at once. My mind was racing faster than a hound on the hunt, trying to piece together the puzzle of this Verndari business. The air, crisp and tinged with the smell of wet earth and moss, seemed to carry a new sensation—something mindful, as if it was sizing me up, trying to figure out what I'd become.

The more I thought about it, the more it gnawed at me. This whole Verndari thing—it couldn't be as cut and dry as Myri made it out to be. There had to be another piece, something they weren't telling me. It made sense, right? Why else would they be dancing around the issue, not just declaring 'it's done' and moving on?

I kicked at a stray rock, watching it skip across the ground. No, there had to be something else, some final step or agreement that would lock this thing in place. It was like having a deal on the table, all ready to be signed, but missing that final handshake to seal it. They needed something from me, some kind of active acceptance, even if they weren't saying it outright.

As I wandered through the ruins, my mind kept drifting back to simpler times. Back home. It reminded me of this one job back at Rollins, where we had to fabricate this wild, confusing-looking metal gate for a client. A state senator—don’t rightly remember his name, but that didn’t really matter. He had pockets deeper than he had taste and we’d built it to his specifications.

That gate job had been a real head-scratcher at first. I remember staring at those metal pieces, trying to figure out how they'd all fit together. ‘Course, Benjamin, the designer of the whole thing, had been drying out in jail that day after putting his Silverado in a ditch at the end of his night out on the town, so that left me to tease out the assembly all on my own. I’d had all the pieces laid out, perfectly cut and shaped, but the thing wouldn't come together in my mind. So I started picking at it—placing parts where I thought they felt most natural. It wasn’t until I welded that final joint that the whole thing came together, tension drawing it into its alignment like a natural formation of the earth. It was this…what would you call it, a critical moment, where everything hinged on just one action. That's what this whole Verndari situation felt like—like everything was in place, but there was still this one crucial step needed to make it all click.

But what was that final step?

Usually I was able to work something like this out with enough room to think, so I just kept meandering through Riddara, taking stock of everything around me. I hadn’t really gotten a chance yet to do so, and, though there wasn’t much to the place, it was nice to know a place you were staying—however temporary. I continued to walk, lost in my thoughts. The ruins seemed endless. I figured, as I moved on in the challenges, this place would probably keep growing, sprouting new structures and secrets like a living, breathing entity. It was a daunting thought, the idea of uncovering what lay hidden in the depths of Riddara. And what would it look like when it was finally done?

Though, that’s when I noticed something new: the owl-goats, or, I guess sitfriga. They were here.

A whole mess of ‘em, too.

They perched on stones, in nooks of the crumbling walls, watching me with their curious eyes. Each one chirruped softly as I passed, like they were saluting me or showing gratitude. It was a strange feeling, being acknowledged by these creatures, like I was part of their world now. And here I'd been thinking when I'd woken up that the heron was the source of my Verndari...dom. It was these guys all along. So what was up with that damn bird, then?

I couldn't help but think of Jotufinn's words, claiming these adorable creatures as her children. That made me their... what? Uncle? Guardian? The thought was weird as fuck. I didn’t care what the…acorn-deity or whatever the hell she was, said. Pfft. ‘See the value of our bond,’ my ass! If I had the choice, I’d just as soon hang out with the sitfriga alone, no Jotufinn necessary. I mean, they were cute and playful—hell, I’d go so far as to say they were charming. But that was the thing about choices—sometimes you had to…

I stopped in my tracks, a realization hitting me like a sack of bricks. This whole thing, it wasn't just about power or surviving the Trial. It was about choice, my choice. See the value of our bond, indeed! Ol’ Jo had really sold me short, I think. I wasn’t so much as half the fool they seemed to think I was. They needed me to say yes, to agree to this covenant with her. Like a safeguard, a way to ensure I was all in. But the phrasing they’d used, like it was all well and done—didn’t make no sense at all. Made me think about what they’d told me that summer I’d tried working retail: assume the sale.

Oh, you sly dogs!

It had to be something like that, right? Without my express say-so, the deal wasn't complete.

Now that is something, I thought, grinning.

If it was true, it gave me a sliver of control, at best—and a card to play when the time was right, if nothing else.

“Hot damn,” I said aloud—accidentally startling some of the sitfriga. “Sorry!” I said. “Just celebrating my—”

The air shifted. I spun around, looking for the source, but there was only the swamp, the ruins, and the sitfriga watching me with their bright eyes.

“What was that?” I wondered. Several of the owl-goats chirruped at once, almost like a warning. That was when I realized, it was a warning. Somehow I knew.

Not knowing what else to do, I dropped to my stomach just as another rush of air blew past me. I twisted onto my back and saw…a man. A human man. Standing above me, his arm out, his powerful build making me a little envious I hadn’t taken a liking to the gym back home. His eyes were cold, that much was apparent, and he had a black mop of hair, his face framed by a thick beard. He peered down at me and his icy eyes fixed on me.

“Hello, Trask,” the man said. His voice was nearly emotionless. “Welcome home. Cousin.”

And then his fist came down.