Have you been to the pearled shores of Ataraxia?
Heard the sea eagle’s call, and the troll’s roar?
There the sands run ripe with scorpions,
And the night winds whip the ocean to a
White fury, until you wish you were anywhere,
Any other place but the white sands of Ataraxia.
(from the Diary of Isobel)
The Orchard had been too obvious in the long run. The elf and her stumpy cleric partner had the gall to search for her there. Perhaps it was the body count she left in Phiarlan? An unwise elf here in the tavern, a human–just like her–in the alley. They all added up to the living, added up to a score they called getting even.
Routed, Isobel fled the soggy bottoms of the Orchard, trusting to the winds of night to guide her memories–those awful lost stones rattling around in her head–to somewhere no…
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