You approach the nearest house, a modest two-story building with dark shutters and a well-maintained garden. Dog steps forward and knocks. Three times. Firm but not aggressive. Silence. Then, from inside, the sound of movement. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The door opens a crack. A woman's face appears in the gap. Middle-aged, tired eyes, dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. She looks at each of you in turn, her expression more annoyed than afraid. "Who are you?" she asks, her voice rough with sleep. "And why are you waking me up this early?" She doesn't sound frightened. She sounds... inconvenienced. Behind her, the interior of the house is dim but normal. You can make out furniture, a table, shelves. No signs of struggle or corruption. She shifts her weight, one hand on the door frame, clearly waiting for an answer. "Well?" she says. "Speak up. It's barely past dawn." 🎯 What do you say? 1. Introduce yourselves honestly - Tell her you're here investigating why Thornhaven stopped trading. 2. Ask about the ocean - Directly question what you saw this morning. 3. Apologize and ask if everything is alright - Start gentle, gauge her reaction. 4. Show her your marks - See if she recognizes them. 5. Other → Your call.

You move quickly but carefully, keeping distance between yourselves and the last figure as it disappears into the mist. The western fields are wet with dew, the grass soaking your boots. The sound of waves grows louder with each step. The mist thickens as you approach, cold and damp against your skin. - The Shore You emerge from the fog onto a rocky beach. Gray sand stretches in both directions, dotted with stones and driftwood. The ocean spreads before you, dark and restless under the pale morning sky. Waves roll in steadily, their rhythm constant. But the figures are gone. You scan the beach. Left. Right. Nothing. Then you look down. Footprints. Multiple sets. Leading across the sand toward the water's edge. You follow them. The tracks are strange. Human-shaped, but stumbling, like backwards. They lead straight to the water. And into it. The waves wash over the final prints, erasing them as you watch. Beyond that point, there's nothing. Just water. Just waves. - he Search Dog kneels at the water's edge, his hand touching the wet sand where the tracks disappear. "They went in," he says quietly. "They just... walked into the ocean." You wade in a few steps. The water is cold, biting. The bottom slopes down gradually. You see nothing beneath the surface. No figures. No bodies. No movement except the natural shift of sand and water. One of you climbs onto a large rock jutting from the beach, scanning the waves for any sign of the figures. Nothing, just mist! The sound of the waves and something strange, like.. a clong, clong somewhere further away. They're simply gone. The ocean gives nothing back. - The Morning The sun rises higher now, burning away some of the mist. The beach becomes more visible. To the west, the coastline curves away toward rocky cliffs. To the east, it extends into more beach and scattered tide pools. Behind you, Thornhaven sits silent in the fields. Whatever you just witnessed, it happens regularly. The figures leave. They carry their burdens. They walk into the sea.

You descend the hill cautiously, keeping low, using the treeline for cover as long as possible. The mill sits at the eastern edge of town, separated from the main cluster of buildings by an open field. The wheel is still, locked in place. The red shutters stand out against weathered wood. As you approach, the silence becomes oppressive. Not the dead silence of Blackfen, but something else. Absence. Like holding your breath. - The Mill The mill looks maintained. No rot. No damage. The door is closed but not barred; it turns smoothly. The door opens onto darkness. Inside, the mill is clean. Swept floors. Tools hanging neatly on walls. Sacks of grain stacked and covered. Everything in its place. Dog moves to a window, peering toward the town center. "There," he whispers, pointing. Through the wavering glass, in one of the windows across the square, something moves. A shape. Human-sized. There for a moment, then gone. You watch in silence, waiting. Nothing else moves. No doors open. No voices call out. No dogs bark. No children play. Just... stillness. - The Cellar The cellar entrance is hidden beneath a heavy rug. Stone steps lead down into darkness. You light a torch. Below, the space is larger than expected. Stone walls. Wooden supports. And supplies: crates of food, barrels of water, weapons wrapped in oilcloth, bedrolls stacked neatly. - Observation You settle in to watch. From the mill's upper window, you have a clear view of the town square. Buildings stand intact. Gardens show signs of recent care. Laundry hangs on lines, moving slightly in the breeze. And then you see it again. Movement. In a different window this time. A figure passing by. Then another, in a doorway across the street. Brief. Purposeful. As evening approaches, you notice something else: thin trails of smoke begin rising from a few chimneys. Not cooking fires. Too thin, too controlled. One door opens briefly. something pulls in a bucket that was sitting on the step, then closes again.

"But... what does the mark mean?" one of you asks, frustration bleeding through. "Does it still have power? " The mage's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. Understanding, perhaps. Or sympathy. "The mark is both a blessing and a curse," she says, her voice measured. "It identifies you as Chosen, yes. But it also makes you visible to those who serve the darkness. They can sense you, track you, if they're close enough." She moves closer, her gaze intense. "As for power... the mark itself grants none. But it opens pathways within you." She pauses. " And yes, your thoughts may feel... different. Clearer in some ways. Clouded in others. The mark connects you to something larger. Something ancient." Her voice drops. "What you're feeling is real. The mark is changing you, slowly. Drawing out what was always there, buried deep. That's why I must test you. To see what you're becoming." She returns to her desk. "I can tell you more when you return. But words mean nothing without proof. Go to Thornhaven. Then we'll talk properly." - Preparation You leave the tower and make your way back through the city streets. The market is busy with midday commerce. You stock up on additional supplies: more rope, extra waterskins, dried rations, oil for lanterns. A vendor sells you a bundle of torches wrapped in oilcloth. At a small apothecary, you purchase antitoxins and bandages. The herbalist eyes your purposeful preparations and adds a vial of something dark. "For pain," she says simply. By early afternoon, you're ready. - The Road South You leave through the southern gate, the guards waving you through with barely a glance. The road stretches ahead, well-maintained and wide. Traffic thins as the afternoon wears on. Other travelers nod as they pass, merchants heading back to the city, a farmer with a cart of vegetables. The land is gentler here than the marsh. Rolling fields, scattered farms, patches of woodland. The air smells of grass and distant smoke from cooking fires.

The inn welcomes you with warmth and lamplight. You pay for rooms, baths, and a hot meal. The innkeeper takes one look at your marsh-stained clothes and doesn't ask questions. The baths come first. Hot water, soap, the filth of Blackfen swirling away down the drain. You scrub until your skin is raw, trying to wash away the memory of that place along with the mud. Dinner is thick stew, fresh bread, and ale. Real food. You eat in near silence, exhaustion settling over the table like a blanket. Sleep comes quickly. No dreams this time. Just darkness and rest. - Morning - The Blue Door Dawn comes with pale sunlight filtering through the shutters. You gather your gear and make your way west through waking streets toward the Scholar's Quarter. The buildings here are taller, older, marked with faded arcane symbols carved into stone. And then you see it. The tower. Three stories of dark stone, and at its base, a door painted vivid blue. You approach and reach out to knock. Before your knuckles touch the wood, the door swings open. A voice echoes from within: "Enter." - Inside the Tower Books everywhere. Shelves from floor to ceiling. Maps cover the walls, marked with notes and pins. Glass orbs rest on stands, swirling with faint inner light. At the center, behind a massive desk cluttered with parchment and instruments, sits a woman. She's younger than you expected. Sharp features, piercing gray eyes, dark hair pulled back severely. She wears deep blue robes, the same shade as the door. "The marked ones," she says, her voice calm but carrying weight. "Show me." You reveal your forearms. She leans forward, studying the symbols. "Genuine." A pause. "And you survived Blackfen, so you're not completely incompetent." She gestures to the desk. "John's letter." You place it before her. She breaks the seal and reads, her expression unreadable. Then she sets it aside. "He believes you're ready." Her eyes meet yours. "I need more than belief." The Mage "I go by many names," she says, standing and moving to a large map on the wall. "Elara to the merchants. Mira to those who knew me before. The scholars call me the Blue Mage." She turns back. "You may call me whichever you prefer. What matters is what I know, and what you can do with that knowledge."