Session 9

Dawn broke over Fjall with a pale golden hush, casting long shadows over the snow-dusted harbor. The Fianna’s Favor creaked at her moorings, sails drawn tight and ready for departure. As the crew bustled about the deck in preparation, the party gathered for one last farewell—only to find Amalfi standing apart, his face solemn beneath the morning light. “I’m not coming with you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the cold horizon. “Those things—the sahuagin—they’re still out there. I believe it’s my sacred duty to stay here, to protect these people if they return, and to help them rebuild.”   The air seemed to still around him. There was no anger, only the quiet sting of parting. With bittersweet words and firm handclasps, the party wished him luck and watched as he turned back toward the heart of Fjall, a lone sentinel against the cold.   As the ship drifted westward into deeper waters, the wind carried the first scent of salt and danger. Midway into the voyage, a longship appeared on the horizon. The raiders closed fast, ropes flung and grappling hooks biting into wood as the two ships slammed together.   Amid the chaos of clashing steel and war cries, a sudden shimmer of wild, unpredictable magic burst from the enemy ship. A fairy man, roughly the size of a short human, launched himself into the fray—his wings a blur, his presence radiant and volatile. His name was Eirwen, and wherever he moved, surges of arcane chaos followed. Bolts of raw magic crackled from his fingertips, wild surges dancing across the decks—one moment a searing ray, the next a blooming field of strange, luminous flowers beneath a raider’s feet. With his untamed sorcery and a defiant grin, he helped tip the tide, scattering the raiders with spell and storm.   But the victory was fleeting. Eirwen, though grateful for the rescue, had his own course to follow. With a salute and a wink, she commandeered the raider vessel and turned eastward toward the mainland, vanishing into the rising sun as the Fianna’s Favor continued west toward Urskaard.   The remainder of the journey passed with a gentler rhythm. One evening, as the moon cast silver light across the deck, a crewmember invited Pharox to a game of cards. What began as a losing streak—grumbles, groans, and laughter at his expense—soon turned. Luck, or perhaps skill, shifted in his favor. By night’s end, Pharox’s coin purse jingled with hard-won silver, and he leaned back with a mushroom-framed grin, flush with drink and triumph.   The cold sea stretched endlessly ahead, but Urskaard drew closer with each passing day—and with it, new trials and shadows.