Moonlit Chamber of Mirrors

The mirror ripples, revealing a dark-haired young girl sprawled in the field. In one hand, she holds a handful of berries, their color staining her fingers. In the other, she points to the stars in the sky, a smile on her face.

As you enter, the sounds of the forest surround you… self-loathing bubbles within you, but then her laughter pulls at your heart strings. “Arra, come, sit here.” She sits up, reaching for a cup of silver paint. She sits before you, painting patterns on your face as she smiles. You will persist for her.

The mirror ripples, a dark-haired young girl lies motionless in the middle of a ritual circle. Multiple wounds and lacerations cover her body, glowing faintly silver as multiple figures in animal skull masks lift their hands to the moonlit sky.

As you enter, you feel your body collapse as your vision goes silver. Bones break; organs rupture… Whispers pry their way into your mind… attempting to overwrite your nature.

When your vision returns, blood covers the ritual site. Corpses lie eviscerated and mauled. A purple-hued wolf – bearing the same scars as the young girl – stands, eyes a light with silver. The wolf snarls and lunges. When you bring up your hands in defense… you take note of the claws.

Collection of the Moon-Touched

The mirror ripples, revealing a starry sky and the moon shining brightly. Far below, the land seems small, but the group of people moving upon a blurry, unrefined Silver Path is just visible.

As you enter, the vision rapidly descends until the forest surrounds you. With claw-tipped hands, you reach to wrangle the silver threads, guiding the people until you arrive at a clearing. The flecks of silver madness in their eyes shift as they step into the embrace of a dark-haired woman, face now marred by claw-like scars. The illusion of the full moon appears above her head as she smiles at you, mouthing her gratitude.

The Warden

The mirror ripples, against the backdrop of a starry expanse, a steep cliff rises, the beginnings of a silver-gray spire growing towards the ball of silver levitating in the air: the Silver Path. 

As you enter, your vision jerks towards the forest far below. A scream, a cry for help. Her voice. The Silver Path heeds your call, coalescing beneath your feet. One step, another. You feel your body shift but push the sensation down. And then you are spiraling as the Silver Path shatters.
 

Leaving before you've greeted your newly arrived guest? For shame, Traveler.

  Standing before you is a silhouette outlined in silver… and then a silver grin appears.

Pleased to meet you. I'm your Warden.

Prospera

  The mirror ripples revealing a lounge laden with decadence. Massive gemstones and finery woven with pure gold are on display. Fine, silk curtains blow in the archway, revealing the beginnings of a decadent city beyond.
  As you enter, you are greeted by a whistle. Turning, a goblinoid woman stands in the doorway. You blink and she levitates in front of you, just a few inches higher. As her eyes rake over your form, you are aware she is appraising you. The Moonstone appears in front of you, levitating in your grasp. Her eyes dart to it immediately; to business then.
 
   

Consequences of War

  The mirror ripples, a middle-aged woman stands over a series of star maps arranged neatly near maps of Jalasar. A 4-pointed star is affixed to the center of her forehead and, as she glances up, the iris of one eye is entirely silver.
  As you enter, the weight of every burden falls upon your shoulders. The agony, the sorrow, the pain, the loss, and strife… one by one it is added to the yoke you willingly carry.
  With a tired expression, she looks to you. “Tell me Traveler, what is to be done? I have pulled the silver thread… how does one stop the Cavalries? Command the Obsidian back to slumber? Bid Hyperion abandon his great love? It is beyond my power.” War takes much. And this time, it has taken those you swore to protect. 
 
   

The Traveler's Burdens

  The mirror ripples, The Warden sits behind a desk, metal arm moving over various gadgets positioned laid before him. Images flicker across the arcane projections before him… scenes of conquest, of victory and loss, and of blood spilled.
  As you enter, weight settles in your arms… the weight of a body. Of one of your own you could not reach in time. Of a Keeper who had been forced to carry more than they ever should have in service of the cogs of war. Whose heart had been shattered ten times until nothing remained but the faintest silver dust. They deserved more than this. The Warden gives you an unsettling grin. The Tower shifts. Later, you will address the consequences of granting him more control. For now, you must prioritize your people.
 
   

The Huntress' Plea

  The mirror ripples, atop a blue-hide deer-like creature is a woman in leather, face obscured by a wide-brimmed veiled hat. The silver crossbow hangs at her waist as she surveys the Wildlands far below.
  As you enter, your mind is a blur. A thousand thoughts, a thousand alternatives… yet they have all led to this… to a plea you cannot refuse… to a path you must walk. She does not need to speak for you to know. She has never implored you for aid. Her presence in the Rise indicates how dire it has become. A snap, a crack. You feel it.
  Only you are to blame. You must be the one to swing the blade.
 
   

The Mercy Killing of Otsana Daciana

  The mirror ripples, a familiar massive purple-hued wolf strains against silver chains. Her howls shake the earth beneath her as lycanthropes and huntresses engage in blood-stained battle.
  As you enter, the carnage fades to blurry images in your peripheral. You step past the Keeper and the Huntress’ Chosen. Long have you tried to carry her burdens; to bear the sins of a tainted silver past. The Silver Path narrows to a silver thread, unresponsive to your silent cries for it to change. Time slows. Perhaps if you linger in this moment, you can avoid the inevitable.
  But the world is cruel… by design.
 
   

As I Am

  The mirror ripples, a broad-shouldered man sits atop a silver spire. Curled in upon himself, he sits perfectly still… even as blood runs down his arms from where his claws have sunken into his own flesh.