High above the jagged peaks of the Monadh Deargs range, where the winds howl like mournful spirits and ancient stone guards forgotten secrets, a desperate coterie of disillusioned seers, ambitious sorcerers, and exiled warlocks gathered many years ago. They sought not power from distant gods, but a primal, untamed force that could reshape their blighted world, and on that perilous mountain summit, they enacted a perilous ritual to birth the Cult of Chaos.

The Nildorin break camp high in the frozen mountains and continue south toward Nord’s Helm, but their day collapses into terror when a horror gives chase. A warped aberration of unknown origin crashes into their path and the first blows fall as the mountain itself begins to give way. Claws, spellwork, and snow all come down at once, and survival is no longer guaranteed.

In the quiet after the battle, the Nildorin finally stop moving. Grief, doubt, and exhaustion settle in as each of them reaches for something to hold onto, a voice, a memory, a promise, a direction. New truths surface, tempers flare and soften, and the need for hope becomes louder than any plan. By morning, they are not healed, perhaps steadier, ready to try again, setting back out into Truistria.

After the chaos beneath Coldrot, the Nildorin face the fallout of everything they have endured. The cult’s sanctuary lies in ruins, but victory comes at a heavy cost. Tarin’s final breath still echoes through the halls, and the Ignis Tome now burns in Harding’s grasp, alive, hungry, and dangerous. Grief collides with power as the party ascends from the depths. The smoke of battle gives way to questions of loyalty, purpose, and fate. Old wounds reopen, tempers flare, and the red tome whispers in the dark. When gods are silent and hearts are heavy, will the Nildorin hold their fragile unity or fracture beneath the weight of what they have lost?