Edge of Midnight | Ep. 2 | House of Lament

Marius Renethier (0:01)

Welcome to Legends of Avantris. I'm Sir Marius Renethier and you're listening to Edge of Midnight.

Philip Druskenwald (0:12)

The last time we left our heroes, if you can even call them that, they finally made it to the end of a long journey to the heart of Drustinvald, a land trapped between dust and midnight under the gaze of a witch's moon.

For this chapter, we begin not too long before, but certainly far away, across the whole valley, in fact, to the very edge of this domain of dread. It's here where a lone man stands before a wall of mist. He's waiting for something or someone, and he doesn't know it, but he won't be waiting for much longer.

Dungeon Master (0:50)

Swirling, twisting gloom rises hundreds of feet upwards to the night sky above and stretches outward to either side as far as the eye can see, forming the perpetual borders and confines of the land of Druskenvold. The figure before the endless sheets of gray mist seems tiny, especially in comparison to the gargantuan wicker titan standing motionless in an eternal vigil over a few hundred feet away.

However, upon closer inspection, the human man seems to be taller than average, middle-aged with slit back black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He's impeccably dressed in a suit as gray as the mist before him. His pristinely polished shoes as black as the night sky above. He pulls a ticking pocket watch from his pocket and checks the time with the tap of his foot before turning it and gazing back out into the crowd. Then his eyes meet a light. It's tiny and distant at first, glowing with a spectral blue-green hue.

But it grows larger and nearer as it slowly illuminates a silhouette that slowly approaches from within the mist. As the figure emerges from the gloom, it's revealed that the light is being cast from a lantern fastened to a hulking orc. Slightly hunched as he carries what appears to be a gravestone chained to his back. In one hand, he holds a shovel that he uses as a makeshift walking stick, a hood pulled up over his head, only slightly obscuring his face as he simply steps out of the mist. At the sight of the green skin, the dapper man lights up and thrusts his ringed finger outward with a beaming grin.

Farron (2:24)

You must be the Mistwalker.

Philip Druskenwald (2:26)

How do you do, my good man? Lord Philip Druskenwald at your service. I'm glad my invitation made it from one green hand to another.

SPEAKER_6 (2:33)

Good show.

Dungeon Master (2:34)

The man's outstretched hand hovers in the air expectantly as the orc looms over him.

SPEAKER_6 (2:40)

Horgrim, what do you do?

Yorgrim (2:43)

I would reach into my cloak and grab the letter that was delivered to me.

Yorgrim (2:50)

And I would hand it to him and say, I'm not sure how you got this to me, but I beg, follow it.

Dungeon Master (3:03)

He reaches out and he takes the letter from you, a smile alighting across his face.

Philip Druskenwald (3:08)

You made the right choice by accepting my invitation, old sport.

Philip Druskenwald (3:11)

You will not regret it.

Dungeon Master (3:13)

I have just the thing your best gal will want, but everything in its time.

Philip Druskenwald (3:18)

I've got some new chums for you to meet, and we'll hash out our new business partnership then.

Philip Druskenwald (3:22)

Our carriage waits. Do you need some help checking that slab?

Never mind, you seem to be quite attached to it.

Philip Druskenwald (3:27)

No pun intended, of course.

Philip Druskenwald (3:29)

And besides, I don't think my coachman could lift it.

Dungeon Master (3:31)

Off we go, good show.

Now, sometime later, and many miles away from this land's misty borders, a scarecrow, a knight, a pirate, a cultist and a satyr watch an old black train pick up speed as it chugs faster and faster, a ghastly blue-green smoke leaving the smokestack of the locomotive accompanied by the mournful wails of the dead. The amphibian conductor, who you only know as the vagrant, the stranger, or nothing at all, hangs off the side of the engine waving his broad-brimmed hat and farewell as he calls out one last time.

Philip Druskenwald (4:07)

Carry on, wayward travelers. You just wait on that platform as patient as the night. He'll fetch you soon enough, and I wouldn't ramble far if I was you. But wear the beast that stalks the woods, and whatever you do, don't let go of your hope.

The death of hope is the loss of soul, and trust me, you do not want your souls to be lost here.