Dear readers,

Within this tome lies the tale of my latest adventures across Serin and
Acadia, and the things I learned there. I hope that it may be educational,
or at the very least entertaining.

May the waters guide you and keep you safe.

Serra, Doyenne of the Physical

Serra let the door of her lodge shut behind her and dropped, exhausted,
onto her scruffy scrounged couch, which exhaled a cloud of dust in protest.
The clutter in her house was growing at an alarming rate, but she had no
energy to deal with it now. Her owl familiar hooted disapprovingly and she
beckoned a tired hand at it.

"I am sorry, my friend." She pulled out the sad corpse of a mouse from her
knapsack and offered it to the owl, who swooped over, swallowed it greedily
and then huffed away back to its perch in the corner. As her eyes drifted
around the room, Serra noticed a tiny scroll on her writing desk, looking
quite battered although its wax seal was not yet broken. "Did a messenger
come while I was out adventuring?"

The owl looked pointedly at it and then back at Serra with an expression of
"Obviously." Serra groaned as she levered herself back to her feet, picked
it up and cracked open the seal.

It was a tattered scroll, no bigger than a halfling's palm when expanded,
and with tiny spider-like foreign script all over it that re-formed before
her very eyes into letters she could understand. It read:

"Comrade,

We have dire need. The fell have spread; the demonic forces have pushed
forth and set up camps. All of Rifnir Forest has been lost. The Alliance
is almost broken. Only pockets of resistance remain, hiding in caves and in
clouds, hidden from plain view. The forests are no longer safe. Treants
have been turned and can sense us there.

We need aid. Any aid. Will you come?"

The scroll was signed with a tiny, bloodied thumbprint.

Lost deep in thought, Serra dropped it from her fingers and it curled up
again upon the desk like a small wounded animal. She would go where she was
needed, of course, that was her life's duty, but she did not think it would
be use for her to venture to Acadia on her own. She was neither fighter nor
tactician, but merely a medic. And a single medic could only do so much in
an all out war.

While she knew several good friends in Serin who were excellently skilled in
battle, there was tension rising between the Knights and Justices and the
Legion continued to plot. She could not justify weakening the defensive
front here for a world her friends had never seen and put their lives at
unfathomable risk. She needed to find Markus, or at least contact his
extended network and see if they might again be willing to offer aid.

Spurred into action, Serra upended her bag all over the couch, sending spare
armor, herbs, books and trinkets scattering every which way, and began
carefully packing only the bare essentials. She would need to travel light.
"You'll need to stay here as well," she said to her familiar, who rolled its
eyes at her. "I'm certain you will be a most effective guardian. Please
avail yourself of any and all house mice. I do not know when I will be able
to return. The kitchen window is unlocked, so you are free to enter or
leave as you need." The owl hooted a bit more softly in concern.

"Please do not worry. I will be fine." She smiled gently at it as she
jotted two quick notes, one to the Knights, and one to the Consortium,
alerting them to her absence. She deftly rolled up and tied the scrolls to
the owl's leg with a small ribbon. "Would you please take these to my
friends?" It bobbed its head, then took off silently and disappeared.

Through the window, Serra watched her feathered companion's form sail off
over the windswept meadow. A soft expression spread across her face as she
whispered a quiet prayer for her loved ones. Then her eyes narrowed in
determination as she stood, refreshed her protective spells, and set off for
Timaran.

Ilenda, Timaran's healer guildmistress, shook her head. "I'm sorry,
Serra. I received your missive, but as I wrote before, I have not seen
Markus for many moons."

Serra frowned. "He resides in Timaran, and my Lord Kedaleam sent him home
from Acadia. I know he must have come through here."

Ilenda put a comforting hand on Serra's shoulder and felt the muscles of her
arm tense under her touch. "If I hear from him, I shall inform you
directly." Trainees were beginning to filter in for their next lecture, and
she glanced at them briefly. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you?
Otherwise, I must attend to my students."

"Where could he have gone? Please, miss, I would be grateful for any
information at all."

"I am sorry. Perhaps the temple priests may have seen something."

Serra nodded and dropped into a deep, swift bow before she turned away. "Of
course, miss. I am sorry to have taken your time."

"It is no bother..." Ilenda was mid-sentence but Serra's long strides had
already taken her down the hallway and out of earshot. The aging elven
priestess looked sadly down at her gnarled hands. They were clean now, but
she imagined she could still see the bloodstains upon them. She wished she
could help her worried young colleague. Yet, Markus had been so insistent
and would not listen to reason. She recalled the frightful, wild look in
his eye as he had gripped her hands so hard she felt her bones crunching,
and the horror in his voice as he had rasped his last words to her before he
disappeared.

"Do not, by any means, let Serra know where I am. Ilenda, you must swear
your life upon it!"

Days passed. Despite her best efforts, Serra could not find a single soul
in Timaran who had seen Markus since they had set off for Acadia. The
priests who attended the Temple of Light were fresh new faces, evidently
recently appointed to their posts, and knew nothing of their predecessors'
whereabouts. The priest of Light who waited by the donation chest rattled
off a list of bruised adventurers who had come to claim their belongings,
but none of them matched Markus's description. The High Priestess of Light
was even more useless, for she kept her door shut and only paid attention to
the stack of temple business reports piling up on her desk. Neither day nor
night watchmen had seen him, and he had not been observed entering any of
the shops.

At a loss, she sat forlornly on a bench at the city center, tossing pebbles
into the fountain and listening to the Town Crier shouting the latest news.
The stumpy, grubby form of Viggs ventured into view.

"Greetings, sir."

Viggs sniggered and pulled a funny little bow. "Sir Viggs, that's me." He
ambled off around the square, following a strange, meandering pattern only
he could see on the paving stones. She watched him skipping and hopping
about. Viggs was eccentric at the best of times, but there was something a
little springier about his step. As he held his hands out for balance, she
saw a few rings on his hands glint in the sun. Serra peered closer. They
looked familiar. Furthermore, Viggs was not the type to wear jewelry,
especially not expensive rings.

Viggs hummed to himself, "Thiefy hellstream, heeheehee!" As he hopscotched
over the cobblestones. Suddenly his face slammed into a thick metal plate
and he sat down hard on the floor, eyes watering. He looked up and saw two
large feet, then sturdy legs, and finally a frowning, armor-clad giant
looking down at him with hands upon her hips.

"Where did you get those rings?"

"I found em!" He folded his arms defensively, tucking his hands in his
armpits. "Finders keepers, yes?" One of the huge feet began to tap
impatiently. He added sourly, "Donation chest on Windchime Lane. Few
celestials ago. They're pretty! And mine! There were others... But
couldn't carry em... Too shiny for Viggs."

"What did you do with the rest?"

"Some youngun lookin for things got em."

"Was there an Order of Light amulet among the items?"

Viggs squinted his beady little eyes and thought about it. "Maybe. What's
in it for Viggs?"

A fistful of gold coins plinked down upon his head, accompanied by an
exasperated sigh. "Ow ow!" He scrabbled around stuffing the coins into his
pockets and muttered, "Yeah, yeah, amulet o' light. Nothin special. Lots
o' them fallin into the chests lately."

Serra shivered. The bodies of the fallen, returning from Acadia... Perhaps
she had been too late to save Markus, after all.

The canyon of Tainted Valley rang with the shouts of men and clashes of
blades. The Order of Light had been bogged down here for years. Once a
mighty military force with many divisions, the decreasing number of recruits
had thinned their ranks until this band of brothers was the only one which
remained. Still, the greatest threat emanated from the western crevice in
this valley, where the Essence of Evil lurked. Thus, here they made their
stand, until one or the other side drew their last breath.

Serra made her way through the valley to General Fredrick's tent. He was
deep in conversation with several of his men and barely looked up as she
approached.

"Excuse me, sir..." He held up a finger as the battlemage he was speaking
to frowned.

"We must shore up the western flank, near the obelisk. And increase the
scouts at the valley entrance! We must not give our enemies the advantage
of surprise." Fredrick scowled. "Those young Legion hopefuls keep joining
forces with the tainted. Storm Hill can only send so many trainees at a
time. We must hold them off until our reinforcements arrive."

The battlemage nodded and withdrew from the tent. Fredrick turned to Serra.
"Yes? Make it quick, I have not much time."

"Sir, forgive me. We have not personally met. I am a student of Markus--"

Fredrick glared at her. "What does that slick-tongued scoundrel want now?
I sent him with a team of my best men several celestials ago and none of
them have returned."

Serra winced. "We were drawn into a great battle in Acadia. And... I am
sorry, sir... Our line could not hold..."

Their physical bodies had returned, but not a single soul. Serra shuddered.
She still remembered their shining faces and the light of conviction in
their eyes... And how they had looked at the terrible end, empty and
extinguished. The words of confirmation did not need to be said, but rang
in the air between them as if she had screamed.

Fredrick turned his back to her. She could see by his tensed form and
clenched jaw that he was holding back great emotion, though whether it was
rage, or sorrow, she could not tell. In a flat voice, he said, "Then there
is nothing more I can do for you."

"I understand, sir." Heat rose in her cheeks and she felt utterly ashamed
for even thinking of asking him for more aid. More sacrifice. Yet she must
continue; she could not live with leaving the Acadians' call unheeded.

"I know it is little consolation, sir, but they were truly brilliant,
skilled and brave. I could not have served with a better company." He made
no response. She bowed quietly, sadly, and made her exit.

Serra turned next to the Sanctuary of Armageddon. She could not be sure,
for they had not spoken of their origins, but she believed the druids and
treants who had joined Markus's forces might have come from there. Perhaps
they might be willing to lend some aid.

The sanctuary druids and sentries seemed to whisper to each other as she
passed them in the hallway, and she thought she saw the same angelic
caretaker discreetly following her at a distance as she made her way up to
Govannan's chamber.

He greeted her as she entered. "Lore Keeper Serra."

"Greetings, sir. I am a Doyenne now, though only recently."

"Ah, I stand corrected. What can I do for the Scholars?" He steepled his
fingers and gazed at her impassively.

"I come to seek aid for our comrades in Acadia. There is a great war raging
there, and the balance of Nature is being tipped. I thought... I hoped you
might be willing to send some warriors or druids to aid in the battle."

"That is an ongoing struggle we face in Serin. Why should we concern
ourselves with Acadia?"

So, the treants had not come from Armageddon, after all.

"The evil that permeates there is beginning to taint Serin as well. The
reports of demon-elves, here, match the corruption I saw in Acadia with my
own eyes. If we allow Acadia to fall, it will certainly spread in Serin,
and it will be too powerful for us to stop."

"And do you, Scholar, seek to restore the balance?" He spat her title with
peculiar vitriol.

Serra paused and considered her words carefully. "My duty in Serin is to my
research to the Consortium. But as a healer, I must preserve life where I
am needed. And Acadia has called for my aid."

"Your aid, certainly, but not ours." Govannan clenched his hands into fists
at his sides. "Your foolish attempts at research nearly unleashed the
Essence of Annihilation upon Serin."

Serra flushed. It was true; she had led Ilromie here in pursuit of scribing
lores, disregarding all of the warnings of the sanctuary's residents and
brute forcing their way through their protective seals. All in pursuit of
knowledge and a few simple scrolls. Had the risk been worth it?

"We shall not be sending anything to Acadia." His tone was final and
dismissive.

"Very well, sir."

That was it, then. Half a celestial of wandering through Serin begging
and scraping with nothing to show for it. Serra would have to return to
Acadia on her own.

Serra knelt in the circle of blue-capped mushrooms and carefully laid out
the contents of a small pouch, trying to remember how their pixie guide had
done it the last time Markus had taken her to Acadia. From the pouch she
withdrew a bundle of wisp essences, two wisp sparks and a portal catalyst.
She brushed the wisp essences fondly with a fingertip, which swirled about
and shimmered at her touch.

"Dearest Lumubella, you do not know the importance of what you have done for
me. May our gods keep us safe, that I might return to you someday."

She carefully placed one essence upon each of the mushrooms, and formed a
small pyramid with the remaining items at the center of the circle. Then
she took out the battered scroll, touched the bloodied thumbprint to the
portal catalyst, and began to vocalize a curious, dissonant melody.

Serra was not a bard, nor could she remember the words their pixie guide had
sung, but she remembered the melody at least. She also keenly remembered
how Ilromie had been struck by her description of the common music between
Acadian and Serin bards. If their hypothesis was correct, the melody, not
the lyrics, were what truly contained the magic. Serra hoped that, even
without words, even shakily sung by her untrained voice, the melody would be
sufficient to open the portal.

For a split second after she finished the song, Emerald Forest fell eerily
quiet. The birds, insects, even the leaves stopped stirring as if they had
all paused to listen. Then a static charge rippled through the area and a
fizzling, glowing portal opened.

Without so much as a backwards glance, Serra stepped through.

It had been a long time since Serra had truly felt lost. Over the four
decades she had spent in Serin, building up friendships and acquaintances,
she had slowly shed her fear of strangers and the unknown as she had
dedicated her life to peering into the shadows, clearing cobwebs from the
farthest corners of the lands. Even the murmuring mists north of Valour,
the endless Void of Silent Grove, and the maze of Shadow Grove barely
perturbed her any longer.

But this... was different.

She held her hands before her, fingers outstretched, cautiously reaching out
into the darkness. She felt nothing. The utter stillness of it all spooked
her. Not even the slightest eddy of wind, even if she shook her hand about
and waved. It was if she was in a vacuum, although she could still breathe.
The air, if that was what it was, was completely scentless. There was an
unnatural, utter absence of response from all of her senses.

"Is anyone there?"

Her words flowed seamlessly into the dark, with no echo in return. Behind
her, the warm sunlight of Serin suddenly disappeared as the portal snapped
shut. The loss of it, of her window back to familiarity and comfort and
life, suddenly felt as physical as a wound of the flesh. Her aura of
sanctuary faded as it closed. She tried to refresh it several times but it
simply flickered and faded on every attempt.

Frowning, Serra closed her eyes and prayed to Lord Kedaleam to release her
from her spells. Something was very strange here. As she slowly drifted to
the ground, she felt rather than heard something brittle crunching beneath
her weight. Perhaps it was grass. Not a single sound, though. Nothing but
her own racing heartbeat, which thundered in her ears.

At least my Lord can still hear me, she thought. There was some small
comfort to be found in that.

Serra carefully knelt and ran her hands along the ground. The crunching
stuff did seem to be grass - coarse dry blades that were so fragile that
they fell to dust as she touched them. The last time she had visited
Acadia, the ground had been springy with moss and grass and flowers and rich
soil. Now it seemed as if every vestige of moisture had been sapped away.
She shuddered. Were the demons who came through the rupture responsible for
this?

It was also cold. At first she had not noticed it, buoyed as she was by her
flight through the portal. As her pulse calmed, she felt the chill sink
through her armor and layers of garments. She rubbed her hands together and
stamped her feet, flattening some more of the dead grass, and tugged her
cloak close around her shoulders. Then she twiddled her thumbs.

A small ball of light the size of her palm was supposed to appear in the air
before her, this she knew from countless hours sat in front of Korvoduin's
patient gaze. Instead, she saw only a very faint pinprick in the darkness,
as if she was looking at a star in the night sky. She reached for it and
wrapped her palms around its glossy, glass-like exterior. It was the normal
size, but the light it emitted was so faint it was almost extinguished. As
she watched, even that tiny speck dimmed and snuffed out, and the sphere
crumbled in her hands to dust. It seemed almost as if something was
consuming it.

Serra attempted to detect the presence of magic. Where normally the
concentration of magic was almost overpowering, here there was not even the
slightest spark. She frowned. As she considered her next move, her skin
became softer as the stone skin spell wore off, and a vicious, pervasive
stinging attacked her exposed hands, neck, and face.

"Goodness gracious!" Serra immediately refreshed the spell, and the pain
ceased. What *was* that in the darkness? She created a healer's staff and
held it out before her to detect obstacles, then called upon the gift of
flight again that she might travel faster. But where was she going? She
had no sense of direction here. There was no telling where the portal had
opened, if it was even in the same area of Acadia she had originally
visited.

She recalled the times when she had experimented traveling in the Ethereal
Plane with her friends, Oakwarl and Ilromie, long ago. Then, though she had
been able to see, the landscape had been contorted into a haze of
indiscernible fog. She had simply left a trail behind her and picked a
direction until she could travel no more, then backtracked until she had
mapped out the area. Perhaps she could do something similar here.

Would the unseen entities eat... Pancakes?

She conjured a stack and waited. She could feel the weight of the plate
unchanging in her hands, ran a finger through the sticky syrup and counted
three fluffy disks in the stack. Whatever it was didn't seem to consume
food. Only magic. She bent and placed the plate on the ground.

One, two, three. Pancakes. One, two, three. Pancakes. Slowly, Serra made
her way across the landscape of Acadia. One, two, three --

There was no telling how long she had travelled. When she grew hungry, she
quickly took a bite as she went, but did not stop for long. At the back of
her mind she wondered if it was dangerous for her to leave the site of her
portal - although there was no way for her to reopen it without another set
of wisp components, and had little hope of finding more here. Her eyes,
desperate for something to focus on, caught upon something dim in the
distance. Could it be light? She adjusted her detections, adding infrared
and detection of the invisible, but whatever it was did not become clearer.
There was simply some orange-colored haze on the horizon. She continued.
Pancakes. One, two, three.

The haze spread, and continued to grow brighter. She started to be able to
make out jagged rocks, charred and broken stumps around her, as well as
shattered weapons and armor. And scattered among them, clean white bones of
all shapes and sizes, in piles as if whatever flesh they had once supported
had simply vanished. Some of the smaller skulls looked humanoid, while
larger ones lying among heavier bones were more elongated with filed teeth.
Clouds of black particles, tinier than gnats, clustered over each of them
but swirled towards her as she approached. She swatted them away with her
staff. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her trail of untouched
pancakes leading back into the darkness.

The clouds began to cluster together, forming small funnels and darkening
into an ominous mass. Serra hastened her pace and gave up on the pancakes,
rushing towards the light, which grew brighter and more golden and then she
could detect emerald greens as well, and the brilliant magenta of noontime
Acadian sky, and then out she tumbled from the darkness, surrounded by a
fizzle of black particles that sparked and flashed into nothingness as they
were eradicated by the Acadian sunlight.

Flat on her back, halfway down a hill, Serra peered over her toes in the
direction she had come. There was what she could only call a black bubble
encasing the forest there. The black stuff pulsed within, bulging and
straining to reach her against the magical barrier that imprisoned it, but
ultimately subsided. It looked... As though it was digesting.

Serra rolled over and slowly got to her feet. Her hands, which had been
attacked by the particles in the darkness, were spotted with dark blue
flecks of blood where the things had broken through her skin. Likely she
had the same affliction on her face. She created a spring and carefully
washed herself clean. Then the exhaustion of her travels overwhelmed her.
She pulled her neatly rolled tent from her bag, pitched it, and curled up
for a much-needed nap.

An undeterminable amount of time passed as Acadia's strange suns circled
about overhead and the sky tinged from magenta to violet and back. When
Serra finally opened her eyes, stretched, and poked her head out of the tent
flaps, she noticed a small group of furry creatures sitting on the nearby
grass. From her explorations in Serin's Isles of Illusion, she recognized
them to be some type of fuzzar, although they had two extra pairs of limbs
(four arms, and four wings) than she remembered.

"Greetings, little ones," she tried in Common Serintongue. They did not
move or register any comprehension. She reached out to tap the nearest one
on its furry shoulder, but it simply disappeared into thin air. Then she
tried again, in her limited Acadian. "Greetings?" At this, the fuzzars
chattered excitedly amongst themselves, then shoved each other until one
drifted shyly to the front.

"Stranger, from where you come?" Their accent was different from the
fuzzars she had met on previous journeys. Even though her grasp of Acadian
was shaky, she was almost certain their grammatical structure was inverted.
Perhaps a local dialect she had not been aware of?

Serra pointed at the black bubble up the hill. "I come from Serin, but my
portal was back there."

They gasped and conferred among themselves in speech too fast for her to
decipher.

"Stranger, from Land of the Dead you come?" Serra wasn't quite sure if she
had translated the last bit correctly. It sounded something like Land of
the Dead, or Murdered Land. At any rate, death had obviously visited it,
and the name fit.

"I suppose, yes, I did."

"Stranger, dead should be."

"Well, I can't say I agree--"

"Dead Land, stranger come from. Stranger, dead should be." The fuzzars
started prodding her with tiny tridents, pushing her back up the hill.

"Oh dear. Little ones, I do not wish to hurt you, but I cannot go back
there." Serra recast sanctuary around herself, relieved to find it worked
again, and gripped her staff in both hands as she planted her feet in the
grass.

A golden being rippled into existence then, and the fuzzars shrank back in
awe. "Overlord!"

Serra squinted her eyes against its brightness. Was it another Immortal?
Were there immortals in Acadia?

It spoke then, but not aloud. Rather, she heard its voice, limpid and
resonant, in her mind. It did not speak words, either, only melodies and
images. Through its curious mode of communication, she came to understand.

Acadia was not simply a world with earth, plants, animals, people, and sky.
It was in fact a magical, living, complex organism. The creatures
inhabiting Acadia could be construed as components of the larger magical
entity. The "Overlord" (of which this being was simply one node) was
perhaps best equivalent to its consciousness; the societies of fuzzars,
satyrs, brownies, pixies, and so forth carried out its metabolism. The
rupture had been an infection, like a skin puncture left too long that had
festered. When the corruption had become too great for the lesser creatures
of Acadia to overcome on their own, greater Acadia had finally reacted. The
bubble was in fact Acadia's own doing, as it isolated the infected area and
was in the process of destroying it. The black particles were corrosive
magic conjured by Acadia: programmed, intentional destruction, focused
purely on consuming all matter of magical life and absorbing the forces so
that they could be reused to construct new lifeforms in Acadia.

Stranger was very lucky to be alive, it informed her. Had she allowed her
stone skin to lapse more than a minute, or spent more time conjuring balls
of light or casting sanctuary, she would have attracted all of the particles
in her vicinity and been consumed.

Serra shuddered, feeling the ghost prickles on her hands and face. "How did
you know which spells I cast in the Land of the Dead?"

Overlords can sense everything in Acadia. (This one didn't have a face, but
she could sense it smiling.)

"What about the demon's plane connected to the rupture?"

If the rupture had not closed, the being sang, the particles would have
entered their world. Given enough time, it would digest it too. She was
fortunate her own portal had been designed to close quickly, else Serin,
too, might have been at risk. Stranger was extremely lucky.

"I received a letter from an Acadian that summoned me here." She drew the
tattered scroll from her pocket and showed it to the group of fuzzars. They
passed it around themselves, chattering, but by the way they were turning
the scroll in every direction it seemed they could not read it.

The writing is unfamiliar to them, the being said. It belongs to the lost
civilizations.

"Lost civilizations?"

Yes. Our brethren. In the Land of the Dead. The young ones here are made
from those who could be recovered from the corruption. They tried to stay
intact, but the reconstruction was... Imperfect.

It exuded a wave of sorrow that washed over her. The fuzzars also chirped
with sadness, drooping their wings.

Serra was horrified as the realization slowly set in. "You mean there were
souls still alive when you started this? How could you sacrifice your own
people on purpose? You have so much power - you could have just stopped the
demons! You could have saved them!"

The corruption had to be destroyed. There was an agreement.

"An agreement?!"

Yes.

"An agreement among whom!"

It pointed a long, glowing finger at the thumbprint on the scroll.

They lost hope.

There was nothing Serra could do about the past, but she decided that the
least she could do was teach the young Acadians what had happened and what
she had witnessed so that they could shape their own future. While the
Overlords did not seem to know how to effectively transfer knowledge from
one generation of Acadians to the next, they also did not seem to harbor any
reservations against her doing so. She spent the next several weeks
traveling around the lands, speaking with the various groups and re-learning
reconstructed Acadian. With the aid of the fuzzars and occasional
appearance from one of the Overlords, Serra managed to disseminate her
knowledge to a diverse assortment of new Acadian cultures.

They were instructed to be alert to the health of the trees, the soil, and
the sky, for Acadia's magics were highly sensitive and would change hues in
the presence of danger. They needed to be more cautious and wary; the
various cultures should communicate amongst themselves with a shared network
of communication, and place protective wards and magics in case of future
threats. Above all, they must not be taken by surprise and be careful not
to lapse in judgment. They could not rely heavily on external aid, that was
for certain, although Serra insisted that there would always be souls like
herself and Markus and her former comrades, beings from other planes, who
would be willing to help in times of need. By mitigating the effect of
intrusions on their world, they could prevent greater Acadia from unleashing
its terrible destruction upon them. Acadia, in turn, would be safer,
healthier, and overall happier for it. Some of the Acadians were reluctant
to listen, but the Overlords' presence lent Serra an air of authority, and
they eventually, grumblingly, complied.

Wherever she went, Serra refused any compensation or hospitality, save a
single wisp essence.

At long last, she collected sufficient essences to return to Serin. She
gathered her newfound friends, including several young bards to whom she had
taught the portal song.

"I have done all I can here. I must return to my home now. I bid you all
farewell."

The fuzzars let out a collective "Awwwww" and several pixies pouted.

"Remember this: if you ever have need of me, simply send me a message, and I
will come."

She finished placing the essences in a circle and nodded at the pixie bards,
who began to strum their harps and sing. A pixie-sized fizzling portal
opened. Serra laughed and waved before squeezing back into the Mystic
Forest of Serin.