The ancient wendigo had fallen. With it, the other packs that had followed in its wake like buzzards fled, most returning to the frozen cold of the Northlands.

In Travance, the influence of the ancient one still made itself felt. Many dealt with the horror of being returned to their right mind after devouring friends, family, or loved ones while under the control of the wendigo. Those who practiced the psychological disciplines found their schedules full, while others provided care as best they could. The heroes who had begun to transform, only to be saved halfway through the transformation still occasionally felt an odd craving. Except for Thog, who just thought he was hungrier than normal. Whereupon, he ate an entire buck he had killed, saving the antlers as a trophy.

Within his study, Seregor Nagel finished writing an entry into a new tome. The cross-disciplinary rituals the heroes had invented were nothing short of brilliant. More and more, he felt justified in reaching out to this strange town with its dichotomy of violence and intellectual genius.

"Strange, though," he said to himself aloud. "That a being of such age and power would trek all the way from the north just to cause chaos here. Unless..."

Remembering the cunning and intellect obviously required to cause the unnatural blizzards, Seregor's mind flashed to the strange people described in Heimdell's divination. These seemingly brutish barbarians certainly had the will to accomplish such a feat, as well as the power to wake such a creature. These... Skinwalkers had most assuredly been responsible for the three days of madness and cannibalism that had descended upon the town.

But to what purpose?

*     *     *     *     *

It had been a long journey across the Rift. He had been warned about Travance, and kept his arms at the ready. This was the last place he could look in Kormyre. He had heard of several well-regarded scholars who might have concrete answers to his long unanswered questions. Maybe here, he could finally find a measure of understanding.

At first, he dismissed the chatter he heard in taverns and markets as he journeyed deeper into the heart of the Barony. Plenty of things slip through a busy mind, and these people certainly were busy.

People were forgetting.

The farther he traveled, the more worried he became. Farmers don’t forget to lock up their livestock. Priests don’t forget their years of service to their Gods. And mothers certainly don’t forget their children.

It was happening again.

He pushed his horse as fast as the beast could run. He had never heard of it being this bad. He must reach the Proper and tell Travance’s heroes. He must warn them in time, before he forgets what…

Huh. Did he really choose the brown pants this morning?