The following day, Duxsil and Godrenn arrived at the gates of the giant Olman-built wall towering over the small village of Tanaroa. One of the guardians of the gate called down to them and asked, in the Olman language, what had brought them there. Using his ability of Tongues, Duxsil replied, “I don’t know. Just had a hunch.”

There had been no trouble on the other side do the wall in quite some time, and the villagers that guarded the gate had actually been talking about leaving it open to foster free trade with Farshore.

Just then, a cry went out from the other side. It was a cry of pain and exhaustion and fear. The guards quickly shouted back and forth in Olman and then they shouted for the gate to be opened. They didn’t even have to open it more than a tiny fraction to allow the normal-sized human to pass through, but as soon as he did, he began shouting frantically and collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.

Duxsil translated for Godrenn, “He’s urging them to close the gate again.” Then he walked over to maniacal looking Olman refugee and asked in Olman, “What happened? What are you so afraid of?

His lips were cracked and dry, and his voice, strained from yelling, was now little more than a croaking rasp, “Thanaclan! The city is no longer in ruins! The Fallen City arose again, in a matter of hours, and is filled with all kinds of horrors.”

“Thanaclan?!” Duxsil repeated. “That’s … what? A three days journey away? How could you make that long a journey in one night?”

“Fear. I ran all night. I had to warn … everyone. We are all doomed.” With that, he suddenly went silent as his heart ceased beating.

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