As has been often the case, a human male travels at great speed across country to the little elven settlement. His eyes bleary and showing no signs of good sleep lately. He opens the doors to the encampment, bowing politely to the elven guards and murmuring a greeting in their tongue. They regard him stoically, he has been before and they know why he has come. Bound to a guest quarters in Nant Gaerwynn, he passes Feu Follet and Pixie, none of which seek to comfort or appeal to his emotions tonight. A crackle of Barovian lightning illuminates outside through a window, setting contrast between gaps in the canopy. The fireplace roars, and he begins by peeling off sodden clothing, the weariness kept at bay by magic now fading into the quietude of the glade. At last, in his small clothes, and relatively dry, Killian collapses onto the silk bedding, and permits the magic of Degannwy to permeate his senses, thundering him into, at last, a fitful sleep. But flashes of Sithicus and Ebon Order fracture this sleep, and he awakens the next day, only mildly better than before...
