Aug 31, 2026 · 4 hr 22 min · 13 segments
*This one shot was recorded to tide you over during our one month hiatus. We will return next month with Season 2 Episode 6, but if you don't want to wait, you can listen to it starting August 31st…
Troy AllanHostLilliGuestChaseGuestRochelleGuestKarennaGuest
A warm, almost summer breeze whistles through the crimson hollywood trees, creating the endemic hauntingly beautiful cacophony through the howling woods of Sunkrest, as the quinquennial festival of peace, a renowned and solemn celebration of valor and heroism, looms over the otherwise quiet town of Howl's End.
Two days remain before those that undertake a pilgrimage here arrive and receive solace, the divine accumulation of the worship given to Belegor during this festival through the Rite of Peace.
In preparation for the oncoming droves of war-torn soldiers, desolate veterans, and crestfallen warriors, the eternal torches of valor line the tortuous, well-trod roads into and out of town, as far as five miles from Howl's End in all directions.
The townsfolk prepare to open their doors to accommodate the influx, as they all know by now that their town's inn will be full and their tavern will run dry.
Even the mages and scholars of the Arcane Athenaeum, who hold a curious station and purpose here, do what they can to augment the town's food and beverage stores through teleportation, imports, or conjurations.
As trickles of pilgrims arrive at Howe's End early, and the typical local hospitality is shown to them in preparation for the festival, an outcast drifts through town, almost bouncing from place to place.
She garners a mixture of fascinated and suspicious glares, as her kind are seldom seen on Iathis, let alone Howe's End.
Having arrived several days hence and followed a buried feeling even she herself can't rightly explain to get here, she, this day, sees a familiar necklace being worn by the town's blacksmith as a bracelet.
The Goliath stands at attention, looking northward with an atypical wariness, and in a flash with surprising alacrity, they close up shop.
The smell of myriad meals wafts through the thick air here, rife with the anticipation and anguish of world-weary travelers as a raging storm front rolls in rapidly from the north.
The screeching of the wind through the holed trees mixes with an unsettling, too-close collective cry of unseen monsters in the woods as the denizens rush to their blowings.
Even the alderman's abode dims as windows briefly fly open, candles doused, internal cursing drowned by the storm.
The typically placid waters of the town's lake turn turbulent as the fury-laden winds abuse the land indiscriminately, boats tethered begin to fray as fishermen out on the water struggle to return to shore.
Resolutely, the statue of Belegor stands at the town center, its eternal vigil performed through ruby eyes, a sentinel to these people from the horrors that have surrounded them for centuries in the atrocities of his own domain.
At its base stands a woman, as steadfast and stolid as the chiseled deity before her.
Countless contraptions, trinkets, and miscellany fill brimming bags across her body.
An arcane curio sits in one hand as she contemplatively rests the other on the slick steel plaque at the statue's feet.
Some hundred feet away at the tavern's mouth leans the diminutive form of the outcast.
Soaked and seemingly elated, head to toe, fierce stare fixated on the only other person in town mad enough to weather this weather.
Amidst the faintly sweet rain, a scintillating shine radiates from the arcane curio.
The somber woman shakes from her stupor and seems both uncharacteristically shocked and intrigued as she bolts for the town's border, knowing full well what lurks in these woods.
A warm, almost summer breeze whistles through the crimson hollywood trees, creating the endemic hauntingly beautiful cacophony through the howling woods of Sunkrest, as the quinquennial festival of peace, a renowned and solemn celebration of valor and heroism, looms over the otherwise quiet town of Howl's End.
Two days remain before those that undertake a pilgrimage here arrive and receive solace, the divine accumulation of the worship given to Belegor during this festival through the Rite of Peace.
In preparation for the oncoming droves of war-torn soldiers, desolate veterans, and crestfallen warriors, the eternal torches of valor line the tortuous, well-trod roads into and out of town, as far as five miles from Howl's End in all directions.
The townsfolk prepare to open their doors to accommodate the influx, as they all know by now that their town's inn will be full and their tavern will run dry.
Even the mages and scholars of the Arcane Athenaeum, who hold a curious station and purpose here, do what they can to augment the town's food and beverage stores through teleportation, imports, or conjurations.
As trickles of pilgrims arrive at Howe's End early, and the typical local hospitality is shown to them in preparation for the festival, an outcast drifts through town, almost bouncing from place to place.
She garners a mixture of fascinated and suspicious glares, as her kind are seldom seen on Iathis, let alone Howe's End.
Having arrived several days hence and followed a buried feeling even she herself can't rightly explain to get here, she, this day, sees a familiar necklace being worn by the town's blacksmith as a bracelet.
The Goliath stands at attention, looking northward with an atypical wariness, and in a flash with surprising alacrity, they close up shop.
The smell of myriad meals wafts through the thick air here, rife with the anticipation and anguish of world-weary travelers as a raging storm front rolls in rapidly from the north.
The screeching of the wind through the holed trees mixes with an unsettling, too-close collective cry of unseen monsters in the woods as the denizens rush to their blowings.
Even the alderman's abode dims as windows briefly fly open, candles doused, internal cursing drowned by the storm.
The typically placid waters of the town's lake turn turbulent as the fury-laden winds abuse the land indiscriminately, boats tethered begin to fray as fishermen out on the water struggle to return to shore.
Resolutely, the statue of Belegor stands at the town center, its eternal vigil performed through ruby eyes, a sentinel to these people from the horrors that have surrounded them for centuries in the atrocities of his own domain.
At its base stands a woman, as steadfast and stolid as the chiseled deity before her.
Countless contraptions, trinkets, and miscellany fill brimming bags across her body.
An arcane curio sits in one hand as she contemplatively rests the other on the slick steel plaque at the statue's feet.
Some hundred feet away at the tavern's mouth leans the diminutive form of the outcast.
Soaked and seemingly elated, head to toe, fierce stare fixated on the only other person in town mad enough to weather this weather.
Amidst the faintly sweet rain, a scintillating shine radiates from the arcane curio.
The somber woman shakes from her stupor and seems both uncharacteristically shocked and intrigued as she bolts for the town's border, knowing full well what lurks in these woods.
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