"To whomever reads this, They weren’t empty words. I saw it myself. The mists do not cling as they once did in the Blackwood Grove. From...

Found near the forward rail of the Galehart Airship. The ink blurred by wind and the damp of the morning and the edges of the parchment...

Day 1 The following accounts are the writings of a madman. Well… I don’t know if I’m mad, but I am a hunter, and I swear I saw the most...

"It all started when I was born...- No wait, maybe it was when I was five. It was just me and me sweet Ma y’see. She worked really hard...

They met in the ruins of the Starlight Temple, where no prayers are spoken anymore. Lilima was a priestess, her bloodline bound to the...

There is a rule in Driftwood Inn, spoken quietly and never questioned. "Do not remove the mask." Once a year, on the cusp of autumn and on the eve of the first frost, an unusual patron arrives before the tavern doors have even been creaked open. No one sees them enter when they come. No one ever quite remembers the spot in which they sat the year before.

The Weeping Hollow has long been empty- just fog, half buried stones, and the lingering echo of dreams never come to fruition. It lays on a winding path heading northwest from the Outlook just before the Sirencester Sea air salts the senses. No one went there unless they were trying to forget something- or rid their thoughts of someone.

The orchard wasn't found on any map. It never had been. It appeared once a month, on the final night of the waning moon before giving into blackness, when the air grew thick and the stars seemed crammed against one another in the vast sky.

Marie the innkeeper found it tucked between the hot coals just after morning's first light, nestled within the embers like it had always been there. She furrowed brow as little Amelie clutched curiously to her cotton gown.

Scraping the backpack that was weighing him down against the face of his assailant, Gabrin successfully bought himself a handful of precious seconds to...