April 2025 Epilogue

Where once there had been a demiplane of cold dominion and stolen souls, warped by Larlak’s will and sustained by cruelty, now springs a quiet grove bathed in silver light. Draka’Thul’s Avatar, reborn in dignity, lifts his vast antlers and carries the moon once more into this field of endless fertile night. Under his gaze, the previously barren earth blossoms with spectral life: whispering trees of white, golden meadows of yellow flowers that bloom at night, glades of luminous moss, and streams of clear shimmering water. Now in this place those souls lost to suffering, those too fragile to return or too broken for their judgment find peace here. No walls, no chains. Just stillness, and rest. In the shadow of death, a gentler purgatory has taken root in the Realm of Silver Hollow.

One by one, as sleep takes you, each who stood against Larlak finds themselves beneath a silvered sky. There, among still waters and glowing reeds, the divine visage of Draka’Thul stands, no longer the shattered echo they once were, but whole. The Avatar thought lost now stands as a herald in this plane of endless peace. With his resurrection, he takes special notice and care of souls thought lost themselves. His voice is like wind through branches, deep and aching with gratitude. “I was gone from myself,” he says, “but you were not gone from me. Where I could not walk, you carried me. For that, I owe you rest, and the world owes you dawn.” When the dream fades, it leaves behind a warmth in the chest and a certainty: you were seen.

​Somewhere far from peace, fire screams through the caverns of the Abyss. There, among clawed echoes and churning rivers of lava, the imp Ebrax writhes. Their wings torn, their tricks spent. Their clever games and whispered machinations have bought them nothing but scorn from the demon lords they once sought to impress. Their shrieks echo upward, unheard by mercy. They are trapped now, in a place that no longer finds them amusing. And still, they curse the moon, the mortals, and the Lich who denied them ascension.

Deep in the quiet corners of Tyrilswood, far from roads and the noise of civilization, Dunstan walks beneath the canopy of dense trees. His lycanthropic fur ripples with the wind, and the Iykilsteinn hangs heavy from a cord around his neck, glowing softly with lunar warmth. Once a hunted creature of dual natures, now he is simply whole. He runs not in fear, but in freedom. At night, he sits by small fires, eyes to the moon, and breathes deep the stillness, no longer a fugitive in constant hiding from Larlak, but a guardian of the old places.

In the dim light of a candlelit cavern, the Visraki Tam spreads ancient maps across a stone table. His fingers trace the faded etchings of passageways long forgotten, in perilous caverns lost to time. One tunnel in particular hums faintly beneath his palm. A hidden chamber with a familiar sealed vault buried deep below, untouched by war, before even Larlak’s rise. He leans back and exhales, letting the weight of survival and uncertainty slip from his shoulders. There is work to be done, but for now, the danger has passed, and ancient knowledge stirs in the deep earth.