A Ravenous Quieting
Everything about the surroundings are as they’d expect from the normal world, but Qhortho is missing.
The sky is dim and grey and promises more of the snow that fell last night.
ROLAN: He must have left tracks in the snow.
DORL: Wait… Snow? it wasn’t cold enough to snow last night.
The sound of a crow cawing catches their attention. Its call dampened by the thick, white blanket of snow that has settled on the camp. The boughs of the pines hang low with the weight of the snowfall and they can see the footprints of small birds and squirrels dotting the rim of camp. Other than the crow, everything is silent and peaceful and they feel like they’ve finally arrived in The North.
As the silence surrounds them, the blistering cold takes precedence.
They’re not sure if they’re in one of these dream states, but the hunger pangs in their bellies sure seem real enough. Qarzdaq lights a fire and offers a break from their fast as they discuss the journey ahead.
Ultimately, they decide they can only travel northward. If this is another dream state, their goal is not to find Qhortho. At least, that’s not the pressing issue. The more important task is finding out why they are here and how they leave.
They set out on their way, following along where they believe the road to be. The virgin snow makes it hard to follow at times but they manage to make progress. After several hours of riding, their hunger rises again and they consider stopping to fix a light meal.
Moments after dismounting, distant howls catch their attention. Initially, this is of little concern, but the slight odor of rotten meat hitting their nostrils gives them more cause for concern. Rotting meat with wolves around and in this cold? The soft crunching of footsteps in the snow hits their ears.
Rolan motions to where the sound is coming from in the forest. They quickly arm themselves.
Dorleck levitates himself and flies upward. Rolan takes the ground.
Much like where they camped last night, the trees are a few meters apart but the ground here isn’t as flat. It slopes off gently down into the forest on one side and climbs up on the other. The snow makes proceeding even more treacherous than it should be.
The two of them move towards the sound until Rolan suddenly stops when he finds footprints of at least a few dogs, and one that must be VERY large.
Dorleck stops, hanging silently in the air, not knowing why Rolan stopped, but knowing there must be a ‘why’.
Rolan makes his way back to camp and notices a wolf standing in the road. It’s perfectly motionless but staring right at the rest of the party. It snarls and begins to approach…
The party dispatches the wolf before Dorleck can even make it back to them. However, 6 more wolves make an appearance and attack at once. Rolan lays down some thorns in the road, dividing the pack. The party makes short work of the wolves bore yet another pack of wolves shows up with vengeance in their hearts. One of these wolves is quite a bit larger than the others.
The party takes down the rest and decides it’s time for some roasted wolf. With a good meal in their bellies and a long rest behind them, they pack up camp.
Wolves in Men’s Clothing
As they are mounting up, more visitors arrive. Humans this time.
A dozen soldiers ride up with spears in hand bearing a grey banner and wearing mismatched armor. One of them takes a few more steps towards the party. This one, clearly the leader, is holding out a great sword in a non-threatening manner.
This one is wearing much higher-quality armor than his troop, but it’s still more rudimentary than they’re used to seeing in the South. On his breast is a running grey wolf. Looking across the other soldiers, they also bear the same sigil.
Although they appear ready for a fight, it does not seem as if the soldiers intend to bring that fight to the party.
LEADER: Oy there, everything alright with you lot? We came as soon as we heard the howling. Hold up. You don’t look like Northerners… What brings you here?
The party tells of their dance with wolves.
LEADER: Well it’s a good thing you can stand your ground. We’ve been fighting wolf attacks from Winterfell to the bloody sea! The Wolfswood isn’t safe for travelers and now it looks like the road isn’t either.
The leader stows his blade.
LEADER: I think it’s time for introductions. I am Bennard Stark, son of Ellard, the King of Winter. My family has ruled the north since before the Long Night.
ARAN: I see. We are actually on our way to Winterfell.
BENNARD: Ah. Yes. My grandfather Brandon built our castle, our home, Winterfell. You are welcome to bread and salt at our table.
Bennard clears his throat.
BENNARD: After…
ARAN: After?
BENNARD: Yes… I think you lot may help me find someone. I reckon you lot are alright and can handle yourselves. And you don’t seem like criminals…
ARNA: Yeah… and?
BENNARD: I’ll just come right out with it. We’re looking for my sisters. They’re only six years of age. They disappeared yesterday and our mother is going mad. This morning our father posted a prize of 25,000 gold for their safe return. But I’m not here for the money.
ARAN: We would be.
DORLECK: This must be why we’re here. Can we have a few moments to talk it over?
BENNARD: There is no time. You’ve seen the dangers in these woods. It’s been getting worse. I fear that… Look… Please… Please help me find them. Please help us.
Aran looks to Qarzdaq, Rolan, and Dorleck.
ARAN: Yeah, ok. We’ll help.
BENNARD: Great. They’re brown of hair and wearing white dresses. They must have gone into the Wolfswood. Head northwest into the wood and call their names, Lysarra and Lynara. If you can’t find them, seek out our bannermen of House Blackwood. Lord Brynden has a small keep deep in the forest out towards the point. He might have seen them. He can send out more people to search. He has ravens too, so let us know how they get on. Thank you again. I pray the gods return you safe.
Just as the soldiers are about to continue on, Brennard turns back to the group.
BENNARD: One more thing, friends. There are more dire wolves in these woods, but they say there are even more dangerous things than that, so keep your wits about you and your blades at the ready. Surely nothing the likes of you can’t handle though. Good luck and may the gods favor you.
The Stark men turn and leave, retracing their entry. The horses quickly thunder to a gallop, but the sound dies off just as quickly due to the heaviness of the fallen snow, giving the false sense they are traveling away much faster than they could be.
They realize how suddenly quiet the clearing is. As they contemplate the task before them, snow begins to fall, slowly enveloping the dead wolves in a soft burial shroud. The snow takes on a pink hue as it falls upon the bright crimson blood spatters. The accumulation shows less and less evidence of the wolves until the landscape returns to a dull monochrome. A raven lands near the fallen dire wolf and calls out, piercing the silence as they begin to make their way into the Wolfswood.
The Old Forest
The trail is almost nonexistent to the rest of the party, but Rolan leads them deeper into the woods with ease, as if the trail were brightly lit with torches guiding their way. The tall pines and cedars give way to ancient oaks and black brier. The snowy forest floor that surrounds them grows darker as the canopy grows denser. The path dips down into a hollow and widens into a small, round depression with a twelve-foot tall Weirwood in the center. Old chiseled stones form a twenty-foot ring around the tree. A raven sits on a low branch and watches them as they approach. CAW!
They continue past the Weirwood and leave the stone circle, cresting the bank of the hollow to find stony ruins. The great mossy stones conceal a hastily made campsite within. Animal skins lie on a hastily-crafted drying rack. Sinewy legs of some unidentifiable beast roast over a low-burning campfire. They find the man-like footprints in the area but their size connotes something much larger than any human.
An earth-shaking bellow rings out, sounding like something between the Lizard Lions they found in the Neck and an old tree flexing in the breeze. An enormous 14-foot-tall man-like creature steps out from behind one of the large stones and swings a club the size of a tree at the party. The animal skins draped around him flare out. Two more of the hairy, animal skin-wearing Giants appear on their flanks and attack immediately.
When the first of the Giants falls, the Assembly is as surprised as they are. The Giant crashes down, shaking the ground.
His friends stand for a moment and one of them calls out, “WOH DAK NAG GRAN!!”
None of the Assembly understands the spoken old tongue, but the intent is clear: this was a call for help and the Assembly must finish this quickly.
They manage to take down the last two Giants and quickly leave the area before any more Giants can show up. Rolan continues to lead them towards the den, deep in the wood.
A Frosty Reception
Trudging on through the forest, the oak and brier eventually fade to make way for the less dense pines. That only lasts a couple more hours though, as they soon come upon a pristine white clearing. Frozen fields of oats and barley wave in the frigid breeze before a wide snow-covered hill that rises up in the center. The trees cleared for farming lent themselves, not just to the walls, but also to a wooden keep on the hilltop.
The banner flying above the gate and keep depict a dead weirwood tree on a black field, bordered in scarlet with a flock of ravens within. The path they’d been following continues into the field, stretching to the gate in the timber palisade wall.
As they approach the walls of the fort, they notice archers in the battlements. The timber gate remains closed as they draw closer. When within earshot, a guard atop the gate calls out.
GUARD: WHO GOES THERE?
The Assembly lays out the situation and conveys that no harm is intended. Their mission is noble and in good faith.
The guard turns to the archers. Immediately, the archers change posture and ready their bows. Well, this is surprising… They must have knowledge of the missing girls. At best, they are helping those who kidnapped them; at worst, they are the kidnappers. Either way, there is information to be had.
The archers draw their longbows and loose, sending a shivering thicket of arrows up into the air and back down upon the party. Two mounted men come from around the palisade, flanking them on their right.
While dealing with the archers and the flanking cavalry, more soldiers exit the now-opened gate. A man’s voice is heard calling out orders, but it’s not long before the Assembly prevails. The man’s voice falls silent.
They enter the fort to find the lord of the estate outside the long house at the top of the bailey. He quickly retreats into the keep and slams the door shut. A raven that was sitting atop the keep takes flight and departs to the west.
They climb the muddy steps to the top of the motte. A locked wooden door prevents them from entering the keep, but they manage to break down the door.
As they enter the keep, they are faced with a comforting warmth paired with the familiar burning in their eyes from smoke.
Inside the single large room, a long table stretches out in front of the hearth with a mess of tin plates, cups, and candlesticks. The candles have burned down most of the way and their wax drips down the sides onto the table like a frozen waterfall whose cascade is trapped in time. A caged raven sits atop a small table in the corner. The front of the table is embossed with the profile of a dire wolf. A Stark raven. There is no sign of the Stark girls, however.
A wooden ladder is found leading to a loft above. They hear scrape across the stone floor and turn to see who must be Lord Brynden Blackwood. He holds a beautiful dragonglass great axe in his hands but after sizing the party up, he wisely lays it on the floor. By the sound of the axe and the look of his aged appearance, he is no threat. At least not t the Assembly.
He goes to speak, but a wet cough emerges from his mouth.
BRYNDON: I yield. I yield.
ARAN: Smart move.
BRYNDON: You’ve killed all my men. You’ve… You’ve ruined everything…
QARZ: You did this to yourself. Why did you take the girls?
BRYNDON: This isn’t about the girls. They are held safely. Who are you anyway? You don’t look like Northerners. How did you find out?!
DORL: Find out?
BRYNDON: What? Uh nothing… Never you mind….
ROLAN: Never we mind what?
ARAN: Look. We just want to retrieve the Stark girls and return them to their home safely. Are you going to give us the information we want? Or do we just have to kill you? We can find our own way, so you’re not protecting anyone.
The man’s shoulders slump. He looks even more an old man now than moments ago. He begins speaking to himself, but loudly enough for the party to hear him.
BRYNDON: I told Gaven to tell no one of our scheme. Damn the Starks. My house has remained loyal to them for generations and what gratitude are we offered? Do they come to our defense when the Ironborn raid our shores? No!
His eyes meet Rolan’s with a scowl.
BRYNDON: I should be the King of Winter!
Aran steps up to Bryndon, no more than a foot stands between their faces.
ARAN: You are going to talk now old man.
The blood splattered across Aran’s face, armor, and weapon is enough to send the man over the edge. He holds it together well under the circumstances, but his involuntary trembling gives him away.
BRYNDON: Ok. I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you… Just don’t hurt me. He… uh… he made me do it.
ARAN: Who made you do what? Is this the Gaven you spoke of?
Bryndon hesitates.
ARAN: NOW!
BRYNDON: Yes. Gaven. He can get the wolves… those infernal beasts… He can get them to do his bidding. I don’t know how, but I swear it. After a day’s ride west you’ll come to a great point with a circle of weirwoods and an ancient barrow. You should find him there.
DORL: Now, what do we do with him?
ROLAN: He told us what we wanted to know.
QARZ: At the very least we should send that raven to the Starks.
Bryndon hangs his head. They write a message and send off the raven.
ARAN: We can’t just wait here until they arrive though.
BRYNDON: It shouldn’t take long for the Starks to arrive, but with what remaining honor I have, I swear to you I will await my punishment here. You have my word as a Blackwood.
The Assembly look at each other.
Bryndon gestures to the accumulating snow outside, which is falling even more heavily than before.
BRYNDON: Where am I to go in THIS anyway?
The Assembly shows some compassion and agrees. They leave him there to head farther west.
By the time they leave the keep, the snow has already covered many of the fallen Blackwood soldiers. The quiet seems eerie and haunting, especially when only minutes ago there was the clamor and chaos of battle.
As they approach the dark Wolfswood opposite the barley field, it feels as if they are being watched. It feels as if the woods themselves are watching them. Once they enter the forest, the feeling surrounds them despite seeing no one else around. Rolan leads them down the western trail from Deepwood Motte through the snowy forest, not knowing where this path will take them.
The Snow Thickens
Despite the thick canopy of the Wolfswood, the snow continues to accumulate, now at knee-depth. If not for the well-cut path through the trees, even Rolan may have trouble determining their desired direction. Other than the occasional CAW of a raven or two in the distance, the crunching of snow beneath their boots is the only sounds they hear. The white-out conditions continue as the forest thickens and thins, as the terrain goes up and down. They’ve been traveling so long at this point, it’s difficult to know what time of day it is.
Eventually, the trees thin out and the snowfall slows. Finally, they are able to see more than 50′ ahead. The faint roar of waves crashing against a rocky shoreline and the increasing winds telegraph their arrival at the Bay of Ice. Soon enough, the path brings them alongside tall cliffs that plummet down to the frozen, rocky shore below.
They follow the cliff’s edge until they finally leave the tree line behind. A wide, snowy hollow easily stretches out 200 yards, rolling downhill and up again, out onto a wide peninsula with another small forest.
They follow the path onto the peninsula and into the forest, which leads to a clearing in its center. This place is clearly of some significance. As they enter the clearing, a few crows take flight towards the far forest, cawing as if to complain about being disturbed.
They continue forward.
Something catches in their noses, reminding them of their first encounter with the wolves.
They trade looks with each other, arm themselves, then press forward.
As they approach the other side of the clearing, shapes appear to be moving throughout the tree line. Suddenly, they are surrounded by an unnaturally large pack of wolves. If they didn’t know better, they’d mistake this for a community – a society even – of wolves.
They stand staring, snarling, and salivating with death in their eyes, ready to cut them into little pieces.
The encounter is a complete blur. The Assembly holds no stops, decimating and burning everything in their way. The piles of wolves, including some dire wolves, makes the genocidal scene look almost like modern art, if this were modern times. Here and now, the scene is simply barbaric.
A man’s scream floats across the frigid breeze from out in the distance, towards the tip of the peninsula.
Covered in blood, they proceed continue into forest. The stench grows stronger. Death and rot. Dank fur and mildew. The sides of the path are littered with the bones of deer, elk, and rabbits. Crows sit on every branch watching these outsiders with deep interest.
CAW! CAW! CAW!
After a few hundred yards, they approach the edge of the forest, denoted by wind-battered pines. A small grove of white trees lies beyond the pines. Their leaves long lost, their stark, spindly branches reach up towards the grey, uninviting sky. After a moment they realize the trees form a circle about 30 feet across.
Has Anyone Seen Gaven?
At the base of each tree sits a person wrapped in patchy furs with only their face visible. They all sit facing the center of the circle. At the far side of the circle, a man stands in front of the entrance to an ancient barrow. The low, snowy dome is ringed by a waist-high wall of wave-worn stone.
If the Stark twins are anywhere, they must be inside.
The man steps forward wearing a patchwork of pelts and a crown of fang and bone.
LEADER: You can come out! We’ve been tracking your progress and have been awaiting your arrival.
They Assembly steps forward.
LEADER: Funny… You don’t look like Northerners…
He looks around the circle of others, none of them looking up to him.
LEADER: They don’t look like Northerners…
He looks back to the party.
LEADER: You clearly have come a long way. Most impressive. None have proven themselves to be their equal in a fight. Or perhaps you just happen to have an uncommonly deep well of luck.
DORLECK: And you are??
LEADER: Ah. Yes. Pleasantries. Where are my manners…
He grits his teeth a bit with those words. As if he is compelled by some Northern Code to follow through with introductions.
LEADER: I am Gaven Greywolf. Also known as Gaven the Grey. The TRUE King of Winter.
QARZ: The TRUE King of Winter you say? Funny. I seem to remember the Starks holding that title. Lord Blackwood…
Gaven cuts him off.
GAVEN: Forget Blackwood! That twat is a gullible fool! I told him I would make him the King of Winter and he paid me two full chests of platinum!
He laughs as if this is his favorite joke of all time. That is, not so much as to be a brand-new joke, but it clearly tickles him in some unmatched way. He recomposes himself.
GAVEN: Ah… He truly is a fool… But I AM the true King. I would tell you to bend the knee, but it is too late for that. Winterfell will kneel though. I will see to that. I’m dreadfully sorry to inform you that your well of luck has now runneth dry. Your friends, the Starks, will not be here soon enough to save you. You see, every step you’ve taken has merely brought you closer to your demise. The North is MINE!
The words hang for a moment. Gaven not making any move to be a real threat and the Assembly not really wanting to act without acknowledging a threat.
GAVEN: Have you any last words?
Ok, well there’s the threat.
Aran rushes up to him, slashing him across the face. The others kneeling at the weirwoods continue to keep their heads down. Is this some sort of summoning?
Rolan strikes him with a few arrows. He takes the hits without seeming distressed by them.
Two of the summoners look up at Gaven.
GAVEN: DON’T STOP! DO NOT STOP! DO NOT FUCKING STOP!! I DON’T CARE IF…
He is struck by several blasts of fire. He coughs lightly which turns to laughter. A cold, maniacal laugh that they already know will haunt their dreams. He continues his thought.
GAVEN: I DON’T CARE IF THEY ARE STRUCK DOWN! I DON’T CARE IF I AM STRUCK DOWN! THE CEREMONY MUST BE COMPLETED! DO NOT FUCKING STOP!!
The party continues to pummel him, but the more they hurt him, the more he laughs.
He attacks them with powerful earthen magic, causing severe damage; he sends dire wolves to attack, causing severe damage; he attempts taking control of Dorleck, causing severe damage.
After what seems an eternity, Rolan sends one last arrow through his belly.
As Gaven falls and releases his last breath, it feels like there’s something he knows that they don’t.
They run over to him, ready to behead him. The summoners around the circle keep their heads down and make no move towards the Assembly.
GAVEN: It’s… too late… you’re too late…
He laughs slightly but coughs up blood.
GAVEN: You can’t stop… him………
Aran yells out to kill the summoners.
They kill each with a quickness, and with each death, they exhale a shriek into the wind. After they are all killed, all that’s left is the sound of the wind howling.
Their attention falls to the ancient barrow and the faint light within. They have to bend down quite low as the header stone is only about 3 feet off the ground.
It opens up to a long room. Inside are several children. Five girls and two boys. Two of the girls are bound.
As the Assembly approaches, the two boys wield swords beyond their capabilities.
QARZ: The girls are coming with us.
DORL: The rest of you can just find your way home or stay here.
ROLAN: They’re just kids.
DORL: I don’t care of their age.
ROLAN: Put down the blades. We do not intend you harm. Your father was killed, but we do not plan to abandon you.
ARAN: Hey guys, look at this.
Aran is standing before a chest filled of platinum coins.
One of the Greywolf children charges Qarzdaq. Qarzdaq sidesteps the attack and Dorleck slams his staff into the kid’s chest knocking him to the ground.
DORL: See?
ROLAN: Yeah, that would have caused a lot of harm. We should just let them leave.
DORL: If they leave, they’re going to die anyway, which isn’t what you say you want. If they stay with us, they will intend us harm unless we bind them.
The group ultimately agrees to tie them up.
It is then they realize one of the vaults in the barrow has collapsed in a bit and something ornate is inside. Upon excavating the item, they find it is a large, intricately-carved horn. It’s not exactly newly crafted, but it reminds the party of the horn they saw while in the white walkers’ skins. That one was much duller, but it shared many characteristics.
Upon examining it more closely, they find artistically-carved dragons down the length with some sort of glyphs.
QARZ: That’s Valyrian. It looks like this may allow us to control dragons.
Did You Say “Dragon”?
They emerge from the barrow with the Stark twins, the chest, and the horn. They are victorious! And freezing!! The wind howls through the weirwoods and the waves crash on the cliffs below in a slow, rhythmic thunder. If not for the battle, their blood would have surely frozen in their veins by now.
Still, some things Gaven said still echo in their memory. What did he mean by “their friends”? The Starks? Are they on their way? How did he know to expect them? How had he been watching them? What were the people around the circle doing?
The thunder of the waves crescendo again but without warning, one crash is a bit louder than any of the others.
The ground shakes after the sound of the crash fades. Something besides the waves is making that noise. They feel it again. And again. It seems to be getting louder and stronger. Maybe this fight isn’t over. They look over the side of the cliff but only see fog, as if they stand high above the clouds.
Just then, over the side of the cliff between the weirwoods and the forest, a massive, white, scaly claw slams over the edge. Briny water and strips of seaweed splash onto the rock. The sharp, icicle-like claws dig into the bare stone like a flaky hot pie. The one is quickly followed by another and, before they know it, a head with deep-set feral eyes rises into view.
The beast’s spiky, spiny, crest rings its head like an evil crown. It seems to flow down its long neck, back and tail. The white scales they’d seen are actually a motley, weathered and stained armor of white, dull green and blue. As it mounts the rocky cliffside between them and the mainland, they finally get a full view of all fifty feet head to toe of this adult white dragon. It’s proper HUGE.
The dragon roars out a deafening wind, almost causing them to lose their footing. The Assembly attacks, or at least they try to. The dragon takes off into the air, breathing fire down upon them. In their weakened, unrested state, this dragon may be the true end.
The Assembly gives it all they can, but are making little progress. This is not sustainable.
Against All Odds
Just when all appears lost, the thunder of countless hooves are heard through the wind. Suddenly, out of the forest bursts Bennard Stark with bared steel followed by two dozen mounted cavalry. They clash violently with the dragon, ebbing and flowing in and out like water. Where the dragon retreats, they flood. Where the dragon strikes, they dodge and counter.
The Assembly provides support and before too long, bristling with arrows and bleeding from a dozen open slashes, the dragon falters. He’s too weak now to support himself and he crumbles to the ground sliding up right in front of Qarzdaq, the fog curling around its collapsing, slumped husk. Its final, icy breath, somehow colder than the wind, wheezes out as it settles into the snow. Bennard dismounts and approaches.
BENNARD: My weary friends, yuv dun quite well fuh yuhselves.
The Stark twins run out towards Bennard, who welcomes them with open arms.
BENNARD: You have truly accomplished the extraordinary. Muh mutha will be overjoyed to know the twins are safe.
ARAN: And we took down Greywolf here, who was claiming he was the true King of Winter.
BENNARD: Truly remarkable. The War of the Wolves is won! The undying gratitude of Winterfell is yours. You are welcome to bread and salt at our table and we will feast in your honor when you arrive. You will always be welcome at our hearth.
ARAN: And what of Blackwood?
BENNARD: Yes. Lord Blackwood has been banished from the North and may never return for his treachery.
ARAN: And the Greywolf children?
Dorleck forces them forward towards Bennard.
BENNARD: What must be done is certain. We will take the girls back to Winterfell but the boys must face the ultimate judgement. It’s not an easy decision but he who passes the sentence must carry out the deed. Kneel together, boys. You may hold each others’ hands.
Bennard holds his blade out to one side and sighs heavily.
BENNARD: I am sorry.
With one swipe of Bennard’s blade, both of the boys heads roll across the snowy stone, staining it with the bright red memory of their father’s dissidence. A moment of silence falls over everyone as the Greywolf sisters weep. Bennard wipes then sheathes his blade.
BENNARD: Come, Lysarra… Lynara… Let’s get you home.
With that, the Starks turn their mounts and head back up the peninsula, booming across the hollow towards Winterfell.
The Assembly knows this feeling well. Seeing their enemies driven before them. Hearing the lamentations of the vermin. Surmounting insurmountable odds and ultimately vanquishing them on the battlefield. Victory is theirs.
The dull grey sky thins and parts and showers the sea and stone around they with warm sunlight. The fog dissipates and the breeze sweetens with the persistent salt and pine. The sun reflecting off the snow glares in their eyes. They decide it is time to bask and treat their wounds.
They certainly got more than they bargained for, and they might have bitten off more than they could chew.
But in the end, one thing remains true…
The Unlikely Assembly always triumphs!
Triumph?
Qhortho nudges Rolan with his boot. Rolan jumps as he gains consciousness.
ROLAN: Where are we?
Qhortho is a little confused by the question, but he’s had some weird dreams and thinks this may be a part of whatever they are experiencing.
QHOR: Same place we were before. Merchant cart over there, the rest are still asleep.
ROLAN: And the horn?
QHOR: The horn?
Rolan comes to the realization he is referring to a dream.
ROLAN: Never mind.
QHOR: You’re up for next watch.
Rolan gets to his feet and looks around the peaceful camp.
ROLAN: Anything I need to know?
QHOR: Nope. Seems a peaceful night.
Each member of the Assembly gains 2.5 kXP, bringing their total to 125 kXP.