"You do seem to get along well with these people," observes Fang, pleased, looking over the mismatched troupe in the 'Mermaid's common room from the comfort of Loth's shoulders (whose comfort, exactly, is up for debate).

"Hmm?" says Loth distractedly, trailing patterns in the salt left on his plate.

"I said you seem to get along well with these people. And non-people. And they seem very nice."

"Oh, yeah, them. Sure. Good for a drink. Like 'em well enough. Only very slightly weird, like me."

Ruddy glows on the horizon, the stench of smoke, a constant haze of it on the skyline - the vista of Silverbridge Square is more like a glimpse into the distant past than Kerond’s mercantile heartland this evening, an uneasy prelude to the fate of devil-claimed Solestis. The square throngs with more people than it has ever seen in its history, some tasked with this or that effort in the city’s feverish defence, some simply purposeless and waiting, and all - to some degree or another - terrified.

This is naturally no reason for Moe to close his legendary tavern.

"You're right! The Gilden portal must still be there! That’s plenty of ambient magic for the mirror!"

"No. I'm not going back there."

"Hard to starboard -"

"I said I'm not going back there!"

"Loth, it's for Brindle. You gotta face it sometime."

"Sometime, Mik? I've already farking been there, and I go back most nights I'm not farking drunk - ahaha, but silly me, never mind. Of course there's no choice. Never is."

“Faaarewell and so long, to ye, pretty ladieees … faaaarewell and so long, ye daughters of … other ladieees …”

There was a time - in fact there were many times, long and not so long ago - when a journey like this would have been a lot louder. A lot louder. Fang clearly remembers the first time he had to coax Lotharan onto a seagoing vessel by scampering aboard and climbing up the mast of the proud ship Bitch Huntairs, refusing to climb down until the sailors cast off. To this day he doubts his weaselhearing is quite the same.

"I'm ho-ome," chirps Lotharan, tossing his bundle of oddments down by the door. "Fang?"

*hsssssssss*

"Oh. Ha. Just a moment."

The half-elf moves to the clothes chest and opens it, releasing a hissing and spitting weasel prisoner. "Don't take on at me for something that's your own fault," he admonishes mildly. "If I could trust you not to shred, chew up or pee on my books any more, you could stay out when I'm not around. But I can't, though, can I?"

*hsssssssss*

Fang scurries through the streets of Silverbridge, back from whichever mysterious and noble errands have claimed him away today - relief efforts for mustelid orphans fleeing the orcish incursion, countermeasures against increased weaselbandit activity in the countryside, who knows? There is surely much for a heroweasel to do these days. Disaster does bring out the best and the worst in weaselkind.

It has affected a lot of humanoids, too.

(The significance of this typically random motherly missive, folded and refolded to the point of tearing along the creases before being carefully 'filed' inside Diary's pages between the very last two entries, is only apparent if one pays attention to the loopily scribbled date in the top corner, or the one reference in the text - it was written a week before the end of the Year 3054 and the subsequent destruction of Gilden. This is the last letter 'Mum' sent to 'Lothie'.)

So it turns out the Island of Spooky Foggy Death was not a very nice place. Fark, you'd think someone could have repeatedly NOT warned us about it! Who knows what terrible things could happen to the next band of sallyforthers mystically obliged to do the exact opposite of whatever they're told by knowledgeable locals or pure common sense?