“It seems obvious that Dragotha intends to release Kyuss from his prison, and in so doing, usher in the Age of Worms. The solution seems obvious. A king without his commander is powerless. It’s taken Dragotha nearly 1,500 years to reach this point. Remove him now, and it will certainly be centuries before anything has a chance to release the Wormgod again.

“Of course, one cannot simply waltz into a lich’s lair, kill him, and be done with it. Dragotha may not know where his phylactery is, but that doesn’t mean it’s useless to him. Destroying him before you destroy his phylactery is as good as finding it and handing it over to him.

“So your first order of business should be to find his phylactery and destroy it. And that’s where it gets complicated. I have no idea where it may be hidden. Obviously, neither does Dragotha, and that’s a good thing. Certainly, his doubt to its location is the main reason he hasn’t tried to simply destroy himself as a desperate way to discover its location.

“Balakarde left for the Wormcrawl Fissure - also known as the Goradra Gap of the Mror Holds - against my advice, intending to learn more about Dragotha. He never returned, but at least he had the foresight to leave his journal fragments with me. His journal and his disappearance have become something of a minor obsession of mine, I must confess. I’ve spent the last sixteen years, on and off , studying the lore of Kyuss, of Dragotha, and associated matters. And while I haven’t managed to determine where Dragotha’s phylactery is hidden, I do believe I know where that information might be found.

“As Balakarde mentions in his journal, the Age of Worms and Kyuss’ resurrection were stopped fifteen centuries ago by the Order of the Storm. Historians believe that the Order died out not long aft er this victory, hunted down and destroyed by the last surviving members of the cult of Kyuss. These records are incorrect. The Order instead retreated to their stronghold on a hidden island off the coast of the Lhazaar Principalities.

“On this island there is a library of sorts, a repository of the Order’s lore. It has been sought for centuries by wizards, scholars, and explorers, for it is said to be filled with hundreds of years of history, memories, dreams, and of course secrets. Secrets are so valuable aren’t they, my darlings? Seems the longer they are kept, the more they’re worth. If a written account of the secret of what happened to Dragotha’s phylactery exists, it must certainly be there.

“Of course, there are complications— there always are, right? Before they built this library, the Order of the Storm drove a lasting bargain with primal elemental forces. They sacrifi ced their lives to whisk the island’s interior off the Material Plane. In its place is a barren rock surrounded by an ever-raging storm of such intensity that ships that approach within ten miles are invariably lost. The island itself appears on no maps, but the stories hint that the druids left a way for those in need to reach their secrets while at the same time warding the place away from the prying eyes of Kyuss’ undead fanatics.

“Worse, I’m afraid others have learned this as well, in part as an unfortunate result of my own research. I have a fair amount of competition in the arena of gathering and keeping secrets, and invariably word gets out that I’ve made a discovery. My enemies are always quick to nip at my heals. I speak, in particular, of a simpering dog of a man named Heskin who once served me. I’m afraid Heskin has been wooed from my side with promises of wealth and power, and has taken word of this discovery to a disreputable man indeed, a powerful priest of Vecna named Darl Quethos.”

A tumultuous scene fades into view in the middle of the room for all to observe, along with the howling sound of an oceanic tempest. The image clears to show a deathly pale man lashed to a ship’s mast with several coils of rope. Although details beyond a ten-foot-radius around Heskin are hazy and unclear, it’s obvious that the ship is caught in a tremendous storm—the decks are awash in foamy water as both waves and driving sheets of rain torment the terrifi ed man. Sounds of gruff sailors shouting commands and curses in Orc can be heard under the raging tumult of the storm, and now and then, frantic orc sailors move quickly into view and then back into obscurity as they busy themselves at securing the ship. At one point, two lithe, cloaked figures drop to the deck from the rigging on either side of Heskin. They are identically dressed in tightly wrapped silken scarves, small devilish horns sprouting from their heads. The cloaked figures spare condescending glances at Heskin, their eyes glowing faintly with infernal fire before they move out of sight toward the ship’s unseen bow. Soon thereafter, a blazing red-skinned humanoid with an immense, bulging frame strides almost casually through the scene. The rain sizzles into steam as it strikes his burning skin. As he reaches Heskin, he looks down at the man and then looks toward the bow, crying out, “Darl! It looks like your pet might be taking on water!” With that, the creature explodes into a tremendous belly laugh. A few moments later, another two figures step into view.

The smaller of the two is a shifty eyed humanoid bird who wears a hooded cloak and carries a repeating crossbow. The other is a towering man clothed in flowing blue robes trimmed with eye designs. His cowl protects his face from the wind and his hands are obscured by long, rainsoaked sleeves. He squats before Heskin and speaks to him in a low voice, “Only a few hours more, Heskin, and we shall see if you live or die.”

Suddenly, the blue-robed man’s head whips around to look directly into the scrying sensor. His face is pale but commanding, and twists into a snarl as he stands. “It seems we have guests, my friends,” he says. “Perhaps allies of this cur?” He turns back to the bound man, and as he does he pulls back his left sleeve, revealing a rotten, black-nailed appendage that seems to writhe and twitch with its own life. “We can’t have your friends watching us, so it seems your journey comes to an early end, Hesken!” The putrid hand unfurls and reaches out to caress Heskin’s brow. Heskin shrieks in mortal pain as the fingertip freezes the skin it touches into an angry black scar. The blue-robed man then makes a fist and utters a single unintelligible word. As he utters the word, Hesken’s eyes bulge, the cords in his neck throb, and he slumps against his bonds, dead. The scrying link is broken, and the image fades from view.

“I let that cow live in my city! I let her grow fat in my city. I even let her raise a little family in my city … although originally there were a dozen eggs - one must be sensible about these things. And for what? For you to kill? Damn you all - what am I going to do for my next meal now?”

The sudden shift in environment is shocking and overwhelming for a moment. The sound of the raging tempest is gone, replaced by a gentle wind carrying birdsongs and the drone of buzzing insects. The sky above is overcast, yet it doesn’t seem ready to storm.

The edge of a sprawling black forest, dense and overgrown, fills the view in one direction. Tall trees sag with branches heavy with moss, their dark eaves dropping to the ground in some places. From within comes a cacophony of insects and singing birds. Now and then, a ghostly green glow appears within, only to fade moments later, as if whatever creature was generating the light was afraid to be seen.

In the other directions grassy hills rise. Opposite the forest, these hills eventually become a range of rocky, barren mountains. A flash of brilliant lightning ignites the sky above the mountains for a moment, and the distant peal of muted thunder echoes down the slopes a few moments after.