THE OATHSWORN WITH THE LOWEST DRAW

The crumbling of Bastone has taken a great toll on you. Your nerves are frayed, vision is blurred, and your breath comes in deep ragged gulps. A slight misstep off the nearly invisible path and a clutch of roots takes hold of your boot. Suddenly you are pulled into the slick oil-coated bog. You curse yourself, and immediately recall that you must not panic. Movement will only suck you down quicker.