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The jungle seems endless and trackless, a miasmic and malarial sprawl of greenery that the sun never truly reaches. The silvery light of the False Icon also cannot penetrate the broad canopy; whenever you glimpse it through a gap in the treeline, the gray mountain seems brooding and patient, as if it has all the time in the world.

The jungles and riverine bogs give way to swamps, but even as the landscape grows more treacherous, you notice signs of civilization: crude bridges across the worst of the muck, signs carved on trees that no one can read but that appear recent.

"I miss Losh," Vecla confesses, studying one sign. "He was so good with languages, and I always had him hauling baskets."

"Trouble," Therko says. He points out a dozen people heading your way on a bridge of vines.

"Ah," Alexius says, studying the newcomers' many weapons, "civilization at last!"

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