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"When the eye is doused in flames, the hair will light the way."
I've heard that fool Sindnar say it over and over, breath stinking of ale, as if it were a limerick. Given his dark hood you might think it was a dangerous spell. But so long as no one's hair caught on fire or found imps in their cupboards, the words were harmless. Just the mad ramblings of a drunk.
Of the inn patrons, only I bothered to humor him. We bonded over a bottle of Honningbrew and the bucket with which we had history.
So when the Elf bit the dust, it was only natural he left his things to me. Among them were countless pieces of junk, including full ownership of the bucket, and a spell tome written in some long dead language.
But as soon as I started cursing the old fool for willing me his trash, out slipped two items of value, a map and notes to a tower deep in the swamps. It was only after reading it that I realized his drunken words weren't part of any limerick. They were instructions. A way in.
Now that I'm here, things are getting even more clear. The hair part still doesn't make a lick of sense, but the eye is the stone seal, that much I'm sure. Yet nothing I do seems to work. I've doused it in the fire from my torch. I've chopped kindling for hours and built a bonfire high enough to scorch the bloody moon. Still, nothing.
Maybe the seal can only be broken with magic. Well, if that drunken fool can learn to cast spells, so can I. I've got the bastard's tome, I just need to make sense of the words.
But I better be quick. The fire seems to be attracting all sorts of creatures from the belly of this unholy marsh. Hopefully I can manage to survive long enough to discover whatever treasure lies within.