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Imrama The sun hangs low in a clear, cold sky as the Fable of the Reconstruction plows the Northern tradewinds. Beneath its keel, more than a mile down, one of the largest shadowlands in all of Creation spreads out in all directions: Marama's Fell. "We have arrived, Cerin," Imrama calls down below decks.

Cerin "Thank you, Imrama," Cerin says as he emerges onto the deck, still wearing the cloak, looking out over the massive expanse of the Fell.

Cerin considered. "Could you fly a circuit of the Fell? I would like to get a sense of the Essence of this place from all over."

The Fell stretches out, a vast darkened wasteland amidst the frigid tundra of the North, vaster than one can easily take in the whole of with a single glance. The dark shadow that lies across it is the only real clue of its necrotic nature.

Imrama "Assuredly." Imrama sets a course to draw a rough circle over the land of frozen death.

The land below is largely static: the northern fields are lacking in detail even in the best of circumstances, and here the heavy weight of death has worn down any uniqueness or distinguishing features in favor of the cold emptiness of arctic wilderness: land in which any who go out may never come back.

Cerin watches as the Fell passes by under the Fable, studying more of the essence flows than the physical land that they pass over, trying to get a sense of how the Fell as a whole was connected.

The innards of the Shadowland seem to be of a consistent, even quality: there is no constant web of Essence or other elaborate structure that holds the Shadowland together, it seems that the merged world is just like any other piece of existence. (...)

At the borders, Cerin can make out something of the pattern in play: the way in which the singular existence of Creation transitions into a merged existence between the two realms, along a ragged border that -- now that he looks at it -- definitely seems to fit with the "holes torn in the medium between worlds" concept.

The border extends a certain distance up into the air -- not more than a few hundred feet, in this case.

Cerin "Interesting," he murmurs, and then unclips the cloak from his armour, studying the patches. As he does so, he talks to Imrama. "Imrama, do you know anything of how the Fable transitions between the different planes?"

Imrama "It is a matter of applying the right charms, but also of positioning. I need to find a point of relative weakness in the tapestry of existence."

Cerin nods. "Do shadowlands always contain such weaknesses?"

Imrama "In my experience, the answer thus far seems always to be 'yes'."

Cerin "That makes sense, yes."

The Cloak's patches shimmer gently in the light above. There are exactly 237 patches in the cloak, differing in size and shape. None seem to match exactly in either shape or vibration with the great Shadowland below, though the nature of their torn edges has a certain similarity to the ragged borders of the melded space.

Cerin thinks back to the rather limited note that, upon consideration, most likely applies to the patch he retrieved from the box: "End-of-Days, Netheos, Southern Wastes" -- followed by more specific coordinates, and a date from perhaps 5 years before Ymir's exile.

Cerin "I think there is another place we shall have to visit, Imrama, although I think it would be better to go there with company."

Imrama looks interested. "Where would that be?"

Cerin "The Southern Wastes," he says. "It is where Ymir retrived one of the patches, which is now sewn into the cloak."

Imrama "And the cloak is somehow connected to Shadowlands?"

Cerin "I think so, yes. The edges of the patches look remarkably similar to the edges of Shadowlands."

Imrama "Then I agree that we should go there, and also that the trip would best be undertaken in company."

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