It may seem odd that I have not made any notes within the margins of the prophecies themselves. It is certainly not for lack of opinions, but out of an abundance of caution; some of the most heated debates that I have ever witnessed during my studies dealt with the supposed impartiality of the researcher, with some believing that we should be as unbiased as my fellow psychopomps in their judgments of souls in the Boneyard and others noting that our beliefs influence everything we do, and should be acknowledged and even used within the way we work. The arguments grew heated more than once, and while it cannot be said for sure that they led to what some call “The Dueling Quills Incident,” they certainly caused plenty of frayed nerves.

The crowd in front of the vast chasm surrounding the Starstone Cathedral was slightly larger today than most days. Visitors from all over Golarion stopped by the great pit every day to marvel at the ancient edifice at its center, to dream of the stone hidden away behind its massive walls, lethal traps, and immortal guardians. It was said that the Starstone granted immeasurable power to any who could touch its crystalline surface and pass the final test of spirit. Those who succeeded became gods. Most simply fell to their deaths in the chasm outside and the rare few who made it in the cathedral were usually never heard from again.

“Whirp–click?” the tiny construct asked of Droven, who rotated the lenses of a pair of clockwork glasses he’d been tinkering with.

It’s strange how quickly a life-changing period spanning years can be replaced by what was once normal. Droven was certainly happy to be back in the field undertaking a Pathfinder mission again, and even happier to have an opportunity to deploy some of the gadgets and weaponry he’d created during his long exodus in Arcadia. He’d even lent his latest weapon, a gun that could create portals, to his partner for the exercise, a clever halfling freelancer from Cheliax who’d come highly recommended by a fellow Pathfinder.

“I don’t like the look of that sloop,” said Daker, punctuating the last word with his ever-present sneer.

“Typically, when a patrol is sent out to escort a diplomat, they can handle themselves!”