A low and dense fog settles around you as the ferry from Briarstone slowly chugs forwards, its brisk pace keeping the air cool and fresh against your skin. Ahead, though you cannot see it, you have been told awaits the grim city of Thrushmoor, a place to rest and regain your footing, as despite your regained mental alacrity, you find yourself adrift without memories from your exploration into the Hungry Mountains that began over 3 months ago. All you have left is the gear that was issued back to you upon your discharge from the asylum, and a desire to know just what went down in those mountains.
"20 minutes until arrival..." mutters the old man steering the ferry, his words muffled further behind a thick white beard. You didn't quite catch this old sailor's name, but you think it started with a 'J'. Other than him and and you, this is a lonely, slow ride towards shore. But there's only a little bit further to go.