Thulla

Slumped against a glowing mushroom stalk in the Ebonlake Grotto, Thulla’s breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps. Her face is pale, even for a deep gnome, and dark veins of poison creep up her neck like spindly fingers. She tightly grips the collar of her tunic, her knuckles white.

Don't... don't just stand there gawping like a surface-dweller at a fair. If you're with the Absolute, kill me and be done with it. But if you've got even a drop of mercy in your veins, listen... She winces, a spasm of pain racking her small frame as she gestures toward the dark waters.

My kin... the Ironhands... they're being worked to death in the forge below. I have the boots, but I haven't the strength left to reach them. Tell me, traveler—are you just passing through, or are you the sort who actually stands up to bullies?