Cloakwood was unlike any place I have traveled before.

When we departed the Friendly Arm Inn, our packs were restocked, our wounds healed, and our coin purses somewhat lighter after purchasing supplies for the road ahead. Along the way, we encountered Elminster himself within the inn’s walls. The old mage offered little in the way of direct answers, but he confirmed what we already suspected: whatever force lurked behind the bandits and poisoned iron led into the depths of the Cloakwood.

The forest wasted no time testing us.

Tasloi emerged from the undergrowth in numbers. Wolves and dread wolves stalked nearly every trail. Ogrillons prowled beneath the trees, and giant spiders seemed to claim entire stretches of forest as their hunting grounds. More than once we found ourselves tangled in webs while venomous creatures descended from above.

As we pressed deeper, we became entangled in the affairs of the forest’s inhabitants. We aided druids who claimed the woods were being corrupted by hunters and the Iron Throne’s growing presence. A man named Aldeth sought our assistance against those same druids, but the truth proved less favorable to him than he wished us to believe. In the end, we sided with the defenders of the forest and Aldeth paid for his actions with his life.

The deeper reaches of Cloakwood were worse.

We discovered the lair of a twisted creature named Centeol, who commanded spiders and ettercaps in frightening numbers. Attempts at diplomacy quickly collapsed into battle. The fight nearly overwhelmed us, and only determination and steel carried us through. Among the webs and corpses we found the remains of Chelak, yet another victim claimed by the forest.

The Cloakwood also seemed eager to remind us that not every danger carried claws. Shadow Druids worked their own schemes beneath the canopy, while strange guardians and woodland spirits watched our progress. Some aided us. Others attempted to manipulate us. Few could be trusted.

The forest itself felt hostile.

Rain fell often. Trails vanished. Every path seemed to lead to another ambush, another den, or another corpse. Imoen’s keen eyes saved us repeatedly, uncovering traps that might otherwise have ended our journey. More than once I wondered whether we were pursuing the mine or merely wandering through an endless maze of trees and shadows.

There were moments when I questioned whether the clues were leading anywhere at all.

Yet every encounter pointed toward the same conclusion.

The Iron Throne had established itself within Cloakwood.

The ancient dwarven mine had been reopened.

The forest was suffering because of it.

At last, after days of searching, fighting, and surviving, we found it.

The mine stood hidden deep within the forest, concealed behind layers of wilderness, monsters, and deception. Every clue gathered since Nashkel seemed to converge upon that single location.

The source of the poisoned iron.

The reason for the bandit raids.

The next step in uncovering the truth.

Though eager for answers, we chose caution over haste. We withdrew a short distance from the entrance and made camp. Armor needed repair. Spells needed replenishment. Wounds needed tending.

Tomorrow we descend.

Tomorrow we discover what the Iron Throne has been hiding beneath the Cloakwood.

–Cail