Contact your family about the blue coral.

You and Kara excuse yourself from Madeleine's presence. Your wife soon departs, to help oversee the co-option of the Deanian flotilla. Alone, for now at least, you slink off to the privacy of your shared tent, the chest containing the blue coral under your arm.

Glancing over the glowing blue artefact, you try your hardest to ascertain just what it is. While you've no active magical abilities, your semi-demonic heritage means there is magic in your blood, and you're consequently more attuned, more receptive to it that ordinary people.

The coral calls out to you, but you're not quite able to grasp it, to connect, and harness whatever odd power the object may provide.

With no other option, you decide it's time to ask for help from your family.

Corinne is quick to answer when you call for her, her crimson magical projection illuminating your dingy tent.

“If it isn't Edward.” The Spider says in a sing-song tone. “You're in trouble, you know!”

You can imagine. No doubt Roland had been in touch with her, informed her of your hesitance to kill Robert, of the White Torch.

“I'm surely not the only one?” you counter. “You left one of the demon-hunters alive.”

“Don't remind me.” The Morlandian sighs. “Mother screamed at me for a good half an hour after that little mishap. I don't see the problem, really. I always thought The Spider should be a tall tale, a demon that stalks our prey's very minds!”

“Well in that case, well done. The entire Beathan army knows of you now, just as they do our aunt.”

“They know my monstrous visage, know that I stand ready to deal **** to all our enemies, cousin. And as for Bezoriana, they know one of her guises, and that she's Beathan. And of course, she's not even Beathan...” the baroness says with a coy smile.

“I thought you might be able to put me in contact with your mother.” you say, changing the subject. “We've discovered an odd magical artefact, you see, and-”

“I'm afraid that's not going to be possible, dear cousin.” Corinne pouts. “The last thing my mother wants right now is to talk to you. And honestly, you're better off avoiding her, she gets in such moods these days! All a part of pregnancy, I imagine.”

“But this might change-”

“Non.” Corinne holds up a hand to silence you. “Though, I have heard, and I'm sure Roland, who's really very cross with you, has mentioned, but Grandfather will soon call us to him. You'll have plenty of explaining to do then. If I were you, I'd avoid digging myself in any deeper.”

“Fine.” you say, sensing you'll make no inroads with Corinne, or your aunt.

“See you at the summit, cousin. I'll give your love to aunt Bezoriana.”

And with that, the Spider is gone, leaving you alone in the tent, your good hand resting on the giantess' heavy chest.

You refuse to let the irritating mystery of the coral beat you. Opening the chest once more, you focus intently on the artefact before you. You close your eyes, concentrating solely on it, reaching out with senses you're only half-aware of.

You feel something shift, and then give way. Constellations of blue light, the inverse of the particles from your enchanted ring, and very much like the ones in Einar's communication device are birthed and permeate the tent, bathing the environments in an ethereal glow.

Three figures swim into focus. Two of them are men, robed and bearded. The third is a slender woman in raider mail. They have their backs to you, focussing their attention on something unseen, and indistinct on a table.

You watch them, confused but unnoticed for a good few seconds, before the taller of the two men cranes his head around, looking you directly in the eye.

Einar offers you a wolfish smile, raises his hand and gives you a slight wave.

A second later, there's a mighty crash, and the figures dissipate just as swiftly as they had coalesced.

You hear the crash of lightning, feel the crackle of electricity as a great bolt strikes the canopy of the tent. You hobble outside, noting with some relief that the bolt does not seem to have ignited anything at least.

Voices of concern and alarm bombard you from every direction. You play them off as best you are able, eventually retreating back inside your tent, attempting to calm your nerves with a glass of wine. Needless to say, you don't so much as touch the coral for the rest of the night.