The rains have not stopped. For nearly a month, the lowlands of the Wyrm’s March have been consumed by floods that defy all reason. Rivers once narrow enough to wade through have become churning torrents, sweeping away homes and livestock. The water carries with it strange silt that glows faintly blue, and the ground trembles beneath its flow as if something vast stirs below. Miners and farmers alike whisper that a river spirit has awakened, angered by the digging of new tunnels that redirected the underground waterways. Others speak of a serpent glimpsed beneath the surface — scales like wet glass, eyes bright as stormlight — moving with the current, reshaping the land. Now the waters rise higher each day, swallowing fields and roads alike. The villagers of Gath Tekul call for help before the March drowns under the wrath of whatever coils beneath the flood.