The path had been a treacherous one indeed; even with the help of the Valendian Rangers, Sabina Domicetti had quietly feared her interpretation of Lady Amarinta von Hapsfeldt's geographical notes would prove the party's undoing. Between the outdated Valendian dialect Amarinta had employed to the twists and turns in her riddle-riddled poetic narrative, it was as much down to Sabina's gut instinct as it was to her deductive skills. Thankfully, her general impression had been correct, and the Rangers had pinpointed this particular dark opening in the mountains.
It's as though we've entered some great mouth, she thought, once the cold mountains gave way to warm, crystalline light. The world has opened her jaws for us, and we have stepped inside.
Try as she might, their entire journey spent poring over the rotted, crumbling pages of the Mortissima, Sabina had been unable to deduce the identity of the all-salve's guardian. Whatever the magical herb was, whatever the nature of its protector, there was no choice: they would acquire it, or Emillion itself would give way to gangrenous decay, the city gone sour and necrotic right down to its bones.
What she had been able to glean was the number three, again and again, recurring in inventive ways as a motif throughout the narrative. The meaning of this had been opaque, and she'd assumed this meant three teams would be the way to win the battle... but staring up into the triune visage of the warrior giantess, she suddenly understood. Three faces. Three sets of eyes to bring down the blade.
"Noble guardian!" she called out, trying to echo some of the language Lady Amarinta had used. Her body was already humming with holy energy, which she profoundly hoped she would not have to bring forth in violence. "We come in supplication; the people of our city have fallen to plague. It is to you we come in the hopes that you might share your treasures with us, so that we might bring them succour."