Heimen In Wildwood - Dimraeth NPC

Field	Value
Internal ID	HeimenInWildwood
Official name	Heimen In Wildwood

Dialogue — Greetings

Heimen In Wildwood: He grins wide, arms crossed like a bard greeting an old friend.

Well met, stranger! Bit far from safe stone, ain’t it? What tale brings ye wanderin’ through cursed woods? Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen stares at the trunk in silence, his brow furrowed in reflection. Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen brightens as you approach.

Aye, you’re back. How goes it? Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen stands lost in thought as you approach, then notices you and breaks into a broad, bright grin.

Ah. Back again, friend. I’ve a favour to ask. I’ve been turnin’ this corruption over in me mind, and it’s a hard vein to read. If we mean to fight it, we need its beginning and its nature, plain as ink. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. Here at last. I’ve read the tablets through, slow and careful. There’s a lead in them, clear as chisel-work. Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen releases a long exhale, the strain easing from his shoulders though his pulse still hammers.

By stone and song, that was close. You held the line. I thought we’d face trouble, not a brute like that. The corruption heard the rite and answered with teeth.

Dialogue — General

Heimen In Wildwood: He props one boot on a barrel, a familiar grin creasing his face.

Well now, poet, dreamweaver, and fool for a cause, that’s me. Earlwood’s like a second hearth. Soon as I heard the trouble stirrin’, I packed my boots and came runnin’. Heimen In Wildwood: I’ve been out in the woods, watchin’ the leaves turn strange. Trees hummin’ wrong, paths forgettin’ where they lead. I’m here to follow the rot back to its roots.

He brushes forest dust from his cloak, voice lowering toward a hush meant for friends.

Truth is, the Wildwood’s never taken to corruption. Aye, it’s plagued the world in many forms, but not here. Not in these trees. The forest keeps its own laws, older than any crown. And now… somethin’ has broken ’em. Heimen In Wildwood: I’ve more than strings and rhymes in me pouch, friend. A sharp eye and a crossbow I trust. And I’ve a knack for findin’ meaning where others see madness.

He brushes forest dust from his cloak, voice lowering toward a hush meant for friends.

Truth is, the Wildwood’s never taken to corruption. Aye, it’s plagued the world in many forms, but not here. Not in these trees. The forest keeps its own laws, older than any crown. And now… somethin’ has broken ’em. Heimen In Wildwood: Years enough to call it home. The rest keeps for another time. Ask me about the work. Heimen In Wildwood: News of what’s crept into these woods pulled me back. Now, what’s our next move? Heimen In Wildwood: Old tales say the Eternal Forest moves to Ceres’s law, divine order in root and branch. The Wildwood honoured that law… but lately, it’s like the forest forgot how to listen.

He tightens the straps on his pack, settling the weight with a grunt.

I’ll keep diggin’ in the green. The truth’s there, I can feel it under the bark, hidin’ in the silence. Just need time to draw it out. Heimen In Wildwood: Not yet. I’ve got hints and echoes, but no clear path. Whatever slipped the gate is clever, hides its tracks like a shadow hides in shade.

He tightens the straps on his pack, settling the weight with a grunt.

I’ll keep diggin’ in the green. The truth’s there, I can feel it under the bark, hidin’ in the silence. Just need time to draw it out. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, old as sorrow. Never this bold, though. The Wildwood held fast for ages… till now. Heimen In Wildwood: Keep helpin’ Alaric hold the village together, and stay ready. When I find the source, we’ll need hands that don’t tremble. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, guessin’s where truth begins. You hold the line, I’ll chase the riddle till it names itself. Heimen In Wildwood: Could be. Or maybe I’m the only one willin’ to chase what others can’t see. If your eyes are sharper, I’m listenin’. Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen’s head tilts toward the ground, his expression knowing.

Aye. Word runs quick. Tragic, to be sure. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Don’t flay yourself for it. It was the right end, hard though it is.

I wonder how history will remember this day, and the days to come. The death of an Emissary is no small thing. Have ye ever noticed how what happens after an event shapes the way folk remember it? I don’t mean that ‘history is written by the victors’ nonsense. I mean time’s relationship with itself: how one age speaks back to the last, and gives it shape. Heimen In Wildwood: I’m not dwellin’, friend. Just takin’ measure.

I wonder how history will remember this day, and the days to come. The death of an Emissary is no small thing. Have ye ever noticed how what happens after an event shapes the way folk remember it? I don’t mean that ‘history is written by the victors’ nonsense. I mean time’s relationship with itself: how one age speaks back to the last, and gives it shape. Heimen In Wildwood: Me? No. I’m a poet, mortal and plain. Emissaries of gods don’t often cross a road like mine. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Framed by both: what came before, and what comes after.

Depending on what comes next, history may name this the turning of a new age for the forest… or the final nail in Ceres’ worship here. It may be the war’s hinge, one way or the other. Dark age, or age of peace.

Heimen straightens, a small determined smile finding him as his eyes lift.

I hope for peace. And I hope my hand has some small part in recording it true. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. You can think that, and a strong will may carry ye far. But only so far. In the end, ye must stand aligned with reality, or reality will break ye.

Depending on what comes next, history may name this the turning of a new age for the forest… or the final nail in Ceres’ worship here. It may be the war’s hinge, one way or the other. Dark age, or age of peace.

Heimen straightens, a small determined smile finding him as his eyes lift.

I hope for peace. And I hope my hand has some small part in recording it true. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. A long road ahead, for both of us. I’m lookin’ forward to walkin’ it. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. You may have no concern for history, but history has a keen concern for you. Heimen In Wildwood: The eastern Wildwood ruins, aye? I know the place. Hard to stand there and not feel the weight of it. I’d wager good coin it was once a temple to Ceres, from the Elven Imperial era. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Beauty and sorrow, carved into the same stone.

I first found it not long after I came to the Earlwood region. I knew there’d be elven stone here, if I looked hard enough. Earlwood is rich with their history.

I remember walkin’ those halls, readin’ the inscriptions, and knowin’ I was watched. A dryad, as it turned out. Harmless, I thought. Maybe she’d never seen a dwarf before.

Then she came to me. Rare thing, that, a dryad approachin’ a mortal freely. She was shocked I could read ancient elven. I told her I taught meself. When I asked about the place, she only said, ‘It’s not a tale I have the heart left to tell.’ Then she vanished into the trees. Heimen In Wildwood: No. But enough remains to speak, if ye know how to listen.

I first found it not long after I came to the Earlwood region. I knew there’d be elven stone here, if I looked hard enough. Earlwood is rich with their history.

I remember walkin’ those halls, readin’ the inscriptions, and knowin’ I was watched. A dryad, as it turned out. Harmless, I thought. Maybe she’d never seen a dwarf before.

Then she came to me. Rare thing, that, a dryad approachin’ a mortal freely. She was shocked I could read ancient elven. I told her I taught meself. When I asked about the place, she only said, ‘It’s not a tale I have the heart left to tell.’ Then she vanished into the trees. Heimen In Wildwood: The old height of elven power, near ten thousand years gone. Back then, their empire reached across much of Mirkea. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Tragedy sat heavy there. Many elves died in that place, same as across the forest. More than any song would care to count. Heimen In Wildwood: Because the past is a teacher, friend. And it never stops offerin’ lessons, whether we listen or not. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. That one’s a local legend, and for good reason. Old Ones design, plain enough. Smaller pieces turn up across Mirkea, but rarely anything so large. Even now, no one can say what they were truly for. Truth is, we know precious little of the Old Ones at all. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Interesting is the word. I’ve spent more hours ponderin’ that stone than I care to admit.

I’ve pondered it often. The stone is built like a seal, not a shrine. Old Ones craft, made to endure, made to hold power in. And there’s the grim thought: I don’t think those eggs held dead things. I think they held captives. Living creatures, shut away in stone and magic. That great one? Whatever was inside, it was no small prisoner. Heimen In Wildwood: Many ancient works look foolish when we’ve lost the reason for them. Context is the buried half of truth.

I’ve pondered it often. The stone is built like a seal, not a shrine. Old Ones craft, made to endure, made to hold power in. And there’s the grim thought: I don’t think those eggs held dead things. I think they held captives. Living creatures, shut away in stone and magic. That great one? Whatever was inside, it was no small prisoner. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. A cruel practice, if I’m right. And I fear I am. Heimen In Wildwood: Meaningless? No. A prison still matters after the prisoner’s gone. It tells ye what kind of hands built it. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. I stepped in there years back, before goblin stink and boot-scrape filled the place. It’s Old Ones ruin beneath the stone. Common enough in Mirkea, if anything tied to the Old Ones can be called common. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. Knocked your head, did ye? No matter. I’ll give the short of it.

The Old Ones were not merely under Mirkea, nor merely above it. They were through it. Whole cities beneath the landmass. Stone roads and endless tunnels, chambers stacked below chambers. What you saw was an entrance, no more. A doorway to the deeper ruin. Most such doorways are sealed by collapse now. Those who dig past them tend to become warnings. Heimen In Wildwood: Strange is the first word. Vast is the second. Vast is the one that matters.

The Old Ones were not merely under Mirkea, nor merely above it. They were through it. Whole cities beneath the landmass. Stone roads and endless tunnels, chambers stacked below chambers. What you saw was an entrance, no more. A doorway to the deeper ruin. Most such doorways are sealed by collapse now. Those who dig past them tend to become warnings. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Fascinating people, if people is the right word. I confess, though, elven relics sing clearer to me. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, treasure calls loudly in places like that. But gold is a poor reason to walk blind into history. Heimen In Wildwood: Saqi? Aye, now there’s a dwarven lass worth singin’ of. One of my favourite souls in Earlwood. Strong will, generous hands, and the kind o’ work folk only notice when it’s missing. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Stone-strong. I’ve not forgotten the day we met.

First time I met her was my first day in Earlwood, not long after I’d left Barakthrum. I’d barely set boot in the village before she came at me bright as a bell, all welcome and questions.

She had such command of the place, I near mistook her for the mayor. That night, she brought me to her tavern and put half the village in front of me by name. Earlwood stopped bein’ a mark on the road after that. It became somewhere I returned to. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha! Abrasive, is it? That’s dwarven warmth with the corners left on.

First time I met her was my first day in Earlwood, not long after I’d left Barakthrum. I’d barely set boot in the village before she came at me bright as a bell, all welcome and questions.

She had such command of the place, I near mistook her for the mayor. That night, she brought me to her tavern and put half the village in front of me by name. Earlwood stopped bein’ a mark on the road after that. It became somewhere I returned to. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. I’ve seen more roads than most, and I’d still say the same.

Saqi weaves folk together before hardship comes. Names to faces, hands to work, trust to trust. So when the hard days arrive, the village doesn’t tear apart at the seams. That’s her gift. She makes the fabric strong enough to hold. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, some folk want to be left alone. But few truly want to be lonely. Saqi knows the difference.

Saqi weaves folk together before hardship comes. Names to faces, hands to work, trust to trust. So when the hard days arrive, the village doesn’t tear apart at the seams. That’s her gift. She makes the fabric strong enough to hold. Heimen In Wildwood: With that heart, I’d wager you will. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Then you’d best hope you never need what she’s woven. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, gladly. And thank ye for the welcome.

I’m here as witness and advisor, first and foremost. This place will need clear counsel before long, and someone to keep the truth from slippin’ between the stones. Beyond that, I can craft spellbooks once I’ve got the equipment. And if silence starts sourin’ the air, well, that’s where the lute earns its keep. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. More time for drink, song, and honest talk by the fire. I’d not call that a poor bargain, friend.

I’m here as witness and advisor, first and foremost. This place will need clear counsel before long, and someone to keep the truth from slippin’ between the stones. Beyond that, I can craft spellbooks once I’ve got the equipment. And if silence starts sourin’ the air, well, that’s where the lute earns its keep. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha! Straight to the ledger, are we? Fair enough.

I’m here as witness and advisor, first and foremost. This place will need clear counsel before long, and someone to keep the truth from slippin’ between the stones. Beyond that, I can craft spellbooks once I’ve got the equipment. And if silence starts sourin’ the air, well, that’s where the lute earns its keep. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Gladly accepted. Let’s make somethin’ worth rememberin’. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Judge me by the work. I’ll stand by it. Heimen In Wildwood: Magical arts, mostly. Physical workings are not where I shine. Still, I’ll not leave ye empty-handed. Heimen In Wildwood: Bring me songs, and I’ll play what I can. I’ve a few tucked away already, but every good hall grows richer with more music. Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen’s usual brightness softens, his voice losing some of its performance.

I wanted to speak with ye a moment. Properly, not just over maps and trouble. You’ve helped me more than once now, and I’ve not forgotten it. In those ruins, especially, I’d have been hard pressed without you at my side.

I took you for a capable soul when we first crossed paths. Now I take you for a friend. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. And I’d be lyin’ if I said the thought didn’t warm me.

Heimen’s fingers still, his usual ease giving way to something more careful.

Let me ask ye plain. When you look at history, at life, at every choice that drives folk forward, do you think it bends toward good? Or are we only making songs to keep the dark quiet? Heimen In Wildwood: Good. Then the trust runs both ways, as it should.

Heimen’s fingers still, his usual ease giving way to something more careful.

Let me ask ye plain. When you look at history, at life, at every choice that drives folk forward, do you think it bends toward good? Or are we only making songs to keep the dark quiet? Heimen In Wildwood: My skills are yours. But skill without trust is a blade with no hand around it.

Heimen’s fingers still, his usual ease giving way to something more careful.

Let me ask ye plain. When you look at history, at life, at every choice that drives folk forward, do you think it bends toward good? Or are we only making songs to keep the dark quiet? Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. May it be so. I’ve faith enough to hope it, though not arrogance enough to claim I understand the gods.

I’m thinkin’ past the gods, if such a thing can be done. Sylbos, the Principles, the old gods. Every war, every injustice, every mercy. All of it moves. All of it pushes the next thing into being.

And one question keeps its teeth in me: what does it become? Is truth stronger than ruin? Is goodness more than a wish? Is beauty part of the world’s marrow, or is it all illusion, something mortal minds make so the dark has a shape? Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. That answer has truth in it. Hope without certainty may be the most mortal thing we’ve got.

I’m thinkin’ past the gods, if such a thing can be done. Sylbos, the Principles, the old gods. Every war, every injustice, every mercy. All of it moves. All of it pushes the next thing into being.

And one question keeps its teeth in me: what does it become? Is truth stronger than ruin? Is goodness more than a wish? Is beauty part of the world’s marrow, or is it all illusion, something mortal minds make so the dark has a shape? Heimen In Wildwood: Then I pity the weight of that belief. There are gods who would chain us, aye. But there are others who have lifted us when they could have turned away.

I’m thinkin’ past the gods, if such a thing can be done. Sylbos, the Principles, the old gods. Every war, every injustice, every mercy. All of it moves. All of it pushes the next thing into being.

And one question keeps its teeth in me: what does it become? Is truth stronger than ruin? Is goodness more than a wish? Is beauty part of the world’s marrow, or is it all illusion, something mortal minds make so the dark has a shape? Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. There’s iron in that answer. I hope the world proves you right.

Even so, time moves us whether we understand it or not. Toward the answer, maybe. Toward the next dark hall, at least. You’ve become a trusted ally, both for the war ahead and for the questions I can’t set down. I’d count it a fine thing to keep searchin’ with ye. Heimen In Wildwood: I understand. Hope and doubt often drink from the same cup.

Even so, time moves us whether we understand it or not. Toward the answer, maybe. Toward the next dark hall, at least. You’ve become a trusted ally, both for the war ahead and for the questions I can’t set down. I’d count it a fine thing to keep searchin’ with ye. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, that may keep your feet moving. But me? I was cursed with questions.

Even so, time moves us whether we understand it or not. Toward the answer, maybe. Toward the next dark hall, at least. You’ve become a trusted ally, both for the war ahead and for the questions I can’t set down. I’d count it a fine thing to keep searchin’ with ye. Heimen In Wildwood: Then I’ll hold to that thought. There are worse hopes than meetin’ truth with you beside me. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Forward, then. Let the road show its teeth. Heimen In Wildwood: Hm. Survival is needed, aye. But survival alone makes a cold hearth.

Dialogue — Greetings - Sanctum

Heimen In Wildwood: He grins wide, arms crossed like a bard greeting an old friend.

Well met, stranger! Bit far from safe stone, ain’t it? What tale brings ye wanderin’ through cursed woods? Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen stares at the trunk in silence, his brow furrowed in reflection. Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen brightens as you approach.

Aye, you’re back. How goes it? Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen stands lost in thought as you approach, then notices you and breaks into a broad, bright grin.

Ah. Back again, friend. I’ve a favour to ask. I’ve been turnin’ this corruption over in me mind, and it’s a hard vein to read. If we mean to fight it, we need its beginning and its nature, plain as ink. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. Here at last. I’ve read the tablets through, slow and careful. There’s a lead in them, clear as chisel-work. Heimen In Wildwood: Heimen releases a long exhale, the strain easing from his shoulders though his pulse still hammers.

By stone and song, that was close. You held the line. I thought we’d face trouble, not a brute like that. The corruption heard the rite and answered with teeth. Heimen In Wildwood: Ah. There ye are. Fine place you’ve got here, friend. Quiet enough for thought, sturdy enough for trouble. A good refuge, I’d say.

Dialogue — SQ1

Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, Heimen Thaldrik, son o’ stone and stubborn ink. A poet by heart, a dreamweaver by trade.

And seein’ as we’re unlikely company, I could use a hand if ye’ve a bit of kindness spare. Heimen In Wildwood: Word is, Erynor, the last poet of the Elven Purge, etched his final verse beneath the bark of a tree, hidin’ in this very forest.

They say he wrote while the shadows hunted him, knowin’ it’d be his last work.

I need help searchin’ a few of the old trees near his last known haunt. Just three, I’ll check the rest meself. Heimen In Wildwood: Was a civil war in all but name. The emperor and his kings saw disaster in their dreams, so they turned on their own.

Elves fled to border forests like this one, hopin’ for mercy. Most found steel instead.

They claimed it’d prevent some greater doom, seen in visions of centuries ahead… but who’s to weigh such blood against maybes?

Elves still mourn it, quiet-like. As well they should. Heimen In Wildwood: Elven poets used to carve their work into the flesh o’ everlast trees. The bark’d close over it, keepin’ the words safe, hidden in growth.

Only elven eyes could read beneath. Magic, that.

Now, most of those poems sleep in trunks, waitin’ for someone with the patience to look. Heimen In Wildwood: Here, take this. I’ve marked three likely trees. Just need ye to give ’em a look. I’ll scout the others.

Mind yer step. The woods’ve teeth. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye… nothin’ on my side either. But… there’s one more tree I’ve yet to find. Has to be near.

Help me look? We’ll cover more ground splittin’ up. Just don’t get lost, eh? Heimen In Wildwood: Cheers! Let’s see if the last verse’s still hummin’ in the bark. Heimen In Wildwood: This is it, aye. Or was.

Looks like the villagers took an axe to it. There’s naught but a sliver of bark near the roots. Just enough for a whisper to hide in. Heimen In Wildwood: Fifty years back, the village nearly burned. Goblins. Madness.

So they built walls, strong and high. But every stone and wood they stacked came with a price in bark.

They did what they had to. But that swing of the axe felled more than trees. It stirred the forest’s wrath. Heimen In Wildwood: That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Survive the storm, plant the seed of the next.

Aye, they did what they had to. And the forest answered all the same.

What’s the right way? Maybe the truth is we must do what we think is right, to survive and to thrive. And at the end of it all, it will be right.

Hard to say. Heimen In Wildwood: And let themselves be slaughtered like cattle? That would be a tragedy too.

They swung their axes out o’ desperation, not hate. Still… the forest answers with the same fury.

What’s the right way? Maybe the truth is we must do what we think is right, to survive and to thrive. And at the end of it all, it will be right.

Hard to say. Heimen In Wildwood: He chuckles under his breath, eyes misty

Hah… the old elf. He knew this day would come.

It reads: ‘And oh, to end this poem, long after the end of me, and the end of this tree, I write to you, last reader, whom I now see. You will carry my story into the morrow of eternity. Yours is a kind that sees only the past, yet has more future than I have left to see. I see you at the end of my story, at the end of this poem, the last poem of Erynor, now, at last, lost into eternity.’

Maybe he meant for it to vanish. Or maybe… he knew it would, no matter what he did. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye… in all the futures he saw, he chose the one where the poem reached me.

Ah, to be an elf, to see every path tomorrow might take, and still not know what lies at the end of it.

He knew his words would reach someone like me, another artist, another soul tryin’ to make sense of it all. But he couldnae know how I’d interpret it, or what I’d become. Just like him, I’m lookin’ forward through fog.

In the end, none of us see the final truth. We’re all just steerers of our own wee ships, tryin’ to chart the tides of time.

That’s what he was doin’. What we’re doin’. What even the old elven emperors were doin’ with their bloody purge.

That’s the message. That’s the poem. Heimen In Wildwood: I’m not sure yet… I’ll need time to think. And to thank.

To thank you, friend, for helpin’ me find this. Truly. Heimen In Wildwood: In any case, you’ve my thanks, friend. I’ve a feelin’ we’ll cross paths again, maybe in Earlwood, maybe in some tale yet unwritten.

Until then… good day to you.

Dialogue — SQ2

Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Glad to hear sense in your mouth.

The ancient elves fought corruption in their day, and they carved what they learned into tablets like a sworn record. Much was shattered in the wars, but the ruins scattered through Wildwood should still hold a scent. Heimen In Wildwood: Fair enough. Not every soul’s made for ponderin’. I’ll speak plain.

The ancient elves fought corruption in their day, and they carved what they learned into tablets like a sworn record. Much was shattered in the wars, but the ruins scattered through Wildwood should still hold a scent. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. Right glad I am to have someone so eager to help.

Heimen draws a folded Wildwood map from his coat, smooths it flat, then taps the inked marks with a blunt finger.

Right, then. These are the ruin-sites most likely to hold tablets on corruption. I went nosin’ there before, but things got too hot, and I pulled back. I can fight, aye, but not like you. You’ll have less trouble where I failed. Heimen In Wildwood: Indeed I would. If that’s too much for your fair fingers, you may take your efforts elsewhere.

Heimen draws a folded Wildwood map from his coat, smooths it flat, then taps the inked marks with a blunt finger.

Right, then. These are the ruin-sites most likely to hold tablets on corruption. I went nosin’ there before, but things got too hot, and I pulled back. I can fight, aye, but not like you. You’ll have less trouble where I failed. Heimen In Wildwood: I’ve read of it, of course, in my travels through the Eternal Forest. I’ve not shied from a bit of ruin-divin’. Many fine truths lie buried there. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. They’re a point of study for me. Their visions, their history, their depth of feelin’. The ancient elves were sharper than the modern. I learned their tongue to read the tablets. No easy task. Heimen In Wildwood: Knew I could count on ye. I only wish I could go with ye. Return when you’ve the tablets. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, I failed the first reach. No shame in callin’ on allies when the work needs doin’. Heimen In Wildwood: Your usual beasts and forest spirits, only more of ’em. Stay sharp. Heimen In Wildwood: Ha. There ye are. Hand the tablets over. I want the tale while it’s still fresh. How did it treat ye out there? Heimen In Wildwood: Good. Steady hands, steady heart.

Hah. These are better than I dared hope. I’ll take some time with them, slow and careful. Come back later, and I’ll have a direction worth followin’. Heimen In Wildwood: Then you earned them twice over. Sit, and breathe.

Hah. These are better than I dared hope. I’ll take some time with them, slow and careful. Come back later, and I’ll have a direction worth followin’. Heimen In Wildwood: My thanks, friend. Walk well. May the Principles light your way. Heimen In Wildwood: Once, they belonged there. Dryads were elves, back in the old days. They’ve forgot the story, but not the feel of it. Heimen In Wildwood: I don’t know yet. But I’d put coin on a rite, an incantation, some tool the ancient elves used to stand against corruption.

Dialogue — SQ3

Heimen In Wildwood: More than I hoped. One piece most of all.

Heimen exhales through his nose, then nods once, as if agreeing with something he’d rather not say.

There’s a rite in these carvings. An old elven warding, made to loosen corruption’s hold on the Wildwood. But it cannot be done from the safety of a hearth. It has to be performed in the forest itself, and the residents will not welcome it. While I’m doin’ it, I’m exposed. You will keep the teeth off me. Heimen In Wildwood: Fine. Listen close.

Heimen exhales through his nose, then nods once, as if agreeing with something he’d rather not say.

There’s a rite in these carvings. An old elven warding, made to loosen corruption’s hold on the Wildwood. But it cannot be done from the safety of a hearth. It has to be performed in the forest itself, and the residents will not welcome it. While I’m doin’ it, I’m exposed. You will keep the teeth off me. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. Hear the shape of it.

Heimen draws your map closer, then marks a spot with a quick, practised hand.

It’s a warding ritual. We use way-stones to commune with Ceres and ask her shelter over the Wildwood. The elves performed it regularly, corruption or not, and they noted its effect when the rot pressed their borders. It pushed the rot back. I know the right place for it. I’ll mark your map, and meet you there. Heimen In Wildwood: Because I know what I’m readin’. Years of study, and enough practice to spot a true working from a pretty lie.

Heimen draws your map closer, then marks a spot with a quick, practised hand.

It’s a warding ritual. We use way-stones to commune with Ceres and ask her shelter over the Wildwood. The elves performed it regularly, corruption or not, and they noted its effect when the rot pressed their borders. It pushed the rot back. I know the right place for it. I’ll mark your map, and meet you there. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. I’m lookin’ forward to bein’ back in the field with you. Heimen In Wildwood: Ah, come on now. Don’t keep a dwarf waitin’. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, plenty. Naught more on corruption, mind. Mostly the elves’ bond with Ceres, and their rites. The elves, and the fairy folk, held Ceres above the rest. Agir’s still King of the Gods, but he’s a distant crown to them. Elaria shows up as well, second in many of the carvings. Nature and magic, hand in hand. Heimen In Wildwood: Cool comes from practice. A poet learns it fast, or he’s eaten alive, by beasts or by silence.

Heimen rolls his shoulder, testing a sore joint, and gives you a grim little nod.

It worked. That’s the truth. But it won’t bloom overnight. Might take years to show in the living wood. Still, we shifted the balance. After that, there’s no grand trick. Just keepin’ the rot back, day by day. Heimen In Wildwood: My hands were tied to the rite. One misstep and it breaks. Then we’ve bled for nothin’.

Heimen rolls his shoulder, testing a sore joint, and gives you a grim little nod.

It worked. That’s the truth. But it won’t bloom overnight. Might take years to show in the living wood. Still, we shifted the balance. After that, there’s no grand trick. Just keepin’ the rot back, day by day. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye. I’ve been askin’ meself the same.

Heimen gathers himself, gaze steady now, the last of the strain leaving his face.

On to the next, then. We dwarves favour plain speakin’, so I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve watched you, traveller. You’re in the thick of what’s comin’, whether you asked for it or not. I want to see it firsthand, and set it down true. I’d join you, if you’ll have me. Heimen In Wildwood: Aye, and if I’d said it sooner, would you have swung any harder? The long work still matters. We planted a stake.

Heimen gathers himself, gaze steady now, the last of the strain leaving his face.

On to the next, then. We dwarves favour plain speakin’, so I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve watched you, traveller. You’re in the thick of what’s comin’, whether you asked for it or not. I want to see it firsthand, and set it down true. I’d join you, if you’ll have me. Heimen In Wildwood: Because it’s my work. My duty. My chosen purpose, as a poet and witness.

This war against Sylbos and his dark forces will shape the next thousand years, win or lose. I want to live it close, so when I set it to verse, it’s true. Then I’ll carry that truth into every hall that’ll hear it. Heimen In Wildwood: To bear witness. That’s purpose enough.

This war against Sylbos and his dark forces will shape the next thousand years, win or lose. I want to live it close, so when I set it to verse, it’s true. Then I’ll carry that truth into every hall that’ll hear it. Heimen In Wildwood: A Waygate, is it? I’ve seen you use them. A rare boon. I’ll make good use of it, and meet you in the sanctum. Heimen In Wildwood: More than a song, friend. Counsel when choices bite. Spellbooks I’ve written and gathered. And when morale sags, a tune to keep hearts up.

About this data

Dialogue scripts use the game’s official English text. Data compiled from official in-game sources. Names, descriptions and effects use the game’s own English text. Stats reflect the current game version and may change with updates.