In the Domain of Pyrebane

"He doesn't usually just swoop in and attack like this!" the boatswain shouts, ducking into his boat.

Mordax wastes no time. He grabs a javelin from Feng's back and tosses it at the oncoming dragon.
Mildred works quickly and with a lot of effort, pulling small pillars of earth up from the riverbed for the rest of us to cross. I leap from stone to stone as fast as I can, the smell on sulfur filling my nostrils. The earth rumbles, propelling me forward off the last stone to land on the bank. I turn, and help steady Alto and Luban cross, Luban ducking beneath the lashing tail of the dragon now on the other bank.
Feng draws his sword and war pick, and shouts at the dragon in—what sound like—draconic. It cranes its head to Feng and snorts, hot exhalation reaching across the river. Sands, Feng, what did you say? I gulp. Can I teleport quick enough to avoid a fiery death? But then its head snaps back to the only person left on the other side.
Shen Po doesn't flinch as the dragon bellows frighteningly in his face, but he can't hold his footing as he's buffeted by the gale of the dragon's wings. It continues a deep rumble in its chest as it flies and swoops down on me. I launch myself to the side, landing hard and rolling away. I get to my feet, crouching. No blood, no cuts. At least, nothing obvious, but I feel if the claws had landed I'd be a pile of ribbon.
Mordax takes another javelin from Feng, lines up the shot as the dragon circles back around, and tosses it hard. The dragon roars in pain as the javelin embeds itself in its shoulder. Wait, how? There's no way that should've stuck. As it swings past us back to Shen Po, I focus on its scales. It's missing several. Right, the experiments. Feng seems to pick up on this as well and pulls the last couple of javelins from his back, tossing them in quick succession, but none manage to find a scaleless spot. It pivots in the air, swooping down back at us. Its tail lashes at Mordax, slapping him to the ground with force, and I once again make a desperate dive away from its claws. Luban unleashes arrows as the dragon lands next to Shen Po, maw opening wide. They plink off its hard crimson scales, not phasing it in the slightest. Morgan's hands work furiously, and then a wall of light erupts around the dragon, hopefully blinding or at least distracting it.
Which seems to work because Shen Po uses the chance to dash around the dragon and across the river unhindered. The dragon roars, beating its wings and taking to the sky. Burning sands, burning sands, what do I do? Leave. Teleport away. Leave them to their fate. The dragon swings our direction. No, no. I need them. Really? Have they helped you get what you need? The dragon's maw opens, claws extended. "Knuse!" I shout in a panic, for whatever good this spell will do against such a beast.
The dragon jerks upward, hovering over the river. "Beware the golden calf," it snarls. And then wind buffets us as it flies back to the summit.
I suppose it really was just here to greet us after all. Maybe.

---

Shaken, we move faster than we had been, turning more north than east. It's difficult to sleep. We're incredibly lucky the dragon ended up leaving us. We should be dead. Hopefully, we've put enough distance from Mount Betsukei that if the dragon changes its mind and decides it does need a snack, then it won't come for us.
Breakfast is eaten mostly silence, only broken with guesses as to who or what the "golden calf" could be. The closest we surmise is likely a dragonborn, probably even the one with Xew in the tournament. Keeping that ominous note in mind, we continue on and the horizon eventually turns an odd color, more a muddled green and brown. Smoke stings my nostrils shortly after.
We slow the horses as we navigate through the upturned earth and bodies. The smell isn't nearly as bad as the old hospital full of blood despite there being far more death. Ironclaw blood soaks the earth, stagnant and crusting into the dirt. Other empty suits of armor missing any sort of body are mingled among the orc corpses. Likely the Dao's myrmidons. Through the miles and miles of riding through this battlefield, it's clear the Ironclaw's did not fair well in this conflict.

---

Nacyl Rock looms in the distance the next day shortly after we set off. And as we approach the large plateau, we are stopped from progressing by an incredibly wide channel of water around the jutting rock. Thankfully, there is a dock and not too far off in the distance is a sailing ship. Shen Po hails the lone ship, probably with a psychic message as well as his waving arm. It unfurls its sails and comes to the dock.
"What business do you have at the Rock?" a sailor asks us before he even bothers to tie off his vessel.
"I received an invitation to come here a bit ago," I say.
He turns and speaks with the four other sailors. After a minute, he turns back to us. "Well, I hope you're right." He ties the ship to the dock as the others lower a gangplank for us to board.
Two hours later, we disembark onto the narrowest landing I think I've ever tried to set foot on. I look up at the path—best described as a goat path—we're to take to the top. We go single file, leading our horses behind us for the hour long hike to the top of the plateau. Huffing, finally at the top, I look at the gate before me, inset into an alcove with carved stone wall stretching on either side. I approach the deep green metal gate, looking for any slit, knocker, handle, something, but I don't see anything of the sort. The gate's metal is completely flush... and it's color... it can't be made completely of adamantine, can it?
"Who goes there?" a voice asks through a very suddenly appearing slit in the door. I jump back, but quickly gather myself.
"We are the Seekers of East, representatives of Khan Carnassa. We're responding to an invitation given to us a while ago."
"Sorry, the Maha isn't seeing anyone." The slit disappears quicker than it appeared.
Feng sidles in, the tight space pushing him against me. He pounds his fist against the gate. If the rigid metal hurt his hand, he gives no indication, no wince.
"I would also like to know the status of Barumn." I say.
The slit materializes once again. "Sorry, Barumn also isn't seeing any guests. She's dead." I was right then. Burning sands, I'm not sure her map will hold very much weight with her gone. The slit closes, but I catch the eyes of the guard behind the gate. Something about them seems dangerous, something almost inhuman lurking behind their gaze.
"Feng," I say. "The letter that the strange man who got us past the wall into East gave us, do you still have it?" Feng pats himself down, reaching into various pockets several times until he finally pulls out the letter. Not as crumpled as I would've thought. This time I pound on the door. "Here's our invitation."
The slit opens once more. "Let me see it," the voice says. Feng holds the letter to the opening and slender, gloved fingers reach through to take it. The slit closes. Silence. A minute passes, and still no response.
And then, right as Feng and myself both raise our fists to the door, a young woman with long, red, unkempt hair steps through the gate. Nothing opens, her wild-looking figure simply walks through it as if—as if it were an illusion. "Who gave you this?" she snaps, glaring eyes staring down the party.
"He was rather tall and lanky. Had a wild feel about him. He was polite, helpful, but also a bit inhuman—his mouth was filled with sharper-than-normal teeth." Feng explains.
Her expression softens and she hands the letter back to Feng. "Wow, so where are you guys from?"
"Regions varied and far, but mostly west of here. And now we're working to end the being that is threatening this land." Feng pronounces.
"Cool. Do you have any powerful magicians?" Morgan raises her hand from a little ways down the path. She nods. "Good. The Maha likes to test people before he sees them, and at least one of you will need to be good at magic to pass."
"How do we request a meeting with the Maha?" I ask.
"The best way might be to spread word that you have that letter. He'd definitely be interested in seeing it. And if anyone tries to give you trouble, just show them that letter."
"What's so significant about the letter?" Feng asks.
She gives us a bewildered look. "You don't know?" Her question is met with deadpan stares from all of us. "That letter is from the Maha's son." She flashes a familiarly pointy-toothed grin. "Welcome to Nacyl Rock." She waves her hand through the illusion of the adamantine gate and it disperses.