The lifeless corpse of the campaign I had all but abandoned for the Winterlands (the cold, white, northern wastes of
Intersession into the affairs of the Taker is never something approached lightly, even on behalf of Heroes as great as these. The Solar Host has its demands.
The tip of a Gnomish dagger brutally pries the clear gems from their delicate elven setting, and even the Dwarf winces as such exquisite craftsmanship is marred. The dragonhoard had much in the way of jewelry and gems, but tragically few diamonds. They can only hope that what they’ve assembled will be enough, as the Hierophants begin their effusive prayers and anoint the remains in melted snow, gleaned from the regions tallest peak.
After almost two years, the corpse of the campaign was returned to its players. My heels had barely cooled from the trip, and we were still unpacking when within less than a week, the invigorating magic of a pricey true resurrection had me frantically reweaving all of the threads of the story thus far into one fifty-foot rope.
As a DM, I become painfully aware of the age-old aphorism concerning rope, and how its length should be fed out slowly to the players, until they have just enough.