Tinsel, the otterling alchemist, stumbled through Builder's Port in a daze. He held his neck as he looked about his burnt town on the river. His neck had been cut the night before. The blood had dried and matted his fur so he no longer bled. Still, the wound ached and worried him. He had been so near to death.

The remains of Builder's Port lay smoldering at the fork on the river. Collapsed homes and shops laid black and red with crackling embers under a still morning. A bit of smoke traced a line up to the clear skies.

The river passed quietly beneath the docks. Bits of charred planks clung to the banks. Others floated off north, toward the Echo Wood. Just the morning before, Builder's Port was a bustling otterling village. Shops and homes were stacked one over the other, a dog pile of shoddy construction ...