Their path took an unscheduled detour when they stumbled upon a fort-like structure in the distance, known simply as the Stockade. It was a small, stout fort, clearly long closed to the public, its weathered timbers standing as a lonely sentinel. To their immense relief, a spigot protruded from one of its walls, and nearby, what looked unmistakably like a shower head. They couldn’t be certain the water was potable, so Keogh purified the water with a spell, but it was a welcome reprieve nonetheless.
There, under the shelter of the Stockade’s walls, they gratefully ate their lunch, the pound cake, though slightly squashed, tasting like ambrosia. With newfound gusto, they sang “Happy Birthday” to Jib and Jab at the top of their lungs, their voices echoing off the fort’s ancient timbers, a brief, joyous defiance against the mountain’s relentless challenges. After this unexpected interlude of nourishment and celebration, they set out again for Tandås.
From the Stockade, it was a long, grueling slog up to Tandås. This proved to be their biggest climbing day yet, a seemingly endless ascent that demanded frequent, gasping breaks, especially for Lamech, whose lungs burned with the thin air. They wound their way slowly via endless switchbacks, each turn revealing another stretch of upward-climbing trail, until finally, utterly exhausted, they reached what they knew was their destination.
Tandås was a beautiful camp, a sprawling, wild expanse, but in their fatigue, all the potential campsites seemed to blend into a confusing blur of trees and rocks. After much stumbling and searching, they eventually settled into a sheltered meadow surrounded by ancient, whispering pines. There, with the last light fading from the sky, they made a solemn agreement: they would rise before dawn the next morning for the final scramble up the Drakentand itself, hoping to witness the sunrise from atop the formidable peak. Of course, nature, as always, had other plans.
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