Trekking up the ravine, and following the Foam Fire River toward the falls, we heard the storm gathering behind us: drums, war cries, hundreds of stamping feet, the half-disciplned cadence of the gnoll horde. We cast aside the tapestry, covered ourselves with the magic invisibility powder and doubled our own pace until we reached the falls. There, we found a doorway carved into the rock, the dedicated work of a more long-sighted time. In crossing the river to reach the door, magic powder was washed off us by the the mist in the air, and our enemies, too, began to reach the pool. They saw us, washed of the powder and we saw them, washed of the cheap bravado of bloodlust. The sight of a expertly-carved stone and those who carry light into darkness left them awe-struck and we entered the halls under the mountain unharassed. We climbed up a stone staircase to the bridge and tower that spanned the top of the floors. Below, the impotent horde japed and howled-- but did nothing.