A wide, shallow pool at the base of Dumara, rimmed by a crust of compacted mineral, its surface a slow-moving rust-red membrane. The air over it smells wrong — copper, salt, something biological that has no business existing this far from the sea. A crew was working its edge when you arrived: tarps, crates, hauling rigs, the practiced economy of people who've done this a hundred times. It's where the fight happened.
Session 3 addition: When the bound woman woke, she named the harvest — a crystal bed at the rim that becomes essentia once processed, sold on to whoever does that work. The crystals are small, red-orange, sharp enough to cut. One of you learned that the hard way. Near another of you, they turned on their own.