Under a pale moon, twisted trees groan in a barren orchard. A rickety barn leans to one side, its wooden doors creaking in the wind. Inside, dusty farm tools float eerily above rotting floorboards, clattering without any visible hands. A hidden trapdoor opens onto a cramped root cellar lit by flickering green lanterns. Rows of rusted cages hang from the ceiling, each holding strange, half-decayed remains. On a broken table sits a crumbling journal filled with cryptic notes on harvesting the orchard’s cursed fruit. , aidmabaldursgate3