Session Preface
Water gurgles from the river aside you underneath the sound of your own heavy breathing as your escape from the Zhentarim camp slows to a stop. Even at this distance, broken elvish, sounding a great deal like threats, interrupt the otherwise still and quiet Ardeep Forest.
Endriel, in your hand, you clasp Lathlaeril's Mirror, the silver handle wrapped in vines fitting naturally in your palm. The emeralds along the mirror's edge seem to glow even in the darkness of starlight veiled by the canopy above. The mirror itself seems to instead absorb the light into a dense and muted fog beyond the glass.
This observation is broken by a sudden snapping of a branch and the sound of shattered glass. A gutteral and congest cough, as well as a string of curses in infernal follow. As your keen ears direct you towards the sound, the pair of Zhentarim tieflings you say escape from the camp break through a clump of underbrush. The taller of the two, with deep red skin, curled horns and long dark hair matted to his forehead leans heavily against the shoulder of the smaller individual who shares the same horns curled in the opposite directions and otherwise lighter features.
The smaller of the pair makes frantic eye contact with each of you. Barely audible over the soft gurgle of the river between you, the tiefling begs, "Please, please, you must help. My brother won't make it back to Waterdeep at this rate and our last antidote is... ruined. Please, we mean no ill will. This is all my fault. Please, you must."
Session Summary
Healing Ardos, the larger of the two tieflings met in Ardeep Forest, the party travels back to Waterdeep. Along the way, they investigate and experiment with Lathlaeril's Mirror to discover its ability to see into the Ethereal Realm, a fogged transitive plane and sort of purgatory. Parting at Hawkfall, the new reopening of Nightstone rebuilt after the Cloud Giant assault, Parathrax and Vorothruun also offer Ardos and his younger brother Amos a second start at life in Durindale and the two sorcerous tieflings begin their journey north.
After an expensive but luxurious night's sleep in the Hawk's Nest, the party returns to Waterdeep where they are stopped at the gate by guards and a gnome mage with documents and bureaucratic requirements for reporting themselves as adventurers carrying magical items. With the mirror undetected, the party returns to Kelnelis' The Prestige.
Using the mirror's scrying ability within the shop, Endriel discovers a ghostly image of Wingerbearer Caltha watching over the store. Shortly after, Elya returns to the shop with a grey feather tucked behind her ear. Vorothruun and Kelnelis make the agreed upon exchange and make their way towards the final gem and presumably Malus somewhere to the North.
Arriving in Neverwinter, the party travel with haste to Durindale to procure aid only to find that the halls of heroes are left barren as many are beyond the walls facing threats of their own as giants rage across the Sword Coast. Gil desires greatly to go back into harms way, but knows he now has a responsibility to the growing community spreading beyond his family's beacon. Davan, on the other hand, leaps over the bar, rapier in hand before Parathrax can even finish his invitation. The four adventurers then retrace their steps along the Triboar Trail where they are ambushed by a small band of goblins before following Vorothruun's magical tether to Cragmaw Castle.
Following recognizance on the part of Endriel, the party commences systematically silencing a corner of the still ruined keep and whittling down the number of Feathered members before their tactics are discovered through Vorothruun's use of ghostly illusions and the sounds of combat soon ring through the halls. While some cultists immediately draw arms against Parathrax and Endriel, including a reunion with Wingbearer Caltha, many others focus on paralyzing Vorothruun until their leader arrives.
Malus' Introduction
Dressed in simple cloth garb, a tall, muscular and broad-shouldered ash-skinned drow stands before you, his white hair cropped short and his red eyes ablaze. A thin scar stretches across the width of his neck. His well-maintained goatee adds to a sharp and defined jawline. In his hand he holds a simple staff of wood. The only item of note his cloak, feathers like the others, but purely white and as it bounces in his stride, they seem to shimmer ever so softly. Malus clicks his tongue once as if in thought, looks to you, and says:
"Vorothruun, we are not so unalike, you and I. The pursuit of power, of becoming the catalyst rather than the reactant. Reaching beyond our means for the insatiable quest of control. Seeking to be recognized for not our might nor our birthright, but by what we earn and make of ourselves. Yes, even from the underdark I struggled to climb above the shadow of a brother more in line with my family expectations. Like you, I have not let such a task hinder me, but instead allowed the acute pain of exclusion forge a stronger will. Which brings us to where we are now. For you have something my master beckons for. Demands I take hold of. And like you, I will see my quest towards worthiness through."
As he steps towards you, his height towering over the followers of The Feathered, you see Malus' appearance shift. The nondescript cloth washes away, replaced by a long black cloak. Gold lacework of flames lick up the sleeves and trim with chainmail interwoven into the material. His simple staff turns into a glossy dark rosewood rod with three golden prongs extending forward. Within the prongs, a dull red glow pulses, as it does in an amulet around his neck as well. He also wears a ring of purple metal, like sun rays wrapped around his finger. Along the edge of the cloak and on his belt as are golden jawless skulls on a backdrop of purple sunbursts. And most notably, on his brow is an ancient silver crown with a single diamond in one of five sockets.
"I am not so foolish as to think there will be any bargaining, so we can skip the pretense of discourse. Vorothruun, prepare to die at the hands of a true patron of a truly dark god."
Following Malus' transformation, his betrayal to the Feathered revealed, Caltha with tears streaming down her cheeks and fists clenched charges her former leader and trusted guide to destroy him before he can achieve whatever ulterior motives he pursues. As the intense battle rages on, one by one, the devotions of Ragnalla are ripped from Vorothruun's person and socketed into The Crown. With only the Watcher still missing, Parathrax calls upon all of the divine reckoning he can render and manages to defeat Malus moments before the culmination of his quest.
As the life fades from Malus' eyes, Caltha collapses onto the ground, devastated and erratic, explaining to Parathrax Malus' appearance gives away his true loyalty to that of Cyric, the god of lies and deception. Endriel steps away to begin gathering intel on The Feathered as well as Malus' intent and this new revelation. Despite Parathrax's hesitation, Vorothruun clasps the Crown laughing joyfully and manically for the first time in what feels like decades before overpowering his brother and placing the crown between his horns.
Vorothruun's Vision
As you place the crown upon your brow, the sheer magnitude of its arcane energy surges around you. The Weave itself shudders, the underlying fabric of magic unwinding and re-intertwining chaotically. The air swirling around you in a terrible storm, your cloak thrown and scattered around you. Growing warm against your scales, the crown emits a humming tone which crescendos to a furious, droning growl. The tone vibrates through your skull as your vision fades, an inky void spreading from the corners of your eyes, consuming everything.
As your form drifts between realities, a distant and deafening voice cries out. You realize it is your own, from a day long past reading from a familiar tome.
My fury flows through your veins,
My void consumes your pains.
My eye knows you, Vorothruun
Through and through and through.
You are curious, consumed, and chaotic.
You are determined, dramatic and dangerous.
You are my conduit.
You are my disciple.
You have been found wanting,
But this is not to be dismayed.
For you desires are of the most noble order
Truth, the means, the end, the all and over.
This truth you crave, the visions you see.
Discover the way, the path to me.
I am the Seeker of the Skies,
Fearsome in feathered cloak.
Approach, my disciple.
You shall be my terrible hope.
Within the Void
Once again, nothing exists save for the void in the center of the universe spread before you endlessly. [In this moment, a searing burning awareness roars through your form, and so purges any sense of doubt from your splintering mind. Now certainly, almost laughably, so apparent how fleeting and silly the false visions sent by the liar god Cyric truly were in comparison to the raw force of Ragnalla's presence. To think those counterfeit dreams could ever appear as anything other than facades against her terrible truth.
Wretched and wondrous, the watchful gaze of Ragnalla like a black hole capable of swallowing all of Toril, revolves before you. Her treacherous tentacles spew forth like snakes coiled for centuries ready to strike the ankles of the false. Her maw, malicious, bears mountainous teeth against all who would doubt the darkness. The craving claws clench tight control over all the void consumes. The feathers of the Nestmother, ruffled and furious, flutter in the still space like razors dancing in an unseen glow.
No longer relegated to merely a speck of light consumed by the ensnaring darkness, you stand amidst countless would-be disciples of Ragnalla, the crown of her devotion placed firmly between your horns. For you rise above all of these lesser others, for even in deception and disillusionment, you have prevailed. The truth in the face of all the lies and falsehoods having led you here is all the more rewarding and validating of your worthiness. As these realizations revolve through your mind, so too does Ragnalla's gaze revolve closer and closer to you, eclipsing all else.
And all at once, the force of her awareness is on and within and permeating all of that which is nothingness against the grandness of her mere being. A single sense of being known and measured to the extent of non-existence and back once more radiates through your flesh, your bones, your mind, your soul. You feel yourself as absolute nothingness in this moment of brutal beckoning, watched by the eldritch terror you dared to speak of by name, for you are but fool of mortal and wounded pride with nothing more than an errand's boy quest to seek destruction of yourself as you stand before surely what is to be the last truth you will ever perceive.
In this moment or eternity or nothingness between, you first and forever become aware of the undeniable certainty. Rendering null any previous thought or vision of the source to which these devotions belong and rightly so. For no liar could conjure such a malicious meaning. No fraud could fake the fear and faith of this ancient source. No, you are alone and absolute in understanding no other could ever exemplify this eldritch entity.
But in this all-consuming desolation, there is a surge of your swelling strength and a single word, spoken into a thousands shards of silence that scatters across space screaming CHOSEN.
Your mind warps into a mirrored reflection of hollow echoes at the merely volume of the word, yet alone the meaning or merit. CHOSEN, speaks the Seeker of the Skies.
In the undertow of this singular word crashing against your entire being like a wall of fire and a wave of stone, there is a grinding creak of metal bending and breaking under an unbearable weight. The Crown on your brow is torn asunder, the shrapnel slicing through your form, cutting to the core of your being until there is nothing left but ambition and understanding. Free from their union, the five devotions of Ragnalla float in front of you, each within arms reach.
CHOSEN, AND SO CHOOSE, the voice, the only voice, declares in a language you simultaneously cannot comprehend nor ever mistake. Unspoken, but your mind knows the truth of things - Not chosen for your worthiness, for what is worthiness to the source of all empty and terrible truth, but chosen for the test of the task to come. Subconsciously, your arm reaches out before you, but for which gem?
As you grasp the chosen gem, its cold concentration of power incarnate chills you through and through, but your grip around the stone tightens all the same and you feel the energy pulse through your veins, the hue of the stone seeping into your skin, twisting around your bones underneath your scales. The surge of arcane energy coalesces once more in the empty socket of your eye, ink black and empty as the malicious majesty before you. As your vision returns, the other four gems, each a journey to discover in and of themselves, fades away back into the void.
GATHERER OF DEVOTION, PROVE DEVOTION TRUE. TEAR AWAY THE LESSER TRUTH. Fury bellows from the magnificent force before you. Unfathomable and unnerving. As the words radiate through the unending emptiness surrounding you, the eye of the planet-sized monstrosity blinks once. Your instinctively move your hands to guard your face as the force washes over you like a thousand razors. When the Watcher before you gazes once more, you see now a distant world projected within the vision.
The Supreme Throne
Shroud in shadows, a stone keep rises from ash-ridden hills and scatterings of long dead trees. The smell of a lingering smoulder fills your nostrils. You feel the still, stale air against your face as your vision carries you over this barren wasteland towards the castle. Below, the courtyard and outskirts of the structure lie in ruins, stone and wood piled haphazardly. You move closer to a window of the keep, into a wide vaulted chamber with crumbling columns of smooth stone. At the far end of the hall, a figure resides in a massive stone throne.
Moving closer, the individuals features become more distinct. Angular, defined cheekbones contrast against the sharp, wiry dark eyebrows and windswept hair of the elvish figure. Dressed in black leathers and a red tunic, the pale skinned man slowly, meticulously sharpens a long, thin, dark metal blade. Around his belt, a jaw-less skull surrounded by purple sunbursts is depicted on a red sash around his belt. The chains attached to his manacles, latched tight around his bony wrists bounce in rhythm with the sharpening of the blade, a percussive counterpart to a haunting melody he hums to himself.
The figure looks up to you, his dark sunken eyes meeting yours. A wry, knowing smirk breaks across his face before speaking in a smooth, soft tone. "You may have found your way through my misdirection, son of Parathraaj, but this will not be the last time we speak. Today was but a fruitless victory on your path to inevitable defeat. Enjoy it while you can, but know that while Malus failed due to his own hubris, the others will not share the same downfall. But you shall, Vorothruun."
Cyric then winks in your direction, smirks once more, then returns to sharpening his blade, his chains rasping against stone, the sound reverberating through the hall of the Supreme Throne.
The Void, Once More
Suddenly, the massive watchful gaze of Ragnalla blinks once more and you are thrust back into the starless void of her insurmountable presence.
Strange, foreign thoughts swim through your consciousness. "The vermin deceiver. Once of three crowns and perhaps once again. Were it not to be for the shadow you will bring to bear down against his empire. An empire of lies, built on his own supreme throne of hollow conceit."
CHOSEN. Once more calls forth from the deep darkness of dread before you. DO NOT FAIL YOUR WRETCHED QUEEN.
Your vision fades, ink darkness overtaking your sight and for a moment of respite, you feel nothing at all.
Returned to Reality
Parathrax, you hold your brothers head in your lap, desperate for a sign of life. You could do nothing but watch as The Crown he placed on his head somehow mysteriously, inexplicably contorted, twisting, splintering, and finally disappearing, along with each of the gems. Chunks off the crown shattered in all directions, clanging against your shield and armor and piercing your skin as you rushed to protect your dear brother. It appeared as though the fragments had broken and burrowed into Vorothruun's brow, but he seems equally strangely unharmed by the wreckage. And yet he collapsed and has made no movement, not even a breath, since he put this damned artifact on his head.
The only change you've seen is the continued flickering dark pulse you first witnessed in your dreams. But now you are sure it is real, almost tangible. The darkness grips around Vorothruun's cloak, like fog hugging the hills of Avraathe on a dreary day. But this, this is far more potent, and almost certainly far more sinister.
As you consider these implications, Vorothruun's eyes burst open, one his same as always eye staring up at you in confusion and dismay, the other the still unfamiliar stone. And as his consciousness returns, your heart drops as the darkness around him grows, now entirely present and manifested as a cloak which continues to envelop him in your arms.
NPCs Met
Amos & Ardos: Twin red tiefling spellcasters with horns that curl in opposite directions. They both have red eyes and dark maroon skin. Ardos is sickly, working off a debt to the Zhents for a remedy they have not received yet in full. Receiving healing from Parathrax, the two sorcerors make their way towards Durindale for a fresh start.
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