Mission 5 - The Price of Beauty

General Summary

The Avengers of Vermillion strode into the hallowed halls of Candlekeep, their cloaks dusted with the grit of the platinum mines and their minds troubled by the mystery they carried. A small vial of shimmering, otherworldly fluid, its iridescent hues dancing as though alive, sloshed gently in Roux's hand. What magic lay within? Maeve, ever the vigilant mage, muttered an incantation, her eyes flaring briefly with arcane light. "Conjuration," she breathed, her voice tinged with awe and unease. Guided by whispers through Candlekeep's vast library, they found themselves in the dusty aisles of conjuration lore. It was there they met Lorris Niss, a solemn half-elf with streaks of silver in her dark hair. Her amber eyes, though resolute, shimmered with unspoken grief. "Falthrax Loderr," she said softly, clutching an old tome to her chest. "My dearest friend has vanished." Falthrax, a fellow scholar and worshiper of Sune, the goddess of beauty, had grown melancholic of late, lamenting how life passed him by like a fleeting dream. But ten days prior, he spoke of finding solace in a book — The Price of Beauty. Its pages, he claimed, held wisdom that soothed the heart and whispered truths of self-worth. The last anyone saw of him, he carried the tome into the shadowed stacks. "He never returned," Lorris murmured. "He said the book called to him." With the conjured fluid now entrusted to Lorris for study, the party delved into the labyrinthine library. Among the countless shelves, Roux's keen eyes fell upon an Avowed — a bald man seated cross-legged, cradling a book of emerald leather with golden clasps. His hands, trembling, brushed at his scalp as though combing phantom locks. The unmistakable scent of lilies wafted through the air. Roux approached, her voice soft. "What book is this?" The man blinked, startled from his reverie. "Ah, forgive me. I am Brucellis," he stammered, setting the tome down with reverence. "I must return to my duties. The book... it is yours, should you desire it." The book's cover, adorned with a polished oval mirror, reflected more than mere faces. Inside lay pages of exquisite artistry: serene glades, blooming gardens, and finely wrought jewelry. Written in delicate hand were prayers to Sune, meditations on self-worth, and recipes for restorative balms. On the final page, the author’s words from Sylvarie Silversong shone like sunlight through leaves: "A mirror is a gateway to happiness, truth, and to accepting ourselves." As Rogan gazed into the mirror, a voice — soft, honeyed, and warm — cooed, "Well met, dearest one. How do you feel today?" The rogue started but answered warily. The voice continued: "If rest, relaxation, or transformation is what you seek, follow the lilies, dearest one. Sylvarie awaits." A ripple of energy surged through the mirror. A portal, five feet wide and seven feet tall, shimmered into existence, revealing a woodland path dappled with sunlight. Stone posts shaped like lilies lined the trail, beckoning the adventurers forward. Stepping through the gate, Maeve flew upward on feathered wings to pierce the emerald canopy. Below, her companions trudged through soft earth, dwarfed by towering pines. Beyond the trees, she glimpsed the faint silhouette of Silverymoon to the north and the jagged peaks of the Spine of the World. They had traveled leagues in a heartbeat. The path led them to a temple of singular beauty: The Temple of the Restful Lily. Its towering double doors swung open with the chime of a bell, releasing a wave of floral perfume. Inside, a dark-haired man in silken robes rose from behind a polished desk. His smile gleamed like polished ivory. "Welcome, weary travelers," he purred. "I am Saeth, your humble steward. Come, unburden yourselves. Our bathhouse will soothe your cares, our massages will mend your flesh, and our halls will grant you peace." He gestured grandly, his voice a siren's call to comfort. The Temple offered indulgence unlike any other. A steaming central pool of turquoise water beckoned from a floor of polished white marble. Roux and Maeve shed their travel-worn garb for soft robes of white, while Rogan lingered in the lounge, observing quietly. Roux and Maeve entered the natural spring and felt immediately rejuvenated. Bertrund and Adara, a couple from Silverymoon, shared the waters, and talked of their wedding anniversary and Bertrund's new experience of waxing. Suddenly, Azirssa, a sun elf with copper hair and an athlete's poise, invited all to a contest of strength in the temple gardens. Maeve, ever cautious, sent her pseudodragon Mephistopheles to watch from the trees. The contest began — squats that tested sinew, tug-of-war with an awakened tree, and a perilous game of agility as a heavy iron chain spun in deadly arcs. Roux, half-drunk and laughing, faltered, but Rogan triumphed, earning a Potion of Hill Giant Strength and cheers from his bemused rivals. As the day waned, a trio of mysterious elves — Morganna, Greensong, and Azirssa — disappeared into a crimson-doored tower nestled among the trees. Suspicion drove Maeve and Rogan to investigate. From a distance, Mephistopheles and Magpie, their familiars, flitted like shadows, peering into windows and keyholes. Inside the tower, an elderly dragonborn swept feebly at the stone floor, her back bowed with age and toil. She recoiled at the pseudodragon’s communication, her whispered protests lost to despair. Rogan used magic to get Magpie inside to find an oversized chair and painting studio. Greensong prepared the paints, Azirssa prepared the canvas, and Morganna prepared to paint, before being called outside by Roux. The half-drunk monk was in a scuffle with the stone elf protecting the doorway. Morganna casts a spell suggesting that Roux spend the rest of the night in the bar. Roux hits the bar and some time later, the dwarves exit the tower, revealing that the one suffering from alopecia totalis has been cured and now sports a regal ginger beard and flowing hair. These dwarves, a couple of finance bros from Citadel Adbar, spend the rest of the night in the bar with Roux. Morghanna serves drinks behind the bar and Greensong prepares the meals in the kitchen for the guests. Azirssa was nowhere to be seen so the familiars investigated further. On the uppermost floor, the air turned foul. What was once a place of elegance had decayed into ruin. Murals of Sune defaced with filth glared accusingly. Canopies of bones loomed over stained beds. Below, Azirssa — transformed and monstrous — hissed curses at the elderly cook in the kitchen, her rust-red hair and slitted eyes betraying her corruption. In the shadow of the crimson tower, the Avengers found themselves surrounded by illusion, beauty, and menace. As night descended upon the Restful Lily, Saeth’s silken voice echoed once more: "Your rooms are prepared, dear guests. Stay the night... and rest." The Avengers of Vermillion waited until the shroud of night descended before they approached the abandoned shrine. Once a place of radiant beauty and devotion, it now stood as a ruinous echo of its former glory. Moss crept over its crumbling stone walls, and faint engravings of Sune’s serene visage gazed down from the weathered stones, her divine expression marred by time and neglect. The faithful once walked this path, but now the approach was desolate, its silence broken only by the chirp of nocturnal insects. The great stone doors at the shrine's entrance were sealed, coated with a thick, translucent resin that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Maeve spread her wings, ascending gracefully to scout from above. Her sharp eyes caught sight of a hole in the roof, and with a few whispered words, the party climbed through the opening into the shrine’s shadowed interior. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of decay and the bitter tang of old magic. The room bore the scars of a violent confrontation. Benches lay shattered, their shredded cushions devoured by creeping fungi. On the walls hung the remnants of four grand mirrors, their jagged shards scattered across the stone floor like frozen tears. Against the far wall loomed a statue of Sune, her once-laughing face now streaked with grime, giving her the sorrowful appearance of one weeping for what had been lost. Behind the statue, a staircase descended downward into darkness. A faint, ethereal glow emanated from below, the light rippling as though filtered through water. Roux, her instincts sharp, gestured to the others, and they descended cautiously, weapons drawn. The party had scarcely reached the lower level when a grotesque figure emerged from the shadows. Her face was a nightmarish blend of beauty and horror, her snake-like hair writhing with a life of its own. The medusa struck swiftly, her gaze a weapon more potent than any blade. Roux’s limbs stiffened, her skin hardening to stone. Maeve acted without hesitation, weaving her magic to reverse time itself, sparing Roux from petrification. But the medusa’s curse was relentless. Maeve’s own fate was sealed as her body succumbed to the stone’s cold embrace. Rogan, his breath shallow with dread, felt his own body begin to harden. Yet he clung to his resolve, uncorking a potion of mind reading and draining it in a desperate bid for understanding. As the medusa loomed, he caught flashes of her fear—not of them, but of the ones in charge of this place. Lowering his weapons, Rogan spoke in measured tones. "We mean you no harm," he said, his voice steady. "You are not our enemy." The medusa hesitated, her gaze falling to the ground as she retreated into the chamber. Rogan, risking everything, misty-stepped into the room, only to feel the curse overtake him. His form froze mid-stride, leaving Roux to confront the creature alone. Roux, her heart pounding, approached the medusa with caution. She spoke gently, coaxing the story from the tormented figure. The medusa, her voice trembling, revealed her identity: Sylvarie Silversong, once the devout elf priestess of Sune and the author of The Price of Beauty. Ten years prior, Sylvarie’s devotion had been her strength, but her insecurities had become her downfall. The hags who now ruled the Temple of the Restful Lily had exploited her self-doubt, whispering lies cloaked in promises. They had convinced her to enter a dark pact, a bargain sealed with a cursed painting that had bolstered her self-esteem but at a terrible cost. Within a year, the painting’s magic twisted, transforming Sylvarie into a medusa. When she tried to strike back, the hags ensnared her in this forgotten shrine, hoping its grand mirrors would turn her to stone. Desperate and alone, Sylvarie had shattered the mirrors herself, but the curse remained unbroken. For a decade, she had lingered in isolation, a prisoner of her own reflection. As tears streamed down her scaled cheeks, Sylvarie confessed, "I do not know how to undo what has been done." Roux nodded solemnly. "I will return," she promised. "When I come back, I will announce myself with the words, ‘I am a banana.’ You will know it is a friend." With a final glance at her petrified companions, Roux departed the shrine. Roux traveled north to Silverymoon, the glimmering elven city, its spires shining like stars in the morning light. At the School of Magic, she spent 5 gold to arrange for a teleportation spell that would take her back to Candlekeep. There, she found Lorris Niss and delivered the grim news. They had failed to locate Falthrax Loderr, and Roux had lost both Maeve and Rogan to the curse of the Restful Lily. Together, Roux and Lorris pleaded with the Avowed to send aid, to dispatch a strike team to liberate the temple from its wicked masters. But the Avowed, ever pragmatic, dismissed their plight. "The world is vast," they said, "and full of injustice. We cannot right every wrong." Disheartened but not defeated, Roux took the emerald-bound book that had set these events into motion and returned to her quarters. As she turned its pages, she could not help but feel the weight of its words: "A mirror is a gateway to happiness, truth, and to accepting ourselves." But for Roux, the price of beauty had proven far too steep.