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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
2 Posts |
 Posted - 15 Nov 2025 : 19:23:13
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Chapter 1: Inception
The Yawing Portal Inn
Waterdeep, City of Splendours
15 Mirtul 1372 DR, the year of Wild Magic
*At lands end, did Asgorath*
*A stately dragon tomb decree*
*Shore where old bays began,*
*In aeons measureless to man,*
*Vista of Forests Three*
Randalf Dion, warrior and former monk of Lathander, was not one for poetry. He considered the parchment document before him, and wondered if he had made a mistake by accepting this invitation. Interpreting poetry was not usually one of the tasks he was called upon to perform as an adventurer.
Around the table, facing Randalf, was a cast of characters that would be considered odd even for the Yawning Portal Inn, a place frequented by adventurers of all descriptions hailing from all over the sword coast.
Across from Randalf was a Tabaxi named Nero, an humanoid cat with pitch dark fur and gleaming yellow eyes. The Tabaxi were exotic beings who had been forcibly brought across the ocean by unscrupulous Amnian merchant companies from the new world of Maztica, with most being sold into slavery in Calimshan, where the shameful institution was still legal.
The Tabaxi fidgeted with its whiskers thoughtfully, and then purred in a sweet melodic voice
“Its a map reference, a location between three forests.”
A large Raven, hopping about on the table to Randalf’s left, looked quizzically at the cat person. “Waterdeep is between three forests!” it cried excitedly in a high pitched voice. “Ardeep forest, the High Forest, and Cryptgarden!” The Raven beamed proudly at the humanoids at the table with its shiny black eyes.
Sitting to Randalf’s right, Illion shook her head. Illion was a dark brooding woman. Her face was skillfully painted in sad clown makeup, disguising but not fully concealing her uncommon beauty. In her darkly alluring eyes there was a flicker of madness, but she spoke with a sophistication which hinted at great intelligence.
“The High Forest is over a hundred miles away.” Illion stated, “Waterdeep is no vista of three forests.” she paused. The words of the poem echoed in her thoughts.
*Shore where old bays began / in aeons measureless to man*
“We are looking for a peninsula.” Illion deduced. “With a bay on each side of the land. A place with an impossibly ancient dragon tomb.”
The group considered Illion’s words, then turned to regard the ornate hand drawn map of Faerun decorating the back wall of the inn’s private room.
Memories stirred in Randolfs mind. His schooling as a monk in the monastery of Lathander began to flash before his eyes. When the monastery took him in as a young boy, geography and history lessons had once been the bane of his existence. But years of discipline had given Randalf a clear, orderly mind which retained whatever information it was given.
“The Sea of Fallen Stars” Randolf began slowly, pausing to allow the information to assemble in his mind, “is said to have been formed in ancient aeons, when eggs of dragons rained down on Faerun.”
The Raven, whose name was Prometheus, examined the map with his keen eyes. “Cape Dragonfang, then! On the east coast of The Sea of Fallen Stars. That’s OBVIOUSLY it. Where else would you put a dragon tomb?”
Randalf regarded the talking bird. Such a creature was usually indicative of a shapeshifter, or of an unfortunate person affected by a wizards’ polymorph spell. In more provincial areas the appearance of a being like Prometheus would spark fear and be taken as an ill omen. But here in the city of splendours, where magic was commonplace, Prometheus was merely something of an oddity. Rumour had it that the talking raven was formed by some freak accident of a magical experiment by wizards at Blackstaff Tower not far from the inn. Prometheus had, by all accounts, once been an ordinary raven chick. Now he appeared to have human intelligence, if not a great deal of subtlety. But the side effects of magical experimentation were not limited to speech. Apprentice wizards from Blackstaff academy, over cups of spiced firewine, spoke in hushed tones of the highly unusual suite of magical abilities that Prometheus possessed.
Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, the Archmage of Waterdeep, had been fascinated by the strange accident of wild magic that had formed Prometheus, and had considered adopting the bird as a familiar, only to tire of his incessant prattling and insatiable curiosity. Once archmage Khelben had determined there was seemingly nothing more to learn from studying the poor bird, Prometheus was now allowed to frequent The Yawning Portal where adventurers rested between sorties into the subterranean labyrinth of undermountain.
Randalf, Illion, Prometheus, and Nero had been called to meet in this private room on the top floor of the inn by special invitation. Across the room, carefully observing the invitees, was a cat. A large old gray tabby cat, who was, inexplicably, smoking a pipe. Assumed by the inn’s adventurer patrons to be an eccentric shapechanged sorcerer, the tabby cat went by the name of Whiskers, and remained secretive about its origins. The cat seemed to be pleased.
“You have passed my little test. The four of you seem to be capable of working together as a team, reasoning logically together. This bodes well.” The cat paused to regard the group approvingly, then continued.
“Indeed you are correct, the dragon tomb of Asgorath lies at the edge of Cape Dragonfang, overlooking the Sea of Fallen Stars.” Whiskers chewed on his pipe and took a little puff. “Allow me to read to you the final stanza of the poem.”
Whiskers cleared his throat. His voice was that of a distinguished human sage, full of gravitas, and sounding wholly unlike a cat. He began to recite the verse, his words resonating in the sumptuously appointed room.
*Dark Chest of Wonders there awaits*
*Heroes drawn by eldritch fates*
*Their wills tested by wardens fell*
*Primordial embers of gods to be*
Randalf felt a chill, a frisson of significance pass through his soul, stirring in his Ki, the spiritual energy he had honed as monk.
Nero felt a sensation of Deja Vu, the faint pull of a long forgotten memory.
Illion was intrigued, but unconvinced. A legendary dark chest hidden for aeons? This had to be some kind of hoax.
Prometheus was practically boiling over with enthusiasm. A quest! He had never been on a quest. Perhaps he would return to Waterdeep as a great hero, renowned to all the folk of the city. He imagined throngs of admirers fawning over him as he paraded down the boulevard, perched atop a great black treasure chest. And then Archmage Khelben would present him with a grand Diploma of Merit. But then a new urgent thought occurred to Prometheus, and he excitedly squealed “What’s in the chest!? A chest of wonders? What’s in it!?”
Whiskers purred. “What exactly the chest contains is not known to me, nor is it known to any of my peers. Knowledge of the chest’s existence has been a closely guarded secret passed down in my bardic order for generations.”
Illion chortled suddenly “So you keep secret the hidden location of a legendary magic chest…and you don’t even know what’s inside it. That’s hilarious.”
Randalf exchanged glances with Nero. Randalf didn’t know why, but he felt like the words of the strange tabbycat bard had rung true.
“I felt something” said Nero. “Like a memory, a remnant of something long forgotten in my mind, like telltale traces of chalk on a slate incompletely erased”
Whiskers gave Nero a thoughtful look and then continued his tale. “My order knows only that the Dark Chest of Wonders contains the prize which Asgorath has selected to bequeath to his chosen champions. My order has long watched and waited, seeking a group of candidates for this distinction. The four of you have been selected, and you have passed my preliminary tests. You may embark upon this quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders, or you may refuse the call.”
Nero spoke suddenly, their voice tinged by apprehension. “Who is this Asgorath fellow? And why is it the Dark chest of wonders? Does it contain some form of dark nefarious sorcery?”
Whiskers adjusted his pipe to the corner of his little mouth. “Asgorath is one of the primordial deities of Abeir-Toril. Asgorath is the progenitor of the draconic pantheon, father of Bahamut and Tiamat. Scarcely known to mortals, Asgorath now inhabits the land of Abeir, which was sundered from Toril long ago.”
Whiskers continued, his eyes wandering to the dying light of the evening sky seen through the room’s window, while his tail waved behind him like a pendulum. “As for why the chest is called dark, we believe it is so called because it is obscure. Asgorath sought to obscure the fate of the chest from gods and prophets, placing it beyond all manner of scrying. We believe its existence is hidden even from modern deities of Faerun. Its existence is known only to my order, the secret handed down to us by Asgorath himself, before the sundering. Its obscurity is entrenched with powerful primordial magic.”
Whiskers then straightened up his body, and set the group with a very serious stare. “What say you then, will you undertake this Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders?”
Illion sighed dismissively “You lot aren’t actually seriously considering this are you? This has to be some kind of prank”
Prometheus stared at Illion. “I don’t know what “prank” means but this nice tabbycat already told us this is a Quest not a “prank”. I have never been on a quest before, but I intend to find this Chest, bring it back to Waterdeep, and become the greatest hero Waterdeep has ever known! You can come with me or not. I could start flying there myself right now, but I might need some assistance or support staff, as I’m not sure I’ll be able to carry the chest back in my talons.” Prometheus looked hopefully at Randalf and Nero.
Randalf scratched his chin and looked at Illion, then at Nero, then finally at Prometheus. “This story sounds far too unbelievable to be true. Even here in the city of splendours, where I’m talking to a mutant wild magic Raven, it seems far fetched. But I felt something in the words of that poem.”
Randalf thought suddenly of his training in the monastery, where he had dreamed of enlightenment, self-perfection, and transcendence. And then of the last few years of drudgery, where he had been forced to work as a mercenary, serving as hired muscle in order to earn income to support his wife and children. This quest was the opportunity he needed.
“I will accept the quest” said Randalf “on one condition. You must ensure that my wife and children are taken care of while I am away.”
Whiskers approximated a smile with his feline mouth. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.” he said.
“How are we supposed to get to Cape Dragonfang?” Nero asked, hesitantly. Something burned inside of their brain, a memory itching to be retrieved but just out of reach. They were desperate to find this chest, to uncover the source of the memory. But practical concerns took precedence.
“I have arranged passage for the four of you on a ship sailing down the sword coast to Baldur’s Gate. Once in Baldur’s Gate you will accompany a merchant caravan overland to Westgate, on the western coast of the sea of fallen stars. You will be serving as security detail for the merchant caravan. Once you reach Westgate, you will board a ship crossing the Sea of Fallen Stars bound for Aglarond. You will be crossing the Pirate Isles at the centre of the sea so again you will be serving as hired security. Once you reach Aglarond you will need to travel to cape dragonfang on your own. It is a remote and isolated rocky peninsula with no permanent habitation.”
“Or, if you have the means, you can hire a wizard to teleport you to Aglarond.”
“Or fly!” said Prometheus, “I’m a bird. Birds can migrate long distances. I can fly right there; I mean, I’ve never actually flown more than a mile or two but other birds do it so it can’t be that hard!”
Illion considered the situation. If there was any possibility this legend was true, it would certainly be worthwhile to acquire an ancient primordial chest of wonders. “I’ll come along, if only to find out the truth behind this legend. The three of you…will require my adult supervision.”
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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
2 Posts |
Posted - 18 Nov 2025 : 00:26:42
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
Chapter 2: Denizen of the Deep
Aboard the merchant sailing ship the Harpy Eagle
The waters of the Sword Coast, Faerûn
17 Mirtul 1372 DR, The Year of Wild Magic
It is said that when a newborn child enters the world, Tymora, goddess of luck, flips a coin. Beshaba, the goddess of misfortune, calls it in the air. If Beshaba is right, that person is cursed with bad luck. If Beshaba is wrong, Tymora smiles on them, and they are blessed with good fortune. However, once in a while, the coin lands on edge, and these rare beings have more control over their own fate than the gods themselves.
Illion Sion was one of these few. Illion was born special. For one thing, Illion had the gift. Only one in nine thousand Faerunian children was born with the aptitude to study and use arcane magic. Illion had displayed the gift very early, as had been expected given her heritage, and had quickly become a mage of considerable power.
Illion’s parentage was a matter of some secrecy. Although Illion was ostensibly human in appearance, divine blood ran in her veins. Illion had been born in 1352 DR, twenty summers ago, and her mother was none other than the Lady of Mists, Leira, goddess of illusion and of liars. Illion had never known the identity of her father. Leira had told her contradictory stories, all lies, probably.
Illion had spent her early childhood years in her mother’s court of illusion, on the chaotic plane of Limbo. Her mother had raised her on a thousand tales of fantasy and illusion, and never was she able to trust what was read to her, for the narrator was seldom reliable. “All truth begins as a beautiful lie” her mother had told her.
Everything changed in 1358 DR, when Illion was six years old. Bane and Myrkul, the gods of terror and of death respectively, had stolen the Tablets of Fate from Ao, the overgod. As punishment, Ao had relegated all of the gods, including Leira and her young daughter, to walk Faerûn as and amongst mortals in what became known as the time of troubles.
Only a few months later, Leira was slain by a man named Cyric, who had risen to divinity in the ensuing chaos, and Cyric had assumed Leira’s portfolio as god of liars. Before she had died, Leira took little Illion aside and read to her one final story. “Mummy has to go now, but I’ll see you again one day,” she lied. “Always remember that you are special. You are more than you appear to be. You are the greatest lie I ever told to the world. I love you.”
Since then, Illion had spent the last 14 years in the care of foster parents in Waterdeep, where she had studied arcane magic. Her true parentage was a closely guarded secret, and few suspected her to be anything more than highly precocious albeit eccentric young mageling.
Illion’s sleep was often interrupted by dreams, but here aboard the merchant ship which was the party’s passage, sleep was hard to come by, as the constant motion of the ship rolling against the waters of the sea of swords nauseated and stirred her back to wakefulness again and again.
The waters of the sword coast were among the busiest trade routes in all of Faerûn. The sword coast was so named, Illion thought, for approximating the shape of a curved sword, like a scimitar, in profile. Trade flowed north from the hot, humid, exotic metropolis of Calimport at the extreme south or ‘pommel’ of the sword coast, where the southern shining sea began, to the ‘hand guard’ formed by the protruding Tethyr peninsula, past Athkatla, capital of Amn, city of explorers and conquerors of the new world, and up the curved blade formed by a line of bustling city-states: Baldur’s Gate, Waterdeep, Neverwinter, and finally the frigid city of Luskan at the northern ‘edge’ of the sword coast. But to Illion, Waterdeep with its elegant canals and boulevards was the true center, the jewel of the western world, the great free city-state, the city of splendours.
Illion knew that to the west, across the ocean, was a newly discovered landmass called Maztica. Learned people of Faerûn had long known that the world was round, but no one to Illion’s knowledge had ever circumnavigated the globe. The party’s destination, Cape Dragonfang, in the sea of fallen stars near the Kingdom of Aglarond, lay over a thousand miles to the east. These were names that Illion recognized from her schooling, but they were so far away that Illion had never imagined she would ever travel so far as to visit them. Beyond the sea of fallen stars, even further to the east, Illion knew there was a kingdom called Thay, ruled by an organization of cruel scheming wizards. To the east of Thay lay the Sunrise Mountains, the easternmost mountain range in Faerûn. And beyond the sunrise mountains, Illion had seen maps showing an empty expanse of endless grassland, sometimes called the Hordelands. Nomadic horse riders hailed from these lands, which Faerunians called the Tuigan. What learned people knew, but no map ever showed, was that there was a great empire even further east, beyond the Hordelands, which was called Kara-Tur. The details of Kara-Tur and its emperor were the stuff of hearsay and rumour.
Was there a place even further east where Kara-Tur and Maztica met? Illion considered how large the globe of Toril might be. And what lay beyond Toril? The most learned of scholars held that the world of Toril was floating in an inky black void, and that it circled the Sun, alongside the other planets of the night sky, rather than the other way around. Furthermore, more dubiously, the most learned scholars held that the sun and all of the globes which circled it were encased in a crystal sphere. Some even dared to speak of other such crystal spheres, perhaps countless in number, containing countless other suns, which appeared to the surface of Toril to be merely stars in the night sky.
Illion wondered about these things as drifted in and out of sleep, in a bunk bed on the lower deck of the harpy eagle merchant ship. Presently, she had somnolent visions of the deep, and the strange tentacled creatures of the inky abyss below the keel of the ship.
Suddenly, Illion bolted upright in her bunk, fully awake. Someone, or something, was scrying on them. Something out there was making magical contact. Illion quickly cast a spell of warding against enchantment, pulled a heavy cloak over her pajamas, and raced up the stairs to the deck of the ship, into the cold starry darkness. It was an hour before dawn, and the harpy eagle was midway through its five hundred mile passage to Baldur’s Gate.
“Reveal yourself! Do not attempt any more magic, or I swear I will end you right now.”
A voice rose from the waters, an unremarkable human voice. “Greetings Illion, I am a friend, I mean you no harm.” It was a suspiciously unremarkable - like a voice constructed by an intelligent alien entity - Illion thought.
“Why don’t you show yourself then, friend. What manner of creature are you?”
A barbed fleshy tentacle reached above the water, and waved at Illion. “I am a creature of the deep. My kind remembers a time before the gods, before the present world was created.”
Illion rolled her eyes. “An aboleth, naturally. Why is it that I always attract the biggest freaks?”
The tentacle retreated below the water. “You are a child of chaos, Illion. Yes, I know what you are. We can help each other, Illion. I can help you gain great power.”
“Yes of course! Aboleths are known throughout the realms for their honest dealings, being loyal and reliable allies and good faith actors.” Illion said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You seek the Dark Chest of Wonders” said the aboleth, not missing a beat. “It is known to the eldest of my race. We have sought to gain its power for aeons. But we are barred from the tomb by the most powerful of magic. Only those appointed as the chosen of Asgorath may enter.”
Illion raised an eyebrow. “Great, so you can’t enter the tomb and interfere. What do I need you for?”
“First, I can transport you and your allies to the tomb directly, using a series of underwater portals” the Aboleth said patiently. “Second, once you locate the chest within the tomb, I can help you open it.”
Illion was suddenly intrigued. “Okay, so what is the catch? I suppose you want a share of whatever is in the chest.”
“Exactly, Illion.” The aboleth replied. “I help you, and you help me. A fair exchange, I think.”
“I don’t suppose you are going to tell me what the chest contains are you?” Illion asked sardonically.
“The chest contains great power. You are extremely fortunate to have been chosen for this endeavour, child of chaos. You cannot imagine the magnitude of the opportunity you have been given.” The aboleth’s voice gave an air of satisfaction, sensing that Illion was warming to the proposition.
“So let me get this straight” Illion tilted her head at the wine dark waters, illuminated by faint zodiacal light. “You teleport us to the tomb. We enter the tomb, we locate the chest. Then you tell us how to open the chest. Then we share the contents. No funny business? No turning us into mindless aboleth thralls?”
“Correct. The tomb will not open for you unless you enter of your own free will, as Asgorath’s chosen” the aboleth was pleased.
“How do you know all of this? The tabbycat said the chest was obscured even from the gods.” Illion was now dying of curiosity.
“Ah so it is. This ‘tabbycat’ of yours did not lie to you. My race is older than the gods themselves, as we hail from the Far Realm, our racial memory is older than the universe itself. We have been waiting for this moment for aeons. Now go and summon your companions, the dawn will break soon, best to do this under cover of night.”
Illion nodded, smirking grimly. “I’m sure they will be absolutely okay with working with an Aboleth, no concerns whatsoever.” |
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
