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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
5 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
5 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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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
5 Posts |
Posted - 19 Nov 2025 : 15:00:59
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
Chapter 3: Gateways
The Merchant Vessel The Harpy Eagle
Waters of the Sword Coast north of Baldur’s Gate
17 Mirtul 1372 DR, The Year of Wild Magic
Tabaxi were not known for their appreciation of sea travel. Nero had been born in the slums of the city of Calimport in 1363 DR only 9 years ago, though tabaxi matured much faster than humans and were considered to be adults after only their third summer.
Nero’s mother, Alba, was not from Faerûn. Alba had lived her entire life in the jungles of Maztica, a land far to the west across the sea, which Nero knew only from their mother’s stories. While Alba was pregnant with a litter of Tabaxi kittens, she was ripped away from her family by Amnian slave traders, and put on a cramped slave ship alongside dozens of other Tabaxi destined to be sold into slavery in distant Calimshan.
Alba prayed for deliverance to the Tabaxi god Tezca and the goddess Nula, but although she survived the long miserable passage across the sea, deliverance did not come, and she was unceremoniously sold into slavery as a exotic foreign creature in a dingy Calimport slave market.
When Alba was about to give birth to her litter, the Faerunian god Shaundakul appeared to her in a dream. Shaundakul told her that among her litter there would be a child, with fur as black as the starless night. This child would be called Nero, and would be neither male nor female. Nero would be Shuandakul’s chosen, and would fight to free the Tabaxi, and travel far and wide across Faerûn and beyond.
Indeed, it came to pass exactly as Shaundakul had foretold. Nero was born with midnight black fur, and shining yellow eyes, and quickly showed uncanny intelligence and unusual magical gifts, the legacy of the god of adventurers and portals.
Nero was able to teleport short distances in an instant, and was able to teleport reflexively when they were threatened by danger. They also gained the ability to command wind and lightning at will, able to summon storms, dense fog, and hurl lightning bolts at terrified slavers.
Nero was able to free dozens of Tabaxi from servitude in Calimport. They traveled north up the sword coast, away from the cruel institution of slavery, seeking the legendary free city of Waterdeep, where all were welcome to live in liberty.
However, when Nero had only just achieved their fourth summer, Alba passed away from a mysterious disease, telling Nero not to worry, that her soul would return to Maztica to be with her ancestors.
Nero knew they were blessed by Shaundakul to journey far and seek adventure and help those in need, but the gifts given to them by Shaundakul did not grant immunity to sea sickness. For the last two days aboard the Harpy Eagle, Nero had been miserable, constantly sick and unable to hold down any solid food. Curled up in a fetal position in a bunk bed on the ship’s lower deck, they listened with curiosity as Illion described the situation to Randalf.
“So if I understand correctly, you say you have a ‘friend’ who will teleport us to the tomb of Asgorath, and help us open the chest, if we give them a share of the contents” Randalf said skeptically.
“Yep.” Illion nodded.
“And you met this friend magically, they were scrying on you, and reached out to make a deal with you.”
“Yes.” Illion tried to look cute and innocent
“What is their name, who are they really? How can we trust them?”
“Their name is…Gerry.” the daughter of Leira lied. “Gerry is a wizard. We’ve made a wizard’s pact, so we can trust him. Honour among Wizards, and all that.” Illion smiled at Randalf.
“If it gets us off of this leaky boat faster, I’m all for it.” Said Nero, who looked like they were going to be seasick again.
“I think this is great! Let’s go, what are we waiting for?” Prometheus enthusiastically flapped his wings. “She has literally made a wizards pact. That means our safety is guaranteed, right Illion?”
“Exactly! Prometheus has the right idea. We have a magical contract in place. If we accept Gerry’s teleportation service to the tomb, the contract goes into effect. Gerry will help us open the chest when we locate it, and if we are successful in opening it, then Gerry will get a fair share of the contents.”
“What if the contents can’t be split evenly, what then? How do we know that Gerry won’t betray us and take everything as soon as we open the chest?” Randalf quizzed Illion.
“Because…that would be against the contract. We have a completely solid Wizard’s pact, so there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.” Illion replied smoothly.
“And if Gerry did try something, I could definitely take him down, especially with help from you lot.” Illion examined Prometheus who stood on the ship’s floor listening impatiently. “Speaking of which, Prometheus, what exactly do you…do?”
“I get huge.” Said Prometheus casually. “Huge and ferocious! Also my vomit is a powerful healing potion” he added cheerfully.
Illion made a sickened expression as she suppressed her own urge to vomit.
“I think we should play it safe.” Said Randalf. “The conventional travel route is long, I know it will take many weeks and we are already sick of being on this ship.” he examined the weary expressions of his companions. “But I don’t trust magical travel, especially from an unknown wizard who I’ve never met. I say we have a party vote. All in favour of taking the wizard’s teleportation service, say ‘Aye’.
“Aye” said Illion, Prometheus, and Nero simultaneously.
Randalf looked around hopelessly. “I guess I am outvoted” he slumped his shoulders, casting his gaze downward.
“Lets go! Dark Chest of Wonders HERE WE COME” cried Prometheus excitedly, hopping about on the floor of the ship.
“Anything to get us back onto dry land,” said seasick Nero.
Illion smiled. “I can’t believe they actually went for it” she thought to herself.
“Okay get your things together quickly, the spell works best under starlight” Illion said.
The party quickly gathered their equipment and supplies. They had opted to travel light, relying on the crew of the ship to supply food and drink and other sundry items, so their actual equipment was meager indeed. Illion had her spellbook and wizarding supplies, and a small magical bag of holding. Nero carried a shortbow, a short sword, and a quiver of arrows. Randalf, who preferred to fight with his fists and feet, was always prepared, and carried a backpack full of potions and alchemical supplies. Prometheus, being a raven, carried no equipment or items of any kind.
The party stepped out onto the deck of the ship, it was not long before the first light of dawn would break.
Above the deck of the ship, a large bubble of air floated silently, quivering slightly in the breeze. Like a giant soap bubble, the party could see their distorted reflections on the surface.
“Okay this is it.” Illion said calmly as her companions examined the bubble in awe.
“We just need to step into the bubble and then let it do all the work. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.” Illion pressed forward, pushing through the membrane of the bubble. Once inside, she began to float within the bubble weightlessly. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”
“Oh boy this is really exciting! A teleportation bubble!” Said Prometheus. He flapped his wings and darted through the air, bursting straight into the bubble where he began to float beside Illion.
“I’m weightless!” Prometheus cried. “Look I can fly in here so easily, I barely have to move my wings” He began tumbling around the interior of the bubble chaotically. “I mean I’ll get use to it eventually, not having weight I mean”
Nero and Randalf looked at each other. “Well here goes nothing” Nero said simply, and jumped right in.
Randalf shook his head. “What choice do I have now? All I can do is hope for the best.” He stepped forward, and pushed his body inside the bubble.
The bubble was large enough to accommodate all four adventurers comfortably. After a brief moment where nothing happened, the bubble began to move, but the companions inside remained weightless and had no sensation of acceleration.
The bubble passed beyond the ship, then dove straight down beneath the waves. The party was plunged into darkness, but when their eyes adjusted, they could see various fishes and creatures of the deep.
“Is this normal?” Randalf asked nervously
“Completely normal marine teleportation spell”, said Illion.
The bubble of air bearing the four companions sank deeper into the abyss, until all light had vanished. For a few moments there was only darkness, and then, below them there was a glowing circle of blue light, within which stars were visible. The bubble approached the circle of stars, and the party braced themselves, helpless to do anything at all to change course.
The transport bubble passed into the circular fissure of starlight, and for a time the party were unsure if they were still in Faerûn, or even on the Prime Material Plane. The bubble passed through a realm of faint starlight and luminous clouds for what seemed like hours but was in fact only minutes.
“Normal marine teleportation spell, you say?” Randalf looked at Illion, who was taking in the wild starscape surrounding them in awe.
Before long the bubble was approaching another circle of light, and through this circle of light was visible a blue sky and a familiar sun.
Once again the bubble entered the circle of light, and now the party found themselves staring up at the sky through a veil of shallow water. The bubble emerged, breaching the surface, and the party saw cliffs rising before them, and atop the cliffs was a great stone Pyramid, perhaps 400 feet high, towering over a shining sea that stretched before them.
“This is Cape Dragonfang, I’m sure of it” said Nero, breaking the tense silence.
The bubble floated through the air. It was a beautiful sunny day, almost noon, and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky.
The pyramid before them was a truly massive, awe inspiring edifice. None of the four companions had ever seen a structure so vast. Weathered stone piled upon stone, the structure appeared to be many thousands of years old, having weathered wind and rain for aeons.
The bubble approached the land atop the cliffs, at the south base of the pyramid. When it was only a few feet above the ground, the bubble burst, depositing the four companions unceremoniously on the dusty ground of the clifftop.
The companions dusted themselves off and rose to their feet.
“I guess this is it, this can only be the tomb of Asgorath” said Randalf
“Its certainly the correct scale for the tomb of a colossal dragon…or dragons.” Nero mused.
“That trip was awesome! I want to do that again! Can we summon the bubble again?” cried Prometheus.
“What did I tell you? Completely reliable teleportation service.” Said Illion triumphantly. |
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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
5 Posts |
Posted - 20 Nov 2025 : 14:27:08
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
Chapter 4: Awakenings
Outside the tomb of Asgorath
Cape Dragonfang, on the edge of the Sea of Fallen Stars
18 Mirtul 1372 DR, The Year of Wild Magic
The pyramid seemed completely out of place, like it did not belong here.
Illion considered the vast structure before them. It would be clearly visible to sailors of the Sea of Fallen Stars below the cliffs from miles away. Perhaps it was the pyramid itself which was the ‘fang’ which gave cape dragonfang its name.
It was an appropriate appellation, Illion decided. But now there was the matter of finding a way to enter. There was no one about, no guards at the entrance, no visitor’s center, no dragon worshippers. Only the sea wind and sunshine and the sound of gulls.
There was a door. Or what appeared to be a door. A rectangular block of stone, it glowed brightly when interrogated by Illion’s detect magic spell. The door radiated several different types of magic, and Illion’s knowledge of spellcraft suggested the enchantment was extremely old, older than anything she had previously seen.
Illion tested the door with several divination spells, and her suspicions were confirmed. This pyramid was protected by a Mythal, or the draconic equivalent thereof. The only Mythals Illion had read about were elven in origin. But this one bore the signature of Draconic magic. In any case, it was clear that no mortal magic user could do anything that would affect the enchantments placed on this pyramid.
It was clear that this draconic Mythal had stood for many thousands of years, surviving Karsus’ folly, the catastrophe which ended the empire of Netheril in -339 DR, over 1700 years ago, which had temporarily destroyed the weave, the source of all magic in the world.
“Does anyone have any ideas?” Illion asked, hopefully
Prometheus interrogated the stone door with his beak, pecking at it feverishly. The stone was completely unyielding, like solid adamantite. Prometheus drew back, regretting the pain he now felt in his beak. “No good, its completely solid.”
“It’s some kind of Mythal,” Illion explained.
“What is a Mythal?” Nero asked
“A Mythal is a type of ancient high magic, created by cabals of powerful spellcasters to protect an area, to enforce rules.” Illion looked out to the sea. “A Mythal is made to enforce laws within an area. It can prevent certain magic from being used, or prevent unauthorized people from entering.”
“But we are authorized, aren’t we?” said Randalf. “Whiskers the cat bard told us we had been selected as Asgorath’s champions,”
Nero looked at the door. “Yes, that’s what he said.” Nero purred. “We’ve been selected, drawn here by our eldritch fates.” Nero felt a suppressed memory awakening in the recesses of their brain, struggling to break free from obscurity. Suddenly, their eyes rolled up inside their head, and their voice sounded out above the silence of the clifftop.
“In the name of Asgorath, open for me, I am Nero, his champion!”
For an instant, there was complete silence.
Then the stone of the entrance door began to grind and shift, and the door began to slide open.
Nero collapsed to the ground. Randalf and Prometheus rushed to their side. “I don’t know where those words came from, it was like a Deja Vu, like I’ve said those words before, only it was different before.” Nero was nauseous, again.
Nero’s companions exchanged looks. “Well, it worked, so we should probably enter before it decides to close again.” said Illion.
Randalf helped Nero to their feet and they carefully entered the ancient structure, finding themselves in a dark chamber.
Illion produced a magical torch from her bag of holding and said a command word, illuminating the torch and the room.
The walls of the entrance chamber contained murals, colourfully painted frescos. The details of the frescos were obscured by a fine layer of dust and the inevitable decay from long millennia of silence. Within the room there also stood a stone tablet, a stele, bearing an inscription that none of the four companions could read.
“Can anyone read this inscription? What do you think it says?” asked Randalf
“Don’t ask me, I can barely read common” said Prometheus flippantly.
Illion examined the runic characters carved on the stone stele. “It appears to be an early form of draconic. The draconic alphabet, called lokharic, hasn’t changed for thousands of years, but this is barely recognizable. This must be an extremely ancient forgotten dialect of draconic that died out long ago.”
Illion examined the strange runes and began to notice the familiar pattern of magic in the inscription. “The inscription contains some form of magic, but that’s all I can tell”
“Ooh it might be a trap to put a creepy dragon curse on you,” said Prometheus
Illion improvised a divination spell, trying to analyze the magic of the stele. Slowly it became clear, the stele wanted to be read. Responding to Illion’s divination spell, the stele began to translate itself to the magic user, the strange archaic runes began to spell draconic words that Illion recognized.
“It's enchanted with translation magic. I can make some of it out now,”
Illion concentrated feverishly on the runes carved upon the stele. Part of the text was now clear.
Before time, Ao and Asgorath lived peacefully in the primordial chaos among other primordial beings…Ao and Asgorath created a crystal sphere and filled it with a Sun and planets - worlds of earth and ocean - among them was Abeir-Toril… Ao and Asgorath could not agree on how the new world should be governed and began to battle for control: The Dawn War.
Illion spoke the words she had gleaned from the stele aloud and the frescos of the room began to glow and shift. The four companions stood amazed by the spectacle, as the frescos, energized by the magic of Illion and the stele, became bright and vivid.
They saw vast armies of strange beings, of every shape and description, fighting a war across a vast starscape. Armies of gods long forgotten and dead, and primordial creations of Asgorath, battling for control over the Sun itself. It was unlike anything the four companions had ever witnessed or imagined.
“This wasn’t in my history books,” said Randalf.
“This wasn’t in anyone’s history books” said Illion, breathlessly taking in the awe inspiring vision.
Presently the magic of the frescos faded, and they were once again dusty and decaying murals upon the entrance chambers' stone walls.
The party looked around the room.
The stone door of the entrance had closed behind them.
“I guess we have to push onward. No going back now” said Nero.
“Let’s go! That Dark Chest of Wonders is waiting here for us!” Cried Prometheus.
Suddenly, the party could hear a rasping, wailing noise, emanating from a chamber deeper within the tomb.
The four companions exchanged glances. “Let's check it out. But be prepared for anything. Didn’t the poem say we would be tested?” Randalf asked his companions.
“Their wills tested there by wardens fell” Nero cited the poem's penultimate line.
“I think it's time to get huge! Here I go!” Said Prometheus. Suddenly the bird began to grow rapidly. The Raven, who normally stood around 1 foot tall, doubled in height within one minute. Then the next minute he doubled again. After three minutes, he stood over seven feet tall, and positively towered over his companions.
“I’m huge now!” said Prometheus, stating the obvious. His companions examined him incredulously. “Now I can handle anything! Come on, let’s see what’s making that noise.”
The four companions began to venture down a hallway. Presently they entered a grand, gigantic chamber, at the center of which was the remains of a sarcophagus which had been sixty feet long. Amongst the shattered remains of the stone sarcophagus was a mummified dragon.
The mummified dragon lay motionless amongst the rubble. But it was emanating a crying, whimpering voice, making a sorrowful lament in a forgotten language none could understand.
None but Illion. Fresh from reading the stele in the previous chamber, Illion slowly began to understand the mummy’s lament. It cried out, to no one in particular:
So it was wrought: A Mountain made, A Temple to Humble them all,
an Epic in stone, magnificent! colossal!
All who entered the sacred halls knew His majesty.
But Now! Only Dust and Decay! The House of Asgorath has fallen!
Its ancient splendour obscured by the roll of the years.
The priests of the temple have vanished, they are but dust.
Their spirits, eternally whispering despair, echo amongst the sand and stones.
Our sacrifice, to power the Mythal, for all time, Has been forgotten.
“What is he saying, Illion?” Prometheus asked loudly, breaking the companion’s silence.
“He’s lamenting the deca, the passage of aeons…” Illion began, but then the mummified dragon roused itself, suddenly lifting its head and neck above the rubble of the broken sarcophagus. It was a massive beast, at least 60 feet long from tip to tail. Its desiccated body was wrapped in ancient dressings and within its empty eye sockets there was only a red glowing light.
“Vermin! You defile the sanctity of the tomb with your presence. You must be exterminated for your trespass!”
“That sounded angry, I didn’t like the sound of that,” said Nero. “ Illion! Tell him that we are friends, sent by Asgorath!” the tabaxi cried.
Illion tried to speak, they could understand the ancient draconic dialect somewhat, but speaking fluently was another matter! But suddenly the dragon angrily swept its bony, dessicated tail across the floor, striking at the companions.
Prometheus spread his wings and sprang into the air, dodging the tail sweep. Randalf somersaulted, vaulting into the air and landing atop the tail as it swept by. Illion was caught completely off guard, and was smashed by the massive bony tail and sent flying into the chamber wall, instantly knocking her unconscious.
Nero, recovering from their previous nausea, remained at the back of the room and was just out of the tail’s reach as it swept by.
Prometheus was airborne and accelerating quickly. He steered his flight straight for a collision course with the mummified dragon's head, which was large enough to swallow Prometheus whole. Prometheus smashed into the dragon’s mummified skull beak first, and then dug his talons into the dragon’s desiccated flesh and dried cloth wrappings. He began ripping out chunks of material from the face of the mummy, alternating attacks with his beak and talons.
Enraged, The dragon mummy began swinging its tail wildly. Randalf clung to the tail vertebrae with an iron grip. When the swinging ceased he began running up the length of the tail, quickly climbing up the beast.
The dragon reached with its bony claw and grabbed Prometheus, the massive bird filling its grasp. The dragon wrenched prometheus free from its skull, pulling free huge pieces of desiccated flesh and bone which plummeted to the floor.
The dragon mummy began to crush Prometheus within its fist. Prometheus began squealing in pain. Just then, Randalf had nimbly scaled the length of the beast, pulling himself atop the dragon’s skull where Prometheus had been moments before. “Put the bird down!” Demanded Randalf, jamming a fist into the dragon’s glowing red eye socket. The dragon roared, and threw its neck backward in pain.
This time Randalf lost his handhold, and was sent flying off, tumbling through the air. He oriented himself in the air, landing like a cat with a loud thud.
The dragon was preparing to stuff the unfortunate bird into his toothy maw, when suddenly a voice called out, “Leave my friend alone!”
Nero teleported into the air in front of the dragon's fearsome maw, and launched a bolt of lightning straight down the beast's throat. The dragon shook, convulsing. Its grip loosened and Prometheus broke free from its fist and began flapping his wings rapidly. Stabilizing his fall, Prometheus began accelerating upward again, “Let’s see how you like this” the raven said and opened his beak wide.
Prometheus’s body swelled suddenly, and a jet of liquid fire came streaming out of his mouth, hitting the dragon mummy directly in the face. Desiccated flesh and ancient cloth wrappings were ignited and the dragon mummy began to burn.
Nero hit the mummy with a second blast of lightning, and the mummy, now burning furiously, fell to the stone floor, shaking, its body, which had been reanimated by the strange magic of this place, was dying for the second and final time.
The chamber began to fill with thick black smoke as the mummy continued to burn. Nero used their wind power to extinguish the flames and clear the smoke, and all was quiet.
Prometheus ambled over to where Illion lay against the wall, unconscious. He began heaving and wretching, and then vomited a thick green slime all over the dormant magic user.
Illion began coughing and sputtering, and then screaming as she awoke to find herself covered in slime. “What did you do?!” she demanded, coughing on slime.
“I vomited healing potion on you.” Prometheus explained. Now it was Illion’s turn to vomit.
Several minutes passed as Illion cleaned herself up and changed into a clean mage robe.
“What was that dragon so angry about Illion?” Prometheus asked
“I’m not talking to you, don’t vomit on me again without my permission–”
“But you were unconscious and hurt!”
“I don’t care,” Illion said.
“The dragon thought we were defiling the sanctity of the tomb. I don’t speak fluent ancient draconic, so I was unable to explain our situation in time.”
Illion looked to the rubble of the broken sarcophagus. Illion was able to sense the presence of lingering spirits, and now, the spirit of the vanquished dragon mummy, now at rest, appeared to her.
“I see now, you are the champions appointed for the task of claiming the chest.” the dragon spirit spoke softly.
“You must reach the vault below, Weretos awaits you there. Solve the riddle of the murals!”
Illion struggled to find the words to reply “Wait…”
But the spirit was gone, it was now at peace.
The companions looked at Illion
“The dragon spirit spoke to me, it said something about a riddle in the murals of this place.”
“There’s more murals? Like the first one? Let’s have a look around. But first, let’s rest, I need to recharge my powers.” Prometheus promptly closed his eyes and began snoring loudly.
Authors note: this story owes a heavy debt to heavy metal song lyrics. The dragon’s lament is adapted from the song Even The Gods Must Die by the American Death Metal band Nile. |
Edited by - Whiskers the Bard on 20 Nov 2025 14:54:10 |
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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
5 Posts |
Posted - 01 Dec 2025 : 07:24:12
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
Chapter 5: Prophecy of Spellplague
Inside the tomb of Asgorath,
Atop the cliffs of Cape Dragonfang, Eastern Faerûn
18 Mirtul 1372 DR, The Year of Wild Magic.
The party camped in the great chamber of the dragon sarcophagus, beside the charred remains of the restless mummy.
The party had discussed how they had defeated a truly fearsome foe - an undead dragon over 60 feet long - and were little worse for wear. Then they had played cards, and had dined on the rations carried by Randalf and Illion in her bag of holding.
They slept soundly, exhausted from the travel and trials of the day, as they were glad to be able to sleep on solid ground, rather than the unsteady rolling of the ship upon the deep.
When they awoke, they were greeted by a very welcome sight. A delicious selection of hot fresh meals awaited them, steaming on silver platters. There was roast chicken, lobster, steamed vegetables, soup, baked potatoes and more. And a full keg of ale to wash it all down, complete with four tankards.
“Where did all of this come from?” Randalf asked no one in particular
“Who cares, let’s eat! I’m starving!” said Prometheus hungrily
“There’s a note here,” said Nero, picking up a piece of parchment.
The parchment was handwritten elegantly in the common tongue:
“You have done well. You show great promise. Enjoy the food and ale. The vault below you contains the chest. However, beware the Aboleth. It is not trustworthy.
Your Friend,
-W”
Before Randalf had even finished reading the note, Prometheus was already crunching away happily on the cooked lobster, shell and meat alike disappearing down his ravenous beak.
“Beware the Aboleth? Isn’t that some kind of evil psychic squid?” said Randalf, looking at Illion questioningly.
“Indeed, perhaps the aboleth is some manner of evil interloper within the tomb,” the child of Leira lied, deflecting attention away from her secret dealing with the tentacled aberration.
“And who is W? Is it Whiskers, the tabbycat Bard? How did he deliver the food to us?” Nero pondered the words of the parchment note, then shrugged and began helping themself to a drumstick of roast chicken.
“It says the chest is in the vault below us, we need to explore this level carefully and find the passage leading down.” said Randalf, but the others were only half listening now, and had begun eating heartily. Illion and Nero were filling their tankards from the keg of ale, and Prometheus had begun singing a waterdhavian tavern drinking song.
The four companions ate and drank heartily, and found themselves feeling refreshed and reinvigorated. They began to explore the dark passages adjacent to the chamber of the great dragon sarcophagus.
Presently, they stumbled into a chamber full of human-sized sarcophagi, decorated with illustrations of reptilian creatures adorned in magnificent robes and ceremonial regalia.
Randalf and Nero knew of the lizardfolk, primitive humanoid lizards who inhabited the fens and bogs of the sword coast, and who were a danger to travellers who ventured too far from the most heavily travelled trade routes. But the lizardfolk of the sword coast were not known to adorn themselves in such elegant finery, nor were they buried in fine sarcophagi in ancient tombs.
“What are these creatures? Who was buried here?”
Recognition dawned in Illion’s mind, as she remembered the books on the history of magic her tutors had assigned her as a young mageling in Waterdeep.
“These must be Sarrukh,” Illion began after a moment of silence. “One of the elder races of Toril. Their greatest empires began over 30,000 years ago, and they were the first race to master arcane magic. They wrote the Nether Scrolls, of which only fragments survive, and which contain some of the deepest secrets of magic we have ever discovered.”
“The Nether scrolls? Didn’t they cause the fall of the Netherese empire 1700 years ago?” Randalf asked, recalling his own schooling in the monastery of Lathander and Ilmater.
“Yes, the empire of Netheril was the first human civilization to master arcane magic,” Illion confirmed, “human mastery of magic was due to Netheril’s discovery of Sarrukh records, which became known as Nether scrolls.” Illion regarded Randalf, who knew from the history books what came next.
“However the hubris of the wizards of Netheril knew no limits. They pushed the boundaries of magic, attempting spells which frightened the gods themselves. The greatest of the mages of Netheril was Karsus, whose insane ambitions knew no limits. Karsus attempted to seize control of the Weave, the source of all magic, from Mystryl, the old Goddess of magic herself.”
Illion regarded the sarcophagi of the Sarrukh before her in reverence. “Karsus was unable to absorb the power of the Weave and was annihilated. Mystryl sacrificed herself to save the fabric of magic, which was nearly destroyed that day. Mystryl’s sacrifice prevented a catastrophe of truly unthinkable proportions. After that day, much of the Netherese knowledge of higher magic was destroyed, and the surviving gods placed safeguards on mortal use of magic, so that nothing similar would ever be tried again.”
Prometheus yawned. “Blah Blah Blah. Save the history lecture for your wizarding thesis! Are we going to open these sarcopha-whatsits or not? Randalf help me get this one open!”
Before Randalf could respond, the party was startled by a faint muffled voice coming from across the room. A hesitant, stuttering voice of a man called out hopefully, muffled, from inside one of the sarcophagi.
“He-hewo? Who-who is there? Pwease, don’t be awarmed. I m-mean you no hawm. Pwease come here.”
The four companions exchanged glances silently. “What should we do? Is this some kind of trap?” Nero whispered.
“I don’t know. Give me a minute to cast some divination spells.” Illion whispered back, flipping through her spellbook. Illion selected a page from her grimoire, and cast a spell of Detect Magic. She sought to find evidence of another mummy or undead creature, or of any other kind of magic that might be found in the sarcophagus.
No undead presence revealed itself to Illion, but from within the sarcophagus there radiated the telltale signal of an item enchanted with powerful magic.
“Nothing undead in this room, but there’s something powerful in that sarcophagus. Get it open, but be wary of traps and be ready for anything,” the magic user whispered.
Nero and Randalf looked at Illion, then at each other, and approached the sarcophagus carefully, examining the room around it for evidence of boobytraps. When all seemed safe, they heaved and lifted the lid from the sarcophagus, and set it aside. Within the sarcophagus lay a human skeleton, the skull of which was conspicuously absent. Alongside the distinctly human remains lay a gold-hilted bejeweled dagger, whose polished blade twinkled in the torchlit room.
“At wast! Thank you for twusting me.” said the voice, sounding grateful and kindly.
The four companions regarded each other blankly, then regarded the contents of the sarcophagus.
“What are you? Who is speaking?” probed Illion.
“My name is Ewedor. E-R-E-D-O-R. I have a wittle speech impediment. I used to be a human mage, but my mind came to be sealed within this enchanted dagger. Pwease, you must tell, what year is it now? I have been twapped in this sarcophagus for a vewy, vewy long time.”
“It is the year 1372 in the dale reckoning.” Illion replied, before adding, “...1711 years since the fall of Netheril. Exactly how long have you been in this sarcophagus?”
“1372 DR! Thank the Gods! Then not all is lost! There is still time!” The dagger exclaimed excitedly.
“In twuth, I have wittle idea how wong I have wain in the sarcophagus. I used the wemains of my magical powers to hibernate through the wong years and millennia until such a time when someone entered and discovered me here. I know only the year in which the Time Travel spell was cast. I have come from the future, from the year 1400 DR.”
Illion’s eyes widened, stupefied. “Time Travel? How? Such a thing is not possible. Not in our time, at least. Explain yourself!”
“Vewy well.” said the enchanted dagger. “I shall explain evewything. I was born in the year 1350 DR, in the library fortwess of Candlekeep. I spent my caweer as a scholar studying the history of awcane magic and ancient forgotten wanguages and wore.”
“Then one day, in 1385 DR, something happened which no one had foreseen, which changed evewything.
“A disaster called The Storm of Blue Fire swept across Faerun. Magic surged, then failed. Tens or hundreds of thousands of magic users were driven insane or killed. The kingdom of Halruaa was completely destroyed. The entire land of Faerun was plunged into chaos and dawkness. We called it the wailing years. In fact, the entire planet of Toril was affected.
“Eventually, it became clear to us, the survivors, what had happened. Cyric, the god of madness, chaos, and strife had killed Mystra, the benevolent goddess of magic.”
Cyric. Illion grit her teeth at the mention of the name, which reignited pain and grief from deep inside her. Cyric: the madman, the psychopath, the villain who had cheated his way to becoming a god, who had killed her own mother, Leira, when Illion had been just a little girl.
Illion fought the urge to curse Cyric’s name then and there, but she bit her tongue. She would tell no one who she was, what Cyric had done to her and her mother. But she made a silent vow: Cyric would pay. Illion’s companions regarded her, sensing her distress, but she said nothing, and looked away.
The sword continued its tale. “Magic weturned to the world, but it was changed, no wonger was it weliable. As a scholar of the awcane, I twied to uncover the twuth of what happened. Magic had come close to failing twice before in recorded history. First was during Karsus’s Folly, 1700 years ago, in the fall of Netheril. The second time was just over a decade ago, in 1358 DR, in the time of troubles, when Ao the overgod relegated all of the deities to walk Faerun as mortals.
Nero had not yet been born, and had no memory of the time. Randalf had been a teenager, shielded from the chaos enveloping Faerun by the walls of the Monastery. But he could clearly recall when Ilmater, the broken god, had appeared physically before the gates of the monastery.
Prometheus was paying attention, just, because the novelty of the talking magic dagger intrigued him. He had no memory of the time of troubles, because, like Nero, he had counted only a few summers of life.
Illion had been only six years old when she and her mother had been ripped from their courts of illusion on Limbo, and forced to walk the mortal world, where the name of Leira was deeply mistrusted.
“On both occasions, the reigning goddess of magic was killed, and was weplaced. But in neither case was there a catastrophe of the magnitude of the Storm of Blue Fire, or the Spellplague that followed. I was unable to determine for certain the cause of the Spellplague, but I theorized that it was due to Cyric’s own dark insanity which had infected the world, causing chaos on an unprecedented scale.
“Then one day a wizard named Valdwin approached me in Candlekeep. He was one of the few wizards of power who had managed to survive the Spellplague, and what was more, he had somehow acquired new undeciphered fwagments of the nether scrolls. He wanted to work with me, to twanslate the fwagments. He believed they contained secrets to wost and forgotten aspects of ancient Sarrukh magic. These fwagments of the scrolls had resisted all attempts at decipherment. But together Valdwin and I were able to reveal some of their secrets.”
“The Sarrukh fwagments contained a tweatise on the art of Chronomancy, or time travel magic. This had been known to high mages of Netheril, apparently, but had been lost since Karsus’s Folly. But there was more. The oldest Sarrukh fragments made mention of an ancient artifact. Ordinary time travel, it was said, could not alter the path of fate itself. But there was an artifact, hidden away in a tomb constructed by a conspiracy of Sarrukh and dragons, which contained the power to alter destiny. The Dark Chest of Wonders.”
“Valdwin and I searched for the chest. We uncovered its last known location, on the cliffs of cape dragonfang. Alas, the tomb where the chest was buried had vanished in the chaos of the Storm of Blue Fire, and all traces of the Dark Chest of Wonders had disappeared in the wailing years of darkness of the Spellplague.”
“Magic had become chaotic, dangerous, unpwedictable. Valdwin believed that the art of time twavel, not practiced since the time of Netheril, might be possible again in this new era.”
“...We worked together for years, Valdwin and I, until finally, in 1400 DR we had pieced together a Time Travel spell that could transport us to the past. Valdwin’s plan was for us to go back in time before the spellplague, to the time when the Dark Chest of Wonders was still present in Faerun. Then we would acquire the chest, and use its power to change destiny, to prevent the spellplague from ever happening.”
“I didn’t know what to believe. It seemed to be too far-fetched. It introduced logical paradoxes, impossibilities. We would be tampering with the structure of weality itself. It was too dangerous.”
“That’s when Valdwin betwayed me. With the time travel spell complete, he didn’t need me anymore. He revealed himself to be the dark necromancer Valthrax. He just needed to destroy me, the only other person in the world who had knowledge of the time travel magic.”
“I was powerless to stop him. I was a scholar, not a battlemage. However, before Valthrax wiped me from existence I was able to enact a spell to transfer my mind, my consciousness into an enchanted dagger which Valthrax kept in his possession. It was the only shot I had for survival, to find a way to stop him. Sure enough, Valthrax kept the dagger in his possession, not realizing it now contained the remnants of my mind and personality.”
“Valthrax did the truly unthinkable, he successfully cast the time travel spell, transporting himself back in time, inserting himself into the past of the Dark Chest of Wonders. However, magic had become unreliable, and time travel was the most audacious use of magic that could be imagined. There was some kind of glitch in the timeline. Time itself became corrupted somehow. Valthrax emerged from the spell, not in the recent past of Faerun, but in the ancient past of the Dark Chest of Wonders, and not as a living human wizard, but as a lich, entombed in this very sarcophagus.”
Illion examined the human remains of the sarcophagus. “A demilich then.”
“Indeed, Valthrax is now no more than a reanimated skull, a demilich, bearing terrifying magical powers. He has used his powers of astral travel to teleport, escaping the sarcophagus, seeking the vault below.”
“However I can sense that the power of the Mythal which binds this place is still intact. Even Valthrax’s dark powers have not been able to unseal the vault which contains the Dark Chest of Wonders. He wanders this place still, no doubt driven mad by the passing of millennia.”
“Pwease, listen to me. If the four of you had the power to enter this pwace, then you must face the trials of this tomb, you must unseal the vault below, and you must face Valthrax. You must not allow Valthrax to steal your souls, or allow him to gain access to the Dark Chest of Wonders. If you take me with you, I can perhaps aid you in this struggle.”
The four companions went on for some time discussing these new revelations with Eredor, the sentient dagger and former scholar of Candlekeep. It was clear that before them now was a quest that represented not only a chance at personal glory and adventure, but a monumental labour which could alter the course of history.
*Dark Chest of Wonders there awaits*
*Heroes drawn by Eldritch Fates*
For Randalf and Nero, the imperative of averting the terrifying prophecy of Spellplague overruled all other concerns. For Illion, the prospect of avenging her mother’s murder was an opportunity she had never dared to believe she would have. But for Prometheus, who was driven above all by curiosity, the overriding motivation was still the question which burned within him. Just what was inside the Dark Chest of Wonders? |
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
