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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
7 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
7 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
7 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
7 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
7 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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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
7 Posts |
Posted - 09 Mar 2026 : 04:46:36
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
Chapter 6: The Night Serpent
The Tomb of Asgorath at Cape Dragonfang
Eastern Faerûn
19 Mirtul 1372 DR, The Year of Wild Magic
Randalf Dion, warrior and former monk of Lathander and follower of Ilmater, held the golden hilted dagger, examining its workmanship, its balance, and more importantly, its aura.
Randalf felt the energy within the magical dagger vibrate against his Ki, the spiritual power he had honed as a monk. He could sense that within the enchanted talking dagger resided a benevolent soul, not unlike his own.
Eredor, in life, had been a human scholar devoted to the arcane and the mystical. But he had lived a gentle life, always seeking understanding and enlightenment, but never power for personal gain, and he had never used magic in anger, for any destructive purpose.
A pacifist, Eredor had eschewed all forms of destructive magic, and sought to resolve all conflicts peacefully.
Ironic then, that he was now embodied as an enchanted dagger, a tool of violence. Randalf could sense that the dagger never wanted to be used in a fight, unless there was truly no other choice.
“This pwace, this tomb, was constructed by a coalition of followers of Asgorath, the primordial progenitor of dwagons. This coalition consisted of Sarrukh clerics and wizards, the first masters of awcane magic in Faerun, and of dwagons, who were united with the Sarrukh in their devotion to Asgorath.”
“To secure the tomb against all thweats, to protect the Dark Chest of Wonders, a powerful witual was enacted. Powerful dwagons, devoted to Asgorath, willingly sacrificed themselves. Binding their souls to secure the vault below, they were entombed here in giant sarcophagi, their spirits welded to this place, to power the Mythal, ensuring that none but Asgorath’s appointed champions could gain access to the vault containing the chest.”
“But the lich’s time travel spell has changed things,” Randalf guessed
“Exactly. The spellplague changed the structure of magic, it injected chaos into the structure of weality. Valthrax’s time travel spell placed him here, within the walls of the tomb, bweaching Asgorath’s first layer of defense. For now, the vault remains sealed, but your pwesence here changes everything. You were meant to open the vault. If Valthrax gains power over your souls…I fear the worst.”
“Do you know anything about an Aboleth here, within the tomb?” Randalf questioned the magical weapon.
“An aboleth? Here in the tomb? Not at all. The aboleths are a race more ancient than mortals can weckon. They despise the gods, and were likewise despised by Asgorath and his followers.”
The dagger’s voice darkened, suddenly sounding worried. “Did you encounter an Aboleth in your journey here?”
“Not as such. But our journey here was…peculiar. And we received a note, not long before we found your sarcophagus, which was signed only with the initial W. It said, ‘Beware the aboleth, it is not trustworthy.’ ”
“That does sound concerning.” the dagger remarked.
Randalf regarded Illion’s painted visage, adorned in the style of a melancholy clown or royal court jester, wondering and doubting if he could trust the young mageling.
Randalf sensed from her not cruelty, not malice, not wickedness, but only a love for chaos, irreverence, and capriciousness. And something else. Was it madness?
As a former monk and follower of Lathander and Ilmater, Randalf vowed to steer this group onto a righteous path, away from chaos and disorder, for how else could the catastrophe of Cyric’s spellplague be averted? Nero had a good spirit but was too young and naive to lead. And Prometheus, as an accident of wild magic, seemed to possess no intrinsic tendency other than his irrepressible love for novelty and the unknown.
Just then the group of four companions, venturing carefully down an ancient stone corridor, came upon a great doorway, beyond which lay a vast, dimly lit chamber.
“What’s in here? Gotta be some good treasure in this room!” cried Prometheus excitedly.
“Let’s enter quietly, maybe we can avoid another fight” Randalf suggested.
The four companions entered the dusty chamber. Dominating the center of the chamber was another draconic sarcophagus, perhaps 60 feet in length, but unlike the first chamber they had entered, this sarcophagus was intact. Silence filled the room. Nothing stirred, other than the four companions' own heartbeats.
Slowly, they crept around the burial chamber, the final resting place of a dragon who gave up its afterlife to protect Asgorath’s secret. Positioned around the sarcophagus were four statues.
Randalf recognized the forms of the statues - they were elementals, beings representing the four primordial elements which composed reality. A living flame, a furious vortex of wind, a crystalline denizen of the deep earth, and a raging ocean wave, all frozen in time. Motionless, dead to the world, the four elementals stood silently before the heroes. Were they mere ornaments, sculptures adorning the grand sarcophagus chamber, or primordial entities waiting to be reawakened?
“What’s with these guys? Are they real?” Prometheus darted through the air, and although Nero called out in protest, Prometheus landed perching atop the Fire elemental statue, prodding it with his beak.
“Seems fake.” Prometheus concluded. “This room is boring.”
There was silence. Prometheus flipped down off the elemental and hopped around on the dusty stone floor.
Time passed.
Illion examined the walls of the chamber. The walls were covered in mosaics, murals depicting an ancient scene, but the details were obscured by a layer of dust.
After careful examination, Illion found another stone stele, with an ancient draconic runic inscription carved into the stone.
Heroes seeking the vault below
Are tested here by guardians
bound by Asgorath’s will
If thou art Asgorath’s champion,
Claim to be so, and be tested
Prove here your mighty will
And resolve of steel
Illion translated the inscription, reading it aloud to her companions.
“So this room is built as a testing chamber, we just have to claim to be Asgorath’s champions, seeking the vault.” Nero summarized.
“That seems to be the situation. Are we ready to be tested?”
“I’m going to get huge again,” Prometheus stated simply. He began to grow again, rapidly expanding from the size of a normal raven to the seven foot tall monstrosity the others had seen before.
“I suppose we will have to fight the elementals. What is our plan? How will we defeat them?” Nero asked their companions.
“Wait a minute. Illion, did the inscription say anything about fighting?”
Illion furrowed her eyebrows in thought. “I don’t think so.”
She examined the runes carved into the stone surface critically. “It says the guardians will test us. This a draconic verb root meaning to prove value, or worthiness. It then says we must prove our ‘mighty will’ and ‘resolve of steel’; those things could mean a test of combat, but nowhere does it imply combat explicitly.
Randalf looked sternly at his companions "Then let us talk to the elementals. We only fight back if we are attacked, and use the minimum amount of force. Perhaps we can prove our strength of will and resolve without defeating them in battle.”
Nero’s eyes widened. “Illion, didn’t it say the guardians are bound by Asgorath’s will? Could it be that the elementals are bound by a spell and could be released?”
“Indeed. Could be a geas spell.” Illion looked at Nero approvingly. “Let’s talk to them and find out.”
The four companions readied themselves. Illion muttered a few magic words and suddenly several identical images of Illion appeared in a circle around the young mageling.
“Decoys. It’s a spell of *mirror image*” Illion stated. “It should confuse them if we are attacked.”
“I will do the honours for us.” Randalf looked at his companion to assess their readiness. Then Randalf raised his voice and addressed the guardian statues of the chamber.
“We are the four companions: Randalf, Nero, Illion, and Prometheus. We are the champions of Asgorath, sent here to reach the vault and open The Dark Chest of Wonders. We are ready to be tested. We have great strength of will and resolve of steel.”
There was a strange humming noise. Then the four elemental guardians began to stir, and spring into life. The fire elemental burned and began giving off tremendous heat. Tiny bolts of lightning crackled around the air elemental. The water elemental was a furiously swirling whirlpool, and the Earth elemental was a towering irregular form of extremely hard rock and softer dirt, which twisted to and fro as it seemed to examine the four companions.
The fire elemental made some unearthly noises, not recognizable as any kind of speech the companions knew. Then the air elemental summoned a crackling bolt of electricity and just as it hurled it towards Randalf the monk dropped to the ground and rolled with incredible quickness.
“Illion, talk to them!” Randalf cried, rolling nimbly onto his feet.
The magic user looked at the fire elemental. It seemed to have been trying to communicate. But not in any language she understood.
She waved her hands and quickly cast a minor divination spell. It would give her some idea what the fire elemental was communicating. Then the mageling shouted at the fire elemental in the tomb’s ancient draconic dialect. She wasn’t sure if the elementals would understand draconic at all but it was worth a try.
“We do not wish to fight!” Illion shouted in the ancient tongue. Her magical decoys shouted with her in unison. “By what manner of power are you bound?”
The fire elemental stopped advancing for a moment and seemed to regard the circle of decoys. Then it made some unearthly sounds, as if a roaring campfire was trying to talk and form words.
The fire elemental’s meaning revealed itself in Illion’s mind as the divination spell enacted its enchantment “No wish to fight. Bound by the spell of the wizards of Asgorath. Your wills must be tested. It is the decree of Asgorath.” Then the fire elemental hurled a ball of searing flame. It streaked through the air and collided with one of Illion’s decoys, which was instantly snuffed out.
“Yep! it’s some kind of geas. I’m going to attempt a break enchantment spell, cover me! This will take a minute.” The mageling frantically opened her spellbook and began chanting magic words, and the magical decoys followed suit in unison.
The earth elemental reached out with a great irregularly shaped arm and swatted at Prometheus. The massive Raven belched fire and was knocked head over heels landing on the cold stone, stunned.
The Water Elemental began swirling towards the players menacingly, and Nero dove out of its path nimbly.
The fire elemental launched another globe of searing flame at the remaining chanting images of Illion and another decoy image was erased.
Nero shouted a magic word in the language of the Tabaxi of Maztica and a thick fog formed in the air around the heroes. “Move Illion! They won’t see you in the fog!”
The air elemental, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden fog, launched another lightning bolt. This one struck true, hitting Randalf in the chest and stunning him. The follower of Ilmater grunted and fought against the pain.
Illion, chanting frantically in the eldritch tongue of mages, could barely see her spellbook in the fog. She began to move evasively, as Nero had instructed, ducking and weaving through as best she could while continuing to chant. Two of her companions seemed to have been hit, leaving only herself and Nero unharmed. The break enchantment spell was now the only thing that would save them, she did not have the spells to defeat four elementals on her own or even with the help of the Tabaxi.
The water elemental whirled, a raging whirlpool out of control. Nero had to slow it down, to buy more time. The Tabaxi uttered a prayer and summoned their peculiar elemental magic. Channeling freezing ice energy, the Tabaxi cast an enchantment at the water elemental, chilling it. The water elemental began to slow down, whirling more slowly and predictably.
The Air elemental, crackling its way through the fog, hurled another lightning bolt. Another of Illion’s decoy images winked out of existence. Only a single image remained. The mageling was vulnerable, the air elemental could strike her now in mere seconds.
Randalf, the former monk, summoned his Ki energy trained by long years of meditation in the Monastery. He willed himself to rise to his feet. He had to occupy that air elemental, buying Illion a few more seconds. The warrior rose and dove towards the air elemental, becoming swept up in its vortex. The monk focused his spiritual energy, anchoring himself to the elemental spirit of air. Bolts of electricity crackled, tormenting the former Monk, but still Randalf persisted. As a follower of Ilmater he welcomed pain, and focused his resolve at the task of slowing and occupying the elemental.
The earth elemental was a slow, lumbering colossus. It stumbled through the fog blindly. It missed the ducking, weaving form of Illion hidden in the fog’s obscurity. But the final magical decoy Illion had summoned ventured too close to the spirit of Earth, and was snuffed out by a blow from its stony appendage.
The Fire elemental seemed to orient itself within the confusing fog. It sensed the presence of the young mageling nearby. It didn’t want to strike Illion, in fact it sensed that the young spellcaster was going to help it. But the magic enchantment which had been enacted on it and his fellows compelled it. It readied another blast of fiery energy.
The fire elemental’s searing blast lobbed through the air, Illion stood frozen in concentration as she struggled to complete the spell. The mageling was helpless knowing she was about to be incinerated.
As the fiery blast streaked towards her, suddenly Prometheus dove towards her and extended his long feathered wing. Prometheus blocked the fiery blast, setting his feathers ablaze. “Hot! Very Hot!” Cried Prometheus. The bird began beating his wings, extinguishing the flames.
That’s it
Illion finished the final magic word of her encantation. She summoned every bit of magical energy in her body. “Elementals! You are released from the power that compels you!” she yelled.
Her magical dweomer struggled against the power of the ancient enchantment enacted upon the elementals.
Suddenly, the elementals stopped in their tracks. They seemed to assess one another, and then turned to the players. Illion’s spell had triumphed.
The fire elemental spoke again, in its crackling campfire voice.
“You have proven yourselves resourceful, truly you have resolve of steel. We are released from the power that binds. We thank you.” The fire elemental turned to its fellows.
“We are in your debt, magic user. We will assist you if we can. The test is completed.”
Randalf was released, deposited by the air elemental on the cold stone floor. The warrior groaned.
“Is it over? Did we win?”
“I think we did it!” The Tabaxi cried triumphantly. “Illion what are they saying?”
Illion confirmed what the fire elemental had said.
“I just need…a few minutes” Prometheus panted. He began to shrink down to his regular Raven form, then plopped down on the floor, exhausted.
All was quiet in the chamber. Presently, Illion sensed a ghostly presence in the room. Much like the spirit she had sensed before, after the party had defeated the dragon mummy.
“There’s a spirit here. Another dragon ghost. A dragon that was sacrificed to seal this place.” Illion said quietly.
The dragon spirit coalesced before the four heroes. A black and white ghostly apparition, it floated solemnly and mournfully in the quiet of the chamber.
“You have passed the first test” the dragon spirit said, in the common tongue.
“You speak Common!” Nero said excitedly.
“I have been listening to you. Such is the magic of this place, I have learned your tongue. I am now permitted to speak to you in this place. Listen well to my words. I speak of what happened long ago, the history of the world that was lost in the Days of Thunder.”
Then the dragon spirit began to sing in a faint, mournful draconic voice.
In ancient times, the gods were young
No mortal yet enjoyed the sun.
The world was still, empty, and blue
But among the stars a power grew
Who slithered forth to swallow the Sun,
Who rose from timeless oblivion,
Defeated once by Asgorath’s might
Yet bound to rise again in night.
Asgorath: he stood alone
Within the serpent’s starry home
The serpent fell, but at great cost
Asgorath diminished, his greatness lost
Now sealed by Ao’s mighty hand
The Serpent waits in a shadowy land
As Ao made the sun anew,
Asgorath saw the future true
When Stars Align and Darkness calls,
The serpent stirs within its halls.
To Swallow Worlds in endless shade,
A prophecy of doom is made.
Who Slithered forth to swallow the Sun?
Who rose from timeless Oblivion?
Defeated once by Asgorath’s might
Yet bound to rise again in night
Name the Serpent that rules the night
Defeated by Asgorath in ancient fight
The spirit’s song ended, and silence filled the room once more.
The four heroes regarded each other.
“This also was never covered in my history books” Illion remarked.
Prometheus and Nero looked at each other blankly. “Don’t look at me. I’m only three years old! And I don’t even know how to read!” Prometheus cried.
“Eredor are you there?” You are the scholar here. What do you know of such a serpent; that swallowed the sun in ancient days?”
The jewelled dagger twinkled in Randalf’s hand. “There are old stories, of the time before the Sarrukh, before any civilization. The time of the Gods, more than 30,000 years ago. Some Sarrukh fragments indeed speak of a serpent swallowing the sun. But the name of such a serpent is lost, or at least not known to me.”
Randalf lowered the dagger. “I believe I know its name,” Randalf said in a low voice.
“What? You do? How?” Eredor’s voice queried skeptically.
Randalf closed his eyes solemnly “When I was little my grandmother spoke of a Serpent that fed on the nightmares of children. That serpent’s body was imprisoned long ago, she said. But its mind ruled the astral realm, the realm of dreams. The more nightmares it consumed, the more powerful it became.”
The warrior opened his eyes and regarded his companions. “She called it Dendar the Night Serpent,” the warrior said. “I believed it was just an old fairy tale.”
“It *is* just an old tale designed to scare children.” Eredor said. “Or at least I thought it was. Could it be that Dendar the Night Serpent and the serpent referred to in ancient Sarrukh fragment are one and the same?”
“It must be. I can feel it in my bones.” said the monk. Randalf looked up at the Dragon spirit.
“The name of the Serpent is Dendar. That is my answer.” Randalf said calmly.
“Your answer is correct. You have passed my test.” The dragon spirit said soothingly.
“Two more chambers of trials await you. Pass their trials as you have passed this one, and you shall unseal the vault. I am permitted to say no more. Take this token as reward for freeing my spirit.”
The dragon spirit summoned a golden figurine of a lion, which floated down and presented itself before Randalf’s feet. Randalf picked up the small golden statuette and examined it, its lustrous golden body shimmered in the gloom of the chamber.
“Speak the name Shazam to summon the warrior within,” said the Spirit, already fading away.
“Wait we have more questions!” Nero cried.
But the spirit was gone. |
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Whiskers the Bard
Acolyte
7 Posts |
Posted - 09 Mar 2026 : 04:56:23
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
Chapter 7: The Spectators
The Tomb of Asgorath at Cape Dragonfang
Eastern Faerun
19 Mirtul 1372 DR, The Year of Wild Magic
The undead necromancer Valthrax saw that the hour of his victory was near.
Over long centuries he had cultivated knowledge to further his pursuit of arcane power. While other great liches such as Szass Tam or the dracolich Daurgothoth busied themselves with cults, earthly followers and political power, Valthrax had devoted himself to studying the planes and the nature of reality itself. The meaningless lives of men and insects did not concern Valthrax in the slightest.
While the legendary lich Vecna had, in a world adjacent to this one, found the path to ascend to divinity and become a god of undeath, in Valthrax’s view the great archlich was still beholden to the divine cosmic order, subject to the greater deities and the Overgod above them. No, Valthrax was more ambitious still. He sought the source of the gods’ power, and what lay beyond it.
The material plane, Valthrax had discovered, held countless secrets which mortal scholars had neglected for millennia. The laws of gravity, space and even time had been revealed to him.
In astral form, he had trod upon the slowly dying stars themselves, which mortals believed to be imperishable.
And valthrax had discovered and gazed into unfathomable regions of all-consuming blackness from which not even light itself could escape.
Even further beyond the stars Valthrax had ventured, and had communed with the eldest of wanderers amidst the inky blackness.
Across dimensions yet unknown he had projected his conscious mind; and eventually, Valthrax had uncovered the secrets of the crystal spheres. Here was the limit of the domain of Ao, the Overgod. Beyond the Crystal Sphere was another material reality, over which Ao had no influence.
And in the incomprehensible realm between the Spheres, Valthrax had uncovered the most secret of secrets.
It was here that Asgorath, progenitor of the dragons, most primordial of the gods, former rival of Ao, had discovered an artifact that predated material reality itself:
The Dark Chest of Wonders.
If there was a way to truly escape the dominion of the gods, to change fate itself, Valthrax was certain it would be found within the Chest.
Asgorath had hid it here, on Faerun, obscuring it from the gods themselves. But it was sealed by the eldest of magic and remained just beyond Valthrax’s grasp. And in 1385 DR it had been lost forever, taken away by the cataclysm of the Spellplague which had nearly destroyed Valthrax himself.
But if causality could be amended? If history itself could be modified? Perhaps Valthrax could place himself into the trajectory of the chest’s fate.
The structure of time itself had been laid bare, but the question of how to manipulate it had remained.
To this end, the cooperation of the mortal scholar Eredor of Candlekeep had been most expedient. Eredor’s familiarity with the Nether Scrolls of the Sarrukh had enabled Valthrax to restore the lost art of chronomancy, the power to create loops in time itself, to reach back into the past.
And so the forbidden path was opened in time itself. The human fool Eredor had been all too eager to assist, and was easily disposed of.
Now, the magical seals of the tomb had permitted some foolish adventurers to enter.
The seals which protected the vault containing the chest would open for these hapless mortals.
Then Valthrax would make his decisive move.
The Dark Chest of Wonders would be his.
He would not be denied.
***
Prometheus roused himself. It was his turn to be on watch, and he wouldn’t be the one to let his friends down.
Prometheus was very proud to be a full fledged member of an adventuring party. When he had been a small raven chick he had always assumed he would become a wizard’s familiar, carrying out his master’s magical bidding as best as he was able.
But since the wild magic accident, he had had the ambition to become something more, an adventurer in his own right. He had frequented the Yawning Portal Inn in Waterdeep, looking for an adventuring party to recruit him. He had been laughed at, treated as a curiosity. Adventurers treated him as a pet, not as an equal partner. Prometheus didn’t want to be anyone’s mascot, he wanted an equal share of fame, glory, and respect.
Prometheus didn’t have much use for riches or magical items. He didn’t wear clothes or eat expensive food. He didn’t care for magical items or gold.
But Prometheus wanted to see the wonders of the realms and gain fame and respect as an adventurer. Like Drizzt Do’Urden. Drizzt Do’Urden was a dark elf. He was scary, a freak. Kind of like Prometheus. But Drizzt’s name was respected all across the sword coast. One day, Prometheus vowed that his name would be just as famous as that of the rogue Dark Elf ranger of Icewind Dale.
Suddenly, Prometheus was startled from his ruminations by the appearance of three globular tentacled monstrosities. Prometheus had heard of such creatures from illustrations in books and stories told to him by mages in Blackstaff Academy in Waterdeep. Hideous, bulbous aberrations, with whirling eye-stalks and ominous central eyes which conjured powerful enchantments and spelled certain death for lesser adventurers. Beholders, feared by all adventurers, and certain doom for those without resistance to magic or powerful spells of their own.
Prometheus cried out desperately. “Hey! Wake Up! Beholders! Stand back and don’t come closer! I’ll claw your eyes out! It’s time to get huge! Wake up guys!”
Prometheus’ cries echoed off the stone walls of the dragon burial chamber. Randolf was awake instantly, rolling to his feet, ready to confront the new threat.
Nero shook their head, trying to reach wakefulness, not fully comprehending the source of the danger, they grabbed their shortbow and focused on notching a charged lightning arrow.
Illion gripped the golden lion statue in her sleepy hands. The spirit dragon had said “Speak the name Shazam to summon the warrior within.” Beholders? Now was the time to see what this statue could do. She stammered the strange command word, and as the statue began to glow brightly, a huge lion standing six feet at the shoulder and nearly ten feet in length, and clad in a suit of iron plate armor appeared on the floor in front of the party, and let out a massive, deep, regal growl. Illion’s eyes widened. This great beast could be the difference between victory and death.
Prometheus was heartened by the sudden appearance of the lion warrior. He was growing rapidly towards his full seven foot height, and he prepared himself to belch fire at the intruding beholders. But an unfamiliar gravelly but pleasant voice called out across the chamber and gave him pause.
“Easy now Birdo. You’re in danger, but not from us. We come to warn you of what’s coming.”
***
Earlier
Three spectator Beholders bobbed gently up and down in the dimly lit chamber of Asgorath’s tomb. Their bodies were naturally buoyant green and brown globular blobs. Each was equipped with four fleshy eyestalks–prehensile muscular hydrostats–which turned in every direction and bore their peripheral eyes, while each possessed a primary eye sitting at the center of its bulbous body, which was too large to move or turn on its own. Anchored in place, the central eye of the leader of the three beholders stared straight ahead at the four sleeping adventurers.
Native to the orderly extraplanar realm of Mechanus, spectator beholders were born to practice and defend cosmic law. These spectator beholders had been hired to do what spectator beholders did best. Watch, report, and defend, according to a strictly negotiated contract, while upholding their strict professional code of conduct.
The contract was put in motion by the builders of the tomb of Asgorath long ago, who acquired the service of Mechanus’ beholders to guard the tomb’s treasure until such time when the rightful inheritors of the treasure–Asgorath’s chosen champions–passed the trials and claimed their rightful reward. Each group of beholders served a rotational shift of 100 years, at which time they were relieved by a new group.
This particular group of beholders were very old, and as they had served together on many contracts across the planes they had become more and more eccentric. Lately, they had begun to document and chronicle their experiences and the beings they encountered in their own peculiar and increasingly eccentric manner.
“Smooth, very smooth.” The leader of the beholders licked his lips. Upon the top of his body, above his central eye and between two eyestalks was a simple brown felt hat. It was unusual for a spectator beholder to wear any form of clothing, but the hat reflected the admiration this particular beholder had for the humanoid races he had spent so long observing.
The way these heroes had moved in their recent battle against the elementals, the way their jointed legs scurried around and how their vertebrated spines tilted and flexed amused him. “Yes, these flanged vertebrates, the clown, the cat, the birdo, and the man will be the source for song and story–campfire tales and epic operas performed across the planes–they’ve got that whatcha’ma-call-it, that special sauce, that mysterious aura.”
“I don’t like the look of ‘em.” said the second beholder “Look how they stumble around on those rickety legs, not too bulbous neither.” This second spectator was smaller, and lacked a hat or other adornment. Its body was brown, tanned and leathery like an expensive bag.
“You don’t like anything with vertebrae, Drumbo,” said the first beholder. “These ones are different. They zig and zag with a purpose. They have special things to do.”
“You really think they will open the box, my captain?” a third Beholder floated forward. Its central eyelid was adorned with sparkling paint and was framed by thick black eyelashes. “If we are nice to them, they might let us see what’s inside.”
“The Mascara Snake! Have you forgotten your contract already?” cried Drumbo. “We are hired to guard the box, no exceptions. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
The leader of the beholders frowned. “A contract doesn't mean nothing until somebody reads it and negotiates what it means.”
“These cats follow the rules. They complete the trials. They’re gonna open the box, yes ma’am, they surely will. We survey, we observe, we’re spectator beholders. We make sure there’s no funny business.”
“But we’ve got another reason for being here. We’re bards - we record the sweet, sweet deeds of the ants and the men and the bees. And the Ant-Man-Bee, and the Wild Man, and his wild life. Everyone will know Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band, and the stories we record. But that’s later. Now we’re here, and here’s now. These cats are gonna make us famous. With their human expressions, their dress, their duress, their gumption, and their childlike wonder. They are the Party of Special Things to Do and we are their chroniclers. And they are in danger, Drumbo.”
“You mean Skullboy? You think we should warn them?” said the Mascara Snake.
Captain Beefheart nodded his entire body. “Yes Ma’am, our duty is to protect the tomb. Right now that means we protect it against Skullboy. These vertebrates need to be warned. I reckon it’s time we introduced ourselves. Otherwise these cats will never leave the tomb alive, and the only songs we will ever write about them will be sad and short.”
***
Randalf examined the three beholders that floated before the party. The beholder in the center, sporting a fashionable brown hat, had spoken in a pleasant human voice and made no threatening action toward the party. “You are in danger, but not from us” it had said.
“Speak plainly,” the follower of Ilmater said cautiously, “Who are you, and what danger do you speak of?”
“Why we’re the finest troupe of beholder bards in all the planes.” said the central beholder. He examined the perplexed faces of the adventurers before him, and shook his body slightly to adjust the position of his hat. “I am Captain Beefheart and this is my magic band. To my left is The Mascara Snake, and this one here is Drumbo.”
“Beholder…bards?” Nero looked at the strange group of beholders incredulously. “I thought that all Beholders were simply evil monsters.”
The Mascara Snake floated forward. “We’re not evil. We hail from the plane of Mechanus. On this material plane, all Beholderkin seem to have this fearsome reputation as monsters. But have you ever seen beholders as fabulous and fashionable as us three?”
The adventurers hesitated, and said nothing, still uncertain of the perplexing spectacle facing them.
“We travel the multiverse in search of tales of adventure to record in song.” said Drumbo, the third beholder.
“But we also have our…official duties. For the luxury of traveling the planes, we must serve Mechanus and fulfill its contracts. So you see, we’re here on business. We figured this place was the type of locale to attract adventurers that we could sing about, so we accepted the contract to guard its treasure and uphold its rules.”
Spectators Illion thought to herself, relaxing a little.
“Now I would love to tell you fellows to relax, put away your weapons, and call off that big cat of yours,” said Captain Beefheart.
“But I’m afraid all of you cats are in danger here. There’s a very nasty character here, waiting in the shadows. We call him Skullboy.”
The magical sentient dagger stirred on Randalfs hip.
“Valthrax” said Eredor.
“I don’t know what Skullboy is planning, but I know he’s here for one reason and one reason only. He wants the thing the tomb builders hired us to guard. The thing that’s kept in the vault below. The great big spooky box.”
“The Dark Chest of Wonders.” Randalf muttered.
“I want to see what’s inside!” cried The Mascara Snake. “If Skullboy wins, we’ll never see it. We’ll have to fight him to protect the chest, and I don’t think…”
“We are contractually obliged to defend the chest, but we can’t defeat Skullboy on our own.” said Captain Beefheart, darkly.
“Methinks that Skullboy is waiting for you to pass the trials and open the final seal. He’s tried to open the final door himself and failed. The Mythal is too strong. So he’ll wait in the shadows and when you pass the last trial and open the door to the vault…Blam! he will strike you with the blackest dark magic you’ve ever seen. He’ll steal your souls, I reckon, and he’ll enter the vault and open the chest with your stolen soul power.”
“We’ll accompany you. We can’t help you pass the trials, but if we stick together, when Valthrax shows himself we’ll help you defeat him…” The Mascara Snake closed its adorned central eye. “we’d rather not face him…but it’s in our contract to face anything that’s unauthorized to be in the tomb. As spectators, if we fail to fulfill our contract, it’s all over for us…”
“We’d never live it down. Shamed forever, we’d never get another contract.” Drumbo finished the thought, his voice mournful.
Randalf turned to regard his companions. The four adventurers studied each other quietly.
“We’ve come this far,” Randalf began. “But against this Valthrax…this lich, we risk everything, we risk our very souls.”
Prometheus looked around, and began stomping his taloned feet with anxious excitement. “Illion will protect us with her magic, won’t you Illion? And we have our new lion! And these beholders will back us up! They are so cool, I know we will win with their help.”
Illion frowned. She felt the urge to lie, to say something confident and boastful, but the seriousness of the moment was too powerful. Her gaze turned to the floor. “I…I don’t know. I’m not an archmage…yet. I don’t know if my magic will be able to stand against a powerful lich like Valthrax.”
Nero folded their hands together, their tail swishing behind them thoughtfully. “We were brought here by fate…by destiny. I can feel it. We can’t turn back now. Together we can make a plan to defeat him.”
Randalf closed his eyes thoughtfully. The undead, especially a powerful undead being such as Valthrax, was an affront to the gods. As a servant of Lathander, god of light, it was his duty to stand against such evil, which made a mockery of all living things under the sun. He would not retreat. If this was to be the end, so be it. Whiskers the bard had made arrangements for his young family. He thought of his wife Martha and his three children and wondered, for the first time, if he would ever see them again.
“Let us complete the remaining trials then, and prepare for Valthrax together,” Randalf said finally.
Illion considered her options. Perhaps she could make some sort of deal with this Valthrax, just as she had done with the Aboleth. She would find a way to save her soul, if it came to that, she decided.
“Very well.” Illion tried to look calm and confident. “With all of you together, the beholders backing me up, and Shazam the lion at the front line, the lich won’t know what hit him. Take us to the next trial, then, Captain Beefheart.”
The three beholders began to float down the ancient corridor of the Asgorath’s tomb, leading the party onward. The four adventurers cautiously followed behind, keeping a safe distance, they whispered to each other. Behind them lumbered the huge warrior lion Shazam, which dutifully followed Illion’s commands but did not fully understand why it had been summoned to this realm.
“Do you really trust these beholders?” Nero asked in a hushed tone, their eyes wide with concern.
Illion returned the Tabaxi’s gaze confidently. “They are spectators from the lawful plane of Mechanus,” she whispered back. “Like all creatures of lawful alignment, they enforce laws and contracts to the letter. They could be contracted to test us somehow, so be ready. If they are, it’s all part of the trials this place was designed to set before us, so we have no choice.”
The Tabaxi gulped and sternly regarded the floating bulbous creatures ahead, which were chatting with each other in their strange incomprehensible language. This place had become so strange, and Nero sensed that there were mysterious powers at play that they did not understand.
Finally, the beholders reached the entrance to another draconic burial chamber. “In this room is another freaky dragon ghost, who sacrificed its proper afterlife to defend this tomb.” The strange beholder adjusted its brown hat. “We’ll talk to it, explain the situation with Skullboy. You cats will still have to answer its riddle, but hopefully without any fighting this time.”
The four adventurers looked at each other, uncertain of how to respond.
“Just chill out here, for a minute. Let us smooth things over. Captain Beefheart has some authority here, after all.” The Mascara Snake grinned at the adventurers. It was hopeful that these vertebrates would triumph and let the beholders finally see what they had been guarding within the big Chest.
The four companions waited, as the beholders entered the burial chamber, unsure whether to expect a sudden betrayal or surprise attack. They knew that somewhere in the shadows was the specter of Valthrax, whom the beholders called Skullboy, and that their every move was likely being observed and studied.
Finally the beholders reemerged. Captain Beefheart grinned at them. “All right now. Stretch your bony spines and shake those hips. The dragon wants to talk to you. You can go on in. We’ll stand guard out here.”
***
The burial chamber resembled the others the adventurers had visited, with an enormous draconic sarcophagus at its centre.
This time though, a massive translucent draconic ghost loomed over the sarcophagus, only faintly visible in the torchlit chamber.
“Mortals. You have been summoned to the tomb, as Asgorath’s chosen, but you still must be confirmed to be worthy of the prize that awaits below. You have already passed the first of the trials. But all is not as it should be. The tomb is threatened by a power the builders of this place never foresaw.”
“Would that I could assist you against this new threat. But sadly I am but a spectre, a shade that cannot leave this chamber, until the purpose of this place is fulfilled.”
“You must now heed my words and prove your knowledge of the World that Was so that you may proceed to the final trial and unlock the vault, facing the danger of the interloper that lurks in the shadows. I speak of the time uncounted aeons ago, in the days of thunder, when the world was new, before it was hewn and split. Listen well and study my words.” The dragon then began to recite its poem, in a slow ancient sounding voice.
As The Dawn War raged in Days of Thunder
Asgorath the end foresaw,
DENDAR defeated, and Asgorath weakened
He produced an icy star
Ao’s plan: THE SUNDERING
Asgorath would not obey,
From Asgorath’s tears:
A falling star
Faerûn would be remade.
Asgorath’s final parting gifts
That fateful comet bore,
Eggs there were, to seed the world
But deep within was something more
From the eggs did dragons arise,
And guard the secret final prize;
A Chest of Wonders dark as night:
From beyond the stars it came,
Hidden out of Ao’s sight
Asgorath’s prize it would contain
Opened once by Asgorath,
What did he find within?
The chest awaits its champions true
Entombed in Weretos’ prison.
Name the day, when stars fell,
In ages long forlorn,
The end of Days of Thunder,
when dragons new were born
As the dragon finished its speech, the four adventurers regarded each other uncertainly.
“We stand on the shore of the Sea of Fallen Stars” Randalf began. “The meaning of the name was always obscure, the stuff of folk tales.”
“The poem states that the falling star came from Asgorath’s tears,” said Nero. “But why is Asgorath crying?”
“The stone tablet we found earlier, it said that Asgorath was in conflict with Ao, the overgod,” Illion responded. “It seems they did not agree on the plan for the newly created world. So the tears are Asgorath’s sorrow for the world that could have been. His sorrow and defiance. The poem said that Ao’s plan was “The Sundering” and that Asgorath refused to obey that plan.
Randalf repeated the words of final stanza “Name the day when stars fell, in ages long forlorn…”
Prometheus beat his wings excitedly, “Oh! I know! What is it called when humans are crying tears, because you can’t control your emotions?”
Randalf and Illion looked at the talking bird blankly.
“It’s the day when Asgorath’s tears fell…Tear Fall…the Tearfall! Is that right? Did I get the question right Mr. Dragon.
“Indeed you are correct, wise Raven. The day was indeed known as the Tearfall of Asgorath. It was his final great act of resistance against the will of Ao, who triumphed over him. Take this amulet as a token, and go forth to the final trial and rid this place of the evil that lurks.”
A golden chained amulet appeared before Prometheus and place itself around his avian neck. The bird began dancing about excitedly.
“You guys! I did a thing! I solved a quest! I got treasure! I’m a real adventurer now!” The golden amulet swung to and fro and glittered in the torchlit chamber.
“Good job Prometheus.” said Nero warmly. “I’m not sure…how you figured that out exactly.”
“As we continue to learn, there’s much more to this bird than we first appreciated,” said Illion, smiling in surprise. |
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The Quest for the Dark Chest of Wonders
