A Night at the Moonstone Mask

Fitzhugh Montgomery whispered into Lord Protector Neverember’s ear. Dagult nodded. “Right, right. Before we move things along, we have one final item on our agenda.” “Now then, this was a nasty bit of business,” the Lord Protector said, indicating the collection of warrants strewn across the conference table. “However, you have done a great service to the Lord’s Alliance in this matter, and the Alliance has seen fit to thank you for that service. I’ll let Fitzhugh Montgomery take it from here.”   Fitzhugh cleared his throat. “Cloak Trevelyan, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Redknife.” He turned to Siegfried. “Cloak Thann, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Redknife. I do hope the promotion sticks this time.”   A single tear of evergold rolled down Bob’s cheek.   “I’m sure I can find a way to make myself an eight-time Redknife,” Siegfried said with a smile.   Fitzhugh turned to Alec, who was standing nearby. “Alec Trevelyan, you have acquitted yourself well alongside your companions and have performed a great service for Neverwinter. The Lord’s Alliance is committed to keeping evil at bay and ensure the peace and continued prosperity of civilized Faerun. Will you join us in standing united against the forces that threaten civilization?”   “You had me at keeping evil at bay,” Alec said, his eyes shining with pride.   “Well then,” Fitzhugh Montgomery said. “By the power invested in me by the members of the Alliance, I formally induct you into the ranks of the Lord’s Alliance, Cloak Trevelyan.”   Bob clapped his brother on the shoulder.   Preceptor Theraclast made his way over to Radegast, who was still cradled in her mother’s arms. The Order of the Gauntlet administrator looked ill at ease.   “Now then,” he said. “You have been released into the custody of your mother pending transfer to the Hawk’s Nest.”   Radegast nodded.   “You are free, in a manner of speaking, to attend tonight’s Challenge of the Spheres festivities, but please do not leave Neverwinter without the Order’s authorization. Do I make myself clear, Chevall De’ath?”   Radegast sighed. “Understood.”   Mialee gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.   As Theraclast returned to the conference table, Radegast pulled Varien aside.   “Listen, I’m going back to the library,” Radegast said, handing him her Stormbow. “Aerial bombardment is a good look on you.”   Varien sighed as he hefted the bow. “ Thank you, Radegast, I know this”—he held up the Stormbow—“means a lot. I’ll be sure to wait until I see the whites of their eyes.”   Radegast beamed, tears glittering in her eyes.   “Lovely, lovely,” Neverember said distractedly. He was staring across the room at Mialee. The Lord Protector held out his arm, and Mialee detached herself from Radegast’s embrace and drifted over to join him.   “Now then, I will see you all at the Challenge of the Spheres! Don’t tarry too long or you’ll miss out on an evening’s excitement!” Dagult boomed. With that, the Lord Protector and his escort left, followed by General Sabine and Zephyris Brightmantle.   Radegast went through her pockets, looking to divest herself of any other gear that might be useful to her companions before her exile went into effect. She handed Siegfried an Elven silvered shortsword, the Orcish bone flute and a set of thieves’ tools.   “I think you’ll find use for these,” she said.   Siegfried accepted the gifts with thanks, his attention focused on the Orcish flute.   “Interesting,” he murmured, tracing the length of the instrument with one finger.   Erwen examined his druidic totem. The egg-like shell of the ovoid soil bulb was cracked and split, and a thorny stemmed plant had grown out of it, pricking his side in the process. Erwen identified the plant as a thorn-mint, and took note of the white, fleshy fruit that seemed to ripen before his eyes.   He felt a sudden compulsion to consume the fruit.   He plucked one of the fruits from the plant and bit into it. He tasted a minty coolness that quickly spread from his mouth to the rest of his body.   Suddenly he felt rooted in place.   Uh oh , he thought. Looking down, he saw the hair on the tops of his feet growing like the roots of a tree into the wooden floor of the Hall of Justice.   His eyes widened as he began to be pulled down into the root system.   Varien frowned at Erwen, who had gone quiet and stood ramrod-straight near the conference table.   “Erwen, are you okay?”   Erwen turned to look at him, his pupils wide and dark like the mouth of a wishing well.   “Be my Sherpa,” the Halfling slurred. “Your what?” Varien asked, confused.   In his mind’s eye, Erwen traveled through the root system until he was ejected into an unfamiliar, alien space. Tangled in the roots, he examined his surroundings.   He was hanging from a tangled knot of roots in the centre of a large cavern. The cave appeared to be made of virgin stone, but it was anything but natural. Though deep underground and lacking any significant source of light, a forest of trees seemed to grow and thrive, but these trees were unlike anything a forester like Erwen had ever seen. They were twisted and inverted, their roots stretching out like searching limbs from their trunks, which were driven into the stone floor of the cavern, a carpet of dead, dried leaves spread out in halos around them.   Luminous rocks protruded at unnatural angles from the stone, and brackish water the colour of blood ran up the walls. Stalactites and stalagmites that looked more like horns and fangs than rock formations pierced the roof and floor of the cavern, dripping venom.   A green fog swirled and eddied amid the twisted forest, and Erwen thought he could make out the shadow of something moving through the trees.   Towards him.   He struggled in his tangled prison.   A hoarse, horrible voice broke the silence.   THE ONES IN THE DEPTHS ARE THE ONES WITH EYES TO SEE   Erwen felt his hair going white with fear.   The voice was joined by another, and another, and yet another, overlapping whispers and wails as the chant continued.   The green, humanoid shape strode inexorably before him.   Suddenly a new voice broke through the choir.   “Springwarden!” The voice echoed. It was the voice of Reidoth the Druid.   “Dad?” Erwen said, confused.   “Springwarden, prepare yourself!” Reidoth’s disembodied voice instructed. “The Corruptor approaches! Prepare yourself! The Corruptor approaches!”   The green figure drew closer.   Erwen opened his mouth to scream, but felt himself being absorbed by the roots yet again. Suddenly he was spit back out into his own body inside the Hall of Justice.   “You okay, Erwen?” Bob asked.   The Halfling druid was shivering, his eyes still unhealthily wide. Suddenly he shook his head and wildshaped into the form of a brown squirrel, chittering as he scampered up Bob’s legs and into the bag of holding before the sorcerer could react.   “What’s got him spooked?” Varien asked.   Bob shrugged.   Siegfried had walked over to Kavatos Stormeye intending to strike up a conversation.   “So, Stormeye, you must have many stories to tell about Neverwinter,” he said.   The wizard did not deign to reply.   “An archwizard such as yourself must have uncovered a goodly amount of lore and knowledge as you grew in stature here,” Siegfried continued. “Surely there is much that one could learn from your wisdom and experience about this city’s magical heritage.”   There was an almost imperceptible shift in Stormeye’s demeanor, and his third eye flickered ever so slightly. The wizard turned to regard Siegfried.   “I’m not taking on any apprentices at the moment,” the wizard’s voice was deep and level. “But as you are new to Neverwinter you might do well to travel to the Fallen Tower in the city’s Tower District. You might find it…instructive.”   “Indeed?” Siegfried said.   “Yes,” Stormeye continued. “Of course, there’s also the Shard of Night that hangs over the city, casting no shadow, but absorbing all shadows beneath. But if you seek knowledge rather than a walking tour, it might interest you to know that the largest collection of spellbooks in this city is not in fact owned by a wizard.”   “Really?” Siegfried asked, curiosity causing his voice to crack. He coughed and tried again. “Really, you say. Who would amass such a library, if not a scholar of the arcane arts?”   “He’s an old rat,” Kavatos said. “One well-fed, and well-feared. His asking price for viewing such a collection might be beyond even your means.”   Siegfried smiled. “He sounds like a man whose vast amounts of wealth is making him unhappy. Where might I find this old rat?”   Kavatos’s lips curled in a microscopic smile. “You will likely find him hunting for scraps at the Challenge of the Spheres tonight.”   “Really,” Siegfried said, filing that information away. “I’m sure he’ll be lit up like a Festival tree,” he said, letting his eyes glimmer with Eldritch Sight for a second.   “Doubtlessly,” Kavatos said, turning to leave. Over his shoulder, he said in a voice quiet enough for just Siegfried to hear, “And there are those in Neverwinter who would be happy to see him burn.”   Siegfried processed this as the wizard walked away.   Bob had turned back to Warduke Fitzhugh Montgomery.   “Does the Lord’s Alliance have any need for our services?” Bob asked. “We are ready to serve.”   “Your eagerness is noted,” Montgomery said, flipping through the dossier that Bob had delivered the night before. “You and the other Champions of Phandalin have been spoken about quiet favourably in Sildar Hallwinter’s dispatches,” he said, naming off some of the party’s recent exploits. Then his brow furrowed. “However, there are some dark tidings contained in these documents that have, however inadvertently, been corroborated by our belligerent friends the Order of the Gilded Eye. We may question their aims, but their methods have produced intelligence of the highest order, it would seem.”   “So it would seem,” Bob repeated.   “Look here,” Montgomery said, arranging some of the documents on the table for all to see. “Strange reports coming out the Dessarin Valley to the east, along the Triboar Trail. Mining camps in the Sumber Hills, emptied of their inhabitants, as though they laid down their tools and walked into oblivion. Villages reporting mass disappearances – Grunwald, Wakefield, and even Longsaddle, which is particularly troubling given its strategic location on the Long Road.”   “I see,” Bob said.   “Now when you take our Alliance agent reports and compare them to those missives from Gilded Eye operatives operating in the same region, a clearer picture begins to emerge,” Montgomery said. “Read this,” he said, pushing one of the Gilded Eye warrants over to Siegfried, Bob, and Alec. “It claims that a religious movement has grown in strength in Longsaddle, something called the Cult of the Veil. And if I’m reading this correctly, the Gilded Eye agent monitoring the cult’s activities disappeared, missing her prearranged rendezvouses in Conyberry with her handler based in Triboar.”   Fitzhugh. “This is most unsettling, because Longsaddle, though a small town, is a member in good standing with the Lord’s Alliance and an important strategic partner. If these two separate reports are to be believed, Longsaddle appears to be in danger of following these other hamlets – Grunwald and Wakefield – in becoming a ghost town. And is this cult to blame, or is it slavers, or nefarious Many-Arrows incursions from the north?”   Siegfried frowned at this.   “We may be facing a new threat right on our doorstep!” Fitzhugh said.   “How far away is Longsaddle?” Siegfried asked.   “200 miles, as the crow flies,” Fitzhugh said. “That’s some doorstep,” Varien said.   “Well, much closer to home, which is more unsettling, are reports that the lighthouse at Port Llast has gone out, and no ships have attempted a landing there for weeks given the treacherous approaches to the harbour,” Fitzhugh said. “This is also a cause for concern.”   Siegfried cleared his throat. “Well, Warduke Montgomery, of course we are prepared to undertake such action as the Lord’s Alliance deems necessary, but consider that only a few moments ago, the Lord Protector gave the Order of the Gilded Eye some directives that may take some time to filter back to Helm’s Hold, depending on how well Javen Tarmikos takes the news.”   “Your point, Redknife?” “The Order of the Gilded Eye would very much like to round up my companions here for questioning and worse, as their envoy took great pains to make clear, and since their patrols are still making the rounds north of the Neverwinter River and in parts further east towards Neverwinter Wood, I believe our mission to verify these reports on behalf of the Lord’s Alliance would be unduly complicated by their current agitated state. Until the Gilded Eye is brought to heel, it might not be prudent for us to leave the city.”   Fitzhugh frowned, but nodded at Siegfried’s persuasive words.   “Hey, we can take care of ourselves,” Varien said. “We don’t need the protection of the Lord’s Alliance.”   “Your point is well taken, Redknife,” Fitzhugh said, ignoring Varien. “You and your companions will remain on standby until the Lord Protector sees fit to order you to investigate these ominous, ill dealings to the north.”   “Very good,” Siegfried said, clapping his hands. “Now I believe it is time for the Challenge of the Spheres!”   Fitzhugh nodded. “I’m sure the Champions of Phandalin will be joining the Challenge as competitors?”   Siegfried nodded. “Our host has signalled his interest in seeing us participate, and we shall not disappoint, right everyone?”   There were nods all around.   Varien frowned. “Except Erwen, I think. He’s not in any shape to participate.”   Normal 0 false false false EN-CA ZH-CN X-NONE /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Bob’s bag of holding rustled.

In Waterdeep, Tarsakh 10 was celebrated as Leiruin . In ages past, Waukeen caught Leira, the goddess of illusions and deception, attempting to cheat her in a deal, and buried her under a mountain of molten gold as punishment. A commemoration of that event, Leiruin was set aside as the day for guild members to pay their annual dues and for guildmasters to meet with the Lords of Waterdeep and renew their charters for another year. On Tarsakh 10, worshipers of  Waukeen  observed Spheres, a High Festival including a parade of glass baubles filled with gems and coins which were then catapulted into the city at random.   The final day of Waukeentide was celebrated with grand parties in Waterdeep, and Neverwinter, since coming under Lord Dagult Neverember’s rule, had put its own spin on the festivities.   The festivities began at the Moonstone Mask, floating high above the dock district of Neverwinter. The city’s upper crust filled the festival halls of the Moonstone Mask, while the people of Neverwinter thronged on the docks below.   Glass orbs full of coin, gathered from the Highcoin Festival would be launched into the air from the Moonstone Mask, after being enchanted to cause the glass to wholly render down into a harmless glittering dust upon impact.   Nobles, champions of the Neverwinter Guard, selected adventurers and other privileged participants would engage in an archery contest to shatter the spheres and rain gold coins upon the crowd in celebration.   After this spectacle and a shared warm drink courtesy of their host, the nobles would away to wander off to their myriad parties. In Waterdeep, it is considered to be something of a game among them to try and poach guests away from one anothers' parties at this point - you never know who actually is going to show to your Waukeentide party. In Neverwinter, was only one event worth attending – that of the Lord Protector Dagult Neverember, who knew a thing or two about throwing a good rager.   The party traveled from the Hall of Justice to the Moonstone Mask, which floated high above the docks district, tethered by enormous chains and a wide wood-and-rope bridge that creaked in the breeze.   The proprietress of the Moonstone Mask, the beautiful half-elf Liset Cheldar, met them at the entrance with a dazzling smile and ushered the party into the largest of the inn’s festival halls, which had been decorated in gilded, gaudy garnishes, no doubt in tribute to Waukeen.   The long festhall opened onto a wide courtyard overlooking the city, the high towers of Castle Never nearly centred in its field of view with the long ribbon of the Neverwinter River winding below to the horizon. The southern skyline of the city was noticeably deteriorated in comparison to the other districts – evidence of the destruction wrought by the opening of the Chasm after the Ruining of 1451DR.   There were two rows of tables, enough to seat more than 100 festival-goers, who from their finery looked to have been drawn from Neverwinter’s recovering gentry. At the far end of the festhall, on an elevated stage, was a long head table, seated at which were members of the leadership of Neverwinter.   Liset Cheldar, ever the gracious host, flitted from table to table, no doubt soothing the egos of those who had not merited a prominent place near the Lord Protector and his entourage. Servers and busboys danced a well-rehearsed dance of hospitality, ensuring that all goblets were refilled and all platters of food remained piled high.   The party’s table was the first one to the right of the head table, and several nobles were staring daggers at the group of adventurers as they took their seats.   Varien and Siegfried took the opportunity to stare back and take the room’s measure.   At the head table were seated Lord Protector Dagult Neverember, whose attention was fully captured by Mialee Amonodel, who was wearing shockingly little given the public nature of the event.   Sitting at Dagult’s right hand was General Sabine Wade, who had changed into a set of formal half-plate, half-mail armor with short sleeves that rather daringly revealed a dagger tattooed on her right forearm. Attractive and strong, Sabine had set aside her helm, revealing wavy red hair. Though approaching middle age, the only imperfections in her skin were numerous small scars decorating her face and hands, marks she clearly wore with professional pride.   She looked as though she’d rather be anywhere else, but her sharp, vibrant eyes maintained a constant scan of the room. They played over Varien and his companions without the slightest flicker.   Seated beside Sabine was a female humanoid woman with blue skin shot through with seafoam-green ritual scars. A watersoul genasi, she moved as though underwater with a sort of calm, aquatic grace. She was dressed like a corsair who had been crossed with a customs inspector, a pirate gone legitimate.   On the opposite side of Mialee were seated two religious leaders – a handsome, gold-haired man dressed in the garb of a high-ranking follower of Waukeen, and the Reverend Judge Falrenn Uskar, fresh from the courtroom.   Seated next to the Reverend Judge was the weaselly dwarf Soman Galt, who stared at the festivities absently, his eyes seeming to watch something no one else could see, and he mumbled to himself in between furtive gulps of beer from a stein emblazoned with the shield of Neverwinter.   Varien picked out a familiar face or two at the table directly opposite them. The Lady Sala Nidris, resplendent in a dress of impossibly indigo fabric, sat across from another woman equally bedecked in finery, while Alicia the Rose-Tender of the Crystal Castle conferred with another female cleric, a tall, blonde woman with striking cheekbones, braided hair, and arched eyebrows who wore cleric’s armor identifying her as a priestess of Selune. Her skin was china-white and her eyes a deep blue.   Siegfried saw a bit of commotion at the head table. A spindly, sallow-cheeked woman of advanced age, wearing a threadbare gown that once would have been quite fashionable, was straining to interpose herself into a conversation between Neverember’s stalwart aide Teliann and Mayor Galt.   Siegfried’s mouth opened in astonishment as he recognized her as Lady Rania Durinbold of House Durinbold, the matriarch of a temporarily embarrassed and destitute Waterdhavian noble house who recently lost their title only a few short years after securing it – victims, as it were, of Laerel Silverhand’s recent reforms restoring lost titles from those houses who had sold them under Dagult Neverember’s tenure as Open Lord while turning out those upstarts who had managed to buy their way into Waterdeep’s gentry.   “I demand an audience with the Open Lord…I mean the Lord Protector…” she was saying to nobody in particular. Teliann was doing her best not to meet her eye, while Galt stared right through her.   I’m surprised she has the gall to show her face, even in Neverwinter, Siegfried thought.   But back to business. Siegfried caught Lady Nidris’s eye and approached the table, recognizing the other woman seated across from her, a severe-looking Halfling in expensive clothing who could only be Lady Danas Winterpole, the other potential hostess his father had sent introductions to.   Time to turn on the charm, Siegfried sighed inwardly.   “Lady Nidris, how lovely to see you this evening,” he said, taking note of the firesoul genasi who sat smouldering next to the Tethyrian merchant, staring at him with eyes like hot coals that he recognized from the fireplace in Nidris’s villa.   He turned to the Halfling and bowed. “And Lady Winterpole, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance in person, and allow me to apologize for not visiting you sooner and for being unable to accept your generously offer of hospitality. I do hope that we can visit your villa at a more convenient opportunity.”   Lady Winterpole gave Siegfried the minimum amount of respect required as she said, “it was an honour merely to be considered, Master Thann.”   “Er, quite,” Siegfried said.   Lady Nidris looked pleased as punch.   Judging from the stony smile on Lady Winterpole’s face, Siegfried had the feeling that he hadn’t been able to defuse the situation at all.   Watching the exchange at the head of the table was a dark-haired man with a well-trimmed goatee and sideburns framing a round, merchant’s face with condemning eyes who sported a jaunty, bright blue doublet of fine silk with hose. Around his neck were the chains of some sort of office. He seemed to be amused with the proceedings.   “Forgive me,” Siegfried said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”   “Jelvus Grinch, at your service,” the man said with a voice like shoveled gravel.   Siegfried nodded politely. His attention was suddenly captured by the sound of booming laughter from the next table over. Siegfried turned to regard a tall, dark Tiefling with luminous gold eyes that glittered like coin in the candlelight. He was wearing the finest clothing Siegfried had seen since arriving in Neverwinter and was surrounded by an entourage of fawning sycophants.   His glittering eyes caught Siegfried’s and his full, red lips parted in a dazzling smile. He raised his glass in Siegfried’s direction, before his attention was distracted by a rather full-figured female admirer.   That must be Mordai Vell. The Mordai Vell, Siegfried thought to himself.   At the party’s table, Fiendsbane rattled in his scabbard.   Is that sulfur I smell? The sword whispered. You’d tell me if there was a Tiefling in the room, wouldn’t you, Varien?   Varien frowned down at his sword. “Now that’s just racist, Fiendsbane!”   Erwen had scuttled out from inside Bob’s bag of holding and had returned to his Halfling form. Sitting at his seat, he held his druidic totem in his hands, fidgeting as he tried to figure out the best way to tell his companions about what he had experienced.   He plucked another piece of bulging fruit from the plant and broke it up into tiny pieces.   He cast skywrite and wrote what he hoped was a pleasant Waukeentide message, and while the room was distracted, he surreptitiously salted the tiny bits of fruit over his companions’ drinks.     Siegfried strode over to where the Tiefling noble, philanthropist and patron of the Neverwintan arts was holding his boisterous court.   “You handsome bastard!” Siegfried shouted over the din. “You’ll be pleased to know that there are still those who are after your head on a silver platter!”   Mordai Vell took the intrusion in stride, throwing back his horned head and laughing. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, my friend!”   “Siegfried Thann,” Siegfried introduced himself with a flourishing bow. “Just in from Waterdeep.”   “Mordai Vell of Neverwinter!” The tielfing replied. “What brings you to the City of Skilled Hands?” he pointed at a man seated across from him who wore a simple tunic and belt over a pair of striped pants and a chain of office around his neck. “Speak carefully now, as this one’s ears are always burning.”   “Oh, perhaps business to private to share publicly,” Siegfried said. “A man could lose his head!”   Vell guffawed. “You wouldn’t be the first, Master Thann!”   As the repartee continued, Siegfried cast a message spell to the Tiefling.   And how is Rohini?   The Tiefling’s reply was immediate. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.   Siegfried laughed loudly. “Well, we’ll have to talk sometime, maybe spill some of my family’s wine and spill some of the city’s secrets, eh?”   Vell smiled. “Come by my villa in the Blacklake District and I will show you a time you won’t soon forget, Master Thann.”   Out of the corner of Siegfried’s eye he could see Erwen beckoning insistently.   “We will have to speak more soon,” Siegfried said, bowing as he departed, heading back towards his companions’ table. “What’s this then, small man?” he asked of Erwen.   Erwen smiled bashfully. “I want to propose a toast for my friends,” he said.   “All right, be quick about it, as I have more of the room to work,” Siegfried said, taking a seat at the head of the table.   Erwen stood up on his chair and raised his glass. “Friends, don’t fight it, okay? Bottoms up!” He drank.   His companions traded confused glances at one another, but did likewise.   Soon they felt themselves rooted to their chairs, tendrils from their arms and legs growing into the ground beneath them.   Alec kept right on drinking and eating off of his plate and the plates of those around them. “You guys are missing a great feast,” he said offhandedly, heedless of their sudden petrification and silence.   The party were pulled through this new root system and were expelled into a tangle of roots inside a dark cavern lit with glowing, luminous rocks and fungi that continually molted, revealing layer after layer of bioluminescence. The virgin stone walls of the cavern seemed to flex and breath, even as blood-red water trickled upwards.   With each exhalation, a greenish haze filled the cavern, curling around the trunks of horribly twisted trees, whose roots rose skyward rather than plunge into the floor.   “Where the hell are we?” Bob asked, his voice echoing and overlapping as though the number of mouths on his face had quadrupled.   “I was here before,” Erwen explained, even as twigs and berries began to sprout from his body at odd angles. “My druidic totem produced a fruit, which I just gave you all, and I didn’t know how to explain…” he waved his hands around at the cavern. “This…this sense of danger and foreboding.”   A voice split the party’s skulls open.   STEP WITHOUT FEAR AND FREE YOUR MINDS   Varien…doesn’t want to lose…mind, Varien thought through gritted teeth. He began to summon his pact weapon and prepared to throw an eldritch blast.   ONE SHALL COME WHO WILL BANISH OLD EVIL AND OPEN A PATH TO NEW HORIZONS   His weapon rotted away as he conjured it.   SOON CURSES SHALL BE LIFTED, DISEASES CURED, AND ALL WILL SHARE ONE HEALTH   Erwen ran into the fog, searching for the hidden figure.   He was enveloped in the sickly green mist and couldn’t see anything. He stretched out his hands and touched something slimy. He tried to dig in with both hands, but the slimy object shied away from his contact and disappeared with a swirl of fog.   Then Erwen felt a presence, impossibly close, as though lips the size of a human with his arms outstretched were brushing against his ears.   The lips parted and the voice reverberated inside Erwen’s head.   SOON WILL COME A DAY WHEN YOU ARE AMONG THE CHOSEN   “I hope that’s a good thing,” Erwen said.   “There’s something in the fog!” Bob said, pointing an arm that was nothing more than a tangle of vines.   Sure enough, a humanoid figure swayed as it drew towards them, the fog parting and swirling before it.   Varien tried to fire off his eldritch blast.   A pair of eyes, dark and searching, swooped towards the party with a hiss.   Suddenly, they were back in their chairs, Alec still eating as though nothing had happened. “Great party,” he said with his mouth full.   Bob looked down and saw new, green scales covering his forearms. He sighed and itched at them instinctively.   Siegfried clapped Erwen on the shoulder. “Druid, you bring the weirdest drugs to the party.”   Erwen’s face fell.   “Don’t mind him,” Radegast said, reaching out to pat the Halfling’s hand. “I am taking this, and you, very seriously.”   Normal 0 false false false EN-CA ZH-CN X-NONE /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Erwen brightened.

Siegfried walked back to Mordai Vell’s table. A new partygoer had joined the Tiefling’s entourage - a round, bald, red-faced man with large hands and wide, flat feet. Hardly taller than a dwarf, he wore boots with thick soles to add to his height. A crooked nose like a pair of curled fingers protruded from his face, and his big ears winged out from the sides of his head, their tops covered in a shag of horizontal salt and pepper hair that bookended his skull like a pair of miniature storm clouds. Atop his head he wore a top hat that hung crookedly.   He was speaking in a shrill, childlike voice that sounded disturbing coming from a man of his age and girth. “…so I said to the Keeper of the Tomes at Candlekeep, ‘that’s not writing, that’s just calligraphy.’” His effeminate monotone continued. “Honestly, the sooner polite society recognizes that Volothamp Geddarm is a talentless hack, the better it will be for the literary circles of Waterdeep.” He chuckled. “I tell you, being trapped by an imprisonment spell for the better part of a century was his best career move.”   Is this…the old rat Kavatos spoke of? Siegfried said. He sounds like a lover of literature.   “Yes, Volo is an incompetent hack, is he not?” Siegfried interjected.   The grotesque man turned to regard Siegfried. “I see you are a man of culture as well.”   “I prefer the work of a more insightful mind, personally,” Siegfried said. “I recently had a volume fall into my possession that I read with great interest – a memoir written by Arthanas the Blade-King of Elembar.”   “Did you now? And it was a memoir, you say?” The heavyset man turned with effort in his chair and gave Siegfried his full attention. “Would you not agree that the everyday orders of kings and merchant princes, for example, better capture the spirit of the age better than the fanciful scrawlings of dreamers not rooted in the business of everyday life?”   “I would tend to agree,” Siegfried said.   “Fiction is a trifle when compared to that writing which pulls back the curtains obscuring the plays of power in this realm,” the man said, warming to his subject.   “Oh, I agree. And what is your interest in such writings?” Siegfried said.   “I’m what you might call a connoisseur of chronicles and correspondence, an aficionado of accounts and annals, the more private and personal, the better,” the man said, almost drooling “I feel as though the letters of our betters provide a most primary window into history, politics, and indeed civilization, and I’ve made it my life’s work to preserve these memoirs and memories before they are lost forever.”   “Clearly you are doing important work,” Siegfried said. “Might I have the pleasure of your name?”   The man bowed and doffed his hat, revealing a balt pate fringed with salt-and-pepper hair. “I am Narvos Heg, the Bookkeeper.”   “Siegfried Thann,” Siegfried said, never tiring of introducing himself. “Of House Thann.”   “House Thann, you say?” Narvos said. “You know, I might have a volume or two of some of your family’s dealings in my collection.” His lips twisted into a grotesque leer. “Then again, I might not. It wouldn't do for me to disclose such information ahead of payment, you see. But thank you for saving me the opportunity to ask the first question I always ask of a prospective client, that is, ‘who wants to know?’”   Siegfried nodded. “It would be an honour to peruse your collection, Narvos.”   “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Master Thann.” Narvos replied.   “Spoken like a true archivist of the arcane,” Siegfried said. “I should like to book an appointment, perhaps with your chief of staff?”   He shot a glance over to Mordai Vell as if to say this guy….   Narvos waved a hand. “Oh well, we’ve just become acquainted, haven’t we? It might be too early to dive right into business dealings this day, after all, it’s a party after all.”   “Well, it’s never too early to capitalize on a business relationship, I believe,” Siegfried said. “My companions and I are about to embark on an exploration of some of the ruins in the River District, including the Shard of Night that hangs overhead. Perhaps we could pick you up a souvenir?”   “Perhaps you’d be the first to deliver on such a promise,” Narvos said. “I have commissioned oh so many delves into pockets of hidden lore beneath this city only to have the delvers never return from the depths, so to speak.”   “I think you’ll find my companions up to the task,” Siegfried replied. “And this memoir of King Arthanas is a cracking read, let me assure you.”   “I’ll admit, you’ve certainly aroused my…curiosity,” Narvos said. “Where are you lodged in the City?”   “We are staying at House Nidris at the behest of the Lord Protector,” Siegfried said.   Narvos nodded. “Then perhaps I will send a messenger to House Nidris when the time is right for a book-viewing.” He offered Siegfried a limp hand to shake.   “Thank you, Bookkeeper Heg,” Siegfried said. But first I’m going to have to go wash this hand.     Erwen sat, stewing, and as they often did so, his thoughts turned towards the pleasures of the flesh.   He looked around the room and zeroed in on the well-dressed Halfling woman seated across the way. The woman wore a red scarf wound tightly around her neck and again below her bustier, pushing her plump breasts upwards enticingly. She was drinking from a goblet, her expression carved in stone as she stared into the middle distance, a frown marring her perfect complexion.   Hello there, Erwen thought. He hopped off his chair and meandered through the crowd of partygoers and servants until he was at her table. He hopped up onto the chair next to her and cleared his throat, eyeing the way out in case he needed to make a sudden exit because of what he was about to say.   “Hey there, beautiful,” he said. “Have you ever had a onesome? It’s like a threesome, only with two Halflings.”   The woman picked up her goblet and drained it in one long pull. She slammed down the glass, cracking the stem.   Staring straight ahead, she said in a dull monotone, “Meet me at my carriage in five minutes.” Then she got off her chair and strode towards the nearest exit.   “Oh, okay,” Erwen said, surprised. Let’s do this.   He followed after her. The exit took him into a service corridor and judging from the smells the kitchen wasn’t too far off.   “Weird,” Erwen said. “I don’t think the carriages are this way.”   The door to a pantry cracked open and the woman grabbed Erwen with strong arms, pulling him in and slamming him against the wall of the cupboard.   “Oh, hey there,” Erwen said. “What about your carriage?”   “Don’t speak,” the Halfling woman said, undoing her scarf. She reached down into Erwen’s breeches and squeezed.   “Oh, uh, okay,” Erwen said. “Easy on the goods.”   The woman grabbed the back of Erwen’s head with her free hand and pulled it down to her now-bare breasts as he expertly hitched up her skirts.   “Now then,” the woman said. “I want you to stand right there while I…” She ground against him, causing the canned goods on the shelf behind him to rattle with each determined thrust.   Erwen stood at full attention, holding onto the Halfling’s hips for dear life as she galloped along.   “Damn that Nidris bitch and her high horse,” the woman hissed in between panted breaths. “Damn that smug wastrel from the House of Thann, and damn! The! Lord! Protector!”   Damn, was all a rattled Erwen could think as he returned thrust for thrust.   The woman’s orgasm was a roar of defiance. Erwen joined her with a howl towards the moon.   She hopped off Erwen and regarded him as if for the first time.   “You’re a good lay, swinger,” she said to Erwen, dabbing lipstick off the corner of his mouth with the end of her scarf. “But you need a bath,” she sniffed, winding the scarf back around her bodice.   Erwen looked down and then back up at the woman. “Agree to disagree.”   His next words were muffled as she pounced on him again.     Siegfried took note of a table full of Mintarn mercenaries at the far end of the hall. The soldiers made up for their low status with drinking and marching songs sung at high volume. He watched a tall, black-skinned Calishite man with a white goatee and shorn skull, save for an equally white warhawk haircut, who wore the livery of and a rank indicating he was a sergeant in the Neverwinter Guard. He was a mountain of a man, but his face, though lined with a veteran’s scars, was jovial and warm as he led the group through bawdy chorus after bawdy chorus. A discreet patch, carved of ebony, covered his right eye socket.   Seated near the table but not, strictly speaking, at it, was another soldier who was declining to take part in the singing. He was a thuggish-looking veteran with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a brute of a man who wore a Mintarn dress tunic open over what looked like a glowing blue spellscar. His defiant eyes flicked around the room, just waiting for someone to comment on it.   “Who are those two soldiers?” Siegfried asked a passing servant girl. “The tall one is Sergeant Alphonse Knox, member of Lord Neverember’s bodyguard,” the servant said. “The other one is Durham Shaw, Captain of the Wall. Fortunate for him he’s a close ally or distant relation of Lord Neverember, or he’d have been packed off to Helm’s Hold years ago due to his…condition.” She traced the line of an invisible spellscar across her cleavage. “Now that the Wall is decommissioned and the Chasm sealed, he’s a man in search of a purpose, they say.”   “Thank you, you well-informed maidservant, you,” Siegfried said.   The serving girl curtsied and then went back to work.   There was the sound of a silver spoon tinking against the side of a crystal glass that quieted the festivities as all eyes turned to the source of the sound, Lord Dagult Neverember, who stood wearing a fine fur cape over his leonine-crested armour.   Several serving girls swooned in an obligatory fashion, under Liset Cheldar’s watchful eye.   “Friends and citzens of Neverwinter,” The Lord Protector intoned. “It’s time to get this party underway, woudn’t you say?” This wasn’t a party before? Bob thought.   “First I will call upon the Reverend Judge Falrenn Uskar and the Truetrader of Waukeen Fenton Udall to bless our festivities.” He sat down and recommenced massaging Mialee’s thigh beneath the table.   Radegast grit her teeth.   Reverend Judge Uskar got to his feet and blessed the assembly in the names of Torm and Tyr, thanking Lord Protector Neverember for preserving the Hall of Justice during the darkest days of the Ruining’s aftermath and allowing worshippers of Tyr to return to the temple after their god’s restoration, moving his operations to a private villa within the Protector’s Enclave.   Judging from the nods around the room, this action on the part of Neverember had been very well-received by the populace.   Hmmm, maybe the Reverend Judge is in Dagult’s pocket after all, Siegfried mused.   Fenton Udall, resplendent in gold-burnished armor befitting his deity, spoke in words of praise for the Merchant's Friend, Liberty's Maiden, and the Golden Lady, to which the evening’s festival was dedicated. He venerated those challengers who were to participate in the Spheres competition, blessing their aim and praying that one of them would earn the Coinmaiden’s favour.   Normal 0 false false false EN-CA ZH-CN X-NONE /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Then, Lord Dagult Neverember rose to deliver a speech.