A Letter From Phandalin Unsealed; Skullport Skullduggery Revealed

The sounds, scents, and sensuality of the post-synod celebrations pervaded the Temple of Beauty for days. In about nine months’ time, the temple’s sanctuary would be the scene of many infant christenings and dedications as future members of the Order of Adon and the Order of the Ruby Rose were paraded by proud parents who had met, and met well indeed, at this very celebration. In the High Priests’ Study, Bob puzzled over the fragmentary book gifted to him by Palarandusk. Its pages were sheets of burnished electrum stamped with characters unintelligible to the temple’s lorekeepers without the benefit of magic to divine their meanings. To call the book old did it no justice; it fairly resonated with the weight of centuries, and to turn one of its metal leaves was to open a gateway to a past where history had turned to legend and myth. Bob knew he would have to cherish this gift with all due reverence, but first he had to get a handle on the strange scripts that glowed with reflected golden candlelight. Every so often he thought he caught the reflection of a draconic face staring back at him from the mirrored pages. The effect was unsettling. A blushing acolyte announced his presence using one of two brass knockers that pierced each nipple of the sculpted breasts of a Seraph of Sune carved into the study’s mahogany door. The Seraph’s back was arched in a pose that would cause a mortal woman no end of discomfort, but was quite pleasing to the discerning eye. Absorbed in his book, Bob waved the acolyte into the study, which he ostensibly shared with Varien.   “High Priest, this letter arrived by courier, addressed to you directly,” the acolyte stammered. “And rather informally, I might add.” Bob smiled and closed the ancient tome, which rang softly like a singing bowl as the electrum sheaves made contact. “Who is this letter from?” The acolyte had to refrain from twisting the letter held in his hands nervously. “Uh, well, it says here,” he had to re-read the envelope to make sure he was getting it right, ““A Certain So-And-So located in a Certain You-Know-Where Doing You-Know-What,”” and the letter itself seems to be covered in some sort of rock dust.” The acolyte looked at the glittering black marks on his fingers with dismay. Bob chuckled to himself. He knew only one miner with a flair for the mysterious and a willingness to get his hands dirty, and his spirits were buoyed by Gundrun Rockseeker’s speedy reply to his missive. “I accept this letter with thanks – you were right to bring it to me straight away.” He accepted the envelope, which seemed to carry more weight than mere paper. This was a good sign. The acolyte beamed, glad to be rid of the dusty document. The Seraph’s knockers jingled as he closed the door behind him, intent on finding a ceremonial washing bowl posthaste. Bob opened the letter, coughed at the cloud of rock dust emitted from within, and heard something fall from the open envelope land with a satisfying thunk on his desktop. It was a glittering chunk of mithril. A good sign indeed, Bob thought. He began to read the letter, hand-inked in deliberate dwarvish block letters in the Common tongue.   To Bob Trevelyan, Champion of Phandalin   Laddie, I pray this letter finds ye in good health and high spirits, for I am in grave need of both these days. I was somewhat surprised to see the quality of your missive dispatched by courier – you’ve come up in the world late these months! Good for ye!   I write to ye from the heart of Wave Echo Cave, where the Rockseeker Dig has begun anew. It’s both an exhilarating and taxing endeavour (pun definitely intended, curse those skinflints at the Phandalin Miner’s Exchange). Your letter couldn’t have come at a better time, as your past and future assistance weights on me mind.   To say that the restart of our mining operation has been without its share of challenges would be an understatement. We’ve made significant progress, and the first veins of ore are showing promise, but I am faced with a pressing issue that only your expertise and support can address.   First, as ye know, I’ve reached out to my cousin Gort Rockfist regarding the need for additional manpower and supplies, but regrettably, my message has gone unanswered. I understand that his business operations in Neverwinter can be formidable, but the delays are beginning to impact our operations here. My miners are growing weary, harried by bandits and harassed by tax collectors, and our supplies dwindle. Gort's men in Neverwinter are a cut above the local rabble I've been forced to hire, and I would rather keep our operation in the family anyway.   Moreover, the Phandalin Miner's Exchange has been on me back since I returned to Phandalin to buy supplies. Their demands for regular updates and progress reports are incessant, and while I fully recognize their interest in our venture, the pressure is a burden. They are eager to see returns on their investment, and the current state of affairs—though promising—is not yet sufficient to satisfy their expectations. Worse yet, the Miner’s Exchange has forced us to hire guards at extortionist rates. I can’t help but think that the criminal element (I daren’t put the name even in writing) behind the Miner’s Exchange is plotting against me.   Bob paused here, recalling that his former colleague Ragnar Meseeks had expressed suspicions that the Zhentarim, known as the Black Network, had infiltrated the Miner’s Exchange. The presence of the Black Network was enough to cause him to flee Phandalin with no warning.   Lastly, things in Phandalin have gotten, well, weird. There’s a new occupant in the local shrine, a wild-eyed preacherman who has been preaching some odd sermons that have got much of the townsfolk under his sway. I don’t go in for prophecy much myself but the word pictures he’s painting spell doom and gloom. It’s a mite unsettling.   Any assistance ye can offer the Rockseeker Dig would be greatly appreciated. Your support would not only ease our burden but also fortify my family’s efforts as we strive to restore the mine, and the Rockseeker name, to its former glory. And of course, there’s your percentage to think about – once we’re profitable, you’ll stand to benefit. Please send word of when we might expect the much-needed reinforcements and supplies. I await your response with anticipation and look forward to raising a pint with ye soon.   Yours in determination,   Gundren Rockseeker   It might be time to start a Phandalin branch of the Church of Sune, Bob thought to himself as he examined the small hunk of mithril. He resolved to tell Varien and the others about the recent events at Wave Echo Cave and Phandalin.   Something in Gundrun’s letter twigged a memory in Bob’s mind. He went back and read the section about the strange cult and realized he’d seen something about it in the Gilded Eye warrants he’d liberated from the Chapterhouse in Helm’s Hold.   The warrant entitled “Cult of the Veil” was a sparse report based on filings made by agents of the Gilded Eye stationed in the Dessarin Valley. Taken together, the briefing note identified a cult, made up of street preachers and itinerant clerics, preaching a brand of apocalyptic prophecy that was anathema to the Order of the Gilded Eye. The cultists were notable for tattooing their bodies with passages from their apocalyptic holy book, referred to cryptically as an ”abyssal ledger” or the “Lamentation Codex.” The agents’ reports agreed that the cult had its origins in the North. Intelligence reports suggested that over the last few months, the cult had gained popularity in a town called Longsaddle north of Triboar in the Dessarin Valley. The latest entry in the warrant suggested the Gilded Eye’s agent in Longsaddle had missed her last two rendezvouses in Conyberry with her handler (based in Triboar). The Gilded Eye planned to investigate further.   Bob frowned. An official visit to Phandalin seemed in order. And was that cult’s Abyssal Ledger the same one that drove Lambrac the Damned mad? He had only skimmed the book The Chronicle of My Friend Lambrac the Damned purportedly written by Arthanas the Blade-King of Elembar, but he knew it was the stuff of nightmares. Arthanas’s account of the strange book that drove his friend to madness of murder was that it was a profane prophecy that foretold the coming of The One Who Waits, the Charnel Walker, the Drowned Lord, the Dread-Forged Fiend, whose arrival would herald the birth of a new age that would be quickly strangled in its cradle. Before his own death, Lambrac had sent Agatha the shard of the ise rune and suggested that she commit suicide so that she could avoid the horrors that awaited Faerun with the coming of this evil entity. Bob remembered the party’s conversations about these things, and the possible connection to the darkness overshadowing Neverwinter Wood. Answers might be found along the Delimbyr River and the Elven Kingdom of the Shining Falls, or Avalynn, home to Xylon’s noble family. Bob grimaced and set out to inform his companions of what he’d discovered.

Somewhere beneath Waterdeep, Siegfried and Violance followed their newfound xorn companion through the eerie ruins of the dungeon. Siegfried took stock of his surroundings. Everything around him bore a patina of age, with undisturbed dust indicating that the complex had been long-abandoned and long-forgotten. A musty odour that hung over the corridors suggested that the area had likely been closed off from the Underdark until quite recently. He detected a dim glow from the direction that the xorn was leading him. The xorn itself was galumphing along, pausing now and then to indicate that the half-orc and his nightmare should follow along with a roll of one of its three overlarge eyes. The xorn stopped at a set of double stone doors that had obviously been kicked into gravel, then shouldered its way through. Even though the creature’s body language was utterly alien to Siegfried, he was perceptive enough to determine that the xorn was being very cautious. Siegfried followed with utmost confidence. Four floor-to-ceiling quartz pillars glowed with an unearthly light, illuminating what looked like work tables in four quadrants of the room that had been reduced to rubble. A door to the south had also been blasted open. All of this damage looked like it had been done recently, likely by a creature blundering around. So, who’s the bigger guy? Siegfried asked the xorn telepathically. The xorn grunted. You pay, I answer. One of its arms pointed at its gaping maw. Siegfried sighed. I thought you were going to be smarter about this. The xorn shrugged a rippling three-shouldered shrug. Siegfried placed a hand on his orcish axe and one end of it burst into flame, and then its opposite end crackled with ice. I’m starting to feel like you’re not my friend. When I’m down here, feeling alone, with people who are not my friends, I start seeing those who are not my friends as threats. No, threat is the wrong concept. Prey? No. In my way. Are you in my way? The xorn stood up a little straighter. The arm that was pointing at its mouth began to scratch its plate-like head innocently. You’re not going to hurt me, Siegfried continued. You’re incapable of that so you’re not a threat. You can either help me, or slow me down. And the only reason I can think that you’re not telling me about a creature capable of knocking down these doors is that you thought they could hurt me, and you wanted to lead me to them so they could try and get the advantage on me. If that was what your plan was, then I could not see us being friends, and therefore you’d be IN MY WAY. ARE YOU? No! the xorn cringed. THEN TELL ME! There are big critters, the xorn replied. They dig, like me. Though they’re clumsy and artless. But they’re hungry. The xorn pointed at the smashed doors with two of its three arms. They did that, not Krumnus. Krumnus didn’t do anything. Siegfried changed the subject. Noting an identical set of doors in the northwest section of the north wall, he said, “seems an inefficient design to have two entrances but only one exit.” The xorn shrugged. Krumnus is no architect or critic. The trio ventured south. The corridor seemed to widen several yards away. Siegfried noted a sloping wall on the northeastern side. The xorn made an appreciative noise as it entered the widening area and darted towards the eastern wall. Behind the creature, Siegfried could see that carved into the northeastern wall was a fresco that depicted dwarves tossing gems into the gaping maw of a giant xorn. A flattering portrayal! Krumnus the xorn said. Oh, so you’re not an architectural critic, but an art critic? Siegfried asked. I may not know much about art, but I know what I like! Truthfully the xorn seemed more interested in the glittering gems that were inset into the fresco’s wall. The creature began prying jewels out of the wall and dropping them hungrily into its mouth. Like I said before, my friends get gems, Siegfried said, as he silently noted that the xorn had never been in this corridor before. The xorn was doing a triple-step dance of delight. While he waited for the creature to stop gorging itself, he asked Azuredge if there were any non-lawful creatures within the magical weapon’s range. The enchanted axe replied in the negative. Meanwhile, the xorn polished off two dozen gems and then backed away from the empty fresco, seemingly satisfied. Yes, this way, this way. It shambled off. Here, here. Siegfried saw some depressions in the dust near where the xorn was walking. They looked like bootprints, though not exactly fresh tracks. They appeared to belong to humanoids. Siegfried entered the next chamber, another room lit by quartz pillars. The xorn paused, made some sniffing noises, then lumbered off, unconcerned about the room’s contents. Siegfried saw something that gave cause for concern – a tangle of bodies in the northern section of the room that looked like they had come to grief in the recent past. Their state of decomposition was advanced, more mummified than rotted, but the cut of their clothing, though stained with dried blood, suggested styles popular among dungeon delvers within the last decade, give or take. Fighting off boredom, Siegfried was just about to pass it by, when his eyes caught something scrawled in dried blood on the wall were three words: DAMN YOU NEVEREMBER. That got Siegfried’s attention. He stepped closer to examine the scene, taking note of the brown streaks of dried blood that spattered in violent arcs on the floors and walls, as though the men had frantically turned on one another in an effort to be the last one standing. He saw a sword blade broken off in the back of one desiccated corpse; while another dead man still gripped a dagger he’d shoved under the chin of another man who’d gutted him with a serrated blade in a mutual kill, their bodies slumped together almost apologetically. It must have been a frenzied fight for survival. Siegfried took note of the state of the bodies, and judged them to have been severely malnourished prior to their violent ends. They were locked in here , Siegfried thought to himself. What’s that? Krumnus the xorn said, its attention elsewhere. Never mind, Siegfried replied, as he pulled a spindle of string and some paper tags from his bag of holding. He began to label the bodies based on their remaining prominent features with loops of string and tag around the ankles, and sketched out their positions on the floor on a sketch pad. There were four half-starved bodies in total. One of the dead men, the one who’d penned his parting words to Neverember in his own blood, had a journal on him. Siegfried opened it and scanned its final entries, which were written in the competent script of an explorer. Here and there sections of the writing had been wiped entirely clean from the parchment. In the margins, however, were scrawled angry ramblings:       The Open Lord financed this expedition but he didn’t pay us enough for this.   Even before the Fair Folk abandoned Aelinthaldaar, a shield dwarf named Melair discovered a vein of precious mithral beneath Mount Waterdeep in –1288 DR. King Melair I, as he came to be known, sent word to his kindred, and those who answered his call to dig and scrape underneath the Mountain became known as Clan Melairkyn. The Melairkyn were traders, artisans, and explorers, strongly protective of their home, which they named the  Underhalls of Melairbode . They slew or drove off Underdark predators, duergar miners, and drow scouts in order to establish their realm.   Much of this could have been learned in any library worth its salt, but in case whoever has recovered my corpse needs some remedial education, read on:   As the Melairkyn extended the boundaries of their realm to include the topmost levels of what is now Undermountain, the leaders of Aelinthaldaar grew increasingly concerned. Eventually a deal was struck, in which the Melairkyn would provide a great amount of mithral ore to the elves. In exchange, the elves crafted a high magic effect that would prevent the plateau from ever collapsing or settling, no matter what occurred in the tunnels below. The plateau of Waterdeep still stands firm today, despite countless collapses in the caverns of Melairbode in the intervening centuries.   Soon, the works coming from the Underhalls of Clan Melairkyn rivalled the best of their contemporaries in Delzoun. Most of their work is now lost and long forgotten, as the Melairkyn clan disappeared long before settlements began cropping up where Waterdeep now stands.   In fact, you, Dear Reader, now stand amid the ruins of the Underhalls. These Underhalls were large and grand, built to the scale of the tallest of men rather than dwarves, and guarded two ancient and profitable mithril mines known these days as the Seadeeps, which extend far beneath Mount Waterdeep.   The Melairkyn were driven from these halls by drow and duergar who came to plunder the rich deposits of gems and mithral. However, their victory was shortlived as these invaders were later slaughtered by the arrival of another figure of legend, Halaster Blackcloak, who claimed all the Underhalls and attendant areas as his own. This became known as Undermountain.   “Halaster?” Siegfried read aloud. “Undermountain?” He looked around despairingly. “Aww, shite.”   Is it Halaster’s will that we should never return to the surface? What did we do to anger him? We were explorers and truth-seekers, not grave robbers. We meant no disrespect.   Here I come to the point. Dear Reader, you tread on ground originally consecrated as a temple to Dumathoin, which, appropriately enough, served also as a burial tomb for what would prove to be the last dynasty of the Melairkyn clan rulers.   Open Lord Dagult Neverember, through his agents, had become keenly interested in the religious mummery of the Melairkyn dwarves. These Melairkyn worshipped the Keeper of the Mountain’s Secrets, but heretical practices had wormed their way into the hearts of the priests and clerics. Their cult believed that Dumathoin encoded his secrets into the veins of ore and precious stones he placed in the mountains he raised from the earth for the dwarven people. In their mining, the dwarves supposedly released Dumathoin’s secrets into the world. This angered Dumathoin and created a period of discord between the dwarves and the Mordinsamman, the council of dwarven gods. In order to appease their petty gods, the Melairkyn would mystically bind the ‘secrets of the mountain’ into items of finely-wrought dwarfcraft and then make offering of it to Dumathoin by securing them within their ceremonial vaults.   I’ve already sent this information via sending magic to that fat bastard Narvos Heg. At the time I didn’t realize I was writing my last will and testament.   The Open Lord appeared confident that one of these vaults had been built near the Underhalls, most likely somewhere beneath what is now Waterdeep. And Dear Reader, I swear to you, my colleagues and I located this ceremonial vault. However, try as I might in my waning moments, I cannot put quill to paper to reveal its location. This has driven me near to madness. What I can tell you is that this Vault, like much of the Underhalls in which we are now trapped and left to die, was looted by the dark elf interlopers who ended the Melairkyn’s civilization, and its secrets, whatever they may have been, were scattered to the corners of the world. Why then did Open Lord Neverember send us on this fool’s errand to locate an empty Vault? Why did he condemn us to madness and murder? Why can I not remember where the damn Vault is located? I stood before its doors!   Perhaps it was that whispering simp who carried our torches. He came highly recommended but was never truly one of us. I swear I heard him betraying us to an unseen party via some manner of fiendish ritual. His blood soon obscured the pentagram he’d etched in the dead-end’s floor. I saw to that personally.   The doors. Yes. The doors of a Melairkyn Vault, should you encounter one, are ceremonially sealed. Opening the doors requires a single dragonscale to be laid upon the bas relief of the sun and then struck while lit by sunlight. If the doors should shut upon you while you stand within a Vault, they can reputedly be opened from within by simply laying a hand upon them.   See, I can remember all these details and more, except that I cannot for the life of me recall the route we took to discover the Vault that had captured Lord Neverember’s and Narvos Heg’s attention. We are lost, our supplies exhausted, and I don’t like the way my colleagues are eyeing me. I see hunger in their eyes. I feel the same hunger in my belly.   I SHOULD NEVER HAVE LISTENED TO THE NOTHIC   That’s a lot of Melairky, Siegfried chuckled to himself. Then the ramifications of this discovery dawned on him. He had before him the remains of four men who knew how to hurt Dagult Neverember in the one soft spot he had – his money, and, in having died under the former Open Lord’s employ, had every reason to want to get their own back against him, once resurrected and restored to life. And it was clear to him that this party’s memories had been magically altered, something he knew a great deal about already, which hinted at the method the culprit might have used to modify their memories. Also, he knew where to get a ready supply of dragonscales. “And it’s not even my birthday!” Siegfried exclaimed. He carefully began to pack the corpses into his bag of holding. Er, what are you doing? Krumnus asked. Preparing a gift for my good friend Bob, Siegfried replied. Did you eat any gems from these guys? Who, me? Krumnus said, pleading innocence. You know, taking me through this room was a very friendly thing to do, Siegfried said. In the next room, stone couches and tray holders occupied the northeast and southwest corners – if Siegfried didn’t know better he’d say this was a lounge of some kind for dwarven workers. He spied a twinkle beneath one of the couches. Beneath the couch was an iron key covered in a oily substance. It didn’t appear to be magical, and on the key’s head was a raised imprint of shield, axe, and hammer that played nicely beneath his rubbing thumb. He hadn’t yet seen a locked door that might line up with this key. The xorn stood with its arms on its hips, waiting. Siegfried pulled out his wand of secrets and expended a charge, waving it theatrically in the air. He felt a tug as the wand seemed to jerk to the north, then jerked to the south, and then free-floated as though it couldn’t get a reading. Interesting , Siegfried thought. There was a door to the east, a door to the north, and a door to the south. The xorn started to the east, humming a tune to itself. A hungry xorn is a helpful xorn if you have the gems to pay me/and if I put up too much fuss this man will likely slay me. Slowly and cautiously, the xorn tugged on the door’s pull ring to open it. Siegfried made as if to follow, but then turned to the north and had Violance kick the door open. His nightmare obliged, bashing the stone door in with two swift kicks that echoed through the dungeon. Halaster has probably gimmicked this mountain with magic to mess with divination magic, Siegfried said as his wand of secrets continued to make uncertain dips and tugs. In the new room, there was a door to the north, and to the east, built into the wall, was an arched gate of stone. Carved into the arched gate’s keystone was the image of a quadrupedal monster with an anteater’s snout. “A rust monster?” Siegfried said, eyes widening. “Not today, Halaster!” He backed out of the room. He turned to see the xorn backing away from the eastern door. What’s the matter? Siegfried asked. The xorn turned to regard Siegfried, its three eyes rolling in fear. THEY ARE COMING , it said. Siegfried could indeed hear the approach of armoured footfalls and the clattering of weapons at the ready. Lots of weapons. Siegfried turned back to the xorn. Well, Krumnus, it’s been fun. He withdrew a scroll of teleport from his pouch, then reconsidered. He extended a hand to the xorn. Come with me if you want to live. The xorn threw up its three hands in an expression of disgust but stepped closer to Siegfried. Siegfried thought really hard about Skullport, and cast the spell, disappearing in the blink of a xorn’s eye. There was a flash, and then half-orc and xorn found themselves in an immense subterranean cavern, its roof a forest of stalactites that looked like the teeth of a primordial shark. A sluggish river of the darkest water sluiced its way through the cavern, and built in and around the rocky environment were the slapdash neighbourhoods of a tiered city festooned with catwalks and rickety scaffolding. It was Waterdeep-as-Shantytown, a dense urban network built haphazardly to fill all usable space in the cavern. Some buildings were on stilts, others were bolted to stalactite “Right on target!” Siegfried beamed. He looked at Violance, then at Krumnus the xorn, and then leapt atop a shorn stalagmite so he could get a good vantage point on the dreary skyline before him. He drew a full breath into his lungs, and then shouted with every ounce of lordly might within him. His shout caused the waters to ripple and dust to fall from the stalactites above. “WHERE ARE MY MIND FLAYERS?”