[September 02, 2025]

Excerpted from the Diary of Vadania “Necro” Amakiir

With barely any time to examine the items given us by the beholder, we were quickly engulfed in a thick purple haze. Too thick to see through, the mist overwhelmed the senses before just as quickly dissipating. When the haze cleared, we had once again been transported to another location.

We found ourselves in a dimly lit cavern. Rough stone had been carved into an approximately 20x20 foot room. It was mildly cozy, if a tad on the rustic side. A battered wooden door stood at one end, leaking slim beams of sunlight into the space. A well-worn table sat at the center, a burlap sack on top, draped over something. Seven tallow candles were arranged atop the table and burned heartily, emitting a sweet, earthy smell.

As we all eyeballed the burlap sack, the no-name halfling took a step toward the table only to be held up by the firm hand of Shawn. Wary, Shawn instead sent a Mage hand to reveal what was hidden under the burlap. We all stood back, as we met the very alert eyes of the severed head of Ibram Greyblade.

Those of us who had encountered Greyblade in the backrooms of the Mangrove Wine Hall remembered him, not for his face, but for his rather robust sexual appetites and practices. We also remembered his violent beheading and subsequent death during the battle at the Adventurer’s Guild. So, it was a bit of a shock to see him alive (if it could be called that) and well, (again, not so sure) and blinking back at us from a tabletop.

Examining the table, we could see that it was covered in strange carvings, but none of us recognized any of the symbols. Ibram told us that to the best of his knowledge, we were somewhere on the outskirts of Athkatla, and spent much time extolling the virtues of his new body-less existence. After we’d all heard quite enough of that, Shawn picked up the head and stuffed it into the nearby sack.

I focused on the candles alight on the table. They were clearly candles of binding, but it was impossible to tell their purpose or how long ago the incantation had been performed. The candles were set by magic to burn as long as required, the wax and wick never really burning away. As no small amount of bickering between Shawn and Ibram continued, I leaned forward and snuffed out one of the candles, perhaps secretly hoping that it might also snuff out our friend in the sack.

As the flame on that candle went out, a grey wave of smoke shot outward, Drakon and myself managed to duck, but everyone else was thrown backward with the force of the wave. Shawn, and the sack containing Ibram disappeared with a pop. Panic momentarily set in until we heard the muffled mutterings of the head in the sack. I reached out to where Shawn had been standing and did indeed feel the sturdy form of our friend, the halfling. Touching his face, it was evident he was talking, but we could not hear him. Somehow, he’d been rendered both invisible and mute. I had to admit that perhaps I’d been a bit reckless in blowing out that candle. It did appear, however, that he was still able to conjure his mage hand before us. A frustrating game of charades ensued, where we learned little except that the hand did indeed belong to Shawn, and that he was, indeed, currently invisible.

The no-name halfling wandered over to the door and wiggled the handle. It was locked. He leaned close and listened. He heard voices but couldn’t make out the words. Then we heard keys jingling on the other side. Hastily, we all rushed to hide. Imp and the halfling moved against the wall on either side of the door. With no furniture aside front the table, I rushed to the far corner of the room and tried to hide in the dim light it provided. Claera moved similarly, but Drakon found himself with no place to go as the door started to open. Shawn’s mage hand moved in front of him to provide cover, but it did little to actually obscure his seven-foot frame.

Armed bodyguards entered with a stately female dwarf. It was Minesha Graves, last seen by most of us at the showdown at the Adventurer’s Guild Headquarters.

“Mister Flameguard, I see you. Come out. All of you. We need to talk.” She declared.

Glancing at the table, she asked us what had become of the head of Ibram. We feigned ignorance.

“Let’s talk about the dragon.” implored Imp.

“The dragon doesn’t matter.”

“Why aren’t you in jail?” Imp impatiently pushed her for answers.

“Galathor doesn’t rule everything.” Minesha said. “There are libraries in Waterdeep filled with what Galathor doesn’t know.”

Clearly, there was no love lost between former allies; it was obvious that the former five heads of the Adventurer’s Guild had well and truly split.

Minesha demanded to know what trouble we’d been causing since she’d last seen us and Imp wasted no time in volunteering information about some of my less-well-thought-out decisions, or really, just the one big decision. I had no real explanation for Minesha, but was thankfully saved from the full extent of her wrath when Shawn started to reappear and pulled Ibram’s head from the sack.

One of the bodyguards whispered something to Minesha, and she announced that she needed to depart but that she would remain in touch with us. The door now unlocked, we looked outside and saw that we were near the coast.

Freed from the sack, Ibram once again became quite chatty. He told us that Galathor was not quite as powerful as we might have been led to believe and he cast serious doubt on whether Galathor was actually the head of the “Empire” as we had assumed. It seemed that we’d missed quite a lot of changes in Athkatla while we’d been holed up in Honiesale these last several months.

Thinking that Ibram might be able to tell me something of the wooden coin I had received from Fozdrirq the beholder, I removed it from my pocket and held it up in the light. Both the severed head’s eyes and the coin began to blow. Mesmerized, Ibram was able to tell me that it was a token of Bane, but little else. He recommended that we should head to the Noble district of Athkatla and visit Giblin’s Oddities; the proprietor would most likely be able to tell us more about the coin and the other items we’d been given. Having grown up in the noble district, I knew Giblin well. He was well known in Athkatla for being an expert in all forms of oddities and antiquities. He was also well known for being an asshole.

Shoving Ibram’s head back into the sack, we headed East toward the heart of Athkatla. We all noticed a very different feel to the city. The previously immaculate stonework was covered in overgrowth, front gardens were bursting with weeds. Everything and everyone had taken on a decidedly unfriendly air. On the outskirts, we’d seen quite a lot of people wearing the insignia of the flying boar, mixed in congenially with the locals, but in the Noble district, we saw only representatives of the Golden Empire, and a small scattering of nobles rushing around with stern looks and their heads down. The streets were lacking many familiar faces and I felt a distinct unease in my own city.

Catching the eye of some passing guards, we were stopped and asked to state our business. We were saved only when one of them recognized Claera and pleaded for an autograph. We split up just before we hit the main drag. Claera and Meep pushed on toward the Wine Hall, while Shawn, Imp, Drakon, and myself headed down a side street to Giblin’s, taking Claera’s gifted hat with us.

Giblin’s Oddities was contained within a four-story exposed-wood building, covered in beautiful green ivy; a small carved sign hanging over the front door. Its simplicity stood out among the great stone mansions and marble facades filling the neighborhood. We entered and were met with the pungent scent of incense and the musty smell of old books and furniture. The entire first floor was crowded with shelves and hip-height tables loaded with ephemera; books, weapons, jewelry, trinkets, clothing. Very little light made its way through the windows; a few dust-filled beams highlighted the odd item or two, but strategically placed candles lent enough light to the room and a fire crackled on one wall. One had to step carefully and wind their way around small stacks of items and eccentric pieces of furniture and through delicate items hanging from the ceiling.

Amid all this clutter, near the center of the space, a small, bespectacled, hooded old man sat at a roll-top desk, scribbling in a large ledger book. His golden quill moved briskly over the page, shimmering unnaturally, while his eyes flicked back and forth behind crystal clear lenses inside gold rims. Without looking up, his smoky voice broke the silence in the room, “Amakiir. What did you bring me?”

“Hello, Mr. Giblin” I said, stoically. “Hi! I’m Shawn!”, pronounced the halfling.

Giblin took a long, careful look at the staff that Shawn was carrying. He couldn’t confirm its maker, but he said that, if used properly, it would make Shawn’s magic more effective. Drakon and Imp dropped their new weapons onto the desk, and after his initial scorn at their impetuousness, he evaluated each in turn. He recognized Drakon’s sword as having come from Fozdrirq, and told us it was a sword of justice, imbued with power by the God, Tyr. Imp’s sickles, Giblin told us, would increase their power, the more they were used to fell evil. “Interesting,” he mused, “that the beholder would encourage such violence.”

I handed him Claera’s hat to examine. It was a hat that would enhance musical performance. “This must belong to a talented musician. It certainly can’t belong to you,” he said, looking up at me over the rim of his glasses, “it can’t work miracles.” Gritting my teeth, I bit back a response. Giblin had always been particularly unpleasant to members of my family, and I had, more than once, said something that had made our interactions more fraught than they needed to be.

Handing the hat back to me, he stood and gestured toward the door, “If that is all…” he uttered curtly.

“Not yet, actually. I have just one more item. What can you tell me about this?”, I asked as I pulled the wooden coin from my pocket and flipped it onto his desk.

Giblin recoiled from the coin as though it might scald him. “Get out,” he growled, “and take that with you.” Having, more or less, confirmed my suspicions about the coin, and certain that he would tell me nothing further, I left the store. Shawn tried to ask about the pendant he wore, but Giblin expelled them all from his business, citing the poor company they kept.

We had no trouble getting into the wine hall and told the host that we were there as part of Claera Westwild’s party. After leading us back to the VIP section of the hall, he bade us well and pulled the privacy curtain closed. Once we were all equipped with a full glass of mead and some food, Shawn pulled Ibram from the sack and placed him at the center of the table. He laid a glass and a straw before the head, and Ibram began to gulp heartily at the drink. It was a perplexing sight to behold.

I returned the hat to Claera, and a slight misunderstanding about what type of performance of his might be enhanced by wearing it, reminded me that for all my pretense, I was still hopelessly enamored of my former idol. I focused intensely on my food until I was sure my pallor had returned to normal.

Food and drink restored our moods and we compared notes on everything we had learned thus far. The Flying Boars did not appear to be the cause of any trouble, but the Golden Empire was a clear threat to many. Was Galathor still in Athkatla? Was he even still alive?

Claera asked our waiter who was said to be running the town, but he either could not or would not answer. We asked after a dragon-born waiter we’d had previous, friendly interactions with, but he was not in. We settled for more mead, instead.

All of a sudden, Shawn grew uncharacteristically quiet. He must have somehow sensed what was about to happen. The privacy curtain slid open and a familiar figure entered the booth. It was Bricru. He slid into a seat and asked us to catch him up on what had transpired since we’d last seen him.

As we filled him in, the candle at the center of the table began to flicker rhythmically and the flame turned from a pale yellow to an otherworldly blue. A similar glow started to form around Bricru and everything surrounding him fell into darkness. All the noise of the Wine Hall fell away, and only Bricru’s voice could be heard. “The balance between demonic fae and reality is becoming muddled”, he said. The glow around him began to warm and take on an orange hue. He continued, but his words made less and less sense. “Demonic reflection of real and fae worlds. Unbalanced reflections distorting the real. As real becomes unreal, the veil becomes more diffuse. The separation fails.” None of us understood what he was trying to tell us, and the more he talked, the more he seemed to be struggling with a great deal of pain. Cringing, he gripped the table tightly and then fell away into the darkness. The table disappeared next. And then it was just us, blinded in the sudden dark.

Seven flames approached us slowly. As they got closer we were able to discern the figures. Three well-armed demonic beings, two enormous demonic beasts of burden, one figure, difficult to see, clad in a pitch black, hooded robe, and a final individual, clothed in a flaming cape, and wearing a jeweled crown, it held a scythe in one hand.

Before the advancing figures had a chance to initiate contact of any kind, Meep charged one of the beasts with his axe and hacked a leg clean off, It shrieked in pain before he spun around and swung again. None of us wasted any time in joining the fray.

Imp’s new sickles were a sight to behold. They practically radiated sunlight as they slashed across the abdomen of one of the beasts, the power of the blow causing it to howl and fall backward. Drakon’s new sword also seemed to glow as he righteously swung it over his head and struck blow after blow against the demons.

While I swung my short swords at the enemies in my path, I felt an onset of heat from the wooden coin stashed under my armor. I heard a deep laughter, which only deepened as the warmth from the coin spread across my chest. I struggled to put it out of my mind.

During the battle, the demon in the black cape began to chant and started glowing a deep, dark, red. Surely something awful was brewing, stopping only when Shawn was finally able to hit him with a magic missile and his concentration was broken. Shawn followed it up with more missiles. They penetrated the robe, one after another, until he disintegrated and the robe crumpled to the ground.

The demon in the flaming robe screamed bloody murder when Claera cast heat metal on his jeweled crown; it smoldered and smoke rose from where it sat atop his head but he continued to fight.

The battle waged on as we ticked off the enemies one by one. Trying my best to ignore the laughter that it appeared only I could hear, I was suddenly stricken with a shock of searing pain, and I dropped my swords and grabbed at my armor, trying to remove the coin that was burning my flesh.

As I scrambled to relieve the agony, the others in my party turned all their attention to the last remaining demon in the flaming robe. As soon as the crown was knocked from his head, he shrieked and transformed into Bricru. We blinked and we were once again sat around the table in the private booth at Mangrove Wine Hall sitting across from the traveler, none of us any worse for the wear. Two waiters entered and laid plates of salmon roe crostini with a dollop of crème fraîche and a chopped chive garnish before us, and left without so much as a second glance. We looked at Bricru but he only stared vacantly ahead, unmoving, and unresponsive.