The denizens of the Nars - including Peltarch and Norwick - find themselves staring at a near-permanent dawn, as the blazing orange star grows larger in the sky (and comes ever closer). There are, at this point, two suns in the sky, and one of them keeps coming closer. Temperatures rise. Crops dry out and die. The gravitational pull disrupts the tides. And there is no sign of it stopping. The Province of Moonreach, meanwhile, remains surrounded by its chill fog, wreathed and cloaked, its night sky utterly different than the sky visible in the rest of the North (the deep, cold, vivid blue, bathed in the cool silver of the moon). DM Xanatos Gambit

Updates to Villalgarviladral (marked deceased), Adan Whisperwick (marked deceased), and George Longcloak Prime (updated knowledge with particulars.)

✧ ✧ ✧ According to Adan, the Golden Geese are a "band of braggarts", ("sarcastic blowhards", "clowns",) -- also, a group that "expects to win", ("entitled to victory", and "wins gracelessly" when they do (see: other annotations on "games")) -- (apparently fuelled by "sheer, stubborn, childish will," other times described as "pure and bullheaded force", a "blunt hammer" -- in its various forms, apparently, not all of which physical or unsubtle) -- and who are "vainglorious", ("conceited", "egomaniacal", "overweening", "credit seeking", "self-aggrandizing",) who are best curtailed and redirected at enemies ("that can temporarily sate their bottomless desire to flaunt a bloated sense of importance, pride, and accomplishment.") (Note: Many of the above remarks have been added in as addenda, having been made in a singular fit of quiet bother later on, long after the initial entry, shortly after the Golden Geese effectively raided one of Whisperwick's more prized towers and he lost access to all resources within.) (I will later discover that Adan pulled strings to redirect their attention towards Lord Bellos.) Suffice to say, he holds the Golden Geese in rather low regard. I will be meeting with them shortly, actually, to assess them myself. ✧ ✧ ✧ Having met with the Golden Geese, on behalf of Bellos, I do not believe Adan gives them enough credit. ✧ ✧ ✧ Adan’s assessment of the group "Locus Operandi" is notably more favorable than his assessment of the Geese. He views them as a competent collective of earnest and well-meaning adventurers -- the very kind he wants to label him an enemy, something he approves of, in his own peculiar and contradictory (stupid?) way. According to Adan, then: Laura Cade is a mage with genuine curiosity. She is a viable candidate for apprenticeship, as Adan recognizes his own younger self in her drive to learn. (I will later learn that he actually provided her with, in essence, a copy of a "Clone" scroll, and encouraged her to use it (in case he ever killed her accidentally during a confrontation? (see notes on "games"))). Jhaelryna is a (half?)drow mage. His opinion of her was initially low, as expected, with a fair amount of emphasis on her devil familiar. (He will eventually speak rather well of her, after she will surprise him in an encounter, and he will admit her potential is comparable to Cade's, perhaps higher in pure arcana.) Jax, also known as "206," is an ex-Zhentarim soldier. He is physically strong, blindingly fast, and possesses a flexible and merciful sense of justice. Adan at once admires this of him, but for the same reason believes he represents a threat, which does not make much sense to me and he has yet to fully explain what he meant by that. (Still do not know?) Florian, a fey Bard, whom Whisperwick initially called flip he now calls affably charming. He considers the fey a tactful diplomat who might even be useful at curtaining "certain planar threats." (I thought, mistakenly, that fey are less prone to his prejudices?) (I will later appreciate Florian more than the others.) Nerrez is an ex-Zhentarim operative who commands rats. He is likely a wererat. As a purveyor of information, he is dangerous. Adan has ordered that we maintain close surveillance on him. (I will later learn that Nerrez and Adan are of similar temperament when it comes to cutting off loose ends.) Ashla is a paladin and a former member of May Celine’s lunar knights. She left the order after a disagreement with her superior. Adan says that, "despite her being an Aasimar", he admires her willingness to act independently and defy orders based on secret and unknown reasoning -- which he calls a "distinctly human trait" (I will later learn that Adan confronted his own former arcane teacher in a very similar circumstance). Aenhever is a human ranger. He is clever and highly competent. While he is bullheaded and often adversarial toward Adan, his loyalty to his group is a clear virtue. (A werewolf of low self-esteem being courted by one of the packs of ferals that skulks the Province of Moonreach.) Patrick is a bard with a righteous, zealous nature. He is an admirer of the human paladin Temperance of Gulderhorn (whom, I will later learn, Adan also holds in high regard?). Adan considers him a man of good taste. (Re: Gulderhorn?) Lokelani is a fey. Adan initially disliked her due to her nature. (So fey not less prone to his prejudice? (More hypocrisy and contradiction from Adan?)) Like Jhaelryna, she has proven herself through action, and he now recognizes her as a worthy arcanist. Octavia is a human mercenary, a hunter of runes and rare artifacts. Adan admires her tenacity and shares her professional interest in antiquities. (Later, he will remark that he regrets his actions against their former shared organization, the Caldera Manor.) ✧ ✧ ✧ Adan told me he sent assassins to eliminate Locus Operandi. He told me he promised those assassins great material reward if they should succeed, along with high credit and praise, among his circle of business affiliates (Later, I will learn such affiliates included Lord Bellos) -- i.e. he promised them prizes, gold, fame, and glory. At the end of that very same conversation, he told me he did not expect the assassins to succeed. A bewildering sentiment and a waste of resources. Truly, he contradicts himself. (Another game?) (Later he will remark to me with a bemused smile that the Locus Operandi dispatched them with ease -- before indicating he has already sent yet another assassin!) (Further note: I will eventually learn not to question the baffling hypocrisy of Adan having sent various assassins only to have them fail in his name -- against his supposed favourite group of antagonists!) ✧ ✧ ✧ Adan's opinion of the Locus Operandi is almost diametrically opposite to that of the Golden Geese, who he considers more brutish, brash, and blunt in their approach - by contrast, he considers the members of the Locus, as sincere, earnest, and unpolluted by the cynicism of time and effort, without vainglory. (I wonder how accurate this assessment is?) "Of all my opponents," he said, "the Locus Operandi are my favourites." Having a "favourite opponent" (antagonist? (enemy?)) and enjoying them to the degree that Adan does is yet another contradiction in Whisperwick's bizarre personality. If he is so entertained by them, and so attentive to them, and seems to enjoy them so much, why send assassins after them? (Insane question with no answer.) Why not emulate them? (Fair question. (No. Not in our nature; our endeavours require harsher sort of pragmatism.)) I have yet to meet this Locus, and we will eventually see, I suppose, if I agree with his assessment. ✧ ✧ ✧ Adan maintains membership in the Caldera Manor. I have not bothered to join. I find the organization unnecessary. I am occupied with Lord Bellos’s tasks, which I perform out of obligation, not desire. ✧ ✧ ✧ Adan uses multiple clones. These copies operate in various towers, methodically harvesting arcane materials. The volume is excessive. I do not know his final objective. (To do with his efforts against the entity?) ✧ ✧ ✧ He continues to find amusement in his adversaries. He is entertained most by the earnest ones who fight for some sense of duty or morality, even while he engages in activities various authorities would call criminal in order to continue amassing his hoard of arcane resources. He (namely thru clones) acts with extreme cruelty. When I challenged him on this distinction between himself and those he seems to be most obsessed about and entertained by (admire?), he laughed and offered to buy dinner. It is an illogical contradiction, with no definitive explanation. (I have concluded that this manner of adversarial relationship is his favourite, as though all it were a game to him. (Adversaries in games are typically friends. (Sincerely doubt his enemies feel same way. (Talks of "winning" and "losing" and seeking a "worthy opponent." (I will later ask him what that means. (He will later still reply: "Someone worthy of being my end." ("We all face the music sooner or later"? (Death wish? (Re: From prior to Dweomercore? (Re: Eltorchul Academy?)))))))))) ✧ ✧ ✧ I reiterate that Adan is convinced that mages must rule Faerun. He views the arcane as the only defense against otherworldly and interplanar threats. He sees non-magical rule as a failure of stewardship. He considers militant soldiers, royal Kings, nobles, republicans, peasants and the like as all ultimately incapable of doing anything substantively useful when truly faced with planar or otherworldly threats. He is, as ever, arrogant about it, though I cannot say I can truly fault at least the bare core of his logic that magic users are best placed to defend against such threats. ✧ ✧ ✧ Rare coalesced aether, or Aetherite, has fallen from the sky in the Province of Moonreach. Adan secured it. He recruited Olivia Gor, a member of Moonreach Keep, to betray her kin and prevent Moonreach Keep from obtaining the resource. It is now confirmed and known that he possesses it. The thing apparently disrupts divination magic and all manner of far-sight (permanent, temporary, or otherwise). He tells me he intends to put it to that very use. When I asked him why he wouldn't use it for its other properties, he told me it was far more valuable to him for its ongoing anti-divination effects. ✧ ✧ ✧ I learned that Adan betrayed the Caldera Manor to secure this Aetherite. It is an odd choice. He aligns himself with magocracy, yet he discarded a potential set of allies in that political, magocratic institution. I do not know his reasoning, nor can I follow the reasons why he is deviating so far from his usual mode of operation. In my opinion, he is not acting rationally. ✧ ✧ ✧ I asked if he will keep his word to Olivia Gor. He offered no response. He is shielding his true thoughts, but I can tell he is concerned (actively worried?). I have never seen him this way. (Still do not know? (The machine? (To be pressed. (Refuses to answer questions!)))) Additionally, he is gathering unexpected allies: fire giants, bugbears, and a pale, vampiric entity. He has, apparently, been currying favour with them. But why? (See note above.) I suspect he is lying to them / using them as he did the cambion. ✧ ✧ ✧ Adan will no longer speak of his plans to me. He has refused to inform me why he has destroyed and usurped various mage towers on the Sword Coast and the outskirts of Hillsfar, Scornubel, and Loudwater. He has grown more and more secret. I do not know why. (Still do not know. (See previous pages. (The machine.))) ✧ ✧ ✧ I assisted the Golden Geese. Specifically, I warned Aoth Sepret, the rather striking Thayvian "Golden Goose", regarding her upcoming betrothal to Lord Bellos. I could not see her to be subjected to his profane rituals. Bellos discovered my interference, invoked our magical bargain, and easily captured me. I am currently his prisoner. ✧ ✧ ✧ As I linger in this prison, I recall the night Adan showed me a powerful spell he had derived from a fabled one called "Aumvor's soul shatter." The original spell separates the soul from the body. Adan's variant separates the soul, from the body, from any additional passenger in either, which is to say, from any other soul, or any other influence or magical or planar presence within a given target or the target's soul that is not native and original to that target or the target's soul - i.e. a third party presence, including otherworldly influences, even those deeply and subtly embedded. I asked him why he devised such a spell, and upon whom he intends to use it. He did not answer and changed the subject. ✧ ✧ ✧ I have been released! I learned that Whisperwick used his internal connections to Bellos to pinpoint my location. The Thayvian exile Zodar Flass, another one of Bellos' associates (Note: extremely frail without magical protection (dead!)) provided him with the information in exchange for a promise to help his disgraced family in the future. Adan informed the Golden Geese of where I was held, leading to my rescue. (I will later learn that Adan attempted a direct rescue only to be foiled and subsequently threatened by Bellos personally. The two also apparently engaged in a spell duel that ended with Whisperwick's loss, and a promise (lie) for Whisperwick not to challenge Bellos again, enforced with magic. It was only after this, that Whisperwick went to the Geese with the information.) I am grateful to Adan (also Flass) and to the Golden Geese, for their intervention. ✧ ✧ ✧ Florian, of the Locus Operandi, was among the Golden Geese when they came for me. I can see why it is that Adan enjoys him. (I confess, I enjoy and am more impressed by the Golden Geese - though here Adan and I are at utter odds, with his preference being for the Locus Operandi, and mine being for the Golden Geese.) (Adan has a copy of each of Florian's publications, "The Moonreach Gazette" I think it is called, which Florian circulates in Moonreach Keep - do not ask me how Adan obtained them - whereas I prefer my copy of "The Mystery of the Eye," by Isolde Garibaldi.) ✧ ✧ ✧ Whisperwick has besieged Moonreach Keep. He betrayed many of his own allies in the process during the siege. I confronted him, demanding to know the tactical necessity of such a ploy. He refused to answer. His silence is heavy. He bid me gone. I have formed a theory from our past discussions, on the source of his secrecy and his concerns. The orange star, ablaze in the sky. I have read up on the subject. I can now confirm that some stars or things that appear like them ("entities"), are capable of sending agents ("star spawn") down to our world. These spawn, it is written, might possess the ability to occupy living vessels or even to masquerade as such individuals. I do not suspect Adan of being such a spawn. Rather, I suspect, that he suspects me, and others. And I suspect, that he suspects, that he cannot rely any longer on those he could once trust. Such as myself. This accounts for Adan's growing secrecy. It also explains his obsession with the Aetherite, and its anti-divination, effectively magically cloaking properties. He is hiding from the entity, and its potential spawn. He believes himself to be defending against the threat of the entity, as well as against an infiltration that might have already begun. (Machine?) I will help him in this regard, whether he wants my help or not. Unfortunately I've come to the this realization painfully late. Time is now imminently scarce, all divination magic is failing, communications as well, and it seems someone has now breached our tower and my invocations are already low. I only write this entry as a means to focus and calm my mind, as writing often does, in order to access more of latent invocations. In any event, I have my items and scrolls. As well as one spell in particular, to imbue upon this very tome. Just in case. If all else fails ... ... Jinsen, may we meet again beyond the veil. ✧ ✧ ✧ [End of log.] ✧ ✧ ✧ [DM Xanatos Gambit / Eternal] [Architecture of Metamorphosis - 2026/04/25]

Aenhever conveys that Maudin and Rheya have both come forth expressing their interest in the Coalesced Aether. That Rheya has claimed she will 'cleanse the rot' from the Mycellium should the Locus turn it over to her, and that - while this must be kept secret - Kzagoth will use it to separate himself from his infernal half. Both Maudin and Rheya have promised 'favors' as rewards...

In room L3, a small area of Laura's main desk has been reclaimed from the various jumble of projects that previously occupied it. Instead, resting on a flat little pillow of red wool, a handful of ancient looking rune tablets take pride of place. Nox is perched on a book pile shoved further onto the desk's surface, little cat nose leaning down for a sniff while Laura waggles a distracted finger his way, only half looking up from her writing. "Dearest Barton, I feel better, I think, since my last letter. Or rather, I'm actively striving to stay away from that dark hole, those dark thoughts, that dark and lonely place that draws me in whenever my optimism wanes. In my heart of hearts I still feel it, but reason and determination have started to assert themselves more fully over the futility of this particular emotion. I know this to be true, because it was put to the test just a few days ago. Of late, I've been delving here, there and everywhere in the area, enthused by chance findings of certain runes which Murrin tells me are both old, rare and charged with a magic that can (potentially) be combined and fused into objects of one's choosing. While they could be of Aureate design, I'm betting the rune system itself is older still and have had several spirited conversations with Murrin about it. Aen joined me for one such chat and only then was I reminded that Murrin's a rat. I tend to forget our differences when we're face to face and in the midst of conversation, for he has an interest so close to my own that I can't help but feel a certain kinship. In the hopes of finding more of these fascinating pieces of Moonreach history, and on the off-chance of locating a curious ogre merchant's hidden shoppe, we ventured down to the catacombs one day - finding an opening to a dark, forgotten corridor and several signs pointing towards a connection to the Tarnished Fane and the Aureates of bygone times. It was extremely dangerous - we all nearly perished several times over, from a long line of candelabra that turned out to be heavily enchanted! And that's just one example. The last, which at first didn't seem like such a big deal, was a mass of vines that grew along the cliff walls of a narrow valley we'd come to past an enchanted leafy area that brought Bertram's Weald instantly to mind. The serenity of that place must've lulled me into inaction, for when the vines suddenly burst into action around us I found myself slow to react. Or perhaps it just felt as though time slowed to a crawl, while I switched from offence to sudden and acute life-saving mode, but still could not keep up with the increasing frenzy of the vines. I was the last to go down, which I attribute wholly to the spells I'd been prudent enough to cast beforehand, but down we all went. My vision went black, then slowly flickered green and purple. Bioluminescent light met my bleary vision as I forced my eyes open, groggily coming to only to find myself firmly stuck in vines, but elsewhere, within a myconic structure alive around us. The 'wall' at my back was no wall at all, but living tissue, connecting to my bare limbs and naked back. I panicked at once, noticing this, but the struggle only saw me more deeply immersed in the vegetation. I was clearly naked, as were my friends nearby - Ashla and Aen's voices to my left, a new druid aquaintance to my right. Normally this might've made me feel self-conscious, but whoever had stripped us took not only armour and backpack, but even my glasses. I felt doubly exposed for that, but also strangely shielded. Nothing to see here, as it were - and we clearly had much bigger concerns anyway. A hazy creature appeared - a nymph, perhaps a plant, I can't be sure - but it had a female voice, crooning as it set about 'cultivating' us, lauding our potential for growth. I felt a wet, sticky something smear across my eyes, and my vision went from dim lights to greenish black. If I hadn't been afraid before, I definitely was now, for within the darkness I felt that too familiar pit opening up and I writhed, thrashed, fought to free myself from the vines, all to no avail. They tightened around me, til suddenly - oh Barton, this is the worst part. Til suddenly I ~saw~. I saw with such perfect clarity, from countless directions all at once. I felt my sense of self straining to encompass this dizzying, remarkable sensation and tried to remind myself through words, through insisting on the particulars of who I am - only to hear my voice echo from as many directions, flood from a myriad pores into as many receptors. It frightened me like nothing else and I instinctively withdrew, curling in on myself - finding then that the vegetation itself followed suit, cradling me in a protective pod. To my left, I was vaguely aware of Aen tearing himself free - I could feel the ripples the separation sent through the wall. He moved on to Ashla, the closest to me, and I knew surely he would help me next. I didn't doubt that, I knew I would not be forgotten or left behind - but I couldn't wait that long. Not when the collective so embraced me, inviting me to join them. Never again alone, never blind, never lost in the dark, sounded the Mycelium's siren song, the voices softly blending and reverberating to a soothing din, gradually drowing out my friends voices. I was so ~tempted~, Barton. The pull was such that I couldn't wait for Aen - I just didn't trust myself to say no for long. Instead, I tried to reverse the motion that had me so comfortably and securely cradled - stretching out, arching back til with a sickening, agonizing lurch, I fell out of the pod and dangled in the air, held by a single thick vine attached to my lower back. But it hurt! It hurt so much, but I couldn't stop - I couldn't return to that gentle embrace, because I wanted it too much. I thought of Dorron - then of Feowem's heartbroken, shattered expression each time they meet. I thought of you, seeing me in that same light. And then I spun. Making myself small, gaining a little bit of momentum through a kick to the wall, twisting, winding, straining the vine at my back to the point of breaking. The pain was like... it was like willfully trying to sever your own arm, then horribly succeeding! And yes, my comparison is apt enough, because I did have my shoulder bit off by a shark that one time. Not willfully, but still! Thank Mystra shock set in once the vine finally snapped. I just lay there in a limp, curled up heap, bleeding strange green fluid all over myself, even my consciousness feeling fragmented with the severance. Slowly I came to - collecting all the scattered bits of myself, reorienting myself within my single, limp and shivering body, laboriously rising. The others were free too, but we were in bad shape, in a bad place, without sword, spell or armour to aid us. I knew I was nothing but dead weight in that state, but clutched Ashla's hand thankfully all the same. She and Aen somehow defeated the looming myconid that lumbered into our path - I let go of her hand, aimed a blind kick that probably hit the wall, and then we stumbled forwards, listening ahead, dashing around bends until we happened across our equipment at long last. My glasses had a crack in them, but thankfully it was an easy fix - curtesy of Farian. He still seems prone to avoid us but I have more hope in that being mendable than I did before. Moonreach may be filled with secrets, but not everyone who keeps them do so out of ill will - sometimes it's even the contrary. The quicksilver made me realize that. Still no sightings of the Octavia-like being that it manifested as, but perhaps that's just as well. We should remember that Whisperwick still has the batch he stole from Rheya's tower and perhaps more than that, still. While he has not been seen since that night either, I don't for a moment believe he's gone for good. How we'll survive the next encounter, I don't yet know. The element of surprise is our only strong card right now and I can only hope we play it well enough - because I very much doubt he'd casually leave the aetherite and the quicksilver without some serious supervision, no matter how busy he may be putting out fires elsewhere. But that's tomorrow's set of problems. Farewell for now, dear brother - wherever you are. Your resolute sister, Laura"

Summary: Xoeth Bellos of Sunscourge Qasr is dead. Location: Dulhimide, Thay. Weather: Dry. Food/Wine: Inhospitable. Facts: The Golden Geese led an assault on Sunscourge Qasr. From your correspondent's behavior prior, Lord Bellos had learned that I delay and assault from the air. So we left unannounced a day early and attacked from below in order to bypass the majority of his security. Bellos cooperated fully and teleported us directly into his lair where he was defeated. Previously, Adan Whisperwick had provided us accurate intelligence on Bellos's operation, and the manner of Bellos's "allies" during the assault followed that pattern. Specifically, they began to loot the keep the second they were certain that we would eliminate him from their calculations. In the end, Whisperwick absconded with a wand of a pre-Kharsus power, charged with a 10th-level spell called Familicide. This wand may or may not be a fraud. The body of Kasimir Fisher was seen, but we were unable to speak with the prince directly. The entity in control left Sunscourge with an artifact of unknown capabilities. Bennek Sepret and 30 of Bellos's latest "wives" of noble birth have been freed. Marai Agnneh of Priador has proven herself as worthwhile ally for the present. Her aspiration for Tharchion enjoys our full support until evidence demands reconsideration. Odast Kakanos, uncle to the Princess Consort, appears to have fled even before our unannounced arrival. A partial copy of his journal indicates a history of his various experiments upon royal bloodlines, in line with the Brotherhood of the Endless. Thus, he poses a threat to the princesses' unborn child, but it is likely that, without external pressure to compel him to act, he will wait until the child has grown naturally into their inheritance. Recommendations: Whisperwick will need to be dealt with immediately. We understand that the Moonreachers known as Locus Operandi have information on his hidden location, and one of theirs, Florian, will return to Moonreach with the news that they are expected. The Geese, meanwhile, must focus on George Longcloak and rescuing his soul and life from whatever fate his recent death has locked him into. In the long term, I will recover my lands in Thay, resume my titles, and take a more active interest in the land's affairs. To achieve this meaningfully, it will be important to not rely entirely on House Agnneh for support and information. For the present, however, their support will be rewarded and returned.

Current event scheduled for this Saturday, April 18, 2026, at 1:00 PM Eastern Time.

Salina Datson - Rogue The Datsons have lived in Norwick for generations, but now only Salina remained. They had once had a small farm of their own, before the occupation. During the Zhent's time, her family were taken away one by one. First her mother, burned alive inside their farmhouse, for trying to insist on a reasonable price for their crop. Then her father, sent to Zhentil Keep in chains for refusing to kneel before the officer who ordered his home burnt down. Finally both of her older sibings, publically flogged for reportedly passing information to the enemy - then they too followed their father in chains to Zhentil Keep mere weeks before the town was finally 'liberated'. Salina herself kept her head down until the occupation ended, she made ends meet by working shifts at the makeshift inn that would later become the Mirthful Cup. Now Norwick is free once more, but Salina's home is still ash, her family are all dead or still suffering somewhere in the West. And despite the energetic pluck of the young survivor's demeanor, the scars of the invasion still run deep.

Others in Norwick The Temple of Kelemvor The foreign-born clerics and paladins of the new temple have proven effective against the undead scourge. They've sealed the crypts and stopped the roaming dead from reaching the surface. The Kelemvorites have few interactions with the town, save for the monthly ships arriving riverside with crates of supplies bound for the temple. They are led by Judicator Laurane de Fremault of Kelemvor, who hails from Cormyr. Her presence is said to be quite intimidating, though few townsfolk have spoken to her directly. The Inn of the Mirthfufl Cup Cousins Alan Roper and Oana Ellis co-own Norwick's new Inn, which has marketed itself to adventuring sorts. Alban, a half-elf, typically works behind the bar where his gregarious ways encourage indulgence (and large tabs). Oana, a moon elf, seems less social, and she manages the inn's staff and finances. A newly formed League of Adventurers operates out of the Inn of the Mirthful Cup. Too young to have much of a reputation, it's said that the guild's self-described "chamberlain," Jordi Bogaert, has considerably deep pockets though his origins and relations are as yet unknown. Some believe that the Guild's promises are more wind than sail. Hazelmere Whitespire The sole remaining member of the hardworking Whitespire family, Hazelmere was always a weird, witchy girl more likely to be found alone, staring at nothing, than socializing with her peers. An adult now, it's whispered that she contributed financially to several families in the reconstruction effort, but she seems to shun all recognition for her part. Hazelmere operates a secondhand shop, The Hidden World, in the town center. Hazelmere's tenants include Magelena the changeable and enthusiastic gnomish tailor. The dwarven twins Bili and Fili who were born to Aura Runedar refugees and now sell weapons and armor. An elven mage known only as The Alchemist. Spellweaver Keep The wizards of Spellweaver remain absent. The former site of the Tower is a pit that's rumored to have strange effects upon the Weave. The Western Wood King Brek, Biggest of the Whole Woods, Stealer of the Lightning, Eater of Bones Little is known about the new goblin king of the western Rawlinswood save that his people heap praises and titles upon him. Scouts suggest that the goblins have learned a thing or two about alchemy since his rise, and it's likely that he has a cabal of "lewdtennants" to inspire fear and obedience like previous goblin leaders. The Circle of Quercatha Terr With the Zhentarim destruction affecting the woods as much as Norwick, the druids could not stand neutral through the war, but they took the patient approach. From their hidden glen, they emerged sporadically to grant awakened life and a thirst for vengeance to plants and animals of the woods. The ritual's effects linger, and one vocal druid, Nuala Qinrel, has informed Norwick that the ritual will not be completed until the Rawlinswood regains what was lost. Every tree felled for a home in Norwick or Peltarch delays that day. The Wolves of Narfell It's unclear whether the old ranger's guild still exists. Nevertheless, when loggers stumble onto already-dead goblins rather than an ambush, they give a quiet thanks to the old watchers of the wilds. The Eastern Wood Kerugax, "The Brat Prince" No one in Norwick knows for certain what transpired between the Col Geroldine and the hobgoblins, but the one is gone and the other clearly benefited. Their borderlands were heavily patrolled by both parties, preventing accurate intelligence. Despite frequent skirmishes and posturing, there were also exchanges of goods. During the Zhentarim occupation of Norwick, the hobgoblins overthrew their bugbear masters, and its rumored they've built a fortress in the eastern woods. Recently, one name has climbed to the top of the new order, Kerugax---though his bitter rivals have other names for him.

Unfortunately, the earliest I will make it back home today is five hours from now. Assume George to be deep in the planning and going over the maps, trying to see if there are any holes in the encirclement that need plugging, the goal being that there will be no physical escape route. His comments on the whole matter can be boiled down to "bloody well done, Perom."

Number One Fan

The rain pours down on slate roofs and cobblestone streets. And endless onslaught of tapping on windows and merchant baldakins, each a gentle whisper on its own, coming together to create a continuous roar of sound that overpowers conversations indoors. And that is where the conversations are held, with all but the poorest and foolhardiest finding shelter. Conversations that drift also among the halls of the Lighthouse Temple. Conversations between novices, orphans, priests and faithful. From the altars of the mightiest, to the shrines of those all but forgotten. The figure of a young man stands before the shrine of Amaunator. His slashed and patterned clothes sporting vivid shades of red, orange, gold and white. Proud and disciplined, he seems pensive more than praying, though he might have started with the latter. His hands clasped behind his back, and his gaze on a horizon that isn't there. "Who are you to let anyone burn in your stead, George Longcloak?" His own voice had echoed through his mind, day after day. The eternal reminder that his strength and upbringing obliged him to act. It had been caused by the bitter taste of the revelation his second capture at Whisperwick's hand had brought. Whisperwick had hinted at it. Escaping the cell had revealed much of it to be true. His soul was burning up, and it was indeed finite. So the wizard had said. And he had somehow spread the curse to others, burning their souls in his stead to stave off his own demise. The wizard, then, had sped up the process, hoping to create more like him. More of his "power source". It had seemed true. He had started to recall dreams and memories of others. Men and women, all haunted by the fire. If this was the same thing May Celine "knew" about him, he could understand her hatred of him. Her fear of what he might do. If he did not control it, he might burn all the world to save himself. All the world? All the planes. Aoth had made it clear even water itself feared his fire. Of course, every explanation he had gotten about what was happening to him had been someone else's interpretation. None had the full picture, and what they knew was tinted by their desires or fears. By now he had learned the wizard was wrong... or lying... but he wasn't sure if that was better or worse. He was not certain if what he knew now was the whole truth, either. He had not been leeching off the souls of others. All those others were his soul. Shattered. Scattered about. Little seeds of him sown by the Star, in an effort to spread the Devastating Fire ever farther. Men and women who exhibited traits of him. His conviction. His bravado. His zest for life. His protectiveness. He had gathered two, by now. One was a farmer, and a beacon to his community. That one had eventually relented and seen wisdom, stepping closer and going up in flames and smoke. His children had not, though. The man could not have existed for more than a handful of years, but the life he left behind seemed as real as his own. So what of the children? If the man was part of him, were the children as well? They'd not disappeared with the man. Were they his responsibility? How terrified they had been, seeing their father burn out of existence. So had the man's friends. He had been unable to ease their loss. Isolde has assured him they would be watched, but he himself would never be able to set that right. The other had reminded him of the boy he'd been. All swagger and baseless confidence. Quick to see an insult, even quicker to throw down a glove. That one had not relented, so hells bent on making a name for itself by snuffing out George Longcloak... Much as he had snuffed out a dozen others. All tiny embers returning to a larger flame. The man had charged, and he stood his ground to give him the fight he wanted, at least. There was no fight. Just consternation and disbelief on the man's face as the flames took him. So certain that he'd been the one. That part worried him, now. The younger embers joined the roaring older flame. No fight, no struggle. It simply happened. The farmer's family and friends had acted as though the man had always been there. The fighter's friends had thought the man had been untouchable. What if he was wrong? What if he was not the oldest? The way Whisperwick had said he was not sure if -he- had survived the explosion. Perhaps he was just another minor flame. When had he become this? When had the Star taken these embers from them and spread them around? It made little difference, in the end. Either he found the rest of his soul, or he would burn out. If his was not the original fire, he still belonged to it. Either he became whole, or he'd never have a body again. Having the others return to him had at least made his form more solid. Less fiery. His clothes and armor still hinted at fire, of course, and flames still escaped him at times, but it was a start. Just in time for the next thing. He should have known it had been too easy. Her just disappearing could not have been the end of it. He didn't even bring her name to mind. Let alone her... visage... She stirred, though. Even now. Even as a ghost bound in a stone, he was haunted by her. On the plus side, that meant her presence was not a corporeal ailment. The downside? All the implications of it not being a corporeal ailment. He realized the reason she stirred should, by all acounts, worry him more than she did, but he felt... Oddly prepared to face the judgement of the gods. Because that was what it came down to. The lands of Narfell, and possibly beyond, were considered a problem. Isolde loved to scoff at the notion because she detested order of any kind, but the Primes are what they are. A delicate balance of Planar influences coming together and making mortal life possible. This is why he never could truly fault Isolde. He knew he gravitated towards law and order. So there needed to be at least a whirlwind of a bard to balance him out. Deny it all you like, but pulling it too far one way or the other would irreparably damage reality itself. And it just so happened that this sort of thing happened worryingly often in their home. The Inevitables wanted it purged. Just how wide the area was, was not known. Half of Faerûn, for all they knew. They'd received a warning from a group of angels that technically could not act, but whose goodly nature demanded action. They had convinced the Inevitables to leave judgement in the hand of the gods, then came to Toril to warn the heroes of Narfell that they would have to speak for their home. It was daunting, yes, but fitting. Let the people of Narfell who faced that past, who face that present and who face that undeniable future be the ones to explain the error in these planars' thinking. For himself, a new path had made itself clear. The archon Bastilla had mentioned a trumpet archon that might know of a way to deal with the voice in his head. Though perhaps he would have to tolerate it a bit longer, while he pulled himself together.

"Bring your blade," she softly spoke. Her voice was a gentle rustle, barely above the faint crunch of steps against the litter of withered golden leaves among the graveyard garden. Leaves which had shed from her hair's canopy of foliage, past her skin of moss and bark. "Will I need it?" asked Bertram. He watched her water the flowers. They were soft, curled, and yellowing. Their colour more faded than the shock of blonde hair which draped the young man's forehead, barely concealing eyes that followed the arc of water. "You might," she replied. Her eyes rose to meet his, irises beginning to shimmer with amber. ★ ★ ★ "Leave or die ... Ten seconds, then I strike!" threatened the man. Initially, the adversary was exactly as Bertram had expected. It was him. The one he was warned about. The man wrought in iron, more metal than flesh. From helm to greave, covered in dark gray armor. The man who had encroached into the forest, the enchanted borderland between the civilizations of men and women and what they called the Weald, but which Bertram called home. Bertram should have loathed him. Here was the one who cut a jagged path through Bertram's home. The man who swung his toxic sword at Bertram's friends, who drove the forest into hiding and who stole bits and pieces of the tree and flower folk. Bertram expected a man who held no love, no reverence or awe for older ways. A blind and stupid man, shunning a beauty he could not perceive. Bertram arrived well warned and prepared for a fight. That is, should he have encountered this strange man. An encounter in the middle of which Bertram now very clearly was. Bertram thought he might at least leave the man bloodied, with a warning to step aside and not interfere with Bertram's work here or ever, and to more generally stay clear of the Weald. The man's open hostility should have all but confirmed Bertram's resolve. Yet Bertram's resolve began to fade at the mere sight and sound of the man. It was not upon the iron greaves, nor the iron armor, the helm or shield or blade that Bertram focused. Nor was it on the substance of the man's shouts and threats, those specific words used or the volume of the shouting. Rather, it was upon the man's eyes. Past the visor. Past their blue, wet, and flickering orbs. Past the hostility seething in the man's stare. More than wrath, hate, or malice... more than anything, the man was afraid. The iron-wrought man's fear became palpable when his voice cracked. The near-choke sound of faltering, when he spoke of the one Bertram was here to meet and escort. When he asked Bertram if he was "here to take her away." The woman named Muriel. Muriel, whose voice Bertram barely heard call out the name of his adversary from somewhere past the cottage window: "Darian?" By now Bertram's resolve to fight had faded entirely. Harsh gusts raked the meadow's tall grass, before calming to stillness and quiet. The sky parted, and bright light washed over the field between Muriel's cottage and the Weald, and over the two men. The parting sun shone but for a moment, swiftly followed by a gray veil, as another thick cloud swept over. "Her time's come ... hasn't it?" began Bertram, as gently as he could. Darian stepped forward, assuming a battle-stance. His eyes wild. His ears obviously shut. "She is poorly of mind and body. Is she not? She must away with me," continued Bertram all the same, and quickly this time. Now it was his turn to to hesitate. Darian stepped forward. Bertram stepped back. Darian threw aside his shield. He gripped his blade with both hands. His hostility and forewarning by now all too clear. "I don't want to fight you," hissed Bertram, the pump of his heart growing harsher and the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to prickle and stand on end. But iron flashed. Darian’s sword was already mid-swing, a blur of violence fast coming Bertram's way. Bertram barely cleared his bronze blade from its scabbard for a frantic, clattering parry that had him reeling. His heels dug furrows into the earth. Their swords clattered and clashed again and again, each time ringing louder than the last. The shriek of bronze against iron drowned out any other sound, and neither man could hear the cries coming from inside Muriel's cottage.

Richard Gale reports that the letter was successfully delivered to the King's' personal Kingsguard, who have reported that he has well received it. There is no response. [DM Xanatos Gambit]