Elias listens carefully to Tarysaa’s reasoning, nodding in understanding. He doesn’t judge her hesitation—if anything, he respects it.
“There’s wisdom in preparation,” he says softly. “And we are not prepared for what lies ahead—not fully. Not the waters, not the web-choked tunnels, not the Lords from Below.”
He folds his arms, exhaling slowly.
“But time is against us.” He looks to Woodrow, acknowledging the urgency in his words earlier. “If Mival is still alive, every moment we delay risks losing him.”
He pauses, considering both arguments, before speaking again.
“If we return to the village, we could uncover more truth. But if the boy is here, we risk leaving him behind.” He looks at the others, Tarysaa, Koran, Ardana, Woodrow.
“So here’s my proposal: if we press on, we do so smartly. We don’t take reckless chances. We don’t swim blindly into the unknown.” He gestures toward Geados and the ferry.
“If we do this, we take the boat. We control our entry point. We move forward—together.”
He then turns back to Tarysaa, his expression kind but resolute.
“But if you believe a return to the village would make you truly more prepared for what’s ahead, I won’t force you forward. We’ve all come here for different reasons, and your skills will be invaluable when the real fight begins.”
His blue eyes sweep the party one last time, the weight of the decision heavy in the air.
“So. Do we cross the waters now, knowing we are not fully prepared? Or do we return, knowing that we risk losing the trail?”
His voice is steady, but the choice is now out of his hands.
Woods shoulders slump, guess it's for the best. A chance to take stock of what we know thus far. I'll swing by the mother's place and meet you all back at the inn?
Elias smiles faintly at Tarysaa’s words, dipping his head in quiet acknowledgment. "Then let us hope our recklessness does not outpace our wisdom."
His eyes shift to Woodrow, seeing the tension in his posture, the slump in his shoulders. Wood wanted to push forward, but the reality of their situation had settled in. Elias nods in understanding.
"Yes, gather what you can from the mother, Wood. See if anything in her words changes now that we’ve been below." He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then adds, "And be careful. Koran was right—if we’re dealing with shapeshifters, the people we trust may not be the people we think they are."
Then Ardana’s question draws his attention, and he turns back to her with a slight, knowing smirk.
"How do we move together when the boat carries just one?" He exhales a short chuckle, then answers, "With patience and trust."
"One at a time, yes. But the first across establishes a foothold. The second strengthens it. By the time the last of us crosses, we will not be scattered but prepared."
Then, his gaze hardens slightly, his voice steady but firm:
"When we return, we go together. When we fight, we fight as one. Even if we must cross the waters separately, we will arrive as a single force."
He turns back to the party, his blue eyes sharp yet warm. "For now, let’s regroup. Take stock. Gather our strength. When we return, we’ll be ready for whatever waits below."
So, the party decides to return, for the time being, to Rassalantar.
Since the idea was to rest, I assume that while Woodrow (and perhaps Ardana?) go to report to Kara what they have discovered, the other adventurers will spend time at the Sleeping Dragon Inn.
In that case, Yondral Horn, the Shield dwarf who owns the inn, dressed, as usual, in neat and elegant clothes and with an impressive volume of hair, most of which is gathered behind his head, is quick to welcome them with an unusually cheerful smile, for a dwarf: "Welcome back, brave adventurers! Have you found what you were looking for while exploring the ruins?"
Kara 'Tarsakh Flower' Sashar, on the other hand, is incredulous at the news that is told to her: "Woodrow... what are you telling me? I had Mival in my womb for nine months, before he was born... and no one could have stolen him from there. Mival is my boy, nothing else. And since he was born, he has always lived with me... no one could have replaced him without me noticing. Even if I had not witnessed the crime, surely in the following days I would have noticed differences in his behavior, character, memories... If some shapeshifter really took the appearance of my Mival, it could have done so only in the last few days, before he disappeared and therefore before I could notice anything strange - but why would someone do something like that? Why us, a humble cartwheel and her son? We are not important people..."
Tarysaa had a drink of water before going up to her room. Using what little precious time available, she went into her trance state to restore her health and prepare for the next challenges.
(( Elven Trance State. IF she gets 4 hours it is 'a long rest' ))
She ponders the hurdles met so far and considers her choices. Removing flooded basements or growing gills was not something the Harpells 'offered' to train for... though she knew a few 'students' under the Harpells that would enjoy such challenges.
Tarysaa manages to spend the four hours she needs undisturbed.
Meanwhile, Elias has the opportunity to ascertain that the two potions must have spoiled somehow - they are unfortunately not magical anyway. The scroll, however, is a Spell Scroll of Purify Food and Drink.
Elias stares at the results of his examination, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as reality sinks in. The potions were useless. The scroll—while not entirely without purpose—wasn’t remotely worth what he paid.
A slow exhale leaves him, not quite a sigh, but close enough.
"Well," he mutters dryly, rolling the spell scroll back up with more force than necessary, "lesson learned."
His mind replays the interaction with Fonkin, trying to decide whether the gnome had been intentionally deceitful or simply a merchant looking to offload bad wares. Either way, Elias had paid a fool’s price for his trust.
He tucks the scroll away, resisting the urge to dwell too long on the lost gold. He’d been outwitted—he’d accept that. But he wouldn’t forget it.
Turning back to the rest of the party, his usual good humor dimmed but not extinguished, he says, "Unless any of you have pressing business, I say we regroup at the inn. We’ll need rest, better preparation, and perhaps a bit of strong drink before we descend again."
Then, with a wry smirk, he adds, "And next time we find a gnome peddling 'rare finds,' remind me to let someone else do the haggling."
Once Tarysaa ends her Trance rest, she will gather with the others in the inn. She hoped to impart some thoughts to Elias and company before going back down into the under ruins. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, she will impart some thoughts she had during her 'rest'.
"This is not a large village so I doubt there is a mage or magic shop for special items. However, there should be a smithy - who might have cold iron or perhaps a blade or two and maybe a solid pry bar?
I was also wondering about the local church. They tend to hold village records of deeds, births, deaths and village 'business'. Perhaps it has documents that might better define what the old keep looked like - especially drawings of the lower levels. Or even additional work done later. I have minimal hope since the keep is very old and those kinds of documents end up destroyed due to floods, mice, and time. Still, it may be worth looking into."
She stopped and looked at each of her party members. "I feel we have barely scratched the surface of the layers at the keep."
Elias listens to Tarysaa’s suggestions with renewed attention, and as she speaks of maps, deeds, and the church’s records, he nods thoughtfully, the disappointment from earlier beginning to melt beneath the spark of inquiry.
"You’re right," he says, the familiar gleam of curiosity returning to his eyes. "Even the smallest hamlets tend to have churches or shrines that double as the community's historians—scribes of life, death, and the mundane in between. If any fragment of the original plans for the keep survives, even a mention in the old ledgers, it could give us a strategic advantage."
He taps his temple, thinking aloud.
"We know the lower levels flooded. But were they always meant to be accessible? Or was something buried long before the water found it? Even understanding what used to be there could tell us what’s now missing—or hidden."
He glances toward the street beyond the inn window, already plotting the likely location of the village chapel or shrine.
"I'll speak with whoever tends the church. If we’re lucky, they might have a surviving ledger, or even an elder who remembers old stories passed down. Meanwhile, someone else might want to speak with the smith—if there’s even one blade of cold iron in this town, I’d rather it be in our hands than left to rust."
Then, turning back to Tarysaa, Elias gives her a sincere nod.
"You’re right—we’ve only touched the surface. I want to see what lies beneath… but only once we’ve turned over every stone up here."
He looks to the others. "Shall we divide and conquer?"
Elias (and whoever goes with him) has no trouble reaching the nearby small Temple of Torm. It's a modest structure, built of sturdy, grey stone. It is a single-story building, its roof capped with a simple, unadorned spire. There is a small open-air cemetery at the back, where a few rose bushes (probably white roses, Torm's sacred flowers) have not yet bloomed, but will probably make for a pleasant spectacle later in the season.
The entrance is a simple, heavy wooden door, polished and free of rot, bearing a small, iron symbol of Torm's gauntlet. The stone around the door is worn smooth in places, suggesting years of faithful hands touching it. Inside, the air is cool and still, carrying a faint scent of beeswax and polished wood. Sunlight filters through the narrow windows, illuminating simple frescoes showing scenes of Torm's valor and protection. A simple altar, draped in clean, white cloth, sits at the far end of the hall, bearing a few lit candles and a worn, leather-bound holy text.
A young blonde man wearing a robe with the Torm's symbol (a gauntlet) is the only one present at the moment and smiles at the sight of the visitors: "Oh, what a pleasure to receive souls eager for prayer! Please, feel free to use the kneelers and and praise the Loyal Fury! Torm the True, because he values loyalty above all else. Torm the Brave, because he will face any danger to prove his respect for duty. Any who would call himself his follower must do the same!" he approaches, with a light of youthful fervor in his eyes.
Elias takes in the modest beauty of the temple, his steps slowing as his gaze traces the worn stone, the quiet reverence etched into every corner. The soft scent of beeswax and old wood is familiar and comforting in its way, though his connection to Torm is purely academic. Still, the space commands respect—and Elias gives it willingly.
He offers a warm smile to the young priest, nodding politely at his energetic welcome.
“Torm the True indeed,” Elias says, his voice calm and respectful, if not overtly devout. “And may his sense of duty continue to shine through those who serve in his name.”
He takes a moment to bow his head at the altar before stepping aside, allowing any of his companions to observe as they wish, then addresses the priest more directly.
“You may not recall me, but I am Lord Elias Cerwyn of Waterdeep. I have recently arrived to look into the matter of the missing boy—Mival, I believe his name was. In the course of our investigations, we’ve found reason to believe there are deeper levels beneath the ruins of Rassalantar’s Keep.”
Elias clasps his hands before him, not arrogantly, but with a gentle dignity, as befitting a man of knowledge and service.
“What I seek is not spiritual, but historical. Would the temple keep records? Deeds? Even oral histories passed from prior clergy? Anything that might give us a clearer picture of what lies beneath those ruins—be it architectural plans, modifications, or... less documented secrets?”
Then, softening his tone just slightly, he adds with genuine humility:
“I know this is a small village, and such things are often lost to time—but even a whisper of the past might help us protect those in the present.”
((Persuasion roll - NATTY! 26 total...sure hope that wasn't wasted if there's nothing here haha))
"Oh, noble Elias Cerwyn, so much concern for a boy does you credit" the young blond man seems impressed... and embarrassed at the same time. "Unfortunately, your quick and worldly mind has already understood the limitations of this poor church... Back when the ruins were not such, this building did not even exist..." he sighs "No, unfortunately there are no records of the time. As for the stories... there is the opposite problem: there are too many! Rassalantar is the founder of the Keep - and therefore, indirectly, also of this Hamlet, born thanks to the protection of the Keep. It is no coincidence that the hamlet bears the name of the hero. All sorts of stories about Rassalantar circulate here. But surely the majority are pure invention - and there is no way to detect the little truth diluted in such a sea of legends. And in any case, these are legends relating to the hero's deeds - not to the design of his Keep".
"I..." the man of the church lowers his eyes "I'm afraid the only help I can give you is to advise you not to go to the ruins. They are infested with monsters, everyone knows that. Not even the guards go there - hiding behind the fact that their orders are to defend and keep the village safe; while the ruins are not technically part of it. Don't go... I know the story of the boy who went there and never came back. He hasn't been back for days... Do you think he is still alive? Alone? In the midst of monster-infested ruins? I... I sense that you are a good man... do not waste your life on a useless quest. Not for a dead man. Torm is the god of sacrifice - but a worthless sacrifice, like wasting one's life trying to save someone who can no longer be saved... is not even a sacrifice. It is senseless. A sin of pride. Go your own way... and make your life a sacrifice that has value."
Tarysaa follows Elias into the small temple; taking time to study the structure and what lies within. She listens as Elias and the cleric banter back and forth while she takes some cleansing breaths to clear her mind and relax her body to better feel her surroundings.
'I wonder if this cleric would mind a potted clipping of those roses? Thetis might enjoy some living flowers,' Tarysaa thought as she examined some carvings in the wooden structure.
Elias listens in silence, hands clasped before him, his expression solemn as the young priest speaks. He does not interrupt, allowing the man to finish his heartfelt plea. When the final words fall—“a sin of pride”—Elias lowers his gaze, letting the weight of the moment settle before he responds.
Then, with quiet clarity, he lifts his head and replies.
“You speak with passion, and your concern is not misplaced. I hear it not as cowardice, but as compassion. You wish to shield others from what you see as inevitable loss—and for that, I respect you.”
He steps slowly toward the altar, his voice low but strong, echoing slightly in the quiet stone chamber.
“But you are mistaken in one thing.” He turns back to face the young priest, his blue eyes steady and unwavering. “I do not go into the ruins because I believe the boy is surely alive.” “I go because he might be.”
He lets the words hang for a breath, then adds:
“Hope—especially when it seems foolish—is not a sin. It is a burden. One I choose to carry.”
He walks a slow circle around the interior of the temple, admiring the murals and the light as he speaks.
“You serve a god who demands courage. Who tells his faithful to face danger not for glory, but for duty. What greater duty is there than to act in defense of the vulnerable, even when the cause seems lost?”
Returning to stand before the priest once more, Elias offers a warm but sad smile.
“You are right that the past is muddy, that the stories are uncertain, and that the guards will not follow. But if no one walks into danger, then evil has already won.”
He places a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you for your honesty, and your warning. They are heard and honored. But we are not turning away.”
Then, after a pause, a touch of wry humor slips into his tone: “Besides... I’ve already paid too much for bad potions to walk away now.”
With that, Elias inclines his head respectfully, and turns toward the door—ready to return to the inn and the next step of the journey.
Ardana accompanies her fellows to the temple. Followers of Torm are friendly with Helm; there is enough in common between the faiths that there is often a shared mission, fellowship.
She greets the young priest respectfully, and after some small talk about how he became a priest, and a follower of Torm, and posted to this remote village, she gets her way to the real point of her conversation. Does he introduce himself?
So who should we be talking to? Are there any here who recall the days of Rassalantar? Any old families? Who administers the town, and the guard?
We are most interested in what the young man was doing before he headed to the ruin, his motive for venturing forth might help us decide if he is indeed lost or can be found.
Ardana closely observes the priest, observing his reactions. Can he be trusted with a confidence? She is not able to get a read on him (Insight 2+1=3)
"Oh, yes, where have my manners gone..." the young man of the church is embarrassed, once he realizes his forgetfulness "I am Brother Malark, in Torm's service since I was abandoned, newborn, at the gates of a shrine not much larger than this one. The devotion with which Torm's faithful accepted and raised me must have naturally made me want to follow their faith".
"I have not been here long..." he concludes "But since this small church had few men, I decided to stop and serve here. However, even the old families pass on nothing but legends about Rassalantar... You must consider that the hero lived (and died) centuries ago...".
"Many have wondered about Mival and the reasons for his behavior," Malark throws up his hands, disconsolate "first of all his mother Tarsakh Flower... but to no avail. And since the young man left at night, it is difficult to say what he was doing. It is... it is a mystery. A mystery for everyone."
Elias had already taken a few steps toward the door, his hand lightly brushing the worn wooden frame when Brother Malark's words caught his attention. He paused, letting them settle in his ears, then turned slowly, facing the young priest once more with a thoughtful expression.
He studied Malark for a moment—not unkindly, but with the careful patience of a man used to sifting half-truths from legends, and grief from deflection.
"Thank you, Brother Malark," Elias said at last, his voice quiet but measured. "And forgive me for rushing out. You may not have had answers… but what you’ve shared is still worth more than silence."
He stepped back into the candlelight, folding his hands loosely before him.
"If even Mival's own mother doesn't know what drove him to the Keep, then we may be dealing with something larger than idle curiosity." He glanced toward Ardana, then back at Malark. "A mystery, yes. But often, the answers to such riddles are buried not in records… but in behavior. In what someone doesn’t say. In what changes suddenly, without explanation."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Have you noticed such changes in anyone else, Brother Malark? Those close to Mival. Or those who may have once spoken of the Keep, and no longer do? Small things, perhaps. A shift in demeanor. Strange silences. Sudden caution."
Then, a touch more gently, he added:
"Even if you think it irrelevant… say it. We're beyond the point of ignoring the strange."
The young man of the church seems struck (and perhaps a little frightened) by Elias's words. He begins to ponder... "Nothing that comes to mind," he concludes after a few minutes, "among people related to Mival or the Keep... But I know that months ago, before I arrived here, there was another inexplicable mystery involving Nedda. Nedda Whitewhool, I believe. A halfling girl who was a friend to everyone... who one day, inexplicably, disappeared (nobody knows where she went), after strangling to death Fodel, a boy who had been courting her for a long time and who had never seemed to displease her."
"The cases are very different, though..." Malark hesitates, not knowing whether he is providing useful details or talking in vain. "Nothing related to Mival or the Keep, as I anticipated."
To Elias, it seems that Brother Malark is indeed trying to make himself useful... even if he seems doubtful about the effectiveness of his own efforts.
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Elias listens carefully to Tarysaa’s reasoning, nodding in understanding. He doesn’t judge her hesitation—if anything, he respects it.
“There’s wisdom in preparation,” he says softly. “And we are not prepared for what lies ahead—not fully. Not the waters, not the web-choked tunnels, not the Lords from Below.”
He folds his arms, exhaling slowly.
“But time is against us.” He looks to Woodrow, acknowledging the urgency in his words earlier. “If Mival is still alive, every moment we delay risks losing him.”
He pauses, considering both arguments, before speaking again.
“If we return to the village, we could uncover more truth. But if the boy is here, we risk leaving him behind.” He looks at the others, Tarysaa, Koran, Ardana, Woodrow.
“So here’s my proposal: if we press on, we do so smartly. We don’t take reckless chances. We don’t swim blindly into the unknown.” He gestures toward Geados and the ferry.
“If we do this, we take the boat. We control our entry point. We move forward—together.”
He then turns back to Tarysaa, his expression kind but resolute.
“But if you believe a return to the village would make you truly more prepared for what’s ahead, I won’t force you forward. We’ve all come here for different reasons, and your skills will be invaluable when the real fight begins.”
His blue eyes sweep the party one last time, the weight of the decision heavy in the air.
“So. Do we cross the waters now, knowing we are not fully prepared? Or do we return, knowing that we risk losing the trail?”
His voice is steady, but the choice is now out of his hands.
"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread."
"Let us hope those self same angels are watching over us. Lead on, Elias."
Woods shoulders slump, guess it's for the best. A chance to take stock of what we know thus far. I'll swing by the mother's place and meet you all back at the inn?
Ardana listens to Elias' speech but has a question
How do we move together when the boat carries just one?
Elias smiles faintly at Tarysaa’s words, dipping his head in quiet acknowledgment. "Then let us hope our recklessness does not outpace our wisdom."
His eyes shift to Woodrow, seeing the tension in his posture, the slump in his shoulders. Wood wanted to push forward, but the reality of their situation had settled in. Elias nods in understanding.
"Yes, gather what you can from the mother, Wood. See if anything in her words changes now that we’ve been below." He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then adds, "And be careful. Koran was right—if we’re dealing with shapeshifters, the people we trust may not be the people we think they are."
Then Ardana’s question draws his attention, and he turns back to her with a slight, knowing smirk.
"How do we move together when the boat carries just one?" He exhales a short chuckle, then answers, "With patience and trust."
"One at a time, yes. But the first across establishes a foothold. The second strengthens it. By the time the last of us crosses, we will not be scattered but prepared."
Then, his gaze hardens slightly, his voice steady but firm:
"When we return, we go together. When we fight, we fight as one. Even if we must cross the waters separately, we will arrive as a single force."
He turns back to the party, his blue eyes sharp yet warm. "For now, let’s regroup. Take stock. Gather our strength. When we return, we’ll be ready for whatever waits below."
So, the party decides to return, for the time being, to Rassalantar.
Since the idea was to rest, I assume that while Woodrow (and perhaps Ardana?) go to report to Kara what they have discovered, the other adventurers will spend time at the Sleeping Dragon Inn.
In that case, Yondral Horn, the Shield dwarf who owns the inn, dressed, as usual, in neat and elegant clothes and with an impressive volume of hair, most of which is gathered behind his head, is quick to welcome them with an unusually cheerful smile, for a dwarf: "Welcome back, brave adventurers! Have you found what you were looking for while exploring the ruins?"
Kara 'Tarsakh Flower' Sashar, on the other hand, is incredulous at the news that is told to her: "Woodrow... what are you telling me? I had Mival in my womb for nine months, before he was born... and no one could have stolen him from there. Mival is my boy, nothing else. And since he was born, he has always lived with me... no one could have replaced him without me noticing. Even if I had not witnessed the crime, surely in the following days I would have noticed differences in his behavior, character, memories... If some shapeshifter really took the appearance of my Mival, it could have done so only in the last few days, before he disappeared and therefore before I could notice anything strange - but why would someone do something like that? Why us, a humble cartwheel and her son? We are not important people..."
Tarysaa had a drink of water before going up to her room. Using what little precious time available, she went into her trance state to restore her health and prepare for the next challenges.
(( Elven Trance State. IF she gets 4 hours it is 'a long rest' ))
She ponders the hurdles met so far and considers her choices. Removing flooded basements or growing gills was not something the Harpells 'offered' to train for... though she knew a few 'students' under the Harpells that would enjoy such challenges.
Tarysaa manages to spend the four hours she needs undisturbed.
Meanwhile, Elias has the opportunity to ascertain that the two potions must have spoiled somehow - they are unfortunately not magical anyway. The scroll, however, is a Spell Scroll of Purify Food and Drink.
Elias stares at the results of his examination, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as reality sinks in. The potions were useless. The scroll—while not entirely without purpose—wasn’t remotely worth what he paid.
A slow exhale leaves him, not quite a sigh, but close enough.
"Well," he mutters dryly, rolling the spell scroll back up with more force than necessary, "lesson learned."
His mind replays the interaction with Fonkin, trying to decide whether the gnome had been intentionally deceitful or simply a merchant looking to offload bad wares. Either way, Elias had paid a fool’s price for his trust.
He tucks the scroll away, resisting the urge to dwell too long on the lost gold. He’d been outwitted—he’d accept that. But he wouldn’t forget it.
Turning back to the rest of the party, his usual good humor dimmed but not extinguished, he says, "Unless any of you have pressing business, I say we regroup at the inn. We’ll need rest, better preparation, and perhaps a bit of strong drink before we descend again."
Then, with a wry smirk, he adds, "And next time we find a gnome peddling 'rare finds,' remind me to let someone else do the haggling."
Once Tarysaa ends her Trance rest, she will gather with the others in the inn. She hoped to impart some thoughts to Elias and company before going back down into the under ruins. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, she will impart some thoughts she had during her 'rest'.
"This is not a large village so I doubt there is a mage or magic shop for special items. However, there should be a smithy - who might have cold iron or perhaps a blade or two and maybe a solid pry bar?
I was also wondering about the local church. They tend to hold village records of deeds, births, deaths and village 'business'. Perhaps it has documents that might better define what the old keep looked like - especially drawings of the lower levels. Or even additional work done later. I have minimal hope since the keep is very old and those kinds of documents end up destroyed due to floods, mice, and time. Still, it may be worth looking into."
She stopped and looked at each of her party members. "I feel we have barely scratched the surface of the layers at the keep."
Elias listens to Tarysaa’s suggestions with renewed attention, and as she speaks of maps, deeds, and the church’s records, he nods thoughtfully, the disappointment from earlier beginning to melt beneath the spark of inquiry.
"You’re right," he says, the familiar gleam of curiosity returning to his eyes. "Even the smallest hamlets tend to have churches or shrines that double as the community's historians—scribes of life, death, and the mundane in between. If any fragment of the original plans for the keep survives, even a mention in the old ledgers, it could give us a strategic advantage."
He taps his temple, thinking aloud.
"We know the lower levels flooded. But were they always meant to be accessible? Or was something buried long before the water found it? Even understanding what used to be there could tell us what’s now missing—or hidden."
He glances toward the street beyond the inn window, already plotting the likely location of the village chapel or shrine.
"I'll speak with whoever tends the church. If we’re lucky, they might have a surviving ledger, or even an elder who remembers old stories passed down. Meanwhile, someone else might want to speak with the smith—if there’s even one blade of cold iron in this town, I’d rather it be in our hands than left to rust."
Then, turning back to Tarysaa, Elias gives her a sincere nod.
"You’re right—we’ve only touched the surface. I want to see what lies beneath… but only once we’ve turned over every stone up here."
He looks to the others. "Shall we divide and conquer?"
Elias (and whoever goes with him) has no trouble reaching the nearby small Temple of Torm. It's a modest structure, built of sturdy, grey stone. It is a single-story building, its roof capped with a simple, unadorned spire. There is a small open-air cemetery at the back, where a few rose bushes (probably white roses, Torm's sacred flowers) have not yet bloomed, but will probably make for a pleasant spectacle later in the season.
The entrance is a simple, heavy wooden door, polished and free of rot, bearing a small, iron symbol of Torm's gauntlet. The stone around the door is worn smooth in places, suggesting years of faithful hands touching it. Inside, the air is cool and still, carrying a faint scent of beeswax and polished wood. Sunlight filters through the narrow windows, illuminating simple frescoes showing scenes of Torm's valor and protection. A simple altar, draped in clean, white cloth, sits at the far end of the hall, bearing a few lit candles and a worn, leather-bound holy text.
A young blonde man wearing a robe with the Torm's symbol (a gauntlet) is the only one present at the moment and smiles at the sight of the visitors: "Oh, what a pleasure to receive souls eager for prayer! Please, feel free to use the kneelers and and praise the Loyal Fury! Torm the True, because he values loyalty above all else. Torm the Brave, because he will face any danger to prove his respect for duty. Any who would call himself his follower must do the same!" he approaches, with a light of youthful fervor in his eyes.
Elias takes in the modest beauty of the temple, his steps slowing as his gaze traces the worn stone, the quiet reverence etched into every corner. The soft scent of beeswax and old wood is familiar and comforting in its way, though his connection to Torm is purely academic. Still, the space commands respect—and Elias gives it willingly.
He offers a warm smile to the young priest, nodding politely at his energetic welcome.
“Torm the True indeed,” Elias says, his voice calm and respectful, if not overtly devout. “And may his sense of duty continue to shine through those who serve in his name.”
He takes a moment to bow his head at the altar before stepping aside, allowing any of his companions to observe as they wish, then addresses the priest more directly.
“You may not recall me, but I am Lord Elias Cerwyn of Waterdeep. I have recently arrived to look into the matter of the missing boy—Mival, I believe his name was. In the course of our investigations, we’ve found reason to believe there are deeper levels beneath the ruins of Rassalantar’s Keep.”
Elias clasps his hands before him, not arrogantly, but with a gentle dignity, as befitting a man of knowledge and service.
“What I seek is not spiritual, but historical. Would the temple keep records? Deeds? Even oral histories passed from prior clergy? Anything that might give us a clearer picture of what lies beneath those ruins—be it architectural plans, modifications, or... less documented secrets?”
Then, softening his tone just slightly, he adds with genuine humility:
“I know this is a small village, and such things are often lost to time—but even a whisper of the past might help us protect those in the present.”
((Persuasion roll - NATTY! 26 total...sure hope that wasn't wasted if there's nothing here haha))
"Oh, noble Elias Cerwyn, so much concern for a boy does you credit" the young blond man seems impressed... and embarrassed at the same time. "Unfortunately, your quick and worldly mind has already understood the limitations of this poor church... Back when the ruins were not such, this building did not even exist..." he sighs "No, unfortunately there are no records of the time. As for the stories... there is the opposite problem: there are too many! Rassalantar is the founder of the Keep - and therefore, indirectly, also of this Hamlet, born thanks to the protection of the Keep. It is no coincidence that the hamlet bears the name of the hero. All sorts of stories about Rassalantar circulate here. But surely the majority are pure invention - and there is no way to detect the little truth diluted in such a sea of legends. And in any case, these are legends relating to the hero's deeds - not to the design of his Keep".
"I..." the man of the church lowers his eyes "I'm afraid the only help I can give you is to advise you not to go to the ruins. They are infested with monsters, everyone knows that. Not even the guards go there - hiding behind the fact that their orders are to defend and keep the village safe; while the ruins are not technically part of it. Don't go... I know the story of the boy who went there and never came back. He hasn't been back for days... Do you think he is still alive? Alone? In the midst of monster-infested ruins? I... I sense that you are a good man... do not waste your life on a useless quest. Not for a dead man. Torm is the god of sacrifice - but a worthless sacrifice, like wasting one's life trying to save someone who can no longer be saved... is not even a sacrifice. It is senseless. A sin of pride. Go your own way... and make your life a sacrifice that has value."
Tarysaa follows Elias into the small temple; taking time to study the structure and what lies within. She listens as Elias and the cleric banter back and forth while she takes some cleansing breaths to clear her mind and relax her body to better feel her surroundings.
'I wonder if this cleric would mind a potted clipping of those roses? Thetis might enjoy some living flowers,' Tarysaa thought as she examined some carvings in the wooden structure.
Elias listens in silence, hands clasped before him, his expression solemn as the young priest speaks. He does not interrupt, allowing the man to finish his heartfelt plea. When the final words fall—“a sin of pride”—Elias lowers his gaze, letting the weight of the moment settle before he responds.
Then, with quiet clarity, he lifts his head and replies.
“You speak with passion, and your concern is not misplaced. I hear it not as cowardice, but as compassion. You wish to shield others from what you see as inevitable loss—and for that, I respect you.”
He steps slowly toward the altar, his voice low but strong, echoing slightly in the quiet stone chamber.
“But you are mistaken in one thing.” He turns back to face the young priest, his blue eyes steady and unwavering.
“I do not go into the ruins because I believe the boy is surely alive.”
“I go because he might be.”
He lets the words hang for a breath, then adds:
“Hope—especially when it seems foolish—is not a sin. It is a burden. One I choose to carry.”
He walks a slow circle around the interior of the temple, admiring the murals and the light as he speaks.
“You serve a god who demands courage. Who tells his faithful to face danger not for glory, but for duty. What greater duty is there than to act in defense of the vulnerable, even when the cause seems lost?”
Returning to stand before the priest once more, Elias offers a warm but sad smile.
“You are right that the past is muddy, that the stories are uncertain, and that the guards will not follow. But if no one walks into danger, then evil has already won.”
He places a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you for your honesty, and your warning. They are heard and honored. But we are not turning away.”
Then, after a pause, a touch of wry humor slips into his tone:
“Besides... I’ve already paid too much for bad potions to walk away now.”
With that, Elias inclines his head respectfully, and turns toward the door—ready to return to the inn and the next step of the journey.
Ardana accompanies her fellows to the temple. Followers of Torm are friendly with Helm; there is enough in common between the faiths that there is often a shared mission, fellowship.
She greets the young priest respectfully, and after some small talk about how he became a priest, and a follower of Torm, and posted to this remote village, she gets her way to the real point of her conversation. Does he introduce himself?
So who should we be talking to? Are there any here who recall the days of Rassalantar? Any old families? Who administers the town, and the guard?
We are most interested in what the young man was doing before he headed to the ruin, his motive for venturing forth might help us decide if he is indeed lost or can be found.
Ardana closely observes the priest, observing his reactions. Can he be trusted with a confidence? She is not able to get a read on him (Insight 2+1=3)
"Oh, yes, where have my manners gone..." the young man of the church is embarrassed, once he realizes his forgetfulness "I am Brother Malark, in Torm's service since I was abandoned, newborn, at the gates of a shrine not much larger than this one. The devotion with which Torm's faithful accepted and raised me must have naturally made me want to follow their faith".
"I have not been here long..." he concludes "But since this small church had few men, I decided to stop and serve here. However, even the old families pass on nothing but legends about Rassalantar... You must consider that the hero lived (and died) centuries ago...".
"Many have wondered about Mival and the reasons for his behavior," Malark throws up his hands, disconsolate "first of all his mother Tarsakh Flower... but to no avail. And since the young man left at night, it is difficult to say what he was doing. It is... it is a mystery. A mystery for everyone."
Elias had already taken a few steps toward the door, his hand lightly brushing the worn wooden frame when Brother Malark's words caught his attention. He paused, letting them settle in his ears, then turned slowly, facing the young priest once more with a thoughtful expression.
He studied Malark for a moment—not unkindly, but with the careful patience of a man used to sifting half-truths from legends, and grief from deflection.
"Thank you, Brother Malark," Elias said at last, his voice quiet but measured. "And forgive me for rushing out. You may not have had answers… but what you’ve shared is still worth more than silence."
He stepped back into the candlelight, folding his hands loosely before him.
"If even Mival's own mother doesn't know what drove him to the Keep, then we may be dealing with something larger than idle curiosity." He glanced toward Ardana, then back at Malark. "A mystery, yes. But often, the answers to such riddles are buried not in records… but in behavior. In what someone doesn’t say. In what changes suddenly, without explanation."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Have you noticed such changes in anyone else, Brother Malark? Those close to Mival. Or those who may have once spoken of the Keep, and no longer do? Small things, perhaps. A shift in demeanor. Strange silences. Sudden caution."
Then, a touch more gently, he added:
"Even if you think it irrelevant… say it. We're beyond the point of ignoring the strange."
((insight roll - 17 on Malark))
The young man of the church seems struck (and perhaps a little frightened) by Elias's words. He begins to ponder... "Nothing that comes to mind," he concludes after a few minutes, "among people related to Mival or the Keep... But I know that months ago, before I arrived here, there was another inexplicable mystery involving Nedda. Nedda Whitewhool, I believe. A halfling girl who was a friend to everyone... who one day, inexplicably, disappeared (nobody knows where she went), after strangling to death Fodel, a boy who had been courting her for a long time and who had never seemed to displease her."
"The cases are very different, though..." Malark hesitates, not knowing whether he is providing useful details or talking in vain. "Nothing related to Mival or the Keep, as I anticipated."
To Elias, it seems that Brother Malark is indeed trying to make himself useful... even if he seems doubtful about the effectiveness of his own efforts.