Elias listens carefully to Tarysaa's calm report, his sharp eyes never quite leaving Geados as she speaks.
The faint, lingering glow of his Detect Magic spell still tingles behind his vision, and what he sees now sends a ripple of unease through him: the boatman himself, radiating an aura of Transmutation, shifting magic woven into his very being, like something not entirely fixed in one shape... And the boat—steady, almost comforting—cloaked in the steady, protective sheen of Abjuration.
Elias tucks that knowledge away carefully, like a hidden knife up a sleeve. Geados was not just a guide. And neither was his vessel just a boat.
"Good to know," he says aloud, nodding as Tarysaa finishes her explanation about the southern chamber. "We know the purpose of these rooms now. That leaves whatever lies ahead—around that bend."
He steps lightly toward the edge of the flooded hall where Geados still waits, the water lapping quietly at the stone.
Turning back to his companions, Elias speaks steadily:
"Let’s move forward. I still have magic in place to catch any hidden dangers, but it won’t last much longer. Best we make the most of it."
He gestures lightly, not commanding but inviting:
"Who's first aboard?"
He would wait for their responses—ready to board when it made the most sense, ever the cautious mind behind the group's forward movement.
[[ OOC: So, considering that Ardana is still in less than perfect condition and that Deconblu, the player behind the other warrior in the group, Woodroow, has not posted since April 5th, I have temporarily decided that Woodroow volunteers to resume sailing with Geados. If Deconblu has a chance to post and expresses a contrary opinion, I will correct or delete my post. ]]
Woodroow steps forward: "Let's just do it."
The party then watches the small (but enchanted) boat move into the unknown...
...But soon the boat returns, with an exasperated Woodroow still aboard, reporting: "There's a translucent light-blue figure of a corpulent captain of the guard spouting nonsense about defending the passage in the name of Lord Rassalantar. He looks ready to attack anyone who tries to get through... If you want us to fight him, I can try to go back to him and hold off while Geados brings you all there one by one as well... Or does anyone want to try to reason with the guy?"
Elias watches the little boat drift into the shadows, heart ticking upward in quiet tension.
When Woodroow returns, still seated aboard and looking less than thrilled, Elias steps forward to meet him at the water’s edge. The warrior’s report spills out, clipped and direct: a ghostly figure, armored and stubborn, standing vigil in the name of a long-dead lord.
Elias frowns, but it is not a frown of fear—it is the tight, focused expression of a man shifting rapidly through options.
He rubs his thumb thoughtfully along the edge of his jawline, glancing back at the others briefly.
"If he’s clinging to Lord Rassalantar’s command," Elias muses aloud, "then somewhere deep inside that apparition... there’s still memory. Still reason—or at least duty."
He turns his sharp gaze back to Woodroow.
"I would rather not destroy a soul that’s merely doing its duty if it can be helped." "Let me try speaking to him first."
His voice softens, more to himself:
"Maybe what he needs is not an enemy... but a commander."
He adjusts his cloak, stepping closer to Geados’s boat, preparing to board.
"Get me across. Alone for now. If he strikes me down, well..." he flashes a dry smile at the others, "you’ll know negotiations have failed."
But there is no jest in his eyes. This was delicate work. Words before blood. A man clinging to forgotten orders deserved at least that much.
He nods once to Geados to signal readiness—and then to the others:
"Stay ready. If it goes badly... we may yet need steel."
And with that, Elias steps lightly into the boat, cloak brushing the wood as he settles in, letting the enchanted vessel begin its slow, solemn glide toward the confrontation.
Toward the unseen figure of duty, madness... and perhaps, release.
"This will be interesting," Geados comments (though his voice betrays no emotion). "I have witnessed many battles in my long existence, but few have been resolved with the weapon of words alone."
A quick 40' cruise will take you to the edge of the room from which Woodroow has decided to retreat. The room measures 20' x 15' but more than half the floor has collapsed. The room is completely devoid of furniture and appears to have no exits. The solemn marble-paved main corridor crosses the room, through the 10' wide openings in the center of the west wall and in the northernmost section of the east wall - the room is paved in the same way as the corridor. A less solemn 5' wide exit opens in the center of the north wall.
There is a banner of Waterdeep hanging in the center of the east wall (oriented so as not to block the exit).
Standing motionless in the center of the room is a translucent light-blue figure of a corpulent captain of the guard, with short, shaggy hair and an upturned mustache, in a chain shirt, shield, longbow and longsword.
The officer immediately fixes his eyes on Elias: "Another one? Didn't your friend from before tell you anything? Don't try to enter or pass! If you do, you'll face my wrath! You may have succeeded in treacherously killing Lord Rassalantar, but I still keep watch over this place in his name!"
As the boat glides through the still, dark water, Elias sits upright, hands folded calmly over his staff, eyes forward. The gentle ripple beneath them is silent but tense, the quiet anticipation before a string is plucked.
When Geados speaks, his voice flat and ancient, Elias only offers the barest smile in response.
"Then let’s see if words can earn a victory worth remembering."
The room that unfolds before him is more mausoleum than battlefield—marble floors, a faded banner of Waterdeep swaying slightly as if remembering a breeze long gone. But the space is heavy not with air, but with memory.
And in the center of it stands the captain—blue and broad, like a man carved from sapphire smoke. A soldier from another age. A soul fixed to duty by something stronger than death.
When the spectral figure fixes Elias with that glare and growls his accusation, Elias does not reach for his arcane focus. He does not shift. He simply bows his head slightly in solemn recognition, one hand over his heart.
“Captain Satboar, I presume.”
The name is delivered gently, without challenge, but with the weight of knowledge behind it.
“Your report still survives. Though little else from that time does.”
He takes one slow, respectful step forward, boots touching dry marble with barely a sound.
“No one here seeks to desecrate your Lord’s resting place. And certainly none of us are responsible for his death.” A beat. “But I believe you when you say he was killed by deception. That detail… that truth still endures.”
Elias looks the ghost directly in the eyes—not in defiance, but in solidarity.
“The world has moved on without him. But some of us still care to know what really happened.”
He lets that settle in the room for a heartbeat.
Then, with quiet sincerity:
“You were on duty, weren’t you? When it happened. And you've stood that duty ever since. Even as your men were buried. Even as the banners faded. Even as history forgot what you remembered.”
Another step forward—slow, careful, not challenging the ghost’s perimeter.
“But tell me… do you truly think Lord Rassalantar would want you to strike down those who seek truth in his name? Or help them ensure his legacy isn't just another whispered half-truth lost to time?”
His voice softens further.
“You don't need to stand alone anymore, Captain. Let us pass, and we may yet carry the truth you died with… back into the light.”
He falls silent, the echoes of his words lapping against the stillness, like the water that brought him here. His body remains still, hands empty, heart steady.
The spectral officer's attitude changes from Elias's first words, the ones he uses to greet him by name. The distrust gradually turns into interest: "So... has it really been so long... that almost everything has been forgotten... and yet my name... Captain Stedd Satboar... still lives?!"
"Yes, that day... that cursed day..." the long-dead eyes seem to look into a past no less dead "15 Uktar 1267 DR... I was on duty. I guarded this passage, which leads to the lower level, to the Portal that the Blackstaff can use to visit us or send us aid..."
"But some enemy must have managed to get down there" the ethereal face twists with very lively anger. "Lady Nathundam, the wife of Lord Rassalantar, had been taken hostage, down there. A spy? An assassin? A wizard? Who knows? The Lord had to go alone to confront the captor, or she would be killed. Everyone thought it was a ruse - but of course Rassalantar went. By the time the battle noises made it clear that a trap of some kind had been sprung, it was too late. I tried to descend. But there was water everywhere. A sudden irresistible flood whose cause we never knew. Neither I nor any of the garrison could reach our Lord, the most amiable and brave of Lords. I, who should have defended him, could not even see how he died or who killed him."
Can a ghost cry? Are they ethereal tears or a trick of the bard's fervent imagination, those evanescent ectoplasmic drops that seem to disperse into nothingness from the eyes of Captain Satboar? Be that as it may, the officer steps aside: "I'll let you pass. Go and carry the truth back into the light. Although much time has passed, perhaps you, now, will be able to help my lord better than I was able to on the day of his end."
Elias stands still, heart heavy, listening without interruption as the ghost bares the story of that terrible day—a story buried under centuries of silence.
When Captain Satboar’s voice cracks, whether by memory or by sorrow, Elias’s throat tightens. He can almost see the doomed garrison, hear the cries rising through the floodwaters, and feel the helplessness the captain had carried through death itself.
He bows his head deeply, not out of formality, but out of shared grief.
When Satboar steps aside, his form shimmering with ghostly sorrow, Elias speaks again—his voice low, steady, and full of earnest respect:
"You have done your duty, Captain Satboar. And you have done it well beyond the call of any mortal soldier." "Lord Rassalantar would have been proud to know that loyalty like yours endures even when stone crumbles and memory fades."
He lets the words settle, and then gently adds:
"My companions are brave and true-hearted. Like myself, they seek not to defile this place, but to understand it—to honor it. May they be allowed to pass alongside me? We would face together whatever trials remain below."
He keeps his posture respectful, hands loosely by his sides, never daring to draw weapon nor spell in this sacred moment.
And as he waits for the captain’s reply, his mind lingers briefly on the strange poignancy of it all— that even in death, duty could carve itself so deeply into a soul that it became the last thing the soul remembered to hold onto.
"I know the strength and versatility of a combat unit forged by hardship" Captain Satboar concedes. "Your unit will be granted passage as well as you. Go - and do what you have proposed. The way down to the lower level is that" and he points to the passage to the east.
Geados (whose voice, for once, sounds... impressed?) asks Elias: "Do you wish me to continue, then, along the path the captain indicated? It is not far to the end of the corridor - and therefore of the outward journey."
Elias turns to Captain Satboar and bows once more, deeper this time—a gesture not of protocol, but of genuine gratitude.
“You honor us, Captain. I will not forget this—nor let your Lord’s story end in silence.”
With that, he straightens and turns toward Geados, who, for perhaps the first time, speaks with something resembling emotion.
Elias studies the ferryman for the briefest moment, noting the shift in tone, then nods once.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Take me forward—until we find a place wide enough and safe enough to regroup. I’ll signal the others from there, and they can follow one by one.”
He settles into the boat again, the faint ripple of water trailing behind them as Geados begins to pole forward down the corridor indicated by Satboar. Elias watches the fading ghost, then turns his gaze ahead—his senses still sharp, his magic lingering, his thoughts heavy with the weight of history.
Somewhere ahead, deeper in the Keep, the truth of Rassalantar’s death still waits.
And Elias Cerwyn was no longer here to speculate. He was here to uncover it.
Elias continues his navigation and, as soon as he enters the indicated passage, he finds himself in a section of the main corridor where, as in the previous room, much of the solemn marble-paved floor collapsed.
In the southernmost stretch of shallow water, just before the collapse, someone seems to have improvised a shrine of some kind, leaving some ornamental shells as an offering and painting of a perhaps sacred symbol on the southern wall: a waterfall plunging into a still pool.
Indeed, the symbol seems to emanate a sacred aura that invites prayer.
Nothing prevents him from continuing his navigation... but nothing prevents him from approaching and examining the improvised shrine either! What will the bard choose?
As the boat glides quietly along the partially collapsed corridor, Elias narrows his eyes at the glimmer of soft colors ahead—something out of place, something intentional in the ruin.
When he sees the shells, carefully arranged, and the painted symbol—a waterfall descending into a still pool—he gently raises a hand.
"Geados, hold here."
The boat coasts to a stop in the shallows, the water barely rippling as Elias rises carefully, cloak brushing the edge of the small vessel. He steps lightly into the shallows, boots sinking just enough to feel the chill of the flood through the worn leather.
He approaches the symbol slowly, eyes scanning the lines and flourishes of the painting. It’s simple, but meaningful—deliberate, not idle scrawl. The shells placed beneath it glisten faintly in the low light, and though no god is explicitly named, the symbol bears a familiar serenity. Nature, water, peace—perhaps a minor deity of springs or healing? Or even Eldath, the goddess of still waters.
As he stands before it, Elias feels it—not power in the arcane sense, but a reverence, a quiet weight that rests over the place like a memory preserved in stillness. It doesn’t demand prayer… but it welcomes it.
For a man not given to faith, Elias hesitates—but curiosity and respect for intention carry him forward.
He kneels.
Not in worship—but in recognition.
"Whoever passed here last," he murmurs softly, "you still matter. Even if your name is lost, your reverence remains."
He reaches out and gently adjusts a single shell that had slid slightly from the rest, realigning it with the others, a tiny gesture of order.
((Religion check 23 - does Elias know anything about this shrine or what it might represent?))
Elias almost immediately recognizes the sacred symbol: it is the symbol of the goddess Eldath, also known as the Mother of the Waters among the Bedine people, often worshiped as a goddess of peace and calm waters.
As Elias kneels before the shrine, the cool water lapping quietly at his knees, his eyes settle fully on the painted symbol—a waterfall flowing into a still pool—and in that moment, recognition clicks into place.
Eldath.
The goddess of peace, of still waters, of quiet groves and sacred springs. In the parched lands of the Bedine, she is the Mother of the Waters, venerated with reverence where even a trickle is precious.
But here? In a flooded ruin, haunted by restless spirits and shadowed by the echo of betrayal?
His brow furrows slightly. The dissonance is jarring.
“What would Eldath’s faithful be doing in a place like this?” he murmurs aloud, his voice nearly swallowed by the damp air. “A battlefield. A tomb.”
The thought chills him more than the water. Eldath's servants are healers, guardians of sanctuaries, keepers of calm amid chaos. For such a symbol to be here, freshly maintained, it wasn't a relic.
Someone had come here recently. And not just in passing—they had prayed. Perhaps even sought refuge. Or worse… perhaps tried to sanctify something unholy.
He glances around warily, as if expecting some ripple in the water or whisper in the stone. Nothing comes.
Still kneeling, Elias closes his eyes a moment and speaks again, not as a follower, but as a witness:
“If you dwell here, Lady of Peace, I pray your waters calm whatever stirs in the deep.” A pause. “And if this place was touched by your hand once, may some memory of that still endure below.”
Then he stands slowly, brushing the damp from his sleeves, the image of the waterfall etched into his memory.
The shrine is not just a curiosity now—it’s a clue.
Someone—perhaps even a faction of the faithful—had walked these halls, after the fall. And if they had, Elias intended to learn why.
"Let’s continue, Geados," he says quietly, stepping back aboard the waiting boat. And with a final glance at the soft glimmer of shells, he sets his eyes forward again— toward whatever calm or chaos still lay ahead.
“If you dwell here, Lady of Peace, I pray your waters calm whatever stirs in the deep.” A pause. “And if this place was touched by your hand once, may some memory of that still endure below.”
...
The short prayer was soaking Elias' soul with... peace... and trust.
When the bard stops and decides to continue, the feeling fades... but after all, an important mission awaits him, right? He has Geados resume his journey, who points to a nearby threshold: "From there on, the water is low again... There, the outward journey will end".
The two then come into view of a new room. The room measures 15' x 20' and is completely unfurnished. The solemn marble-paved main corridor crosses the room, through the 10' wide openings in the southernmost part of the west wall and in the center of the north wall - the room is paved in the same way as the corridor.
A figure that seems to be made of solid darkness wanders around the room, muttering to itself, with generally humanoid appearance, with webbed hands equipped with claws and a head devoid of hair, nose, or features, where the eyes and mouth equipped with sharp teeth open like slashes of eerie light in the black surface. The creature, absorbed in itself, initially does not notice the newcomers.
What will Elias do? Will he actually land there? Or will he prefer to wait for his adventure companions at the shrine? Or will he also try to make conversation with this new creature he meets - thus making himself noticed?
Elias takes a few seconds to examine the creature ... and he realizes that the creature must be a Deathlock Wight, a Undead that craves to consume the vital energy of the living and that has access to magical powers that it does not scruple to use for this purpose!
... continues to measure the room with large steps, muttering something, as in the grip of disturbing thoughts. It has not yet noticed the boat and its very small crew.
Elias remains still in Geados's boat, shadowed beneath the arch of the threshold, his gaze fixed on the creature that drifts like a thoughtless shadow across the marble floor.
His breath catches—not in fear, but in sudden, cold recognition.
A Deathlock Wight.
An undead servant of greater power. A warlock who, in life, had made a pact and failed in some irrevocable way—now cursed to walk half-living, its soul tethered to its master's will, bereft of purpose except what the pact demands.
And yet this one mutters to itself, wandering. Alone. Uncommanded. Unmoored.
Elias narrows his eyes.
That should not be.
He feels the last traces of the peaceful stillness from Eldath’s shrine fading like water from his fingertips. The warmth is gone now, replaced by the cool calculation of a scholar and storyteller whose quill might just be a dagger or a spell.
He holds out a hand toward Geados, palm down—a silent gesture to pause.
Then, after a long moment of consideration, he whispers low:
“Don’t land. Not yet.”
His mind races—not with panic, but with stories. Possibilities. How did this creature come here? Who commands it? Could it speak? Could it think? If it was wandering and muttering rather than attacking, perhaps it wasn’t yet fully bound. Or perhaps its master was dead, and it was lost.
He draws a breath and reaches within himself for the still voice that Eldath briefly kindled—not peace this time, but patience. Understanding.
Then, softly, not shouting, but clearly enough to be heard by the creature:
“What binds you still, wayward soul?” “You are far from your master… and farther still from peace.”
His voice is measured, calm, laced with the kind of weight that pierces madness—or at least gives it pause.
Elias remains in the boat, unmoving. He has not committed to landing. But his words are a bridge—offering the Deathlock a chance to speak… before steel or spell must.
At the sound of Elias' voice, the undead immediately raises his gaze towards the newcomers and realizes that it is no longer alone! Immediately it goes into an insane frenzy: "You! Yes, a sacrifice for it! And it will forgive me! I will be its again! I will sacrifice you to the Lord of the Underwave Paradise! Lombulluth, accept this soul!"
Elias listens carefully to Tarysaa's calm report, his sharp eyes never quite leaving Geados as she speaks.
The faint, lingering glow of his Detect Magic spell still tingles behind his vision, and what he sees now sends a ripple of unease through him:
the boatman himself, radiating an aura of Transmutation, shifting magic woven into his very being, like something not entirely fixed in one shape...
And the boat—steady, almost comforting—cloaked in the steady, protective sheen of Abjuration.
Elias tucks that knowledge away carefully, like a hidden knife up a sleeve.
Geados was not just a guide. And neither was his vessel just a boat.
"Good to know," he says aloud, nodding as Tarysaa finishes her explanation about the southern chamber.
"We know the purpose of these rooms now. That leaves whatever lies ahead—around that bend."
He steps lightly toward the edge of the flooded hall where Geados still waits, the water lapping quietly at the stone.
Turning back to his companions, Elias speaks steadily:
"Let’s move forward. I still have magic in place to catch any hidden dangers, but it won’t last much longer. Best we make the most of it."
He gestures lightly, not commanding but inviting:
"Who's first aboard?"
He would wait for their responses—ready to board when it made the most sense, ever the cautious mind behind the group's forward movement.
[[ OOC: So, considering that Ardana is still in less than perfect condition and that Deconblu, the player behind the other warrior in the group, Woodroow, has not posted since April 5th, I have temporarily decided that Woodroow volunteers to resume sailing with Geados. If Deconblu has a chance to post and expresses a contrary opinion, I will correct or delete my post. ]]
Woodroow steps forward: "Let's just do it."
The party then watches the small (but enchanted) boat move into the unknown...
...But soon the boat returns, with an exasperated Woodroow still aboard, reporting: "There's a translucent light-blue figure of a corpulent captain of the guard spouting nonsense about defending the passage in the name of Lord Rassalantar. He looks ready to attack anyone who tries to get through... If you want us to fight him, I can try to go back to him and hold off while Geados brings you all there one by one as well... Or does anyone want to try to reason with the guy?"
Elias watches the little boat drift into the shadows, heart ticking upward in quiet tension.
When Woodroow returns, still seated aboard and looking less than thrilled, Elias steps forward to meet him at the water’s edge. The warrior’s report spills out, clipped and direct: a ghostly figure, armored and stubborn, standing vigil in the name of a long-dead lord.
Elias frowns, but it is not a frown of fear—it is the tight, focused expression of a man shifting rapidly through options.
He rubs his thumb thoughtfully along the edge of his jawline, glancing back at the others briefly.
"If he’s clinging to Lord Rassalantar’s command," Elias muses aloud, "then somewhere deep inside that apparition... there’s still memory. Still reason—or at least duty."
He turns his sharp gaze back to Woodroow.
"I would rather not destroy a soul that’s merely doing its duty if it can be helped."
"Let me try speaking to him first."
His voice softens, more to himself:
"Maybe what he needs is not an enemy... but a commander."
He adjusts his cloak, stepping closer to Geados’s boat, preparing to board.
"Get me across. Alone for now. If he strikes me down, well..." he flashes a dry smile at the others, "you’ll know negotiations have failed."
But there is no jest in his eyes.
This was delicate work. Words before blood.
A man clinging to forgotten orders deserved at least that much.
He nods once to Geados to signal readiness—and then to the others:
"Stay ready. If it goes badly... we may yet need steel."
And with that, Elias steps lightly into the boat, cloak brushing the wood as he settles in, letting the enchanted vessel begin its slow, solemn glide toward the confrontation.
Toward the unseen figure of duty, madness... and perhaps, release.
"This will be interesting," Geados comments (though his voice betrays no emotion). "I have witnessed many battles in my long existence, but few have been resolved with the weapon of words alone."
A quick 40' cruise will take you to the edge of the room from which Woodroow has decided to retreat. The room measures 20' x 15' but more than half the floor has collapsed. The room is completely devoid of furniture and appears to have no exits. The solemn marble-paved main corridor crosses the room, through the 10' wide openings in the center of the west wall and in the northernmost section of the east wall - the room is paved in the same way as the corridor. A less solemn 5' wide exit opens in the center of the north wall.
There is a banner of Waterdeep hanging in the center of the east wall (oriented so as not to block the exit).
Standing motionless in the center of the room is a translucent light-blue figure of a corpulent captain of the guard, with short, shaggy hair and an upturned mustache, in a chain shirt, shield, longbow and longsword.
The officer immediately fixes his eyes on Elias: "Another one? Didn't your friend from before tell you anything? Don't try to enter or pass! If you do, you'll face my wrath! You may have succeeded in treacherously killing Lord Rassalantar, but I still keep watch over this place in his name!"
As the boat glides through the still, dark water, Elias sits upright, hands folded calmly over his staff, eyes forward. The gentle ripple beneath them is silent but tense, the quiet anticipation before a string is plucked.
When Geados speaks, his voice flat and ancient, Elias only offers the barest smile in response.
"Then let’s see if words can earn a victory worth remembering."
The room that unfolds before him is more mausoleum than battlefield—marble floors, a faded banner of Waterdeep swaying slightly as if remembering a breeze long gone. But the space is heavy not with air, but with memory.
And in the center of it stands the captain—blue and broad, like a man carved from sapphire smoke. A soldier from another age. A soul fixed to duty by something stronger than death.
When the spectral figure fixes Elias with that glare and growls his accusation, Elias does not reach for his arcane focus. He does not shift. He simply bows his head slightly in solemn recognition, one hand over his heart.
“Captain Satboar, I presume.”
The name is delivered gently, without challenge, but with the weight of knowledge behind it.
“Your report still survives. Though little else from that time does.”
He takes one slow, respectful step forward, boots touching dry marble with barely a sound.
“No one here seeks to desecrate your Lord’s resting place. And certainly none of us are responsible for his death.” A beat. “But I believe you when you say he was killed by deception. That detail… that truth still endures.”
Elias looks the ghost directly in the eyes—not in defiance, but in solidarity.
“The world has moved on without him. But some of us still care to know what really happened.”
He lets that settle in the room for a heartbeat.
Then, with quiet sincerity:
“You were on duty, weren’t you? When it happened. And you've stood that duty ever since. Even as your men were buried. Even as the banners faded. Even as history forgot what you remembered.”
Another step forward—slow, careful, not challenging the ghost’s perimeter.
“But tell me… do you truly think Lord Rassalantar would want you to strike down those who seek truth in his name? Or help them ensure his legacy isn't just another whispered half-truth lost to time?”
His voice softens further.
“You don't need to stand alone anymore, Captain. Let us pass, and we may yet carry the truth you died with… back into the light.”
He falls silent, the echoes of his words lapping against the stillness, like the water that brought him here. His body remains still, hands empty, heart steady.
The next move, as ever, belongs to the dead.
((17 Persuasion if needed))
The spectral officer's attitude changes from Elias's first words, the ones he uses to greet him by name. The distrust gradually turns into interest: "So... has it really been so long... that almost everything has been forgotten... and yet my name... Captain Stedd Satboar... still lives?!"
"Yes, that day... that cursed day..." the long-dead eyes seem to look into a past no less dead "15 Uktar 1267 DR... I was on duty. I guarded this passage, which leads to the lower level, to the Portal that the Blackstaff can use to visit us or send us aid..."
"But some enemy must have managed to get down there" the ethereal face twists with very lively anger. "Lady Nathundam, the wife of Lord Rassalantar, had been taken hostage, down there. A spy? An assassin? A wizard? Who knows? The Lord had to go alone to confront the captor, or she would be killed. Everyone thought it was a ruse - but of course Rassalantar went. By the time the battle noises made it clear that a trap of some kind had been sprung, it was too late. I tried to descend. But there was water everywhere. A sudden irresistible flood whose cause we never knew. Neither I nor any of the garrison could reach our Lord, the most amiable and brave of Lords. I, who should have defended him, could not even see how he died or who killed him."
Can a ghost cry? Are they ethereal tears or a trick of the bard's fervent imagination, those evanescent ectoplasmic drops that seem to disperse into nothingness from the eyes of Captain Satboar? Be that as it may, the officer steps aside: "I'll let you pass. Go and carry the truth back into the light. Although much time has passed, perhaps you, now, will be able to help my lord better than I was able to on the day of his end."
Elias stands still, heart heavy, listening without interruption as the ghost bares the story of that terrible day—a story buried under centuries of silence.
When Captain Satboar’s voice cracks, whether by memory or by sorrow, Elias’s throat tightens. He can almost see the doomed garrison, hear the cries rising through the floodwaters, and feel the helplessness the captain had carried through death itself.
He bows his head deeply, not out of formality, but out of shared grief.
When Satboar steps aside, his form shimmering with ghostly sorrow, Elias speaks again—his voice low, steady, and full of earnest respect:
"You have done your duty, Captain Satboar. And you have done it well beyond the call of any mortal soldier."
"Lord Rassalantar would have been proud to know that loyalty like yours endures even when stone crumbles and memory fades."
He lets the words settle, and then gently adds:
"My companions are brave and true-hearted. Like myself, they seek not to defile this place, but to understand it—to honor it. May they be allowed to pass alongside me? We would face together whatever trials remain below."
He keeps his posture respectful, hands loosely by his sides, never daring to draw weapon nor spell in this sacred moment.
And as he waits for the captain’s reply, his mind lingers briefly on the strange poignancy of it all—
that even in death, duty could carve itself so deeply into a soul
that it became the last thing the soul remembered to hold onto.
"I know the strength and versatility of a combat unit forged by hardship" Captain Satboar concedes. "Your unit will be granted passage as well as you. Go - and do what you have proposed. The way down to the lower level is that" and he points to the passage to the east.
Geados (whose voice, for once, sounds... impressed?) asks Elias: "Do you wish me to continue, then, along the path the captain indicated? It is not far to the end of the corridor - and therefore of the outward journey."
Elias turns to Captain Satboar and bows once more, deeper this time—a gesture not of protocol, but of genuine gratitude.
“You honor us, Captain. I will not forget this—nor let your Lord’s story end in silence.”
With that, he straightens and turns toward Geados, who, for perhaps the first time, speaks with something resembling emotion.
Elias studies the ferryman for the briefest moment, noting the shift in tone, then nods once.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Take me forward—until we find a place wide enough and safe enough to regroup. I’ll signal the others from there, and they can follow one by one.”
He settles into the boat again, the faint ripple of water trailing behind them as Geados begins to pole forward down the corridor indicated by Satboar. Elias watches the fading ghost, then turns his gaze ahead—his senses still sharp, his magic lingering, his thoughts heavy with the weight of history.
Somewhere ahead, deeper in the Keep, the truth of Rassalantar’s death still waits.
And Elias Cerwyn was no longer here to speculate.
He was here to uncover it.
Elias continues his navigation and, as soon as he enters the indicated passage, he finds himself in a section of the main corridor where, as in the previous room, much of the solemn marble-paved floor collapsed.
In the southernmost stretch of shallow water, just before the collapse, someone seems to have improvised a shrine of some kind, leaving some ornamental shells as an offering and painting of a perhaps sacred symbol on the southern wall: a waterfall plunging into a still pool.
Indeed, the symbol seems to emanate a sacred aura that invites prayer.
Nothing prevents him from continuing his navigation... but nothing prevents him from approaching and examining the improvised shrine either! What will the bard choose?
As the boat glides quietly along the partially collapsed corridor, Elias narrows his eyes at the glimmer of soft colors ahead—something out of place, something intentional in the ruin.
When he sees the shells, carefully arranged, and the painted symbol—a waterfall descending into a still pool—he gently raises a hand.
"Geados, hold here."
The boat coasts to a stop in the shallows, the water barely rippling as Elias rises carefully, cloak brushing the edge of the small vessel. He steps lightly into the shallows, boots sinking just enough to feel the chill of the flood through the worn leather.
He approaches the symbol slowly, eyes scanning the lines and flourishes of the painting.
It’s simple, but meaningful—deliberate, not idle scrawl.
The shells placed beneath it glisten faintly in the low light, and though no god is explicitly named, the symbol bears a familiar serenity. Nature, water, peace—perhaps a minor deity of springs or healing? Or even Eldath, the goddess of still waters.
As he stands before it, Elias feels it—not power in the arcane sense, but a reverence, a quiet weight that rests over the place like a memory preserved in stillness. It doesn’t demand prayer… but it welcomes it.
For a man not given to faith, Elias hesitates—but curiosity and respect for intention carry him forward.
He kneels.
Not in worship—but in recognition.
"Whoever passed here last," he murmurs softly, "you still matter. Even if your name is lost, your reverence remains."
He reaches out and gently adjusts a single shell that had slid slightly from the rest, realigning it with the others, a tiny gesture of order.
((Religion check 23 - does Elias know anything about this shrine or what it might represent?))
Elias almost immediately recognizes the sacred symbol: it is the symbol of the goddess Eldath, also known as the Mother of the Waters among the Bedine people, often worshiped as a goddess of peace and calm waters.
As Elias kneels before the shrine, the cool water lapping quietly at his knees, his eyes settle fully on the painted symbol—a waterfall flowing into a still pool—and in that moment, recognition clicks into place.
Eldath.
The goddess of peace, of still waters, of quiet groves and sacred springs. In the parched lands of the Bedine, she is the Mother of the Waters, venerated with reverence where even a trickle is precious.
But here? In a flooded ruin, haunted by restless spirits and shadowed by the echo of betrayal?
His brow furrows slightly. The dissonance is jarring.
“What would Eldath’s faithful be doing in a place like this?” he murmurs aloud, his voice nearly swallowed by the damp air. “A battlefield. A tomb.”
The thought chills him more than the water. Eldath's servants are healers, guardians of sanctuaries, keepers of calm amid chaos. For such a symbol to be here, freshly maintained, it wasn't a relic.
Someone had come here recently. And not just in passing—they had prayed. Perhaps even sought refuge.
Or worse… perhaps tried to sanctify something unholy.
He glances around warily, as if expecting some ripple in the water or whisper in the stone.
Nothing comes.
Still kneeling, Elias closes his eyes a moment and speaks again, not as a follower, but as a witness:
“If you dwell here, Lady of Peace, I pray your waters calm whatever stirs in the deep.”
A pause.
“And if this place was touched by your hand once, may some memory of that still endure below.”
Then he stands slowly, brushing the damp from his sleeves, the image of the waterfall etched into his memory.
The shrine is not just a curiosity now—it’s a clue.
Someone—perhaps even a faction of the faithful—had walked these halls, after the fall.
And if they had, Elias intended to learn why.
"Let’s continue, Geados," he says quietly, stepping back aboard the waiting boat.
And with a final glance at the soft glimmer of shells, he sets his eyes forward again—
toward whatever calm or chaos still lay ahead.
The short prayer was soaking Elias' soul with... peace... and trust.
When the bard stops and decides to continue, the feeling fades... but after all, an important mission awaits him, right? He has Geados resume his journey, who points to a nearby threshold: "From there on, the water is low again... There, the outward journey will end".
The two then come into view of a new room. The room measures 15' x 20' and is completely unfurnished. The solemn marble-paved main corridor crosses the room, through the 10' wide openings in the southernmost part of the west wall and in the center of the north wall - the room is paved in the same way as the corridor.
A figure that seems to be made of solid darkness wanders around the room, muttering to itself, with generally humanoid appearance, with webbed hands equipped with claws and a head devoid of hair, nose, or features, where the eyes and mouth equipped with sharp teeth open like slashes of eerie light in the black surface. The creature, absorbed in itself, initially does not notice the newcomers.
What will Elias do? Will he actually land there? Or will he prefer to wait for his adventure companions at the shrine? Or will he also try to make conversation with this new creature he meets - thus making himself noticed?
Elias takes a few seconds to examine the creature ... and he realizes that the creature must be a Deathlock Wight, a Undead that craves to consume the vital energy of the living and that has access to magical powers that it does not scruple to use for this purpose!
The Deathlock Wight in the meantime ...
19
... continues to measure the room with large steps, muttering something, as in the grip of disturbing thoughts. It has not yet noticed the boat and its very small crew.
Elias remains still in Geados's boat, shadowed beneath the arch of the threshold, his gaze fixed on the creature that drifts like a thoughtless shadow across the marble floor.
His breath catches—not in fear, but in sudden, cold recognition.
A Deathlock Wight.
An undead servant of greater power. A warlock who, in life, had made a pact and failed in some irrevocable way—now cursed to walk half-living, its soul tethered to its master's will, bereft of purpose except what the pact demands.
And yet this one mutters to itself, wandering.
Alone.
Uncommanded.
Unmoored.
Elias narrows his eyes.
That should not be.
He feels the last traces of the peaceful stillness from Eldath’s shrine fading like water from his fingertips. The warmth is gone now, replaced by the cool calculation of a scholar and storyteller whose quill might just be a dagger or a spell.
He holds out a hand toward Geados, palm down—a silent gesture to pause.
Then, after a long moment of consideration, he whispers low:
“Don’t land. Not yet.”
His mind races—not with panic, but with stories. Possibilities. How did this creature come here? Who commands it? Could it speak? Could it think? If it was wandering and muttering rather than attacking, perhaps it wasn’t yet fully bound. Or perhaps its master was dead, and it was lost.
He draws a breath and reaches within himself for the still voice that Eldath briefly kindled—not peace this time, but patience. Understanding.
Then, softly, not shouting, but clearly enough to be heard by the creature:
“What binds you still, wayward soul?”
“You are far from your master… and farther still from peace.”
His voice is measured, calm, laced with the kind of weight that pierces madness—or at least gives it pause.
Elias remains in the boat, unmoving. He has not committed to landing.
But his words are a bridge—offering the Deathlock a chance to speak… before steel or spell must.
At the sound of Elias' voice, the undead immediately raises his gaze towards the newcomers and realizes that it is no longer alone! Immediately it goes into an insane frenzy: "You! Yes, a sacrifice for it! And it will forgive me! I will be its again! I will sacrifice you to the Lord of the Underwave Paradise! Lombulluth, accept this soul!"
Time to roll for Initiative...
Initiatives:
Deathlock Wight: 11
Geados: 20