Session 26 - Chapter 4 - Old Suspicions and New Friends

Hello & Welcome!

The celebrations went on late into the evening, but eventually the sound of merriment subsided and quiet returned to the area. The three Heroes took turns keeping watch that night. All they saw were people stumbling or shuffling back to their wagons at various times of the night. There undoubtedly would be a few sore heads in the morning. But it was nice that an entire community was able to come together for at least one evening and forget the worries of the world. Unfortunately this was not the case for Dafne, Pipp, and Torsion who spent the evening whispering and contemplating about what they had learned that evening. The Cultists were indeed amongst them. The next morning they would head out, albeit surely a bit later than normal, and make their way to Daggerford.

---

The heat of Avernus does not merely warm the skin; it tries to cook the marrow inside ones bones Chard thought to himself. For what has already felt like an eternity, he could feel that his soul has been bound to this subterranean forge beneath the basalt mountains of the First Layer.

Clang. Before him was an anvil of black iron, stained with the soot of a thousand cursed weapons. Chard brings his hammer down again. 

Clang. Sparks of hellfire illuminate the dim, sulphurous cavern. He is shaping plates of infernal iron, hammering out the pauldrons and breastplate of a new set of half-plate armour. It is heavy, jagged, and thrums with a low, malevolent hum.

Clang. Another strike. The metal bends to his will, fuelled by the agonizing magic of the Pact forged with Bel.

As he raises and lowers his hammer, his thoughts drift. Again he thinks of his friends. He thinks of what plan were they trying the other day. How are they faring with the quest. How would he get out of here and re-join them. He had to obey the Pact. And Bel did promise as part of that Pact that he would be sent back to the surface. So for now he had to be patient and let Bel make good on his end of the bargain. He was not aware what was happening on the surface but he assumed all was not yet lost and the world had not yet been destroyed - otherwise how could he fulfil his end of the bargain.

The rhythmic ringing of Chard's hammer is suddenly swallowed by a heavy, suffocating silence. The ambient roar of the forge flames dims to a sullen red glow.
Heavy footsteps, like measured earthquakes, approach from the shadowed archway behind him.

"Adequate."

The voice is a tectonic rumble that vibrates in Chard's spectral chest. Bel, the former Lord of the First, the great tactician of the Blood War, and his Patron, steps into the light. He is a towering pit fiend, wreathed in smoke, his scales the colour of clotted blood. He reaches out a massive, clawed hand and casually picks up a freshly forged, white-hot piece of the half-plate. The heat doesn't bother him in the slightest. He inspects the craftsmanship with piercing, analytical yellow eyes. Chard paused his hammering while is Patron was in attendance.

"You have not wasted your time in my domain, Chard Morthos. You are learning that true strength is forged in the fires of discipline, not given freely. But your time at this anvil is drawing to a close. The Blood War turns, and I have need of my pieces on the mortal board."

Chard replies, "Yes my Lord Patron, my time with the Flaming Fists has already taught me the need to be regimented. And I must be ready in time for when you decide to send me back into the world to make good on my Pact." He thought it best to put his faith into the arrangement, hoping that it would not end in disaster for him.

Bel tossed the hot armour plating back onto the anvil; clattering heavily.

"In two days' time, a caravan of wagons will depart the mud-stained walls of Daggerford. Your... companions... will be among them. I intend to place you in their path. However, there is a logistical complication."

Bel leant forward, the smell of brimstone and ancient copper washing over Chard.

"Your previous mortal vessel is gone. Uninhabitable. Dust and memory. I must weave you a new shell of flesh to inhabit before I cast your soul back to the Material Plane. And so, my Warlock, you have a tactical decision to make."

"I can recreate your old form perfectly. Every scar, every callous, the exact face your allies—and your enemies—know. You may slip right back into the life you left.

"Or... we can embrace utility. I can forge you anew. A completely different face, a different build. A stranger. You could walk among your friends unrecognized, unburdened by your past reputation, a ghost hiding in plain sight.

"Tell me, Chard. Do you cling to the vanity of your old face, or do you desire the tactical advantage of a blank slate?"

Chard thought for a moment. He quite liked his old form, including the funny stares he got all the time. But it was intriguing to him the thought of taking a new form. If he showed his original face to those that new him, he would have a lot of explaining to do that he would rather quite avoid having to do. And he could have a rare opportunity to be more human-like and not stick out quite like he always had. But it felt to him like it would be a betrayal to his parents if he would not maintain his Tiefling nature. In a strange sort of way, his ancestry was the only thing he had left of his parents.

"My Lord Bel," Chard replied, "as you will it. I am eager to return to the surface and continue my mission and fulfil your edict. I would quite prefer a new body, but still a Tiefling. A Tiefling but with predominantly human-like characteristics save for a forked tongue." He had heard about how Tieflings can have varying characteristics and the forked tongue was appealing to him.

Bel waved a massive hand over the anvil. The flames flare up, turning a sickly, brilliant green.

"The design is set. Finish your armour, Chard. When the fires cool, you will wake on the surface, clothed in your chosen flesh."

Bel turns to leave, his massive wings shifting behind him, but he pauses and looks over his shoulder.

"One final term of your deployment. You will not be operating without oversight. When you arrive near Daggerford, you will be contacted by another operative named Ziva.

"Consider her your quartermaster and your shadow. She will provide you with the resources you need to fulfill your contract. Be mindful, Chard—she is also my eyes on the surface. Her reports will dictate my future generosity... or my wrath. Do not disappoint me."

"Understood, thank you," Chard answered.

Bel stepped back into the shadows, his massive form melting into the darkness of Avernus. The forge flames returned to their normal, roaring orange. Chard was alone again with his hammer, the glowing infernal iron, and the weight of his impending resurrection.

---

The morning came. Far quicker than many had hoped for. The Caravan area was busy with movement, albeit much of it in slow motion. But eventually the wagons groaned back into action. But this time there were many other smaller vehicles in motion - many of those that came to enjoy the festivities were now heading back to either their farmstead or their nearby towns. 

And so they continued on to Daggerford. 

The three Adventurers walked in silence, looking about them to see if there was any indication that someone had noticed them last night. All seemed calm. 

Daggerford is a walled settlement with a population that by and large lives in the outlying hamlets, farms, and estates, rather than within the town proper. As such, the streets of Daggerford are not densely populated. The Town consists mainly of stone buildings built by the Dwarves of Clan Ironeater. Daggerford's roads remain unpaved and several of its buildings are ramshackle in appearance even a century later.

Surrounding the town wall is a modest moat, with three crossing points at each of the town's three gates — the Farmer's Gate in the north, the Caravan Gate in the west, and the River Gate in the south.Sitting atop a hill in the center of Daggerford is the grand Ducal Castle, which is technically older than the town itself.

Due to its key location, Daggerford is a vital mercantile hub for its region of the Sword Coast. It is the site where goods moving on ships traversing the Delimbiyr River can be transferred to caravans journeying along the Trade Way or vice versa. The waterways of the Delimbiyr at Daggerford are too shallow for ships to continue upriver into the rest of the Delimbiyr Vale.

The Caravan arrived late in the afternoon and they settled into the Caravan camp just outside the walls. The Wagons were not allowed inside the city walls, much like was the practice in Baldur's Gate.

Each Wagon made its usual camping preparation. The next day would be a day of rest before heading out again. Dafnae, Pipp, and Torsion settled in much like they would any other night. 

But then, a young lad approached the three of them.

"Forgive the intrusion. I bear a message from Sir Isteval, former Dragon Slayer and current voice for the Council of Daggerford. He requests your company for the evening meal at the River Shining Tavern. He says to tell you: 'The Light of Lathander reveals truth, but old friends like Ontharr Frume reveal character.'" 

Torsion's eyes went wide at hearing the name of his mentor. He said to the boy, "Lad, tell your masters that we will be there. Don't dally now, we don't want them to wait." And he busied himself to try to make himself as presentable as possible. 

They all knew who Sir Isteval was. He was a living legend. A brave warrior who had slain an ancient dragon may years ago. It would be most interesting to hear what he has to say and what news he has from Ontharr.

It was easy enouh for them to find the Riving Shining Tavern. 

The River Shining Tavern was warm, smelling of roasted boar and spiced wine. In a private alcove near the hearth a man sat who carries the weight of history on his shoulders. He was an older human with thinning grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wears a tunic of deep purple and silver—the colours of Daggerford—but beneath it, they caught the glint of chainmail.

Beside him was a heavy cane leaning against the wall, carved from white whalebone. As they approached, with a momentary struggle to rise, favouring his left leg, before he settled for a firm nod to greet his guests. His eyes, however, were sharp and undimmed.

"Welcome," he says, his voice a deep baritone. "Please, sit. The road is long, and I fear it is only getting darker."

Sir Isteval ordered ample food and drink and they sat down to discuss.

"I understand there were four of you in total. Where is the fourth?"

Pipp's eyes sullen and she could feel a tear begin to swell up. Dafnae was able to get in first by explaining, "Yes. Unfortunately Chard fell on the battlefield whilst we were battling a horde of the Undead enroute." Pipp, after regaining composure added, "yes, and he was very brave. His loss has left a certain emptiness behind him."

"I do not make a habit of entertaining strangers, but Ontharr Frume is a man of loud convictions and rare praise. If the Order of the Gauntlet trusts you, that carries weight with me. I serve the Lords' Alliance now—politicians and parchment—but my heart remains with those who hold the line against the dark."

"You’ve seen the raids. The smoke on the horizon. The Cult of the Dragon has festered in the shadows for too long, and now they step into the light. My sources in the Alliance tell me they are moving towards some great goal, though their ultimate endgame remains obscured by fog. They are not just bandits; they are fanatics with a strategy."

They explain to Sir Isteval the latest news that they learned, explaining that indeed the Cultists were amongst their Caravan and that they were carrying vast amounts of treasure. Where they were headed was not yet determined.

He listened intently, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce at each word that they said.

"This brings me to why I called you. I still maintain friendships with the Elves of the Misty Forest—specifically King Melandrach’s court. They are an insular people, slow to trust humans, but they are frightened."

"There are rumblings—literally and figuratively—in the deep woods. My elven contacts speak of a green dragon that stalks the canopy, distinct from the usual threats of the forest. The Cult is courting this beast. If the Cult secures a foothold in the Misty Forest, Daggerford is threatened, and the Trade Way will be severed."

The three looked at each other and explained to Sir Istevar how they came across the Golden Stag and how that surely was a member of the Elven Council in the Misty Woods.

"Ah, yes, the Golden Stag. Many claim to have seen it, but none have managed to catch it. That it would present itself to you in such a way is truly an honour."

They continued to explain that she had asked them to slay a beast that was plaguing the Misty Woods. Perhaps this being was the same Green Dragon he spoke of. 

"Yes, indeed, it very likely may be it. Be prepared - such a fight must be taken very seriously."

He continued, “a Monk named Leosin Erlanthar - A Harper by all accounts - had visisted me not long ago. Can’t say I have much dealings with them but Ontharr seems to think he’s useful. They tend to work behind the scenes whereas I am better in the open ground. Had arranged a rendezvous with one of his agents. Not sure where he is now.”

Isteval leant forward, resting his hands on his whalebone cane.

"My days of charging into dragon lairs are finished. That old wound," tapping his cane against his stiff leg, "reminds me of my limits every time it rains. But I can still sharpen the swords of those who can fight."

"If you intend to pursue the Cult—perhaps into the Misty Forest or beyond—I wish to aid you."

He placed a heavy, leather-wrapped bundle on the table. 4 Potions of Greater Healing (stamped with the seal of Lathander) were inside.

And also a letter from Leosin himself:

They read the letter and made note of its contents. They would need to search for this person as well. But who was this Carlon? What did he know? What happened to him?

At the end of the meal and discussion, Sir Isteval raised his goblet in a toast. 

"To the morning," he said quietly. "May it find us all standing when the night is done. Go with Lathander’s blessing. If you find what you’re searching for, bring proof. The Council will need evidence before they mobilize an army.”

They thanked him for his time and information and support and watched as he walked away.

They remained in the tavern for a little while longer in order to absorb what they had learned. Having the support of the Lord's Alliance would surely come in handy. But where was that other agent referenced in Leosin's letter? 

While sitting there, Dafnae was approached by a tavern maid who slipped her a note: "They know about Greenest. Meet me behind the River Shining Tavern in ten minutes if you want to live. Come alone, or I run. - L.K."

Dafnae let the other two know and she reckoned that this L.K. must in fact be Larion Keenblade, the one with whom she discussed the previous evening. She told her companions that she would go meet him for them to keep close but out of site. So they made their way outside and Dafnae quietly moved around the building while Pipp and Torsion took watch near the corners of the exterior.

The fog was rolling off the Delimbiyr River and clung to the cobblestones of Daggerford like a damp shroud. Behind the River Shining Tavern, the alley was narrow, smelling of stale ale and wet timber. A lone lantern swaying on a rusted hook, casting erratic, long shadows.

Stepping out from behind a stack of empty ale barrels was Larion Keenblade. He looked nothing like the composed Caravan guard they've been travelling with. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his eyes darting frantically toward the rooftops and street corners. He clutched a heavy leather satchel tight to his chest.

"You came," he hissed, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. "Good. Keep your hands where I can see them, Dafnae. We don't have much time."

"I know who you are. I know you're not just some merchant guard. You're the ones who made a mess of the camp at Greenest. Don't bother denying it. The Cult of the Dragon knows it too... at least, Walter does."

"I'm one of them. Or, I was. We're hauling the Dragon Queen's hoard north. But I’m no zealot. I signed on for the coin, not to bring about the end of the world. Those fanatics actually want to bring Tiamat back. They're insane."

He tapped his heavy satchel. "I've been... reallocating some of the funds. A gemstone here, a gold necklace there. The hoard is so massive, I thought they wouldn't notice. But after Liam’s Hold and then Gillian’s Hill the higher-ups are getting paranoid. If they find out I've been skimming from the Queen of Dragons... they won't just kill me. They'll feed me to a drake, piece by piece. And I have your friends' stuff. It was an easy mark when you all rushed off and it was just lying there You can have it, and half of what I’ve got if you can help me get away!"

Dafnae quizzed Larion as quickly and quietly as she could. Unfortunately Larion did not have much in the way of other information. All he knew was that they were going to take the good further North to some Castle in a swamp where they were trying to recruit a Black Dragon to their side. Two separate mentions of Dragons in one night must not be a coincidence she thought to herself.

"I need a way out. I need to disappear tonight. I’ll tell you everything I know about the caravan's destination, but you have to promise to cover my escape. Let them think I died, or just look the other way while I slip onto a riverboat."

Larion grabbed Dafnae's sleeve, his knuckles white. "Listen to me! At the Midsummer festival... Walter Hillless saw us talking. He’s sharp, Dafnae. Too sharp. He recognized you from the Greenest camp. He’s convinced you're a spy."

Larion looked over his shoulder, his voice cracking. "Walter is good at waiting. He's a true believer. He's going to kill you, tonight maybe, and string you up as a warning to the rest!"

She took the Amber and Book back and chastised him briefly for stealing it adding, "Well, you would deserve what you fear and more for getting involved with his Cult and stealing our goods. But keep what you have stolen of the Horde or get rid of it - we don't want any of their items on our person, especially if Walter is sniffing around. But come with my quickly. I'll help you get out of town but never want to see your face again, is that understood?"

Larion nodded nervously.

She led him in the dark towards the dock. There must be merchant ships looking to leave in the morning. She explained to Torsion as they made their way past him what they were going to do and for them to follow her at a distance just in case and then they would rendezvous shortly after she was finished. They made their way through the gate to the docks. At the gates the guards were quietly chatting and playing cards. As the two of them approached, one asked "Oi, where are you two off then this late in the evening?"

Dafnae smiled, holding Larion's hand, and said "If you must know, my new 'suitor' has promised me an unforgettable evening by the river."

The guard looked at Larion, assessing him, "With 'im? Alright - whatever floats yer boat as they say. But if 'e comes up like a wet fish, do come back as I knows 'ow to treat a lady." He then boisterously chuckled with his fellow guards. Luckily it seemed like her Deception roll was convincing enough for them to not ask any further questions. 

The two hurried on as the guards continued to egg each other on.

At the docks they found a merchant ship and inquired about passage for her suitor who had run afoul of his misses. The sailors looked at Larion and said, "Yeah, alright, we can take 'im but it'll cost ye 5 gold." 

Dafnae was pleased. "That 5 gold will also by your discretion?"

The sailors looked back over Larion and saw his desperation and replied, "well, now let's look 'ere then. Discretion will cost ye an extra 2 gold." 

Pleased with the arrangement, she looked at Larion and said, "Well, my darling, looks like we have found you a solution. Go, and pay the man." Larion reached in to his purse and paid them with what he had left. He had stashed the leather pouch of jewels behind a building among some barrels and crates on their way to the dockyard.

Dafnae then pulled him in close, as if to give the sailors the appearance that she was bidding farewell to her lover. She whispered, "now you best get out of here and never return. We thank you for the information and we'll keep an eye out for Walter but we can take care of him. And what I am about to do is just a mere fraction of the true punishment you deserve." And with that, before Larion could react, she gave him a good square slap across the side of the face and then she turned and stormed off towards the gate, leaving Larion with his face turning red from both the slap and embarrassment and the sailors gawking at Larion for what just happened, assuming he had sorely offended his mistress.

Stomping up to the guards at the gate, the same one asked "Oi, what'd ye do wid 'im then?"

Dafnae replied, "he's gone fishing it seems." Then she paused, looked at the guard and said, "well, seems I may be available after all then. I might come seek you out tomorrow evening." And with that she smiled, turned, and defiantly walked off back to meet her friends. The guards started to laugh and joke with each other and watched her walk off. Dafnae hoped that they would forget her temporary suitor and not recall the fact that he never went back through the gate.

She reunited with Pipp and Torsion and told them what happened as they made their way back to camp to rest for the evening.

That evening Torsion set a Glyph or Warding on Dafnae's tent to cast Hold Person should someone unauthorised try to enter her tent. They took turns keeping watch just in case, but nothing happened, thankfully - there was no attempt on Dafnae's life. And likely the Cultists were not so brazen as to attempt to do something in a city like Daggerford.

The next day was a day of rest. Dafnae and Pipp went into the city to meet with the Apothecary to see if she could buy the recipe for healing potions. Torsion went into town to the Temple in order to pray to Selune.

Dafnae and Pipp had success and managed to buy the recipe and an Herbalism Kit and some key ingredients. She would need to practice.

As they went about the streets they would occasionally notice Walter and some of his crew loitering around where they were. At first Dafnae paid no heed to it but then it kept happening, as if they were following them, spying on them, she started to give a knowing head nod to them to indicate that she had seen them, as one would greet seeing someone about with whom they had been travelling for several weeks now. It was not out of place, but she wanted them to know she had seen them. But there was no advance by any of them.

Back at the camp for midday meal they noticed a Thayan enter the camp and go meet with Walter and his crew. This was quite the surprise and the three thought to themselves that if things weren't tricky enough, they could suddenly get a lot trickier if Red Wizards were now also somehow involved. 

Pipp sought out Levisius in order to play some more cards and to see if she could learn any news from him. She explained that they got their stolen goods back and that it was Larion in the end who stole them. Levisius was intrigued to hear all this but did also demand an apology from Pipp as he felt she had implied he might have been the culprit as well. Pipp did apologise and she asked if he knew anything about Walter. He did not and she asked him to keep his eyes and ears (and nose!) peeled for any information on him.

On the way back, she bumped into a new Forest Gnome who introduced herself as Jamna Gleamsilver. She told Pipp that they should plan to have a chat at some point soon. It was a bit of a strange interaction and she told her friends about it so they would be keeping their eyes open for her as well.  She was part of the new Wagons and Travellers that were joining the Caravan as they continued on their way up to Waterdeep.

The rest of the afternoon went by uneventfully. But they did not see the Red Wizard leave. They would need to keep an eye out for him also. And of course Walter and the rest of the crew related to the Merchants of Liberty.

---

The memory of Avernus does not fade; it burns. The air in Chard's lungs wass thick with sulphur and the metallic tang of blood. He remembered the constant hammering and grinding of dark metal and the intense dry heat of lava, but most of all, he remembered the Forge, and the Pit Fiend who ruled it.

Bel, the former Lord of the First, did not see a damned soul when he looked at Chard. He saw raw, unshaped iron. He saw a tactician, a warrior, a weapon that could be used to serve his own Infernal purpose. Chard remembered that voice. He remembered the words spoken to him while he laboured without pause, or rest or refreshment. 

"Zariel wastes her assets in mindless charges," the great devil's voice had rumbled, a sound like grinding tectonic plates over the deafening roar of his hell-forges. "I do not waste good steel. You have a general's mind and a soldier's grit, Morthos. I am sending you back. You will be my eyes on the Material Plane, my hand in the dark. Strike when I command. Gather power. And when the time comes to unseat the upstart Archduchess, you will be the dagger I plunge into her back."

Bel did not ask for his soul; he already had it. He simply forged it into something sharper, binding a fraction of his infernal, militaristic magic to Chard's martial prowess.

The transition from the Nine Hells to Faerûn is not peaceful. It felt like being dragged backward through a keyhole of white-hot fire.

Chard gasped, his lungs violently expanding as they took in something entirely alien: cold, clean air.

He was lying face down in the wet mud. The smell of sulphur still in his nose, but it was rapidly replaced by the scent of damp earth, pine needles, and fresh river water. He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He was no longer a shade or a tormented spirit. He had flesh, a heartbeat. It thudded in Chard's chest like a war drum, each beat getting louder and louder.

As his vision clearsed the hazy, crimson skies of Avernus were gone, replaced by the cool, overcast grey of the Sword Coast. He was on the muddy banks of the River Delimbiyr. A light, freezing drizzle dotting his face.

Chard looked down at his hands. They were calloused, scarred from working the forge. Imprinted into the flesh of his hand, glowing with a faint, dying ember-light before fading into a permanent black scar, was the infernal sigil of Bel's forge. He realised that he was naked. All traces of his previous life gone. Chard caught a glimpse of his reflection in the waters. It's him, but a newer version. He had all of his memories and he felt the same but this body was new. No wounds or scars from his death were present. 

Rising to his feet, Chard looked up, the riverbank. Looming through the coastal mist was the sturdy, weathered stone walls and slate roofs of a mortal town. A banner flapping lazily in the wind from a watchtower, bearing the emblem of a silver dagger.

Chard was deposited just outside the gates of Daggerford.

He can feel the hum of dark, arcane energy lying dormant in his blood, waiting to be unleashed. Chard was alive. He was back. But the Duke of the Forge was watching, and a devil's investments always yields a return.

Suddenly Chard felt eyes on him. He turns towards the gaze he felt. Sitting with her back to the wall watching him was a stunningly beautiful woman with raven black hair past her shoulders. She looked at Chard with piercing dark eyes. “I've been waiting for you,” she said. She looked Chard up and down licking her lips and smiling seductively. “I believe you'll be needing this” and she points to a bundle of clothes and black plate armour. My name is Ziva. I'll be checking in on you from time to time at our Lord's request. I'm his messenger here in the mortal plane. I suggest you get dressed, your friends are about to leave town!”

Chard quickly put his clothing on. He was glad to be back. But how would he tell his friends. He would have to think of something.