This weathered black leather tome's cover is marked with faint creases and scars from countless journeys. The leather has a slick, almost oily sheen, worn smooth in places by the grip of eager, reckless hands. Covering the front latch is a black emblem made of flint—a divine symbol, a gloved hand holding a coin with a two-faced head—that catches the light ominously. Lifting the latch, you see a pigmented portrait of the owner, surrounded by dark brass filigree tinted red. Rough-edged corners are reinforced with tarnished brass studs, giving it a rugged, battered look, as if it’s barely held together by a sense of fel righteousness.
You read the table of contents.
Doombringer's Proverbs
Personal Journal
Records of requite
Records of revenge
Records of justice
The black, flint emblem falls off the clasp and into your hand, as you turn to read excerpts of the writings of
Tuldar bar-Khaine, unenviable arbiter of Hoar, tiefling Untherite
Last edited by SamBLikesTieflings on Sat Nov 09, 2024 5:29 am, edited 1 time in total.
As iron sharpens iron, so fury stirs the soul,
The heart once broken, now hardens to its goal.
Vengeance lights a fire where mercy finds no place,
And a man made new walks a darker path to grace.
Waterdeep. This city sprawls out like some great beast, trying to pull me under with its slick, winding streets and towering stones. But I won’t lose my way. Can’t afford to. Not with the blood still hot in my veins, reminding me of every friend, every soul lost to smoke and splinters when the bandits came. They tore through us like dogs on meat, left nothing but ash and broken bodies. I was spared—fate’s cruel joke, or maybe Hoar’s decree.
A message: "This justice isn’t for anyone else to serve." Fine by me.
They say the Magisters of Waterdeep deal justice with iron in their hands and fire in their eyes. Good. That’s the kind of power I’ll take and turn on criminal bastards. But to wield it, I have to get in, crawl through every hoop and pass every test, work my way into their hawkshaw ranks. That’s no small feat for someone like me—a cursed aybtep with horns and scars that speak louder than I ever could. People see me coming, eyes narrow, lips twitch, suspicions thick in the air. But darkness doesn’t flinch from darkness, and I’ve spent too long in shadows to let their doubts touch me. Hoar has marked me for this—my blood hums with it.
Tonight, I’ll find myself a kip, a minder too if one’s cheap and quiet, and start carving a trail. I’ll have my answers, one way or another. The Tower of the Order is gonna see me by week’s end, and then it’s a straight shot to sniffing out those responsible. Every alley, every dark hole this city holds, I’ll search until they’re dragged out into the light.
I’m not the only one hurting here. This city has a way of grinding down the helpless, scattering broken lives like bits of trash on its streets. So I’ll hunt for them, too—the ones whose voices drown in silence, the ones who’ve been forgotten. For them, and for the blood that was spilled. Waterdeep has shadows aplenty, but I’ll outstare every last one.
Disclaimer: This is not designed as an accurate account. It's a dramatization.
Account of Heist of the Seal, involving The Crimson Veil
Waterdeep, Tarsakh 24, 1380
When the wicked thrive, let vengeance be swift,
Assuran’s balance restores every rift.
The just who repay shall walk in his light,
For vengeance and justice are one in his sight.
The Sun’s Rest Inn hums with the clinking of mugs and exaggerated tales. Kelian, the unflappable Lathanderite innkeeper, pours drinks with serene precision, unshaken as a man cloaked in deep blue strides in, eyes sharp with suspicion.
“You’ve been lax, Kelian,” the man growls, voice low and menacing.
Kelian raised an eyebrow but didn’t pause in his work. “I don’t get involved in such matters. You’d be wise to do the same.”
The man leans closer. “A magical seal the Magisters acquired has gone missing. We need it back. I’m hiring professionals.”
Tuldar, the unenviable arbiter of Hoar, strode forward, ashen skin gleaming under the flickering light, his fingers idly scratching near the red eyepatch that hid the ruin of his left eye. Bunuk, a dwarven warrior built like a siege engine, cracks his knuckles. Grev, a halfling craftswoman, adjusts her crossbow. Ward, a warrior-mage, approaches silently, hands flickering with faint arcs of energy. Ume, a dark-haired man with a fox’s tail, moves with easy confidence. Beside him pads Hyro, a talking fox, her bright eyes brimming with mischief.
The cloaked man gestures and marks the group's map. “Word of the seal was last heard at a seedy tavern in the Docks' Ward. Bring it back.”
The tavern reeks of stale beer and despair. The barkeep, a burly man with sunken eyes, stiffens as the group enters. His forced smile falters when Tuldar approaches.
“We’re here to pay for the seal,” Tuldar says, voice smooth but edged with threat.
The barkeep’s hands tremble. “Ah ... right. Your master sent you.” He motions toward the back. “Wait here. I’ll fetch it.”
They sit at the large, backroom table, and minutes drag by. Ume’s sharp eyes catch a loose floorboard.
“Found something,” he murmurs, prying it up to reveal a trapdoor.
The group descends, finding the barkeep crouched just below, hiding behind crates.
His face pales. “I helped you, okay? Don’t tell the guild! I just want out. I’ll flee to Daggerford!”
Tuldar’s cold stare lingers. “Get out!”
The barkeep scrambles up the ladder, vanishing into the night.
The tunnels drip with moisture, the air thick and oppressive. Grev kneels by a tripwire and disarms it with ease.
“Pathetic,” she mutters.
Deeper in, the group enters a narrow hallway, jagged shadows cast by flickering torches. Thieves emerge from hidden alcoves. Their leader sneers, yanking a lever. A spike trap slams up from the floor. Tuldar lunges too fast. His kukris flash, but the trap catches him mid-stride, spikes driving into his chest. He collapses, lifeless.
Ume strikes first, his blade slicing through the nearest thief with fluid precision. Ward follows, sword humming with arcane energy as it cleaves through another with cold efficiency. Hyro darts to Tuldar, her paws glowing as she murmurs ancient words. The tiefling gasps as life surges back into him but staggers, his injuries forcing him to hang back, striking only when necessary.
Bunuk barrels into the fray, his axe cleaving through armor and bone. Grev’s crossbow bolts thud into targets with deadly accuracy. The thieves fight savagely, but soon, only the groans of the fallen remain.
They press on into an open meeting room. Dark banners bearing the guild’s crimson sigil loom from the walls. The guild master paces at the center, cloaked in crimson, twin curved blades in hand, his eyes blazing with dark power.
“Fools,” he snarls. “You’ve come to die.”
Spectral blades whirl around him as he unleashes a storm of blades and energy. Ward deflects with a crackling bolt, shaking the room. Grev fires, her bolt disrupting his focus. Ume and Hyro attack from the flanks, driving him back.
With a thunderous roar, Bunuk charges. His axe swings in a devastating arc, cleaving the guild master in two. A sable cloak collapses around his lifeless body.
In the guild master’s office, Tuldar locates the seal on a pedestal and grips it, runes pulsing under his touch. A sudden flash blinds the room. Jerenai materializes, her shimmering vestment gleaming in the light.
She scans the group, her voice sharp and steady. “Well done.”
Tuldar steps forward. “Jerenai of Force Grey. Waterdeep’s elite. We couldn’t ask for a better ally.”
Jerenai wastes no time. She raises her hands, teleporting the group to her spacious office in Castle Waterdeep. Securing the seal in a reinforced case, she turns.
“What did you find?”
One by one, the group hands over the letters. Ward breaks a wax seal, scanning its contents.
His brow furrows. “The Crimson Veil is behind this.”
Jerenai’s eyes narrow. “This isn’t over. The Crimson Veil regroups in Daggerford. Will you finish what you’ve started?”
Hyro flicks her tail, grinning. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Tuldar grates coldly. “Send word when we’re leaving.”
