The Tearing of the Weave

Now With More Evil

We have gathered our forces to attack the Twisted Tower. Azalar will lead a group through the Shadowdark and attack from below, as we originally did, while Aster will lead a second group to attack the river-gate of the Tower on the surface. Tymora has smiled upon us, for I received the message I had been waiting for: my liege was dispatching a powerful force of Silver Ravens to provide Sembian assistance to the Fellowship. Fifty of them teleported into Castle Grimstead, each one a talented swashbuckler, wizard, ranger, or rogue of no small ability. I gave the order that they would join Aster’s attack, making it formidable indeed.

While Aster and Azalar led their forces forward, the Fellowship snuck through the frigid, cloudless night, crossing the River Ashaba via pegasus. We crept along the riverbank, closing in on the Twisted Tower, but ran into a pair of guardians placed to prevent us from entering via the outer secret door: terrible, bulbous monstrosities, riddled with tentacles and enveloped in hints of dark shadow, stalking us from above, in the trees. They grabbed Ivak and myself, and we found all of our magic was now useless: not a single item, weapon, or even spell; they then began to strangle us.

We would have been killed, but our friends saved us. Kosh riddled one of the beasts with lethally targeted arrows; I think its pancreas is still airborne and is possibly over Mistledale now. Lemac climbed into the tree containing the other beast, and hewed bloody rents into its flesh with his greataxe. Arianna kept us from being quickly strangled and torn to death. Finally, the beasts were killed. I have added them to the Fellowship’s list of hated foes, joining the ranks of khumats, beds, undead lizard men that throw pots full of poisonous vermin, and foes who cast magical darkness.

When we heard Aster’s army assault the Tower’s gate, we made our move, sneaking into the Tower’s secret outer entrance, and moving swiftly up the stairs to Mourngrym’s chambers. Along the way, we found and successfully entered the scrying room of the Skymages, despite several dangerous magical traps. I stole their books and journals, while Ivak captured their scrying crystal.

When we entered Mourngrym’s chamber, we found him readying for battle. I spoke to him, attempting to discern his intent (or what, perhaps, he was) but he would say nothing at all, remaining silent, and instead assaulted me with his sword, as well as summoning clouds of magical darkness. I punched him with the basket hilt of my sword, trying to subdue him, but he was unstoppable, and a brief but pitched battle scattered his bedroom about. Lemac gave me a vital opening, and I flipped over Amcathra, stabbing him through the back with my blade.

This diary is entirely too heroic and good-aligned. It nauseates me to read it, but I must do so, in order to portray this properly. However, I will attempt to improve on its wretched chronicling of this vomitous “Fellowship.”

Apparently, these fools have some sort of plan, which I of course have been privy to for some time. They wish to spoil the relations between the Zhentarim and House Jaelrae; such things are far below the scope of my dark power, and thus of little consequence, but I would prefer that this not happen. I have easily assured the overconfident half-drow and paladin to let me speak to Jezz the Lame without their presence being needed, but I cannot get the barbarian to go away. I have tried several manipulation techniques, but he is too stubborn; now I see why his kind cannot even write letters, as they lie with dogs, drinking in the reek. So, I will be forced to play along as my host would, as the barbarian is standing at the door, listening to my words and struggling to comprehend them with his ale-shrunken prune of a brain. I suppose that Cormanthorian excuse for a lumber yard will have to tolerate the prancing and singing of miserable fey and elves for a while longer. Jezz readily accepted my flawless presentation; at least I can convincingly impersonate a miserly, conniving Sembian. I have even allowed myself to drop several hints as to what is truly going on, but these Fellowship cretins remain oblivious.

The feeble Zhentarim have been cast out of the Tower now. This will change, but not complicate, my plans. Some of these writhing pustules of Prime Material slime are slightly confused and suspicious, but I am not concerned. So far, it has been a simple matter to suggest and convince them that the Tormite paladin has been corrupted and controlled by the same power that must have taken Mourngrym. The barbarian Lemac believes me, as does the excuse of a street musician, Aster, and the whore of Sune, Arianna. The archer Kosh seems indifferent, but he is already amoral enough that I already intend to target his shred of a psyche next, should the need arise, as he would be the most easily corrupted to evil. The sanctimonious bag of arrogance, Ivak, has already tried to cast one excuse for a spell on me and failed, and I will now use this to further convince the others that he is, in fact, now the vessel of their enemy. After all, what true villain can resist corrupting and destroying the pure and the holy?

I will return to you in a moment, wretched diary, and etch some more musings of unholy righteousness upon your screaming pages of damned flesh; but it seems my current host wishes to expel me, with some assistance from the sputtering fop of a paladin and the Weave-splattered prostitute of a heartwarder. One moment.




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