Lurrus Dreambow awoke beneath a sky that had never loved him.
The place was naught but a scatter of broken hills and wind-gnawed grass, far removed from any road worth naming. It had once been his childhood home—or something near enough to home that memory still dared to cling to it. Here, in the quiet cruelty of isolation, he laid traps as one might lay prayers: carefully, repeatedly, and without certainty that anyone still listened.
Purpose had eluded him for years, but now it pressed upon him with an almost physical weight.
At his side rested the rod.
It twitched faintly, as if breathing. Or hungering.
From its slick, alien surface seeped a pressure—an insidious whisper that promised power, clarity, dominion. Lurrus felt it coil around his thoughts, tightening whenever doubt surfaced. He did not know whether his ambitions had become entangled with the thing… or whether they had been corrupted outright. At times, when the wind stilled and the world seemed to hold its breath, he fancied another presence—distant, stern, divine—watching him with measured disappointment, yet offering the smallest blessings, as one might toss crumbs to a starving hound.
It was then that Belinda Tremorbow found him.
She came without ceremony, boots muddy from long travel, eyes sharp with urgency. The King of Gauntlgrym wished to hear his tale, she said. Bruenor Battlehammer himself had called for a gathering—five factions, no less—and Lurrus Dreambow was named among those summoned. A week hence, beneath the mountain.
The rod pulsed at the mention of it…
Far away, deep within the Iron Tabernacle of Gauntlgrym, King Bruenor stood with arms crossed, gazing into the ancient stone as if it might answer his doubts. Eldeth Feldrun stood nearby, resolute as ever, while Blight lingered at the edge of the chamber, hands folded, eyes thoughtful.
“Will they come?” the King wondered aloud. “Or will they hide behind banners and excuses?”
Blight, ever the optimist, spoke gently. The threat was too dire, he said. People would feel it in their bones soon enough. They would come.
Eldeth nodded, and so, after a fashion, did the King.
In an outpost of the Emerald Enclave, a scout burst through the doors bearing urgent word: Morista Malkan had summoned them back to Gauntlgrym.
Among those gathered stood Thalor Thornbloom, his brow heavy with unspoken grief. His mentor—his friend—Liona Mossglint had gone silent months ago. Her letters had ceased without warning, the last speaking of corruption in the wild places above the Underdark. Since then, only silence… and dread.
A week passed.
Gauntlgrym stirred like a giant waking from slumber. Banners unfurled, flags bearing sigils old and proud lined the great gates, and envoys from distant lands arrived in steady streams. The city welcomed them all with food, drink, and chambers carved from stone older than many kingdoms.
Blight spoke softly to those who would listen of Gauntlgrym’s history—of its prosperity, its ruin, and its rebirth. Ghosts still lingered in its halls, echoes of battles long past. And danger, too, still crept through forgotten passages where no guard could stand watch forever.
Lurrus arrived unseen.
He moved through the city like a shadow, studying faces, weighing auras. One woman bore a sharpness to her presence—dangerous, yet not wholly evil. A man nearby commanded respect without speaking a word. Others, too, carried power that made the air around them feel tight and electric.
It was Eldeth Feldrun who caught him unaware.
She greeted him warmly, spoke of her role in the coming council, and told him—without pretense—that Gauntlgrym was her home. She was glad he had come. Lurrus asked only one thing: that his presence remain discreet, for now. She agreed, and he was escorted quietly to his quarters.
Near the Great Forge, Thalor Thornbloom stood beside Blight, staring into a vast pit of molten fire. Blight explained how the lava was bound—how Maegera, the Dawn Titan primordial, lay imprisoned, its power channeled through coils of copper and adamantine to fuel the forges of the dwarves.
As he spoke, Blight felt it.
Something was wrong.
The lava shifted unnaturally, as though listening.
He said nothing, only warned Thalor to remain close through the night.
Elsewhere, Lurrus encountered a strange individual—unkempt, distracted, bearing a rash of familiar shape about the neck. Recognition stirred uneasily within him. He offered the man a vial, a simple salve meant to soothe the affliction. The stranger stared at it blankly, confused, as though unaware of any wound at all.
At the King’s summons, guards escorted Lurrus, Belinda, and Eldeth to speak privately of the Underdark.
“Welcome, friends,” says the king. “I’ve a mind to know about the rumblings and rumors about goings-on in the depths outside my city. If ye relate to me what ye know, we can talk about what ye might want to do next.”
Belinda spoke first—of the Society of Brilliance, of her journey, of warnings given too late.
Lurrus interrupted, sharp as a drawn blade. He spoke of ignored counsel, of arrogance, of faith mistaken for preparation. He gestured toward Blight and declared that optimism would not save them.
The King laughed—a deep, thunderous sound—and thanked him for his honesty. No one here, he assured them, took the threat lightly any longer.
Blight spoke then, solemnly. Faith alone would never be enough. Zebu’s death proved as much. Everyone knew the danger—they simply chose to face it.
He clapped his hands together, divine energy flaring softly as he reached out with his senses. Evil lingered nearby, flickering in and out of reach.
Lurrus hesitated, then produced the rod.
The air changed.
Though all present recognized the artifact’s malign nature, they watched in astonishment as it seemed to recoil—almost flinch—in the presence of King Bruenor Battlehammer. The King’s will pressed against it like a mountain against a worm.
Afterward, they were dismissed and told to prepare for the feast, where the King would seek to unite the factions in a single, desperate cause.
The leaders were introduced.
Lord Zelraun Roaringhorn of the Harpers, champions of the oppressed.
Sir Lanniver Strayl of the Order of the Gauntlet, justice incarnate, his great hammer resting beside him like a promise.
Morista Malkan of the Emerald Enclave, welcoming all to her home—and mourning the loss of her scout, Sladis Vadir.
Lord Eravien Haund of the Lord’s Alliance, youthful in face, ancient in experience, bowing respectfully to old allies.
And Davra Jassur of the Zhentarim—elegant, composed, deadly—her scouts confirming the King’s darkest suspicions.
The feast began.
Blight slipped away, drawn once more to the forge. The moment he reached the lava pit, danger screamed through his senses.
Back in the hall, Lurrus stiffened. His hair stood on end.
Thalor noticed.
Then chaos erupted.
The strange man—the one with the rash—lunged, striking down a Zhentarim agent before anyone could speak. Steel flashed. Shouts rang out.
Lurrus surged forward, rod unfurled, leaping toward the assassin.
Too late.
Davra Jassur moved like a whispered curse. Her dagger found the man’s chest with surgical precision.
“He will not die yet,” she said coolly. “But he will soon.”
The rod’s tendrils wrapped around the collapsing body as she released him.
And beneath the mountain, at the edge of the forge, three fire elementals rose screaming from the molten depths—answering a call no one had meant to make.
The night in Gauntlgrym had only just begun.
End of session 1.