Dear readers, as the sun waned this evening, cresting the realm of twilight, a curious sight caught Murk’s keen gaze from atop the flying tower. Winged silhouettes darkened the sky, a flight of vulture riders cutting through the air with sinister grace. Our heroes, ever vigilant, braced for confrontation, hands drifting to their weapons as the avian cavalcade alighted upon the tower’s landing.
Their leader, a man whose sack bore the mark of a grinning visage, hailed himself as Amarath. With a flourish, he professed an offering for Zephyros, a tribute from the enigmatic Yan C. Bin. The cloud giant emerged to parley with these leather-clad envoys, receiving from Amarath’s aide, N’von, a pouch of shimmering faerie dust. Amarath, with the air of one used to command, beseeched Zephyros to aid in a primordial quest—to return the world to the raw chaos at the birth of time, as dictated by Yan-C-Bin. Zephyros, troubled, withdrew to his sanctum to consult his oracles, leaving the adventurers to ponder this portentous plea.
Tien, with a memory as sharp as his blade, recognized the name of Yan C. Bin from chilling tales heard in his youth, revealing to his comrades the true nature of their guests—emissaries of The Prince of Evil Air. With this revelation, the pact of peace shattered, blades and spells unleashed in a flurry of righteous fury. Eridan, swift and lethal, felled a cultist with his twin swords, while Amarath pulled an unseen force from his sack, commanding it to “slay these fools!” Our heroes found themselves beset by the cultists and their phantasmal ally. Eridan, undaunted, cut down another assailant with merciless dark elven efficiency. Murk, briefly ensnared by one dark enchantment, broke free only to find himself targeted by another. Syndra, Tien, Dru, and Zephyr met their foes with steel and skill, reducing their numbers with each passing moment.
As the tide turned, only Amarath and his unseen servant remained. Facing defeat, the cult leader sought to flee, but Tien, denying any parley, silenced Amarath’s pleas with a decisive strike. The vultures, bereft of their riders, scattered to the four winds, and the invisible entity vanished likewise. Victorious, our heroes gathered the spoils—a magical Bag of Holding and a pouch filled with the sparkling, dusty remains of the actual hair and skin of faeries. With solemnity, they dispatched the remains of the vanquished cultists to the Dessarin river far below. Obliteration in a watery grave: a fitting end for those who sought to return the world to primordial chaos.
Zephyros, descending from his contemplation, offered his apologies for the strife his guests had wrought. The adventurers, now guardians of the tower in truth, accepted his words, their bond strengthened by battle and the shared knowledge that their journey was intertwined with the elemental forces shaping the fate of Faerûn itself.
chronicles 