The Devil’s Prodigal Son
The battle beneath the Cassalanter villa had barely ended when a new terror rose. From the remnants of Victoro Cassalanter’s shattered body, a dark mist began to stir. The chamber filled with the scent of sulfur and roses. A voice—smooth, confident, cruel—echoed from the darkness.
“Ah, I would like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for preparing this new body for me.”
The mist coalesced into a tall figure draped in black and crimson finery. Osvaldo Cassalanter had returned, his soul clawing its way back from Avernus to claim the vessel that once belonged to his father. The transformation was still incomplete—his features shifting and settling into a younger version of himself. A shadowy limb extended from where Victoro’s arm had been severed, flexing like smoke in torchlight.
His golden hair gleamed against the infernal glow of the chamber. When he smiled, it was sharp enough to cut through the silence.
“Should I perhaps feel bad about my father’s fate? No. Not after what he did to me. To us. Isn’t that right, my dear older brother and his merry group of friends?”
The Challenge
Osvaldo’s tone turned theatrical, his movements deliberate, as though performing for an unseen audience. He extended his hands, the air around him trembling with infernal energy.
“Now, as way of thanking you all, I come before you—to issue challenge and offer singular bliss. For it is the sole pleasure I know, and the sole pleasure I have to share.”
Then, with a sweeping bow, he raised his voice in a final declaration:
“If you wish to walk away, I will not stop you. But I know you wouldn’t walk away from performing on this grand stage I have set for you. Let us embrace violence together!”
The Battle of Blood and Shadow
The fight was a tempest of flame and fury. Osvaldo wielded his shadow-forged scythe with grace bordering on artistry, striking like a dancer, laughing through every exchange. His voice carried above the clash:
“I pray this battle doesn’t disappoint me! Give me something to remember!”
But his stolen flesh betrayed him. The strength of his spirit outmatched the body he inhabited. The longer he fought, the slower his strikes became. His laughter faltered. His movements dulled. And at last, with one final flourish, he fell to a knee, panting, his dark weapon dissolving into mist.
“It seems I require more time to get used to this new body. But still, I expected more of you all.”
Mother’s Farewell
As the shadows around him began to recede, Ammalia Cassalanter emerged from the adjoining chamber. Her face was pale and streaked with tears. “Osvaldo,” she whispered, voice trembling, “please… stay. You don’t have to go.”
Osvaldo turned toward her, his expression softening for the first time. “You no longer need to worry for the twins,” he said. “Their souls are safe now. Take care of them. Live your life free of the devil’s shadow.” He then swirls his scythe in the air, creating a portal through which he leaves the stage.
Ammalia clutched a sealed letter to her chest, its edges worn and smudged. With trembling hands, she held it out to Tinnitus.
“Something changed in my husband after his return from the vault,” she explained. “He searched the house frantically until he found this—tucked behind our family portrait. He made me swear to deliver it to a place called The Rosemary & Thyme if anything should happen to him. You—you are the young man who dwells there, are you not? Please, take it. It is all I can do to honor his final wish.”
Her voice broke as she looked down at the letter once more.
“Oh, Victoro, my love… if only I could have saved you—from that devil, from yourself.”
Ammalia then explained the antidote for the poisoned feast—those afflicted needed only to eat from the nobles’ untouched tables to neutralize the toxin. Azerty and Skalmöld’s father remained behind with Ammalia and her children to ensure their safety.
The Call from the Blackstaff
As the party caught their breath, Punko heard a familiar voice whisper in his mind—a message from Vajra Safahr herself:
“Help... he... attack... a trap... destroy Waterdeep!”
The ground began to tremble. Dust fell from the ceiling as distant screams echoed from above. It was as though the entire city were groaning under the weight of some titanic force. If the party hesitated, Amarielle arrived breathless, confirming their worst fears—the Walking Statues of Waterdeep had come to life, wreaking destruction across the city.
Force Grey had already arrived at the Cassalanter estate, joining Emerald Enclave druids and temple priests to treat the poisoned guests. The party exchanged grim glances. They knew where they had to go.
The Fall of the Blackstaff
Racing through the chaos, they reached Blackstaff Tower, where the great spire stood shaking under the strain of uncontrolled magic. The sky itself seemed to warp around it as they ascended. Slobberchops, Vajra’s winged feline companion, led them through smoke-filled corridors and into the Blackstaff’s private sanctum.
There, tragedy awaited. The Blackstaff herself lay lifeless upon the marble floor, her body broken and still. Nihiloor, the mind flayer, loomed over her corpse near the entrance. And at the far end of the chamber stood Albion Dusklight, frozen in shock, his hands trembling.
Before the party could act, Albion lunged toward the fallen staff, shouting a warning. But Nihiloor was faster. The mind flayer’s eyes flashed violet, and with a gesture, the Blackstaff shattered into countless shards of obsidian light, each piece tearing through the air before vanishing into portals across the realms. The walking statues outside stopped in their tracks, their motion severed along with the artifact’s power.
As the mind flayer began to sink into the portal, it dragged Vajra’s body with it—disappearing into the void before anyone could reach them.
Aftermath
Albion dropped to his knees, his voice shaking as he tried to explain. The mind flayer had breached the tower’s inner sanctum—a pocket dimension thought impenetrable. Vajra, realizing the city was under attack, had used the Blackstaff’s power to awaken the walking statues to defend Waterdeep. But something went wrong. Nihiloor had intervened, twisting the magic against her.
“I tried to stop him,” Albion said, eyes glassy with grief. “I was too late.”
The tower fell silent. Vajra Safahr—the Blackstaff of Waterdeep—was gone. The party stood among the remnants of shattered power, knowing that if they could find and reforge the scattered pieces of the Blackstaff, they might yet save her... and perhaps, the city itself.