Preparing for Departure
The dust of Waterdeep had barely settled when Albion Dusklight gathered the party within the quiet remnants of Blackstaff Tower. His expression was drawn, his tone subdued. “The Blackstaff is gone, but her fragments remain,” he said. “I can track them, but it will take time. You, however, will be needed where the first shard has already begun to stir.”
He pressed a simple silver key into their hands. The key’s teeth shimmered with faint blue light, its metal warm to the touch. “This is my magic key,” he explained. “Wherever you are, it can open a door to the Blackstaff’s office. Use it sparingly. The wards will recognize you now.”
With that, Albion bade them a week’s rest to recover, resupply, and prepare for the journey ahead. The choice of where to begin their search was left to them—and they chose the path north, toward the Bifröst Isles, guided by their ally Unknown.
Tying Loose Ends
The week passed in quiet preparation. They walked the scarred streets of Waterdeep, assessing the destruction left behind by the rampaging statues. Craters pocked the cobblestones—one immense footprint lay mere yards from the Trollskull Tavern—but their home stood miraculously unharmed.
The Rosemary & Thyme had weathered the chaos untouched. The House of Inspired Hands and the Temple of Lathander stood strong. But the Old Xoblob Shop had vanished entirely—its storefront replaced by a gaping hole where the building should have stood. It seemed as though it had been plucked from the street by magic.
At the docks, they learned that Zardoz Zord and his Sea Maiden’s Faire had fled the harbor during the attack. Their colorful ships were gone, leaving only empty moorings and gossip of where they might have sailed.
They said their goodbyes to the Trollskull Tavern staff. Francine promised to keep the fires burning and the ale fresh until their return. It was a somber farewell—each of them knew that this journey would take them farther than any before.
The Forging and the Truth
Before leaving the city, Quertex worked alongside Azerty in her workshop. Using the remnants of infernal tech and her old schematics, the two constructed a new weapon based on the Hell Blade Generator. Sparks and molten light filled the room as the arcane engine took form—a weapon humming with infernal resonance. Azerty warned him softly, “Be careful with this one.”
Later, as they rested, Azerty found herself in quiet conversation with Punko. She spoke of her time with the Cult of the Dragon, and her creation of the Gem Eggs—dragon eggs infused with both metallic and chromatic essence, created between 1470 and 1480. “We hoped to forge hybrids,” she admitted, “but none ever hatched. Perhaps it was mercy.” Her words lingered in the air like ash, and Punko felt the faint stirrings of unease about his own mysterious heritage.
Through the Roots
When their week was done, Fafnir led them to the large Oak tree in the Blackstaff Tower courtyard. He placed one hand upon the bark and one upon the earth. The world shifted—colors fading, air thickening—and with a flash of green light, they were gone.
Fafnir called the technique Rootwalking. “It is the old way,” he said, his voice echoing through the twisting void of branches and roots. “A path between worlds, guided by Yggdrasil herself.” “We’ll go to my home,” he decided. “To Alfheim.”
Arrival in Alfheim
They emerged in a vast glade of golden light—Fafnir’s homeland, Alfheim. The scent of pine and frost filled the air. They were greeted by Skadi, the Huntlord and Fafnir’s old mentor, who bowed curtly before them. Their reunion was brief; something had changed in the world, and even Alfheim felt it.
During their stay, a roll of mischief found them—a Fluffokka fell from a branch above, landing squarely on one of their heads before snatching a trinket from a pack. The small creature squeaked triumphantly before retreating into a hammock-like nest woven from its own cotton fluff. Quertex, less amused, tried to shoot it down—but was quickly stopped by Nithgrea. Punko and Tinnitus then managed to convince the fluffy creature to return Quertex's belonging.
Ominous Tidings
They met Vadi, Fafnir’s childhood friend and newly appointed Master Shipwright. Vadi informed them that Loki, leader of the Alfar tribe, had been arrested by the Goliaths and taken to the mainland. More troubling still, the godlike Odin—who performs the Shattering of the Ice each month—had not appeared in over a week. “He’s never missed the ritual,” Vadi said grimly. “Not once. The seas are colder, the light dimmer. Something’s wrong.”
Vadi offered them one of her newest vessels—an Ice Drake boat, crafted from Duergar-forged alloys and enchanted icewood. “She’ll carry you through storms,” she promised. “Especially when I'll be joining you to the mainland! ”
She briefly explains how her master, the previous Master Shipwright, had recently left Alfheim to head towards Nidavellir to hone his craft further with the Duergar tribes.
The Voyage to the Mainland
With Fafnir and Vadi aboard, they sailed through frozen waters toward the Goliath territories. The ship glided between floes of ice that glittered like shattered mirrors. Their journey was interrupted by a monstrous roar from below. A massive Skaghval—a twin-tusked whale like creature the size of a galleon—burst from the waves, ramming the Ice Drake with thunderous force.
The battle was fierce but brief. As the final blow was struck, the Skaghval let out a pitiful cry before a colossal serpentine appendage coiled around it, dragging the creature screaming beneath the surface. The waters boiled, then stilled. None spoke for a long while.
Across the Helheim Chasm
As the coast of the mainland came into view, they spotted a distant, towering figure upon the mountains—a giant clad in armor astride a many-legged horse. The figure watched them in silence before vanishing into the mist.
The group soon approached the yawning rift of Helheim, the gaping wound in the sea left by Odin’s battle long ago. Using one of Vadi’s newest inventions, they caused the Ice Drake to rise, hovering above the chasm as a cold wind screamed below. Quertex nearly lost his footing, tumbling toward the abyss, but Nithgrea's quick reflexes saved him. When they reached the far side, hearts still pounding, a solemn silence fell across the crew.
The Lady by the Water
The sun dipped below the horizon as they neared the shore. There, standing knee-deep in the icy surf, was the silhouette of a woman cloaked in shadow and silver light. Her bearing was unmistakable—poised, dignified, and eerily familiar.
It was the Lady Blackstaff.