The journey to the port city of Fireplace claimed several hours. By day, the city was a cacophony of commerce and salt air. Greywind made for The Fire Place, a tavern of sturdier reputation than the one where his journey began. Inside, the air was a thick blend of woodsmoke, roasted meats, and potent ale. Behind the bar stood Dragnar.
Dragnar was a Crimson Dragonborn of formidable stature, his scales shimmering like polished garnets in the hearth-light. He wore a simple leather apron over his massive frame. His reptilian eyes tracked Greywind, a sharp, toothy grin spreading across his maw.
"Greywind," he hissed in the sibilant tongue of his kind. "I heard tell of screams and eldritch thunder near the ruins last night. You return whole a good omen or a bad one, depending on where one stands. So? What of the cultists?"
Greywind flicked the weeping-eye medallion onto the bar. It landed with a heavy clack on the dark wood. "If you seek them, look for the wolves. They will be the ones with the full bellies. I want my coin. And I want the next task."
Dragnar ceased his polishing. He inspected the medallion with a practiced eye before nodding. "The Weeping Sleep. They have been a blight on these lands for too long." He swept the token away and produced a heavy pouch of coin. "Fifty gold, as promised."
Leaning his massive bulk over the bar, Dragnar lowered his voice. "You seek more work? It so happens there is a matter of significant profit and significant peril. Ships are vanishing near Shark-Fin Reef. Survivors speak of songs in the fog and a leviathan that drags hulls into the deep. A sea dragon calling herself 'Saliana' wants the threat excised. One hundred gold, and the right to one item from whatever hoard you find."
Greywind shook his head. "The sea is too damp for my current mood. Do you have something more... direct? Something concerning the lives of the guilty?"
He locked eyes with the Dragonborn. "The sea quest is fine for some, but I have unfinished business with the land-bound. I have heard the name 'Mistress Althea.' I know of the 'Breathing Sands' and a ritual involving 'The Binder' on the new moon less than three days from now. Tell me you have something that aligns with this."
Dragnar paused, a long, hissing breath escaping his snout. "Althea... that name carries a chill. A researcher from Candlekeep named Elara a good soul, not like the one you likely met last night came through here weeks ago. She was hunting the cult of 'The Sand-Bound King.' She vanished three weeks past."
He closed his ledger with a thud. "Find what became of her. If she breathes, bring her back. If she is ash, bring proof. And if the cult is responsible... end them. The reward is seventy-five gold from her deposit, plus whatever arcana or research you find unless she lives to claim it. And Greywind... if it is the lives of the guilty you seek, every throat in that cave is a sanctioned target. I will not ask how the deed is done."
"But remember: the moon turns in three days. If you are not finished by then, we face a darkness none of us can name."
Greywind gave a grim nod. "I care little for justice, Dragnar. I only require the harvest of lives. I will take the task. Tyrants and zealots leave few mourners behind."
Dragnar handed him a small iron key. "Room 3. Elara left her research there. It is yours to use. Be wary of Althea; her name alone makes my bravest informants shiver."
Greywind ascended to the quiet upper corridor. The key turned with a smooth click, revealing a room that was Spartan but orderly. A single bed, a desk by the window, and a small wardrobe. It was clear the room had been a sanctuary for study; books and sheaves of parchment cluttered the desk alongside magnifying lenses and inkwells.
He focused on the desk. Among the clutter, several items stood out:
A thick, leather-bound journal titled "Field Notes – Elara of Candlekeep."
A scholarly, detailed map of the desert fringes surrounding the Caverns of Breathing Sand.
A silver pin in the shape of an open book the crest of Candlekeep.
A full vial labeled "Anti-Toxin."
An unfinished letter, penned in an elegant hand.
He scanned the journal. The Sand-Bound Faithful sought to awaken an entity trapped in a dreamscape between worlds. Mistress Althea, described as a woman with shifting, sandy eyes and a voice that induced trances, led them. Their ritual in the "Chamber of the Sand-Heart" required a living catalyst and an artifact known as "The Binder" to chain the victim's soul to the sands.
The unfinished letter was a desperate plea to Candlekeep: "The cult possesses a Sandheart Gem... it channels the entity's power. If I can secure it, our research will leap forward. But I feel eyes upon me... if I do not return, send aid. They must be stopped."
Greywind swept the items into his pack and exited, returning the key to Dragnar with a silent nod. He stepped out into the quiet side alley of the tavern.
Suddenly
"I'm coming too, you know."
That voice. Sultry, possessive, and inescapable. Jannis was awake.
"Grey, Grey... did you really think you could forget me?"
Before he could react, a sensation a long, wet, phantom tongue licked the side of his neck, trailing from behind his ear down to his collarbone. It wasn't a physical touch the world could see, but a psychic illusion so visceral it made him shudder. A contented sigh echoed in his skull.
"Ah, the taste of it... your tension. Your murderous intent. That female cultist. You are always being dragged into trouble by women, aren't you? Was Liana's whimpering this morning not enough? I heard her, though I was too drowsy to spoil your fun. She had a lovely scent, I'll admit."
The phantom lick evolved into a spectral embrace from behind, as if something large and invisible were coiling around his shoulders and chest.
"I shall stay with you, darling. Try not to be so cross today."
Her presence was closer now, more adhesive than it had ever been. It seemed her recent "satiety" had not made her distant, but rather more possessive an addict who had tasted the finest vintage and now refused to let the carafe out of her sight.