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Chapter Text

The high halls of the temple hummed with activity as Zevlor entered the classroom. Young children filled the room, some sat at long tables while others wandered round, chatting and occupying themselves as they waited for their lesson.

Zevlor leaned onto the table at the front with his book in hand and sang loudly, ”’I shall not err,’ my heart doth sing!”

“When under your watchful wing!” The children sang back chaotically. Silence settled over the room as children shuffled in their seats, watching Zevlor. He leaned on the desk facing the children, opening his book.

“While we wait for your parents in prayer, let us begin with today’s lesson.”

Now listen, dear children, for I shall tell you a tale of gods and mortals, of a time when the heavens themselves trembled with fury and the earth shook with the weight of divine retribution.

In the ancient tapestry of the Realms, where the threads of destiny intertwined with the whims of gods and the stars whispered secrets to those who dared listen, there existed a deity whose presence was as enduring as the mountains and as unyielding as the sea. Known as Helm, revered as The Watcher, his presence was as constant as the northern star, a stalwart guardian who donned armor forged from the essence of duty and responsibility.

From his celestial perch, the Watcher gazed upon the mortal realm with unblinking vigilance, his eyes piercing the darkness that lurked in the hearts of mortals and deities alike. His domain was that of protectors and guardians, those who stood as bastions against the encroaching darkness.

Long had Helm been seen as a cold and focused deity, impartial in his role as defender and enforcer. Yet, in the depths of his ironclad heart, despite his austere reputation, there lay a softness, a tenderness reserved for the innocent souls that roamed the land. Minor transgressions were met with forgiving eyes, for the Watcher understood the folly of youth and the boundless curiosity that fueled mortal spirits.

But Helm's compassion was not reserved solely for the innocent; it extended to all who sought to uphold the virtues of righteousness and order, piercing any veil of darkness that threatened to engulf the land.

Helm's beloved, Murdane, embodied pragmatism and reason, her wisdom shining like a beacon amidst the chaos of the divine. But alas, fate is a fickle mistress, and even the gods are not immune to its capricious nature. During the divine event known as the Dawn Cataclysm, the Morninglord Lathander sought to reshape the pantheon of deities in his own image. Yet, his ambitions were as vast as they were misguided, and the cataclysmic upheaval that ensued wrought destruction upon the realms.

It was amidst this turmoil that Murdane met her tragic end, her fate sealed by the watery embrace of Umberlee, Queen of the Depths. Helm, her beloved, felt the scars of loss etched deep within his soul, his heart heavy with grief and resentment. For though he begrudged the Morninglord for his part in the tragedy, Helm's true opposition now lay with any deity whose plots threatened the very fabric of Faerûn.

In the annals of history, Helm's steadfastness stood as a bulwark against the schemes of malevolent deities. He stood for order and stability, a guardian amidst the storm.

There was a time in the days of yore known as the Time of Troubles. It began with a treacherous act, as the gods Bane and Myrkul dared to lay hands upon the sacred Tablets of Fate, seeking to wield power beyond their rightful grasp. But their arrogance did not go unpunished, for the overdeity Ao, angered by their hubris and neglect of mortal kin, decreed a punishment of unprecedented severity.

With a wave of his mighty hand, Ao cast judgment upon the gods, relegating them to walk amongst their mortal followers on the earth. Only Helm, the steadfast guardian, was spared this fate, entrusted by Lord Ao to watch over the gates to the heavens, his divine power unmatched and his resolve unyielding.

The consequences of Ao's edict were swift and far-reaching. Divine magic, once the lifeblood of the realms, ceased to flow, leaving mortals bereft of the miracles they had come to rely upon. Arcane magic, no longer regulated by its steward Mystra, spiraled out of control, unleashing chaos and destruction upon the land. And the gods themselves, once immortal and aloof, were now vulnerable and dwelling among the civilizations of Faerûn, their presence a source of both wonder and fear.

But amidst the chaos of the Time of Troubles, one deity stood as a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. It was Helm, the Watcher, who bore the weight of Lord Ao's trust upon his shoulders, guarding the Celestial Stairway with unwavering vigilance.

On a Midsummer's eve, when the air was thick with magic and the stars twinkled in the heavens, a goddess approached the Watcher. It was Mystra, the Lady of Mysteries, who sought to reclaim a portion of her divine power that she had hidden away in the realms. But Helm, ever faithful to his duty, stood firm against her.

"Mystra," he spoke, his voice echoing like thunder in the night, "without the Tablets of Fate, you shall not pass."

But Mystra, consumed by her pride and desperation, sought to force her way past the Watcher. With a heavy heart and a sorrowful gaze, Helm unleashed his divine power, a cataclysmic explosion that rent the heavens asunder.

In the skies above Castle Kilgrave, north of Arabel, the forces of divine and mortal clashed in a blaze of glory. Mystra, once mighty and revered, was no match for the unwavering resolve of Helm. And as her form was consumed by the fiery maelstrom, Helm shed a single tear for the tragedy that had befallen them both.

This tear, imbued with the torment and guilt that weighed heavy upon Helm's heart, did not fall to the ground. Instead, it hovered above the crater of destruction, a magnificent gemstone shimmering with ethereal light.

As the Time of Troubles waned and the gods reclaimed their rightful places, Helm found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. No longer bound by the duty that had defined him, the Watcher's influence waned, his clergy tainted by the sins of their past. In distant lands, where conquest and subjugation reigned, the name of Helm became synonymous with oppression.

Yet, amidst the shadows that threatened to engulf him, Helm remained resolute. For in the hearts of the faithful, his legacy endured, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. And though the road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, the Watcher stood ever vigilant, his gaze fixed upon the horizon, for the night was darkest before the dawn.

And so, dear children, as you drift off to sleep tonight, remember the tale of Helm and Mystra, a story of duty and sacrifice, of love and loss, that continues to be whispered on the lips of bards as a testament to the enduring power of duty, sacrifice, and the unwavering resolve of the guardians who watch over us all. For even in the darkest of times, there are those who stand watch over us, ever vigilant and ever true.

Chapter Text

The tiefling exiles had ended their daily travel early. Today was a holiday, the Feast of the Moon, a time to celebrate and honor the ancestors and the respected dead.

While the Elturian adults observed the holiday in their own way, each following their own unique practices, the children gathered round the growing fire as dusk settled over the camp.

Zevlor walked up to the fire to deposit the wood he’d gathered when one of the children, Arabella, grabbed his attention.

“I bet Zevlor’s got some great scary stories to tell! Better than your stinkers, Mirkon.”

Before Mirkon could bite back, Zevlor interjected. “I don’t mean to brag, but I DO have a few particularly spine chilling tales up my sleeve.”

“Nothing too scary, bed time’s closing in,” Komira added, squeezing Arabella’s shoulder affectionately as she walked by.

Zevlor sat on one of the logs by the fire. "Nothing too scary, of course.” He winked at the children and a few of them giggled. In a hushed, conspiratorial tone, he began.

“Gather close, my young friends, for I have a tale to tell—a tale of mystery and dread that may lurk within these very woods.”

The children leaned in closer, their eyes wide with anticipation.

"Once upon a time," he started, "in a quaint village nestled between mist-covered hills, there lived a group of adventurous children. They would often spend their days exploring the neighboring woods, searching for hidden treasures and daring each other to brave the deepest, darkest corners. One chilly autumn evening, as the moon cast eerie shadows across the forest floor, the children huddled around a crackling fire. They exchanged scary stories, each one more terrifying than the last. But one tale stood out among the rest—the legend of the Bagman.

According to the legend, the Bagman was once an intrepid explorer who dared to delve into the darkest corners of the world. Seeking to escape a dreadful fate, he abandoned his companions and sought refuge within the depths of a magical bag of holding. Little did he know, the bag was no place for the living, its interior a labyrinth of endless dimensions.

The explorer stumbled through the darkness for ages, heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of fear. Each step he took seemed to lead him deeper into the unknown, further away from any hope of escape. He would find himself in a storage space small and cramped, its walls lined with shelves that stretched up to the ceiling. But as he ventured deeper, the shelves seemed to multiply, their contents shifting and rearranging with each passing moment. He reached out to touch a trinket—a dusty old book—but as his fingers brushed against it, the entire shelf disappeared, leaving him stumbling forward into the void surrounded by towering stacks of crates and barrels.

The air was thick with the musty scent of decay, and strange shadows danced in the flickering light. He tried to find his way through the maze of containers, but no matter which direction he turned, the path seemed to twist and turn upon itself, leading him in circles.

As he pressed on, he stumbled into another storage space, this one filled with rows of locked chests. The sound of creaking hinges echoed through the darkness as the lids slowly began to open, revealing glimpses of unknown horrors lurking within. Pulling him in, he stood on the edge of a vast chasm, its depths shrouded in impenetrable darkness. He could hear strange whispers echoing from below, beckoning him to take a step forward into the abyss.

Lost and alone in this strange and eerie realm, the adventurer's very essence began to change, consumed by its malevolent energies. His skin grew pale and translucent, his eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, and his once-human form contorted into something twisted and grotesque—a creature of nightmare known only as the Bagman.

Now, every night, as the village slept soundly in their beds, the Bagman’s ethereal form slips out from unsuspecting bags of holding, his ghostly form gliding silently through the moonlit streets. And if he failed to find his way back to his hidden kingdom before the first light of dawn, he would drag an unsuspecting soul into the depths of his extra-dimensional prison, leaving behind only a trinket—a token from his realm of lost junk.

Strange occurrences began to plague the village. Objects vanished overnight, only to reappear in unlikely places. Whispers echoed through the streets, tales of eerie voices beckoning from within magical storage spaces.

The children spoke of this legend around the campfire with wide-eyed wonder and growing unease as the tale unfolded before them. They shivered at the thought of the Bagman lurking just beyond the edge of the forest, waiting to snatch them away into his twisted realm. One of the children couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped him as he lay in his bedroll that night. The wind howled through the trees, and the shadows danced on the edges of the dying fires light. 

But as the fire turned to embers and the night grew darker still, a sudden rustling came from the shadows, and the children awoke in terror. Slowly, hesitantly, they turned to see a lone bag of holding lying on the forest floor, its mouth gaping wide open like the jaws of some monstrous beast.

Heart pounding, the bravest among them stepped forward, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch the bag. And as he did, a cold wind swept through the clearing, and a haunting voice whispered on the breeze, "Beware the Bagman, for he waits for thee."

With a cry of fear, his companions fled from the forest and into the safety of their homes, their minds filled with visions of the Bagman and his hidden kingdom of lost junk. 

Heart pounding, the remaining boy turned to find the bag of holding lying open on the floor, it's dark interior seemingly bottomless. Trembling, he recalled the whispered incantation from the legend—"follow my voice" he spoke into the bag three times before he could stop himself.

Instantly, a chill swept through the woods, and a cold voice whispered back, "I hear you, little one."

With a strangled cry, the boy started to flee, but it was too late. A pair of ghostly hands reached out from the depths of the bag, wrapping around his ankles and pulling him into the darkness.
The next morning, the villagers found the boys campsite empty, save for a single trinket—a tarnished locket, its chain twisted and broken.

And so, the legend of the Bagman lived on, a cautionary tale whispered in hushed tones among the villagers. For whether he was merely a monster or the Darklord of his own hidden domain, one thing remained certain—the Bagman lurked in the shadows, waiting to claim his next victim..."

A log was dropped on the fire, disturbing the air with a spark and crackle as the children startled.

“Are you done scaring the children, Zevlor or do you need more time?” Locke said as he walked up behind the children, making some of them jump.

“That was hardly scary!” Arabella shouted.

“Says you!” yelled Mol, “Your tail nearly squeezed my arm off you were so scared!”

“How about you argue over supper, dinner’s ready.” Locke picked up his daughter Arabella off the log and carried her to dinner like a sack of potatoes as she giggled and screeched.

“You heard the man, eat up before it’s gone.” Zevlor gave a soft grunt as he lifted off of his log, bending down to throw another log on the fire as the sun set. Most of the children ran off, while Doni stuck behind, looking up at Zevlor maintaining the fire. Zevlor paused, noticing Doni, then walked to him and kneeled.

“Still not used to the dark?” Zevlor asked.

Doni grunted in acknowledgment.

“Of course, no trouble at all.”

Doni quickly revealed the old jar he’d had behind his back, presenting it within a meter of Zevlors face, causing him to startle then chuckle. Zevlor took the jar and stood, closing his eyes and concentrating on the jar. It filled with what looked like little stars, or fireflies. A smaller scale evocation he’d used to help comfort the children after the loss of the Elturel's constant sun.

Doni smiled and snatched the enchanted bottle, running off to dinner. Zevlor maintained the fire. He'd wait until the rest of his people had a chance to serve themselves first.

As dusk deepens into night, lanterns are lit, casting a warm and inviting glow over the festivities. The air is alive with the earthy scent of fallen leaves, mingling with the sweet perfume of roasted chestnuts and cooked apples. The flickering glow of the fire casts long shadows across the forest floor, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow.

Later, as the tieflings drifted off, the chill breeze of night caressed the camp. And if you listened closely, you’d swear it whispered “Beware the Bagman.”

Chapter Text

The Druid Grove was peaceful tonight. Though always an oasis, tonight seemed especially so.

It could have been because Kagha’s damn ritual was no longer a threat. With no rush to leave, a large weight had been taken off many refugees' shoulders, already heavy with the burdens of exile.

In Zevlors chambers, he sat with an empty bottle and three used glasses at his desk. Tav had stopped by with a bottle to celebrate their small victory, keen on toasting Tilly and him.

“Thank you for letting me crash your evening.” Tav had said. “A friendly face is hard to come by these days. I aim to take advantage of every one I come across.”

Zevlor laughed at that. “Please, you rid us of Kagha’s threats, fill us full of wine and you’re thanking me? You’re a strange one, to be sure.”

“Oh the wine was no problem, think nothing of it. We find so many bottles of booze on the road I’ve considered moonlighting our camp as a traveling tavern.” She huffed out a chuckle at her joke, looking into her glass.

With the bottle and his chamber now empty, he allowed his mind to wander. So rare were quiet nights since the Descent. He thinks back to Elturel, before, to the home that no longer exists for him. Gods, to have just one more day in the Western Heartlands embrace, away from worldly trials. But Home eludes him, its old comforts shifting in the flux of change—time and memory's fleeting refuge. So he imagines, instead. Lulled by the wine and friendly company, Zevlor puts himself back there if only in memory…

Nestled upon a rising crest, where the earth embraces the sky, lies Elturel. Settled upon a grand hill, it gazes with tranquil assurance upon the flowing waters of the Chionthar below. Above all is the ethereal presence that graces the city’s heavens, Amaunator's Gift. A radiant orb and fixed companion of Sol, its luminescence is both a beacon and a balm, casting a soft, protective glow that dances upon the cobblestones below.

Standing atop a rising hill, the cool breeze gently caresses Zevlor's face, smelling of petrichor and wildflowers, as he gazes at the breathtaking vista before him. Below, the mighty Chionthar River flows steadily, its waters shimmering like liquid silver in the sunlight. To the south, the land drops away abruptly into a rocky cliff, where the river's gentle murmur transforms into the distant roar of cascading water.

Perched proudly upon this natural fortress, the city of Elturel sprawls out before him, its stone walls and spires rising majestically against the azure sky. From this vantage point, he can see the city's busy streets, lined with buildings of all shapes and sizes, like a vibrant tapestry woven from the threads of daily life.

The sun is not alone in the sky. The Companion’s luminous glow bathes the city in perpetual daylight, suffusing every corner with a gentle warmth and brightness. It is a beacon of radiant energy, never setting or moving through the sky like the natural sun, but instead hanging eternally above the High Hall at the city's center. This magical illumination bathes Elturel in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows that dance across the cobblestone streets below. The air is filled with the soothing sounds of birdsong and distant laughter, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Even from this distance, Zevlor can feel the palpable energy of the light, a tangible reminder of the divine presence that watches over Elturel. Time seems to stand still in this moment as if the world itself is holding its breath in awe of the beauty surrounding him.

In the distance, he can see the rolling hills and verdant forests that stretch out to the horizon, a patchwork of greens and browns that seems to go on forever. High above, the suns hang like golden orbs in the sky, casting their warm rays down upon the land below.

Beyond the city limits, the light of The Companion stretches out like a vast, golden halo, casting its gentle glow over the surrounding countryside. From nearby villages to distant towns, its luminous presence can be seen for miles around, turning the land into a realm of perpetual dawn.

High above, the towering spires of High Hall loom against the skyline. It is here that the High Rider resides, overseeing the affairs of the city and presiding over important meetings and gatherings. The very air seems to thrum with a sense of importance and reverence as he approaches this imposing structure.

Despite the hustle and bustle of the streets below, there is a serene beauty to be found in the High District of Elturel. The sound of footsteps echoing against the cobblestones is accompanied by the distant hum of conversation and the occasional clang of metal from a nearby blacksmith's workshop. Yet amid the activity, there is a sense of harmony and order, as if each element of the city has found its rightful place in the tapestry of urban life.

As Zevlor continues to explore the High District, he allows himself to be enveloped by the sights and sounds of this thriving metropolis. Feel the cool touch of the stone beneath his fingertips, the gentle breeze that whispers through the narrow alleyways, the smell of baking bread, roasting meat, and woodfire smoke. He's carried away by the rhythm of the city, surrendering to its timeless allure and allowing his spirit to find peace in its midst.

At the edge of the Garden of Elturel, a tranquil oasis nestled amidst the cityscape. As he steps inside, a sense of calm washes over him, like a soothing balm for the soul.

The garden stretches out before him like a verdant tapestry, a patchwork of vibrant colors and lush greenery. Flowerbeds burst with blooms of every hue, their delicate petals swaying gently in the breeze. The air is alive with the sweet scent of blossoms, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil.

Wooded paths meander through the garden like winding rivers, inviting him to wander and explore at his leisure. Arched bridges span babbling brooks, their smooth stones worn by centuries of footfalls. The sound of water trickling over rocks fills the air, a soothing melody that lulls him into a state of peaceful serenity.

In the heart of the garden, a crystal-clear spring bubbles forth from the earth, its cool waters a source of refreshment and renewal for all who drink from it. This sacred spring, which rises under High Hall, ensures the city a constant supply of fresh water, a precious gift from the land itself.

Following the meandering path of the spring as it winds its way through the length of the garden, tumbling down the hillside in a series of cascades known as Maidens' Leap, the water sparkles in the sunlight as it dances over rocks and stones, its melodious song echoing through the trees.

He takes a moment to pause and breathe in the beauty of the surroundings, feeling a deep sense of gratitude for this sacred space. The Garden of Elturel is more than just a place of flowers and trees; it is a sanctuary for the soul, a reminder of the inherent beauty and harmony of the natural world.

At the edge of town is the Dock District, nestled beneath the imposing presence of the High District. He steps into this hub of commerce and activity, the air alive with the sound of busy footsteps and the hum of industry. The ground beneath his feet is packed dirt, worn smooth by the constant traffic of wagons and carts that traverse the district's labyrinthine streets. Utilitarian buildings line the thoroughfares, their sturdy facades a testament to the practical nature of the businesses they house.

Warehouses loom large on the horizon, their towering walls stacked high with crates and barrels, each one a treasure trove of goods waiting to be shipped off to distant lands. Markets thrum with activity, the air filled with the heady aroma of spices and exotic wares from far-off lands. Wagonmakers ply their trade amidst the clamor of hammers and saws, crafting sturdy carts and carriages to transport goods to and from the city. Large stockyards filled with merchants haggling over the price of livestock, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of negotiation.

In the heart of the district lies the Dragoneye Dealing Coster way-base. Here, merchants and traders gather to plan their journeys and strike deals that will shape the course of commerce in the region.

To the east, warehouses and hovels crowd together around the docks, where ships from distant shores unload their precious cargo. Cramped stalls line the streets of Shiarra's Market, their colorful awnings fluttering in the breeze as vendors hawk their wares to passersby.

He navigates the crowded streets of the Dock District, allowing himself to become immersed in the energy and vitality of the place. Feel the pulse of commerce thrumming through the air, the sense of purpose and ambition that drives the people who call this district home.

While the Companion shines true in the sky, Sol dips towards the horizon, casting a shimmering golden hue over the tranquil waters. The canal emerges as a serene pathway, winding its way from the north where Maiden's Leap stands sentinel, a testament to both nature's beauty and human ingenuity.

Maiden's Bridge, a graceful arch of stone, stretches across the canal just north of the cascades, where the waters dance with a playful rhythm, a symphony of nature's music. The setting sun’s dusk glow adds a warm gleam to the running water. Here, time seems to slow, inviting contemplation and reflection.

Underneath the arches of the bridges, shadows play hide-and-seek, weaving a tapestry of light and darkness that dances upon the water's surface. It's a reminder of the delicate balance between solidity and fluidity, between the tangible and the ephemeral. In this moment of quietude, amidst the gentle lull of water and the soft rustle of leaves, one can't help but feel a deep sense of peace, a connection to something greater than oneself, nestled within the embrace of Maiden's Leap and the timeless flow of the canal.

Descend deep beneath the streets of Elturel, into the vast subterranean maze known as the Dungeon of the Inquisitor. Traveling deeper into the earth, the air grows cool and musty, and the dim light of torches flickers against the rough-hewn walls.

The dungeon is a labyrinthine network of tunnels and caverns, its full extent shrouded in mystery and darkness. Some parts of the dungeon are natural caverns, discovered during the excavation process, while others are man-made passages that twist and turn like the tendrils of some ancient, forgotten beast.

Strange sounds echo through the labyrinth, infrequent and unsettling. Sometimes, the rush of water can be heard in the distance, a reminder of the unseen rivers and streams that flow deep beneath the earth. Other times, the enraged roars of vicious behemoths reverberate through the tunnels, sending shivers down his spine.

Occasionally, the stillness of the dungeon is shattered by the frantic footsteps of prisoners on mining detail, their desperate attempts to escape the clutches of their captors echoing through the darkness. They dart into unexplored crevices and tunnels, disappearing into the depths of the earth, never to be seen again.

He navigates the winding passages of the Dungeon of the Inquisitor, feeling a sense of awe and trepidation at the sheer magnitude of the place. It is a world unto itself, a dark and mysterious realm where the boundaries between reality and myth blur and fade away.

Amid the darkness and uncertainty, stalactites and stalagmites glisten like diamonds in the torchlight, their crystalline formations casting eerie shadows on the walls. Underground rivers flow silently through hidden channels, their waters cool and clear as they wind their way through the earth.

In the heart of the dungeon, he can almost sense the pulse of the earth itself, the ancient rhythms of creation and destruction that have shaped this subterranean realm for eons. It is a place of mystery and wonder, where the secrets of the earth are whispered in the darkness, waiting to be discovered by those brave enough to seek them out.

Meandering through the winding alleys and thoroughfares, Zevlor comes upon a serene and sacred place—the shrine to Tempus. The shrine stands as a beacon of strength and courage, a sanctuary where the devout come to seek solace and guidance in times of need. He's enveloped by a sense of peace and tranquility that seems to permeate the very air. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow over the space, illuminating intricate tapestries and ornate altars dedicated to the worship of Tempus.

But the shrine is not the only place of worship in Elturel. Throughout the city, so many important temples offer temporary shelter and aid to the devout. Each temple is a sanctuary of its own, a place where the faithful can come to pay homage to their chosen deity and receive blessings in return.

The temple of Ilmater, the god of endurance and suffering. Here, the weary and downtrodden find respite from their trials, their prayers mingling with the soft strains of hymns sung in honor of the Broken God.

The temple of Tymora, the goddess of luck and fortune. Its doors are always open to those in need, offering hope and guidance to those who seek it. Inside, the air is alive with the joyful laughter of worshippers and the tinkling sound of coins being offered up in tribute.

The temple of Waukeen, the goddess of trade and commerce. Its halls are charged with activity as merchants and traders come to offer prayers for prosperity and success in their endeavors. Here, the scent of incense mingles with the aroma of freshly baked bread, creating a sense of warmth and abundance.

Nearby is the High Harvest Home, a temple dedicated to Chauntea, the goddess of agriculture and fertility. High Harvestmaster Baulauvin Oregh oversees the temple with a gentle hand, his devotion to the Earthmother evident in every aspect of the temple's design.

The Workshop of Gond, a temple in the west of the city overseen by High Tinkerer Maurice Louvre. Here, worshippers gather to pay homage to the Wonderbringer, offering prayers for inspiration and innovation in their craft.

But perhaps the most impressive of all is Helm's Shieldhall, a large holy fortress ruled over by High Watcher Berelduin Shondar, also known as Bereld the Just.

As Zevlor approaches Helm's Shieldhall, the grandeur of the holy fortress looms before him, a bastion of faith and strength in the midst of turmoil. The fortress stands tall, its imposing walls rising like steadfast sentinels against the tumultuous sky. Each stone seems to whisper tales of battles fought and prayers offered in the name of Helm, the Watcher Over the Vigilant. Zevlor feels a weight settle over him, a mixture of awe and trepidation at the significance of his destination. Entering through the massive gates, the echoing sounds of prayers and hymns reverberate off the stone walls, mingling with the flickering light of torches to create an ambiance of reverence and solemnity.

At the heart of the fortress, High Watcher Berelduin Shondar holds court with a commanding presence that demands respect. His gaze, sharp as a falcon's, sweeps over the gathered worshipers with a mixture of scrutiny and benevolence. Despite the weight of his station, there is a warmth in his eyes that speaks of compassion tempered by years of unwavering faith.

Zevlor stands amidst the congregation, feeling a pang of sorrow.

Wandering through these sacred spaces, he can't help but feel a sense of awe and nostalgia for the gods and goddesses who watch over Elturel. In their temples and shrines, there is solace and strength, a reminder of the enduring power of faith and devotion in a world filled with uncertainty.

In this moment, Zevlor is not just a traveler passing through a memory, but a part of the fabric of Elturel itself, connected to the city and its people in a way that transcends words, bound together by the shared experience of life in this vibrant community.