SATURDAY, MAY 16TH - MASTER AND APPRENTICE CAMPAIGN 1 : SESSION 15 RECAP
Aldor’s Journal : Entry 15
Trust is a luxury. And in Neverwinter, luxuries get you killed.
We got to Rucas before he could bolt—which, frankly, was already better than I expected. The man was halfway to madness, eyes darting like a rat that knows the trap just snapped behind it. Took some careful words (and a bit of well-placed truth) to get him into an alley where we could talk without half the city listening.
I told him what mattered: I’m not on Neverember’s side.
That got his attention.
Turns out he’s been running from the same serpent we’ve been circling. Terrified, shaking, barely holding it together—but useful. He gave us what we needed: the crown, or whatever cursed prize we’re chasing, is beneath the Hall of Justice. Hidden in the vaults.
To pay him back, I’d get him out of Neverwinter. I would talk to Melania and hopefully the sons could get him out soon. We agreed to meet in a Fisherman’s shed, furthest down the harbor district in the more derelict part of the borough. From there, Melania and the Sons could smuggle him out of the city. A debt paid and a friend made I had hoped.
We headed back to the Beached Leviathan to regroup and see if anything else peculiar happened since our last visit. The usual grime, the usual nobody worth noticing — until…
White plate armor. Tabard bearing the scales.
Tyr.
Walking, talking access to the Hall of Justice.
So naturally, I bought him a drink.
Gladeus. A paladin, if the name didn’t already scream it. The man couldn’t stop preaching about law, order, righteousness—gods, if I had to hear “the right path” one more time, I might’ve introduced him to a very wrong one.
Still… a useful idiot.
Between his sermons, we got what we needed. The Hall isn’t just a courthouse—it’s a fortress. Temples, chambers, vaults beneath. Secure. Sacred. And exactly where we needed to be.
Vaults confirmed.
Melania handled the escape side. Solid plan — Rucas would be handed off to a charming little dwarf named Welby. Bald, peg leg, eyepatch. You know, the type that screams “trustworthy maritime professional.”
Midnight transfer, south of Amn, some place I wasnt familiar with…Calimshan.
The next day, I finally had the time to summon Zephyr, my wren familiar, and sent her ahead to scout the fisherman’s shed.
Door open.
That was the first problem.
The second was Rucas… sitting inside.
Not moving.
Not responding.
I whispered to him with magic. Nothing. Called his name. Still nothing.
I checked for traps—none obvious. So I nudged him with Mage Hand.
No reaction.
And then I saw his face.
Frozen in terror.
Blood down the front. Claw marks—deep, savage. And behind him, written in that same blood:
TRAITOR.
I didn’t even get time to process it before something rushed past me—unseen, fast.
I shouted. We moved.
Net out. Web ready. Caltrops on the ground—if it wanted to dance, I’d give it a floor to break itself on.
Cade swung into empty air. Ukalis fired blind.
Then—light. Guiding Bolt.
And suddenly we saw it.
Something half-there. Distorted. Wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.
We locked it down as best we could—nets, my webs, trip lines. It kept tearing through, fast, relentless. It hit the wire, dropped into the caltrops—good placement, for once — and still it fought like something that didn’t care if it lived or died - driven by something outside of itself.
Cade hammered it. Ukalis lit it up with raw force.
I drank fire and gave it something to remember me by.
Still… it tried to flee.
That’s when Ukalis anchored it with one last volley thudding to the ground, and for just a moment, it was still. I didnt trust it, so I walked up and made sure. Clean cut, head gone. Afterward, we pieced it together…Ukalis and I heard stories of these in some of the more arcane and occult circles of town:
Invisible Stalker - Astral-born hunter. Doesn’t stop, doesn’t question, just kills which means someone sent it.
Which means Rucas didn’t just die — He was silenced. We buried him outside the shed. Gave him his blade for a marker. Not much, but better than rotting alone with “traitor” as your epitaph. I took what he left behind. Waste not. The bigger problem still stood: The Crown.
Do we steal it? Fake it? Force their hand?
Every path ends with someone bleeding.
The question is just who.
I paid one last visit to the Leviathan—under a different face. Len-Jes. Passed a few words to Harig. Let the truth leak just enough:
There is a real heir.
Neverember knew.
And he’s on board with it and thinks its a better plot
Let paranoia do the rest. Now Harig’s rumors will be beneficial to us, and hopefully help discredit this false puppet heir of Neverembers.
Back at the hideout, Cullen wasn’t thrilled with our… improvisation. Too risky, too public, and honestly he’s not wrong - but we don’t have much of a choice. Then something hit us.
Rally the people. Force the heir into the open. Expose the crown as a fake in front of everyone. Clean and definitive…assuming nothing goes wrong. Which, given our track record, means everything will.
Cullen reached out to Lathander—actual divine confirmation. A column of light, then silence. The light bloomed and soon the whole room was washed in the brightest light we had ever seen. This is apparently the sure sign that an answer was received.
The crown IS in the vault beneath the Hall of Justice.
So now?
Now we go straight into the lion’s den—but not like thieves.
Like believers.
Convince the clerics. Use their own divinations. Prove Cullen’s blood. Turn Tyr and Torm’s faithful against the lie sitting on the throne.
And when the truth comes out?
Either the false heir falls…
Or we challenge them in front of the entire city and let the crown decide.
Either way—
Neverember’s grip is slipping.
And for the first time since this mess started…
I think we actually have a chance…but we had better knock on wood because luck does not exist in….The Maze!