THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
While strolling through the Boarshead, you see a small bound journal lying open on a table in the corner, apparently forgotten by its owner or left behind hastily when other business called. As you approach the journal, you notice the open pages covered with a gently flowing script, the words penned in Common. You begin to read:
My dreams have become more frequent and more vivid recently. Most prominently, the image of the glowing crimson eyes of the dragon statue stands out in my memory in a way I can hardly explain. Though only present in this dream, I feel an attraction to their glow that tugs at the very core of my being. Each morning I awaken with this image fresh in my mind and run a finger across the scar on my wrist, wondering if this dream is indeed more real than I had first thought. Father once told me that the scar on my wrist was a result of an ancient gypsy blood oath that marked me as a member of our camp near Port Llast. Yet the similarity to my scar in the dream has remained an uneasy sign that something about me is not quite normal…
A space, followed by a horizonal line across the page, seems to indicate a new entry on a new day. The next entry is written rather sloppily, a sharp contrast to the pleasant script in other entries, possibly indicating the writer's haste in penning her thoughts or an anxious state of mind at the time.
That field. In the dream. I recognize it! It lies a morning's journey northeast of Waterdeep. Mother and father used to take Lillie and I there to play while they shopped for boots and other garments from the old merchant who set up shop there out of his farmhouse. This dream is reality. It must be. The field, the hooded men, the statue. All real! I will catch the next ship to Waterdeep setting sail from Peltarch. There MUST be answers there, there simply must…
Another space, followed by a lengthier entry. There is no indication how much time has passed.
I think I've finally learned the reasons for my vivid dreams, the music in my mind, and the hissing voices that speak to me under the cover of night. I feel it is a mixed blessing however. I am not sure whether to rejoice in these new-found answers or tremble in fear of what may come of them…
I found that field, the one in my dreams. It was in fact the same place I remembered from my childhood, save for the old farmhouse now standing abandoned and in disrepair. Standing in that field, I closed my eyes, only to have the memories start rushing back and breaking through like teaming floodwater against a meager dam. Three men in red robes snatching me up and proceeding to the north. I started walking in the same direction they took, guided by an undescribeable allure reaching farther into my soul than any feeling ever did. After perhaps an hour, I saw it. The mouth of a cave, unmarked and unattended. I proceeded inside and down a dark passage, the sound of trickling water around me and the musty scent of dark caverns filling my nose. In the distance I saw an opening in the wall, set off by the firelight emerging from within. As I passed through the opening, I was met with those burning red eyes, glowing a deep crimson from within the sockets of the great statue, a towering dragon, sculpted beautifully in perfect detail. Before it stood a stone altar, flanked on each side by the torches which illuminated the room. I felt myself mesmerized by the statue as the sound of thundering drums rose up in my mind once again. This time, however, I was oddly unafraid. Then, from behind came a voice I thought existed only in my mind: "We knew you would return. It was only a matter of time until your blood brought you back."
I spun around quickly, and found myself face to face with three men, dressed in red, one man standing in front of the other two. The three men. Outstretching my hands, palms up, I glanced from the scar on my wrist to the man in front and said simply, "What happened here?" He grinned wryly and began to explain. They were Thayan wizards, sent to this region from their homeland to establish a ritual for binding the powers of great beasts to mortals. The mortal for their experiment– myself. The beast-- the Great Red Wyrm of legend, Klauth. The Thayan would not elaborate on how he came to possess a vial of Old Snarl's blood; he simply described the ritual, from the placement of my young body on the altar to the mixing of Klauth's blood with mine via the wound made on my wrist. Strangely calm, I listened, not needing him to continue; I remembered each and every moment now that I stood in the shadow of the Great Wyrm's likeness. Seeing that I understood what they had done, the Thayan grinned a wry grin, saying, "And now, my dear, what has our experiment made of herself?" At that moment, I could feel the blood flowing through my veins with a power unknown to me until then. A low growl followed by a hiss permeated my mind, and my arms rose into the air, my mouth producing the words in Draconic, both actions without any effort of my own: "Behold what your magicsss have created..."
Moments later, I emerged from the cave, clad in a hooded red robe with a small tome under my arm, its cover stained with a streak of fresh blood. Upon opening it, I noticed that much of its text was written in a language unfamiliar to me. After some research in Waterdeep, I came to understand this language as Draconic, the tongue of the ancient wyrms. With the aid of the owner of a magic shop there, I acquired several parchments with translations of simple Draconic, that I might learn the language and someday understand the scope of the Thayans' ritual, which no doubt was recorded in the tome I now carried.
A final space, the following text running to the end of the other page facing you.
With each passing day since my journey to Waterdeep, I am learning more about my heritage and about what the presence of the Great Wyrm's blood within me means. Today, I called to myself a young wyrm, which I named Malla. I have seen creatures like this following mages in the past. I understand them to be bound to the mages' wills, a direct extension of their life force. If that is indeed what Malla is, then I suspect I am becoming something I had never expected I could be. What this means for me I am uncertain, yet oddly enough, I am becoming more comfortable with this newly discovered piece of myself with each passing day…
Before you can turn the page, you hear the voice of Penny Lane speaking to Barle over by the bar. Realizing this is her journal, you make your way out casually without anyone realizing that you had sat down to read it.
