[In a labored scrawl.]

The 14th Sun of Mirtul, 1502 Dalereckoning

It was spelt clearly for us, the troubles that plagued Loudwater of late. Rumors of undead were substantiated, and in quite substantial number. Wights, walking corpses of dark purpose, origins of which we would later discover. A healthy band of them numbering near in a dozen, some raining arrows upon us and others had clearly took more to sword in their former lives. Perhaps more dreadful than the steel they dealt in was their ability to draw vitality from their prey. Most dreadful of all, we happened to be their prey.

In our number was Salviron, a wizard of elfish descent, who peppered the undead with magic. But most effective was his conjured armor that proved a stronger bite than the wights' steel. Slinging spells alongside, a sorcerer, and one of the aasimar among us, Astraelis. Among blessings, she'd also distributed vitality with a touch. A touch I feel would have struck lower than the small of my back and certainly not for lack of trying, but perhaps reach. It should be noted this is not a complaint.

Another, more familiar aasimar I'd met but once before. Artemyeva, a monk who struck in a storm of limbs more deadly than the sword she wielded besides. Adept not only in pummeling, but a dexterity that allowed her to outright avoid strikes that would otherwise find purchase. Stranger still from the pair of aasimar was what I assume to be some sort of small bear by the name of Chappo. But one that could change into a larger bear, a shifting granted by their druidic influence. In addition, they possessed the ability to summon creatures. Most notably a goose whose anger and might were uncanny to say in the least.

We cleared many of the undead from the streets of Loudwater, others had surely roamed for other unfortunate souls. Led by the cleric that tasked us with her escort, we arrived at the cemetery that needed to be dispelled of necromancy. We were met with a veiled woman that turned to be a revenant, scorned by her husband to be that abandoned her at the altar. She made it clear she had sent for the man she believed to still live in Loudwater, and reinforced her malignant anger with the rush of shadows that rose from the earth.

I will admit to some haze in my recollection of events, particularly leading up to the purging of the revenant spirit. I had succumbed to the shadows, drained of vitality until I fell, cold. I am aware that I was brought back thanks to the efforts of the very cleric that led us to that forsaken place to begin with. So I can't curse her name with full breath, and not only due to my weariness as I write. She had even done the kindness of collecting the spoils from the fallen wights, granting me a fairly unsullied and unsulliable set of armor. I could surely turn a good coin for it.

[In a practiced, but unremarkable hand.]

From the Recollection of Roteye Bogrut

The 26th Sun of Tarsakh, Dalereckoning

The very first step into my career as an agent of The Glassfang Syndicate was arduous, and nearly spelt the end for several of our number. Sylk, a drow and apparent catalyst of this excursion, alongside Vernal, perhaps the most odd of the company being a sort of construct, helped carved through the ranks of undead and elsewise with arcane blasts that suited warlocks. It hadn't come up in conversation the source of their power, but it mattered little in that forsaken dungeon, and much less than that they held their own. Jaeherys held the focus of monk, but in the largest frame of a dragonborn I've witnessed such discipline, and at times bold and headlong in the way he took the brunt of the blows. But besides, he kept our spellslingers from much of the harm and that deserves commendation. Theodore, a scholarly sort that carried a roguishness about him in the way he could navigate a lock's tumblers. He knew his way around a prod and tiller as well, carrying with him a hand crossbow. And finally myself, shored up with Waukeen's blessings and a surety that proved to be undeserved.

Our goal, at the behest of one Lord Mert, a mirthsome noble of some renown among Waterdhavians though unfamiliar to me, had been a sculpture carved of pure celestite. Had I more time, I would have like to study its facets and discover more of its origins. I would have also enjoyed some determination of its value, apart from the gold promised for its retrieval. I have my suspicions the margins are canyon-wide between our payment and its appraised value, though fortunately we managed to escape with just a touch more than gold. And it did not come without great peril. To remove some worry, this is where I will say we all managed to come away within our mortal coils if only just. With that, I will make note of some of our encounters within.

The antechamber of the Blue Alley has us all signing a ledger of visitors, ominous in that not every name was marked off. Suspected then, and all but confirmed thereafter, the names were struck from the record for having perished in the arcane vault. A hallway opened to a mural depicted what may have been many of these deaths, and stranger still were depictions of our own potential ends. We would find a room inexorably tidied, and likely being touched up as I write this well after our departure, by dedicated hands of boggles. Strange creatures, perhaps called to task by a wizard's statue of poured bronze that resided in a side closet and demanding entertainment. A song was played, Sylk and Jaeherys with lute and flute respectively, and perhaps to the statue's dissatisfaction the boggles were summoned. Ultimately it wasn't song or show the statue was interested in but a riddle whose prose seemingly would be earned through exploring the vault's chambers exhaustively.

Boggles juggled the task of cleaning the chambers and retaliating after a deadly charge from Vernal that would ultimately push us from the room and deeper into the dungeon, Vernal's sword being lost in the process. Perhaps in search of escape from the commotion, Jaeherys would lead this particular charge into a room of murals from which shadowy spirits ambushed us. It may have been to our advantage we weren't taken much by surprise, already on edge in the ongoing buffeting of boggles. They were dispatched handily enough, and in the muraled chamber we peacefully made our way to our prize. Sat in a room made of a singular unsegmented mirror was the celestine unicorn. Headlong again, Jaeherys attempted to collect the item but an enchantment saw that he would exit with little else but what was granted by nature. The enchantment was bypassed by passing through the threshold with eyes shut, a solution to a disembodied declaration 'all that one saw belonged to it'.

With the unicorn in possession and dragonborn clothed, we would proceed into a room half-masked by smoke and with large metal saucers, each suspended by a single chain that ran to the ceiling. They were arranged in a series of steps like stones in a creek and Jaeherys with considerable agility tasked himself with traversal. We, or rather one of us would know the true depths beyond the layer of smoke the saucers floated above. A thankfully survivable depth that would earn our dragonborn companion an illuminated sword, its value to be determined. Less thankfully, it earned us all a hectic scuffle with a gang of mephits.

Surviving that, and considerably worse for wear, we abandoned what mephits were left behind doors they couldn't open and traced our steps back. We had the intention of hastily looting what could easily be grasped on our way out but those plans quickly fell by the wayside. Two halls that turned out to be joined at the end, one had lightning rods high up the very tall walls arcing elemental energy amongst themselves, and the other a pit of spikes too long to leap. Sylk had the idea, and the rope to enact it, of making a tether for us to reel in should things go awry as he went down the lightning hall. Awry things went as he found a pressure plate. A trap of the arcane variety made him weightless and worse still, floating up towards the crackling webs of energy.

Our quick action pulled him back to safety. though my contributions were up for question given my lacking strength. Truthfully, I felt my own feet lifting from the floor with only my weight lending aide to our efforts at several moments. But a floating Sylk at the end of a rope was found to be to our benefit. We guided him to the other hallway where he could float effortlessly across the spiked pit. Best intentions were whittled by the poor timing of the enchantment's end. Sylk fell from the air and into the pit, subject to grisly piercing and yet another pressure plate. He was elevated again but instead of magic, it was the mechanical throwing of the spikes in the pit towards the ceiling. Still, Sylk would persist with good spirits and a vitality granted by his given arcanism.

Beyond even these trials lied a room that wouldn't be out of place in the tribal strongholds of my youth. All manner of litter coated the floor of the next chamber and in its midst were hunters' biting traps made magically invisible. Each of us that dared to set foot in the room found several traps and certainly not by intention. With several of us either injured, anchored, or both, we were ambushed by armed skeletons that flooded the room. I did get the pleasure of witnessing the natural boons of dragonborns of gold as be breathed a column of fire to soften them up. But he would fall, and Sylk would follow, gravely wounded during the onslaught. The three of us that stood, and barely so by my reckoning, were able to clear the room and keep our allies from the brink, earning a handful of gems and the final attempt of a lone specter that surely aimed to keep them.

Perhaps too much time has been spent already to write this into record, and inopportune as I've yet to clear myself wholly of blood, sweat, and mephit muck. But I hoped to capture the memory and spirit of the slog endured. My prayers to The Golden Lady this evening will be that the coin spent for deserved recuperation doesn't subsume our earnings so much so that generosity is thought to be a burden.