Candlestick Thicket

The first shrine: Candlestick Thicket. Stepping inside, the party was moved. The atmosphere stirred memories of childhood fort-building, where the interior always seemed to defy the constraints of its exterior. The floor was hard-packed earth, softened by rugs of wool and animal hide. Woody vines, woven into intricate patterns, served as decorative buttresses at intervals. The walls were adorned with weavings and carvings, some decaying with time, others remarkably preserved in this hidden sanctuary. A small, moth-eaten library section beckoned with a shelf of books, while seating of various sizes, hewn from stumps or carved into benches, invited rest. The space was clean, spacious, and shielded from the elements, yet not stifling, thanks to a gentle air flow through the vegetation mesh and a break in the canopy for smoke. The filtered natural light made the place quite dim. 

Their host, the Druid of the Hearth, was brimming with excitement. "Ah, this is where we used to trade goods and stories! And sometimes, good stories! Hah! This place was discovered, embellished, enchanted, and blessed by halflings and gnomes, the more den-dwelling forest humanoids. But over the years, elves and humans came, and we made room for all. We would exchange tips for pickling, fermenting, and brewing, and share secrets like how to weave a watertight basket from conifer needles or where to find a trove of mushrooms. It was a marvelous place, full of life and coziness. Not like this forgotten hermit's dwelling it is now. Alas."

The party's eyes roved over storage bins, various tables, a lounge area, and even some bunks. At the center of it all was a large, squat cylinder of stone, six feet across, with a small opening at one end and a chimney at the center—presumably a masonry hearth used to heat the place.

And through the gloom at the back of the space there was a faint glow, despite the lack of any source of illumination. A large stone table presided over the space, polished from silvery-streaked soapstone. Atop it was a slab—a cross-section of an impossibly large tree—with the hearthsign carved into it with many an elegant flourish. The wood was a beautiful warm color with golden tones and silvered embroidery. Half-melted stumps of beeswax candles surrounded the hearthsign and lined the front of the table, unlit. A wooden box full of new candles sat nearby, untouched. If the shrine of Candlestick Thicket had an altar, this was it.

The Druid of the Hearth looked at the party, his eyes twinkling. "It's not what it used to be, but with you all here, it doesn't feel wrong to use it again. 'It could be weeds in the cobbles, a doorway into thanks,'" he said, squeezing something in his pocket. A mixture of longing and hope filled his eyes. 

"Do you know our ways? The telling of delights to convene our meetings, the symbolic gestures we would make? We used to bring fruits, roots, bread, or other offerings of food before entering a home. When leaving as guests, we would gather firewood or assist with chores, even something symbolic. Our oral tradition revolved around storytelling, often passed down to educate the younger generations. And when someone passed, we celebrated their life, sharing stories and bidding them farewell with a prayer to Arumbelle and Kelemvor."

The Druid of the Hearth told them tales for hours, sharing the life that was. Then he explained what transpired at Candlestick Thicket, the desecration of other hearths, and the danger he faced at the Homestead without his magic. He recounted his firsthand experience at the Stone Hearth, where betrayal tore through their ranks, resulting in a slaughter of their own kin. He mentioned a misty cave shrine, which he last visited during the great goblin war of the Greypeaks, revealing that it had been reduced to a crude shelter amidst the conflict. However, his knowledge regarding Dounwakers, the Rites, and mind flayers was limited. He did know an Old Weir--young when they met!--who was associacted witht he Homestead and went off into into the woods as a druid of Arumbelle and Silvanus.

"We have much to discover and unravel. But with all of you here, using this sacred space once again, it feels like we are taking the first steps toward reclaiming what was lost—a chance to rekindle the spirit of Candlestick Thicket," the Druid of the Hearth concluded, his voice filled with a mix of reverence and determination. 

The party got it into their heads that rekindle is just what they should do -- and they lit the candles around the shrine. 

And when they did the effect was breathtaking and magical. Not only magical in the beauty and elegance of the warm glow on the silver and gold wood but also actually magical in that fresh air seems to fill the space. Flowers, start to bloom in ceramic vases. The air comes alive with fireflies. Smells of pine and geranium burst forth from seemingly fresh sprigs. 

And then they feel it. It’s a strange sensation…like noticing a subtle stitch in clothing that rubbed against then skin but then faded into the background, part of the many stimuli around you. Except, this stitch--this sensation that they've always felt but at the same time never really known was there—it’s not fading away. it’s calling out, it’s calling out louder and louder. It’s almost screaming. And it’s a presence. It was there all along but only now are they able to isolate it and feel it, it has become so obvious to their mind, to their whole person. 

It’s her. 

It’s Arumbelle. 

And they feel a … what is that… is it a hoot? A hollering? It is, it’s a joyful WHOOPING! And it fills the space and permeates the companions.  A smile comes unbidden to their lips, it’s a smile of joy and relief and pure delight. 

They hear, or feel? a loud “Haaaaaaaaaaaahhh”  and Arumbelle continues to laugh for a moment. 

“You’re here I can’t believe you are here. You found me. It was a hope I dared not even entertain as a whisper of a thought….but you found me. Thank you.”

And in the candle’s haze against the backdrop of the hearthsign they see a form in the shadows. Someone in the dark, but smiling brightly. As they look upon her she steps forward into the light, revealing herself for the first time.

She appears to each differently in visage and voice and smell but it’s all positive, warm, woodsy, and deeply content. She has shades of a beloved mother-figure or a sister, or a close friend, vaguely feminine but not universally so, someone who brought comfort. Someone who perhaps mentored the individual, and cared deeply for them. It’s multiple people in one being. 

She is dressed simply, practically, warmly, in homespun linens and wools, leather boots well worn, a simple cloak. She is firm and strong. 

And they feel a power unlike anything they have ever come into contact with. Even in her trapped or imprisoned state, the immensity of the power they feel emanating from this being is almost impossible. It’s as though every piece of them can feel it, every physical speck and all the emotional and mental ones as well NOTICEs, FEELS this being humming with power. 

A god. 

And yet…it’s not intimidating, it’s comforting, like a mountain or an ancient tree, or the vastness of a calm ocean. She speaks again, the voice of the people they imagined. In their native tongue.  

“Well. This has been a long time coming. And now we can finally speak. Though perhaps you will indulge me a monologue before we switch to a dialog for your questions I’m sure are innumerable. That’s what it sounds like to Safad, to others her words are “maybe I can go first and then turn to you for I’m sure you have many questions." 

“Where to start, where to start. Please, well, please, sit down. Sit down, let’s put a fire in that stove. Cymbir, first, thank you for care taking all these years, second, please if you have any checkerberrry tea handy or victuals it would make my Chosen here more comfortable. 

Cymbir--The Druid of the Hearth-- can’t move for a moment. He is staring at his goddess. Tears are streaming down his face. He exhales, smiles, pure radiance, and nods. He pulls some small glossy leaves from a pouch around his waist and puts firewood in the masoned stove and finds an iron kettle lying about that he fills with water from a skin. 

“There, that’s great, ok. Then. Well, I need to express that the gods…we exist beyond the physical and are not bound by any of it and that includes the brains that process and interpret energy, signal, feeling, thought. So for you, we are finally communicating in the way you are accustomed, But in many ways I am translating to you that which is beyond mortal comprehension, putting it into terms the mind can capture. And I’m out of practice…I…well, I find myself a little flustered, finally face to face—so to speak—and I want to make a good impression! 

OK. Deep breath. Now, to a story. My story. Our story. 

Once upon a time, an evil god named Felak’Doun bent his whole person on killing me. I had rescued a companion of mine and beaten him in the process and he wanted revenge. But Doun was a crafty, careful, and patient god. He thought and thought and thought about who I was, what made me me. My pantheon, yes, but deeper than that too. And he formed this essence in his mind of me, Arumbelle, and then imagined the exact anti-essence. The negative space displaced by me. The antithesis of Arumbelle.

He landed on five key components: Power, Murder, Slavery, Terror, and Betrayal. With the anti-shape of me in mind, he poured his divinity into elaborating ritualistic ceremonies that would enhance these five elements. He inscribed them on foul vellum tainted by evil acts, and with that he had his Rites. The five vile Rites of Felak’Doun. He scoured the cosmos for artifacts that could further amplify these Rites. He found them in a scepter, a dagger, a stone-on-a-chain, claws, and a mask. 

With his Rites prepared and his artifacts equipped, Felak’Doun lured me into a confrontation. We had scarcely begun to converse when he spoke the words, activating his rites amplified by his artifacts. It was such a deliberate antithesis to me, a precise counterpoint, that I was destroyed in an instant. 

Well, not destroyed, but, trapped, really. In a cage tailor made for me in some dark dungeon of a forgotten realm of thought, beyond mortal ken, to be Doun’s prisoner for him to torment and to show me the world without me, and with his Rites released upon it. 

I tried everything I could, but I was all but destroyed. He had removed me from the cosmos, effectively killed a deity, and the world would move on. And so I lived as a prisoner for many, many years. I watched helplessly as my followers lost their magic, prayers falling not on deaf ears, but on powerless ones. I watched as Doun’s followers unleashed pain and suffering with the Vile Rites. It was the ultimate torture. 

His victory was complete, and the execution was immaculate. I was defeated. 

But something happened Doun could not foresee for all his calculating. The Time of Troubles. Emboldened by the success of his Rites and his new power, Doun convinced his allies Bane and Myrkul to steal Lord Ao’s Tablets of Fate that preserved the balance between Law and Chaos, Good and Evil. But of course, Lord Ao uncovered their plot and punished all of the gods for this final straw in what he saw as habitual pursuit of power, and negligence toward their mortal faithful. As punishment, Lord Ao relegated every god to walk among their followers on Faerun. The Time of Troubles. 

And so Felak’Doun descended and walked among the mortals. But I remained trapped, and with him gone I was spared my torment and suffering but I also lost my window into the world. I know not what happened, but I remember when Doun died because I felt my prison crumble a little, as though its foundations were shaken by an earthquake. And then slowly, the Rites loosened their grip on me as Doun’s followers disbanded, the Rites forgotten or lost. I could feel the manacles slipping from my being. While I am no longer chained, I am still trapped in the cell, the gaolor long since dead and my prison forgotten. Buried, even. 

Without my shackles, I felt more comfortable in my jail, but more hopeless too. 

I lived like that for a long time. And without my hands bound—so to speak—I found I could tinker a little more with the threads that connected my prison the material world of Faerun. I had just discovered how to manipulate those threads when I felt a rattling of the chains. It was as though someone had lit the lanterns again in the prison. I knew it must be a flicker of the Rites for I know their sting well, and with them a surge in Doun’s sinister presence. Someone had activated the Rite of Slavery. 

Now my situation was urgent. Was the gaolor returning?  I did everything I could, tugged every strand of magic to scream out: The Rites of Felak’Doun were active again. It was slow going because I had no power, could barely communicate. But eventually I had a break through, feeling for the epicenter of the active Rite, I found the closest, most open, receptor in an old family line that used to pray to me. The Reznas. I found a descendant, in Sha’hale Rezna. I concentrated all of my power in reaching her and I succeeded. She didn’t know it, but she then carried me with her. It was something. 

Now, Imagine you are a mouse, trapped inside a chest, riding in a wagon. I was the mouse and Sha’hale was a passenger in the wagon. You can hear faint mufflings, but it is nearly impossible to really understand what is going on around you or even do anything. That was me. I scurried this way and that, pushed crumbs through the keyhole, anything, but it was a powerless feeling. Yet Sha’hale was a sensitive being. Mystical almost, and she noticed something. She sensed the crumbs I managed to deliver, trying to lead her to the epicenter of this Rite. Sha’hale for her part, had almost nothing to go on. She had to interpret a feeling, the mufflings from inside the chest. You can’t imagine how difficult it was, but eventually Sha’hale followed the signs sent: constellations I would imbue with meaning, wind, anything, her focus steadied and she locked in on the destination. And once pointed, I didn’t need to do much more, her person was interested; Sha’hale was never not going to investigate. She could tell something was attracting all the sinister and vile to it. 

And so I rode along in the wagon, a mouse in a traveling chest. I still could not really communicate, but I could sense vague things about Shahale. She was undertaking the journey. I couldn’t see through her eyes or know her thoughts, but I could feel the contours of her inner travels. Through that I was able to piece together a sense of what was happening. There were moments of calm, serenity, anticipation, stress, trust, more stress, tension fear, and then there was grave danger and a flash of a brush with one of the Rites.

Sha’hale was struck down by something. It was fatal. She had minutes to live. In that moment I was able to pull on the threads and on magic already within Sha’hale, and use it to teleport her away. Anywhere. That magic must have been drawn from the latent but forgotten strength of my following, and it was hazy and imprecise, and the destination was not of my choosing, it was the seat of my greatest power: the old Homestead, the greatest of my temples. But of course it would be. 

Sha’hale was teleported out of danger and sent falling through the night sky toward the Homestead, or whatever was left of it. To do so, taxed me greatly. 

And that’s when you came along.

I couldn’t let this connection with someone on the Material vanish, I had fought so hard for it. I cast out from around Sha’hale for anything breathing in the region and you were the closest thing. I saw the signatures of your spirits and I did everything I could to twinkle my constellations in just the right light, hoping they would attract you, imbuing them with meaning and connection. And of course they would be those constellations, nearly always present above the Homestead. They would see us back. I would attach them to you, cling to you as my savior as I had Sha'hale. You all crowded around Sha’hale and I used the last of my strength to seep into you. And from then on it was you all that carried me.

But I was spent. And with an active Rite, the shackles were incrementally back. I rested. And I had very little connection to you. I didn’t know you, you didn’t know me. Again I traveled as a mouse in a chest on the wagon that was all of you. And I slept. 

When I had regained some strength, I found I could still use you as a platform for even the faintest power on the Material. I called out again to all those in the region. Tessa, now twisted, but Tessa still, heard my call. So did Neervala, bless her. I sent them what I could, did my best to help you on the journey to get back to stop what was a growing menace. The Rite that was active was growing in strength. I didn’t know what it was, but I could sense its power. And so I tried my best to get Tessa to help. She was so twisted she did not recognize me. But I did my best. I told her to give you anything she could, any treasures she had collected. To use her power to aid you to divine anything in the future about this Rite and its vileness. To prepare you. I think she did, but as is the way of these vague whisperings—a mouse through a keyhole—much is lost. I did everything I could, but I failed you.

I am so sorry. I traveled with you on that journey as the Rite overtook you. The Rite of Slavery enslaved you. I knew, for I know well the contours and chafe of those shackles. I was there with your buried persons, together we watched helplessly as the power the Rite overtook you and pushed you beneath the surface. I do not know the details, but as I read the stress, horror, confusion, sorrow, hopelessness, violation in you persons, I understood something terrible was happening. You lived terrible things. Terrible. For many many years of a mortal life. And I am so…so Sorry.

And in that dark hour, the nightmare grew. I felt another rattling of the chains. Another Rite had been found and activated—Power. Someone was working to revive the Rites. Despair overtook me and I wept. 

And yet…Hope was not lost. 

And it had nothing to do with me, but all of you. I was buried with you, but someone rescued you. During your adventures, you must have made an impact on the people around you. I thought all was lost at my failure to help you, but through who you all were, who you are, they banded together to bring you back.

And when they did I felt a surge like nothing since my imprisonment. You were unburied and me with you. And I could feel the spirits of these others tending to you. Familiar spirits, some of them. They were with you, with us, and I could sense once again the material, through the complicated patterns of inputs coming from what you experienced internally. 

I manifested even stronger in you. I was able to mark you as my Chosen. It is an old and sacred tradition among the gods, seldom used, but I managed. I chose the symbols of my It established a direct connection to you such that any power I could muster, any new ways of pulling on those threads, would be channeled straight to you. Still, I was weak—the mouse in the traveling chest—but my grip was firmer and I could send clearer signs to you and others in your orbit. 

And you followed them, and you found me. 

So now you know. Here we are. I have marked you as my Chosen. My power here is weak and fleeting, but thanks to you, it grows. I feel it now even, my name uttered more among mortals. My traditions, practiced. And the lighting of one of my shrines. While I remain imprisoned, cut off from my divine and godly power, as I grow stronger in my cage I will be able to pass on more elements of myself to you, as Chosen.

A word on being Chosen. I understand you have been through great pain and tribulation. I was there with you through it and lived it as well. I understand you are bent on revenge. I myself have lost everything at the hands of vileness, was destroyed, watched my faithful wither. I know that the world can be brutal. And yet, we must not succumb to that pain and let it change us. 

I have felt malice in you and some of it expressed in cruel and awful deed. I know that the world is grey. It is not clear cut; it is not defined with solid lines of black and white. And yet, we must set our moral compass to the light and do our best to use that to navigate the darkness. If we do not, we begin to justify and to rationalize these acts. And that is a slippery slope. That is like the morning fog in the harbor; It comes in on little cat feet. You barely notice it at first and suddenly you are in a cloud.  

I don’t need to be the only deity for you, I don’t need you to agree with everything I stand for. But I would ask you to stop the cycle of pain, and I will say this: if you stray too far from who I am, I would rather not my power go to terrible ends. I would rather cut it off and stay in my prison, and let the world sort out the coming darkness than abet it."

And then Arumbelle's tone softens and she sighs.

"These are perennial struggles. These are THE struggles. And I have already seen how together you have changed. How each impacts the other and teaches and learns, and the bonds you have built become who you are. You seep into each other and support one another and bring out the good in each other."

She smiles and looks at each of the party deeply in the eye. Something strange happens. They feel, out of body almost. As though it is just them and Arumbelle in the room. The power is almost too great to withstand but then they feel the deepest comfort, as though sinking into a soft and deep chair. 

She says something just to each of them. 

...

Ironica

Ironica, my wise, courageous, stag.

[she grins, mischievously]

It is rare to meet someone who lives so genuinely as the person they are. I see YOU expressed in every element of your actions and I cherish it, I delight in it. Following you on your journey—the one inside of you!—has been such a pleasure, and I hope you can teach your companions some of what you have learned, for it is profound. You have the ability to turn the darkest hours into a curious, lived, part of existence. And that is a rare and valuable gift. Know that I am here for you, to be a companion to you, and to support you in any way I can. Some may say the lives of mortals, the lives of one little halfling, are nothing but one drop in a limitless ocean. To them I would say, but what is an ocean besides a multitude of drops?

Please indulge me a series of thoughts originally expressed in our divine realm in pure form, but rendered here in words that I hope can do the original justice, composed, beautifully in my estimation, by my dear companion, the halfling goddess Yondalla:

Some days it’s all burnt bread and shattered pottery. Other days it’s the perfect roast and a friend’s visit. You have to take the good with the bad, see it and feel it; it’s all part of living. I set out one morning and I thought this is the good day you could meet your love, this is the bad day someone close to you could die. This is the day you realize how easily the thread is broken between this world and the next. And I found myself sitting around a fire at night in the glow of embers, faces of my companions illuminated in reds and oranges — these are the bright friends with which I live, this is where I want to love all the things it has taken me so long to learn to love. 

Ironica, I hope we can wonder in the journey together.

Falka

You hurt…so bad. I feel so much of your being hellbent on revenge. I’m sorry. Know that it wasn't your fault. Know that I don’t expect to be able to say anything to you that will make you feel better. But let me ask you: for you to feel better, how many more people need to die? I should think the answer is just one, but we’ll get to that. Consider the pain and suffering your revenge has brought to the lives of others. In a way, through you, this object of your revenge may be amplifying its evil. You could be facilitating it having a greater impact on the world because it has hurt you. And that is a despairing thought. Focus on that object then, and instead of spreading its flame, smother it. Let the suffering that this person dealt begin and end with you. Do not propagate it.  

And know I see your animal savagery, your feral ferocity, as a blessing. But that wild nature has a softer side as well, I know, and I’ve seen that too. If I may offer a suggestion, it is to let the soft side, let the elven aspect of the beast in you, do more of the work to defeat this thing by muffling its impact on the world and limiting its pain to you.  

But then kill it. Unleash the animal. And, Falka, I have no doubt, you will kill this thing that drives you.

[She smiles]

A word from someone who has lost everything: vengeance is not going to feel as good as you hope. Try to make an internal journey before then, come to terms with it. It’ll feel damn good, but it’s not everything. What will you do once this end is achieved? Think about it. And know I am here for you for comfort for counsel for talking or screaming into the void. I see much in you that I saw in my dear friend and companion, Malar, and I have sensed you reaching out for a connection with the Beastlord. I like that. I am convinced we will have many adventures together and become close companions, as Malar and I once were.

Indulge me this final thing. A series of thoughts originally expressed in our divine realm in pure form, but rendered here in words that I hope can do the original justice. These were composed by my dear friend Gwaeron Windstrom after I first introduced him to Malar and the two made common cause during an adventure:

During natural disasters two enemy animals will call a truce, so during a hurricane an owl will share a tree with a mouse and, during an earthquake, you might find a mongoose wilted and shivering beside a snake. The bear will sit down in a river and ignore the passing salmon just as the lion will allow the zebra to walk home without comment. I love that there are exceptions. At funerals and weddings, for example, the aunts who never speak nod politely to one another. When my mother was sick even the prickly neighbors left flowers and sweets at our door.

Falka, I’m so glad to know you.

Safad

Safad Kulius, my shepherd.

[she smiles]

I know your mind belongs to gods like Azuth and Gond, that you are a man of magic and artifice and philosophy, but what I see is the why and the soul behind it. I see you often occupied by exercises in reason, logic, enlightened thought, and analysis, and it’s true you are gifted in those faculties, but it’s the reason you do it that matters. And that is to better understand humanity. To improve the lives of others. To help people see how best to live. To not take the easy way out. You think things through because it is your responsibility as a thinker to devote your brain power to understanding why and how, and how to do it better. Many miss this, your companies are beginning to see it. It is what I have come to love.

Your trials have been challenging. I have felt the emotional signatures of your reflections. You were all-but orphaned. Discovered. Mentored. Lost again. And yet, here, with these companions, you have become a central figure in greater machinations on Faerun. And you have the grace to wonder why. To wonder how your lives ripple beyond the here and now. What role you play and the importance of getting it right. Traveling with you through your rich inner life is a delight.

I counted your great-great-great-great uncle Kurian as a follower. Not a particularly devoted one—that is difficult when you are descended from chaos itself—but he lived out in the desert and uttered my name in prayer now and again. These are words he composed in a journal, a letter to his son:

When your eyes are tired the world is tired also. When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you. Time to relax into the chaos where the swirling sands have eyes to recognize their own. There you can be sure you are not beyond love. The entropy will be your womb tonight. It will give you a horizon further than you can see. You must learn one thing: the world was made to be free in. Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong. Sometimes it takes chaos and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn: Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you. Know that, and then work on the self: If you can trust yourself when others doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can dream—and not make dreams your master If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   If you can meet with law and man-made virtue And treat those two impostors just the same If you can survive the unforgiving hours Accepting the turbulence of all that is wild,   Yours is Faerun and everything in it,   And—which is more—you’ll be a Kulius, my child!

Safad, thank you for your reflection. I hope to be a companion to you on this journey.

Dala'gse

My sweet, gentle, heron.

[She laughs]

You have a storm inside you that is terrible and awesome. But you have learned how to let your kind soul and your gentle nature direct that storm. I’m so proud to walk beside you on this journey, wherever it takes us. I trust in your being, in your way. I believe we share a love for things green and good, things that grow, and it has been a delight to feel your eyes widen at those joys. It reminds me of why we are here at all, reminds me of what the purpose of any struggle is.

I also see why you find comfort and resonance in Silvanus, and in our travels together I would help you to understand him better, for he is an old oak: at once simple and obvious but also full of many knots and burls!  

Please indulge me a series of thoughts originally expressed in our divine realm in pure form, but rendered here in words that I hope can do the original justice, composed, beautifully in my estimation, by my dear friend Eldath, the Mother of Waters:

Sometimes I feel I have nothing in common with anyone. I shamble through the day, sloshing around, and each new hour with each new being is a cliff I can’t climb — yet I know I’m alive now — inside a song as deep as forever, that stretches to the infinite future and the bottomless past, connecting every headwater with every river’s mouth, and every place I’ve lived or nearly died — and I shouldn’t worry so much about losing what’s most precious, my multitude of drops, choppy waves, gurgling springs, my fathomless depths and gentle shores, and my curious, glowing, aqueous eyes that still sparkle with radiant chaos, wondrous fluvial calm, and so much love, for everyone.

Dala’gse, one day I hope I can be your companion in idleness.

....

After these words were shared in private, Arumbelle continued. 

"And so. I will not have my divine and godly powers while trapped but as my name returns to the lips of mortals, I will be both beacon to those who would remember and unite, and through that I will grow in strength, even if trapped. And what threads I am able to manipulate will be tugged with defter hands; your power as Chosen will grow.  

So, light the candles in my shrines. Spread my traditions. Let it be known that Arumbelle is not dead, that she will return. Maybe then, I will be able to fight against these bars that imprison me. And the bars themselves…it is the Rites that imprison me. I know that. If you destroy the Rites themselves — the vile scrolls with instructions for activating the fell magiks…then I will be free.  

I feel two are active now; Slavery and Power. We need to learn what has been uncovered. Are they separate or united? Doun is dead but there are always cults who do not forget. I do not claim to understand if he is able to come back. But if he can, this is is made infinitely more complicated. It becomes a race, almost. If my captor gains life, then we are all but doomed. 

We need to understand who is wielding these Rites. We need to understand if they know you or see you as a threat. We need to understand if they know of my imprisonment and see me as a threat. 

I have told my tale, I have spoken my monologue. Let us converse. First, ask questions. Second, tell me what I have not been able to observe from the inside.”

And with that the visage of Arumbelle seems to settle into a chair and waits. 

As they shared their knowledge, she filled in the gaps with her own insights. Insight that even if imperfect were still those of a god. She helped explain why the goblin "Mother" had cultivated such an odd troupe of followers that included Kargi and Prex. She was really called Neervala, a goblin shaman, who had stumbled upon the Misty Cave shrine during the Great Goblin War of the Greypeaks. She lit candles and invoked the holiness of Arumbelle, which had a salubrious effect on the goblins, for both their bodies and disposition.

Arumbelle explained that she could not see through their eyes or hear their thoughts. She could only feel their emotions and states. She didn't know much about the mind flayers, but she suspected that their mass thralldom was made possible on such a scale by the Rite, something unheard of with these humanoids.

She then began to weave the story of the Monarch, Jeremius Mason, piecing together the information they had shared. It was a tale of a poor boy from Waterdeep whose ambition led him to discover the Rite of Slavery, which he used to strike a deal with a colony of illithids in the Underdark. Minds (thralls from his town) for Mines (platinum, at first). He established a mining operation, using the illithids' thralls as workers, and grew in wealth and power. He became the self-styled Monarch of the Savage Frontier, rebranding it as the Vostewylde Alliance. He attempted to join the Lords Alliance, but his bid was thwarted by the resistance of a town called Old Weir. But Old Weir had recently discovered a new adventuring site, called Myth Sveldin. The Monarch saw an opportunity. He advertised and encouraged this locale, but in secret sent the illithids there to greet any adventurers who plumbed its depths, turning them into thralls and building a shock troop of powerful drones.

With this force in place, the Monarch had the illithids launch an invasion of Old Weir, turning the townsfolk into thralls. With this gift, he ensured the illithids' cooperation in his mining operations. He also ensured the cooperation of the town-colony in his bid to joins the Lords Alliance. The operation a success, he then retired to Waterdeep.

Regarding Felak'Doun, she speculated that his death had been a shock to his followers, causing all active Rites to end, even if they could still be used. But the chaos of the time led to infighting and regime shifts, and the Rites were lost to time. She also surmised that the demon ally of Felak Doun, Fraz Urb Lu, entered into a pact with a mortal named Vallzan. Vallzan formed a cult to the dead god and used his demon-given power to build followers and fanatics. One of these followers, Telloux the Pious, found the Rite of Power and began propagating it.

Arumbelle concluded her tale with a warning. There were still three unaccounted for Rites, and the Cult of Doun and Fraz were bent on finding them. The race was on to light her shrines and grow her power, which would in turn channel incremental power to the chosen. They also needed to seek out the Rites and stop them from becoming activated to prevent her from being shackled. Every choice involved a tradeoff. Every action to advance one goal, meant the other lagged. A race, indeed. 

With the business of the realm attended to, Arumbelle turned to more mundane matters. She and the party passed the evening speaking companionably on what many might consider "small" affairs. The glow from the hearth was captured warmly in the golden wood of the massive hearthsign as they sipped tea and plumfog and snacked on stores Cymbiir had squirreled away. Sitting in the presence of a god was a singular and awesome experience. Arumbelle was at once real, intimate, light, fun, deep, irreverent, sharp, pointed, and direct. She delighted in all things, she found joy in being. She cared deeply for each of them, she asked each of them questions. She loved. 

For the first time in a very long while, they rested. For the first time in a very long while, they felt at peace. For the first time in a very long while, they felt good.