Clavicathia Talbot

single mothers these days have so much to deal with. like eldritch instruments that wanna be played forever and ever and ever and.
oneshot character. smashing her against my friend's dilf

Links:

• Dicecloud Character Sheet
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• Oneshot image folder 

Character Quick Fax

Physical Description:

Name: Clavicathia “Clav” Talbot

Age: 62 years

Class: Aberrant Mind Sorcerer (4)

Race: Half Elf (Drow Heritage)

Gender Identification/Pronouns: she/her

Birthday: 5th of Tarsakh

Height: 5’8”

Weight: 138 lbs

Personality Traits:

“I learned early in life how to work a room. The levity and charm that earned me success as a bartender and performer kept me alive as a youth.”

“I try to figure other people out quickly. Once I do, I let them know with my words and actions.”

“I'm not going to start a fight, and neither are you. Sit down, handsome.”

Ideals:

Pragmatism. I try to stay rational and realistic. When I can ground myself while problem-solving, I tend to stay calm and remain careful.

Self-expression. I long to be understood and to speak my mind. Using music to connect to others made me feel wanted, accepted, and alive. 

Bonds:

I love my son, he needs me. I have to give him the peaceful, adored youth I did not get.

When I sense someone hurting, I try to ease them -- even if all I can do is give them a free meal or an embrace.

Flaws:

“I am terrified of being alone or disposable to a self-defeating degree. In the past, I’ve attached myself to people and things who don’t have my best interest at heart because they make me feel seen.”

“I once satirized a noble who still wants my head. It was a mistake that I will likely repeat.”

Biography:

Early Life:

Clavicathia is the daughter of a drow politician (father) and a changeling grifter (mother), who passed herself off as a courtesan to gain access to political circles and to steal intelligence. Because her mother, Tix, regularly reinvented her identity to gain access to new pockets, she associated with her daughter only when it was advantageous to her latest story. As a child, Clav learned to pass herself off as someone new before she learned to write. 

As she grew older, she resented this treatment, and ultimately cut ties with her mother to become independent as an early teen. She also resented the inaction of politicians like her father, and those who sought to game the system or control others with fear and power. The area she lived in was rife with crime unaddressed by the noble politicians her mother preyed on, so this was dangerous, but preferable to Clav -- compared to continuing to take on new identities before she understood her own. Here, the skills that she learned earlier in life (endearing herself to others through banter, fawning, and reading/playing rooms) became a survival technique. 

When she accumulated enough funds to leave that area, she did, striking out on her own to safer Candlekeep, where she found work as a barmaid. One of the very first things she did when she arrived at Candlekeep was get completely decked by a speeding horse. Drow have poor vision in sunlight, and she did not see it coming. She was not severely injured, but rattled, and was intimidated by horses for a long time thereafter.

Mid-life:

Clav began working at the tavern (the Gooses’ Roost) when she was in her late twenties. It was during this time that she first began to feel like herself. She was, for the premier time in her life, becoming independent and safer than she ever had been before. The same ability to strike up conversation and keep the peace served her well when talking rowdy patrons off of tables, down from fights, or connecting with regulars. Tavern work also accommodated her tendency to work best at night, so the closing shift of the bar tended to be hers. 

After the bar closed, Clav was often the only person still awake in the seating area of the tavern. Out of an old habit to stay off the streets at Peak Crime Time(™) and despite her superior eyesight in the dark, she tended to stay until morning, finding ways to occupy herself. The tavern’s piano provided her with a way to spend the time. Clav learned to play, quietly, and sang along to verbalize feelings she had not had an outlet for before. For her, this time alone with the piano was important self-expression, and as freeing as writing in a diary. Over time, she improved, and found a distinct sound from the songs she heard played during the day. She’d play each night, and then walk home when the sun rose. 

Despite settling into a more comfortable rhythm of life, Clav had few close personal ties in Candlekeep. Her work comprised most of her identity, and while she enjoyed being a trusted bartender -- a listening ear and a quick tongue, she was still mostly on her own. She found confidence in her independence, but quietly longed for companionship. This was a running theme for about a decade.

When she was 37, she met Flint. Clav quickly pegged him as trouble waiting to happen. While this wasn’t entirely inaccurate, she was relieved that he seemed to be content with drinks and conversation. He was, she quickly realized, a little too content with drinks. Out of concern for his health, she began to slide him food alongside his ale to keep him reasonably sober, and assured him with a smile that it was “an investment in vomitless carpets”. In reality, she was worried, but also curious about him, and found his appearance, nebulous confidence, and sense of purpose very attractive. At the same time, she was aware where his bravado could get him; into many pants, or out of town. 

Over the span of a few (approx 5) years, she got to know him as a regular, and then as a friend. About halfway through that time, she got very good at reading him. Clav knows vague and elusive, she spoke it as a first language, so it didn’t take too long for her to begin to piece together that “I just clean up bits and bobs here and there”, meant people. She played her confrontation of this topic as level as she could, but had secretly become perturbed by the mounting evidence that the man she’d become friendly with was a murderer for hire. She’d been very intentional in getting away from dangerous, criminal spaces. So, she was deliberate in her approach, she waited until she was sure, and then confronted him about it in the public space of the bar -- with a quiet, probing voice. That way, if he was a danger to her, she could evaluate his reaction in relative safety (surrounded by patrons), and have time to react and to rat him out. If she just kept her cool, kept her facade, she’d stay in control of the situation.

She was extremely relieved to find out that Flint was in possession of some moral collar -- and a part of her actually approved of what he was doing. Getting rid of threats seemed to her to be a very low priority to politicians and nobility, so that there was someone out there who was upfront about what action would cost was a relief. Unlike the bureaucrats that gave elegant speeches about welfare and rebuilding, and then did nothing, the loyalty of a bounty hunter could be bought. Clav hates abuses of power, and inaction in the face of a serious problem, and thus approves some action to take care of danger. To her, Flint didn’t seem to see it that way. Was he really out there problem solving, conveniently trading necessary violence for money, or was he just looking for a head he could justify putting a bullet in? She’d criticize his carelessness both in execution of hunting and in discoverability, (“If I can deduce your career, it’s a miracle you haven’t already been put to death for it”). She’d threaten him with more than an end to free meals if he stepped out of line -- openly tell him she’d spill his secret to the authorities if she thinks his actions start endangering witnesses or innocents. All this, right across the bar, while the music is swelling and the interior is warm and loud;

“The way I see it, it’s much easier to play nice. If someone were to, say, get a little suspicious about a regular and decide to do something about it -- well, you’d be in a right hard spot. Why, then you’d either have to take care of that person, or wait until they told, and face the music. In either case you couldn’t come see me for a warm meal and good conversation anymore. I would loathe to miss your gallant smile.”  

As she had adapted, Clav resolved to try to keep him where it was safest to keep loose cannons -- right in front of you, where you can see them. She kept the relationship friendly and distant, for her part, though her attraction to him wasn’t waned by the news. Reckless and dangerous, sure! Against her better judgment, she continued to be cautiously enamored with him. When she learned the nature of the way he got into the work, that caution turned to sympathy. Their origins weren’t so different, cultivated for a purpose -- only she had gotten out in time to have an adulthood of her own, and outwardly, he seemed happy with the card he was dealt.. 

When he appeared at the Roost, broken horned and bloodied, after Damien slew the other Beaumonts, she was horrified -- it was the kind of thing she’d cautioned him about. He was clearly in horrific shape even if all he complained about was headache. She took him to the back, did her best to patch him up, body and soul, and for the first time saw him cry. Holding him in her arms while he lamented the loss of his family was a pivotal point in their relationship for her. For the first time, she fully saw past the veneer of confidence, and instead saw a very lost person who had their world torn out from under them; someone whose dangerous work had caught up with them, leaving them maimed and wracked with grief. He’d lost everything, and the first thought he had was to go for a drink. Why? In her work, she had seen enough people look for comfort and safety in the bottom of a glass. She knew he wouldn’t find it there. Running fingers in circles on the back of his bloody scalp, she vowed instead that he’d find comfort in her. She reported the deaths to the insipid authorities, and did her best to take care of the person she felt such an important responsibility and connection to -- for her, a relationship the first of its kind. Still, Flint stuck to his work like flypaper. Over the years, she began to worry that she’d never get through to him. On a very surface level, he appeared to bounce back, hunting to “stay young”, but she told herself she knew him better than to fall for that. After a while, however, she began to feel like she’d never get past his walls again, he either did not want or did not need such a connection.

She carried on with her work. Bartend, clean up, and then play until dawn. One night while singing along with the piano, Clav was surprised to see that one of the tavern’s patrons had come down the stairs and listened to her. This stranger was Viradir, a high-elf man of a few more years than she. He said he’d heard her from his room on the first floor, and complimented her playing and voice liberally. He claimed to see potential for success in her, gave her pointers, and after they began to make a habit of these meetings, recommended that she try performing during the open hours -- after all, he was close with the tavern’s owner. He could put in a good word, and let her play for an audience whenever she liked. Musicians got much better money than servers, after all.

Clav agreed, and soon she was playing and singing at the ivories just as much as she was working the bar. She began to enjoy the positive attention and feeling of acceptance that came from writing and performing music. Suddenly, music was more than a way to express herself, it was a way to be understood by others for the first time. She fell in love with it, and continued to improve her craft alongside Viradir, who she introduced to Flint. 

Eventually, her mostly-mentor suggested that she may be even more successful if she left the Gooses’ Roost. Why, he knew another tavern, a nicer tavern, who would pay twice as much for her time -- and of course, he knew that owner, too. The idea of leaving the familiar and being able to talk to Flint less upset her in private, but assured herself that someone so bombastic (and averse to commitment) would not feel the same. Viradir, of course, affirmed this in the one instance she mentioned it. “Try not to be so sentimental. Even wild birds will land on a hand full of flax. Hardly means they’d like to come indoors.”

With Viradir helming her logistics, Clav’s career snowballed into modest success, and a local familiarity. As he made appointments with wealthier and wealthier clients, some offensively so, Clav began to feel her long-standing resentment of bureau and aristocrats and bubbling up. With renewed confidence in her ability to play their game, she began to speak her mind through her music in a more direct way. Her lyricism became incendiary, divergent from private drama overheard from the piano, and critical -- all wrapped in the ribbon of rhythm and lilting vocals. Her tongue made some nobility very angry, but those nobles had noble enemies, and when she made an enemy of one she made a fan of another. 

Viradir pressed her for several years to lean harder into this dramaturgy. For some time, she did, but being pressured to create conflict was both exhaustingly ingenuine and contrary to her previous practice -- avoiding danger through charisma while compromising with saying what she meant. Now, she was doing neither; making plenty of wealthy enemies, and playing a room not for comfort or for socialization, but for profit.  She tried to maintain her friendships with Flint and others outside of her career, but overbooked and unhappy, began to get out less and less.

As time wore on, she gradually became burnt out, and increasingly dissatisfied with her relationship with Viradir. She felt both frustrated with him and stuck with him, struggling to find autonomy in a relationship which was transactional. At this point, she knew that she had been interested in her for her ability to generate money for him, but had invested so much in their partnership that she struggled to draw a line. 

That all changed when, after she shared news of her pregnancy (which was assuredly his), Viradir offhandedly advised that she get rid of her offspring. Simply put, it was a poor career choice. He'd been happy enough to fuck, but seeing it through?

Clav had become enchanted with the idea of having a child, and making a bond of her own. Appalled that a potential family was but a mistake to white-out in this man’s career, she gave him a sharp piece of her mind and quit their partnership on the spot -- putting an end to her musical career as well. The joy had been siphoned out of it. 

Clav went on to raise their son herself. While sleeping with Viradir may have been a regret, having her son, Blythe, was not. Clav felt a renewed sense of purpose in the idea of starting a family of her own, doing it right this time. When Blythe was born, she was sure that she’d made the right choice. She avoided any contact with the boy’s father, and used what intact connections and funds she had to purchase a small gallery and the apartment above, in which she could stay to raise her son in a stable environment. 

While it’s stable, it clearly doesn’t make her as happy as she was when she was tending bars or performing out of a love for craft and self-expression. She’s now in the same position that Viradir was -- making a little money off of the top of other people’s creative passion, while creating nothing of her own. Providing and caring for Blythe is her priority, and there aren’t many jobs that a single parent can do while simultaneously being at home for their child most of the time. 

After Blythe was born, Clavicathia was spread a little thin, and beginning to feel her age. She watched the other career-purposed man in her life struggle to find work, too, though he and Viradir differed radically. She regretted the time they'd spent with less contact, but his stubborn adherence to a career in bounty hunting despite his age was proof to her that she would have come second, anyway. That was the inevitable paradox in the people she'd been closest to. She relegated her feelings to an ache, and tried to maintain a friendship and keep him from getting himself killed or poisoned by alcohol. When she needed assistance, she thought she might kill three birds with one stone by hiring him. Though she had no idea whether he'd accept, she wanted to give him something to do, and could desperately use an extra set of hands every once in a while. To her surprise, he refused her payment. He became her first contact when she needed extra help, such as moving heavy merchandise or teaching Blythe to fend off danger. She never stopped trying to pay him, though, sure as she was that he was a career man, and perturbed always in silence that his help would one day vanish if he didn't have a shiny reason to stick around.

As Flint was also aging, and work became sparse for him, she was upset to learn that he'd been sleeping outside most nights. She began to encourage (in her typical way, sincerity and banter in halves) him nightly to stay at her home with an approximately 3/7ths success rate.

Recent:

About a week ago, Clav's residence/workplace received a large package with no apparent evidence of sender. Unsure of its contents but confident that there would be more information inside, Clav once again contracted Flint from her couch to help her bring it indoors. She believed it to be a work of art intended for her to sell, and a work of art it was. 

The Harpsichord, once freed of its shipping box, appeared to have been a victim of some time and misuse. There were keys missing, paint chipped, but it was nonetheless an instrument of staggering intricacy if design and quality of make. Clav was enamored with it instantly, looking mournfully down at the missing keys, and wondering with an uncharacteristic distance in her voice how magnificent it might sound if it still worked.

Regardless, she hadn't touched it then. In the last six years of Blythe's life, the only songs she’d sung were lullabies. She could bring herself to do no more, out of touch as she'd become with her creative zeal. The keys had been made strangers to her and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be as in touch with that part of herself as she once had been.

And yet, she felt drawn to the antique harpsichord. The day that she and Flint brough it indoors was tiring, but sleep wouldn’t come at all for her that night. It was on her mind, in her mind. Who sent it? Why was there no information that would allow them to collect their keep? Would it still play? Would it be difficult to fix? How sonorous and deep would those keys sing? How resonant? How whole would it make her to play again, how understood, after years of silence? 

Every time she walked past the back storage room, and saw it there, she couldn’t help but wonder; what did it have to say?

That evening, when Blythe had been fed and put to bed, she strayed down that hall again -- content at first just to look at the harpsichord, because it was such a beautiful thing. She lingered in the doorway before approaching it, like a moth floating around a hot lamp. Why had she not tested it yet? Was she afraid that it would not work, or was there something in her subconscious that steered her clear? If it was indeed her subconscious, it was losing the battle. It lost the moment she pulled up the harpsichord’s matching stool, and took her seat.

In the blink of an eye, the thing had become whole. It glowed. It looked new, completely unblemished and radiant beneath her fingers. Strange, she didn’t remember lifting her hands. It didn’t matter, it was what she wanted to do anyway. 

Clav had no sooner touched one finger to the yielding keys then that little voice in the recesses of her mind was drowned out wholly. As if electrified, euphoric inspiration returned to her in waves. Alone in the storage room, she could have burst into uncharacteristic tears of joy. Instead, she sang. 

She felt as though she’d scarcely begun the piece that fell from her mouth and fingers when Flint shook her from her stupor a day later. Her mouth was dry, her throat completely hoarse, her arms burned, her eyes and her head ached for sleep. She was completely exhausted, but so much more euphoric. The broad smile on her face when she fell back into him was not one of her own, small, coy and knowing. It was rapturous.

Her high faded fast when she learned of how Blythe had cried at Flint’s heel when he walked through the door, how hungry he’d been, how tired and scared her surreal stunt had made her darling son. Bitten once by the instrument, she could now see that she hadn’t been wholly herself since its arrival, and that loss of agency was a rare terror for her. To keep Blythe from further panic, he was tucked safely away with a family friend while his mother and her own absorbed the events that had transpired, and sought a solution. 

Clavicathia can’t shake the feeling that she needs to be at the foot of that great instrument. She only just began to play -- but no, that’s not true, minutes felt like days; or did time merely fly because of how alive she felt? She felt dead now, dead tired, but there was no rest to be had in quiet. There was no quiet. Always, a distant sound of music, whether the call of the harpsichord or the beat of her own blood in her ears, perturbs her senses. Usually punctual and thorough, she lapses into disorder and confusion, staring down halls and losing her words mid-sentence. If she can’t believe her own senses, what can she believe? What can she do?

It’s her great fortune that Flint has been willing to stick around to help. She can recognize, thanks to him, the danger posed by the instrument and the need for… some kind of solution -- a harmless one, a compromise, surely. Surely, they could bring no harm to that glorious instrument. They could send it away, if it didn’t come right back. They could dismantle it if not for the feeling in her stomach she got when she imagined doing so -- like putting her own organs on display. Still, something has to be done. Blythe needs her, and as long as she can make sense of her world, she won’t abandon her son or her friend.

Flint and Clav traveled recently to the House of Rest to escape the presence of the harpsichord and to try to learn more about the nature of the supernaturally magnetic machine. Clav is more grateful than she knows how to express her help. If it weren’t for Flint’s intervention, she dreads to think of what might have happened to Blythe through her woeful negligence. For the first time in more than 60 years, she is extremely dependent on someone else. 

While she trusts Flint with her safety while he’s around, she worries that she’s working on two timers. She knows she needs to get back to Blythe, and she also fears (without saying) that her friend would need only the call of a renewed bout of business to return to his old line of work, stranding her and her son to deal with this consumptive creativity alone. Being such an independent person by necessity, the idea that he could leave her now and she could do nothing to parse her own reality, help herself, is frightening even in concept. He is, after all, devoted first to hunting bounties, and keeping tabs on her is a commitment. 

She has kept this fear as quiet in her head as she can, and tried to focus on a fast solution. He can know she needs his help without knowing the extent of her fears. To verbalize them wouldn’t do either of them good, right? It is better to stay as she is, pretend to hold onto levity, and try to crack this problem before it cracks her. 

Significant Relationships:

Blythe Talbot

Blythe just turned six, he is half-elf, of dilute high and drow heritage. His hair is blonde, and his skin is warmer in color than his mother’s.  His father is Viradir Valkurian and his mother is Clavicathia Talbot. The two were never married, and his mother keeps his father out of their lives to most any end. 

Clav is doing the best that she can to be a better parent to Blythe than her own mother was to her, despite raising him independently. She sometimes overcompensates for this, and allows her dry demeanor to slip for her son, eager to give him the things that he wants and to ensure that he never goes hungry or feels alone. He’s a little coddled and spoiled. As a result, Blythe is not so good at taking no for an answer. He is just as witty as his mother, but does not have the filter that she has, and even in his young age has begun to master the art of snark.

He loves horses, and became enraptured with Flint’s horse, Dolly, as soon as he first saw her. He constantly wants to see her, ride, or feed her, and pesters Flint to do so almost every time he visits. When he was an infant, and when Clav was pregnant with him, she began seeing Flint more regularly again -- mostly to try to recruit him for things she couldn’t do in her state, and because it gave her an excuse to see him.

Flint Beaumont

Clav trusts no-one else as much as she does Flint Beaumont. Though this may seem paradoxical given the fact that she’s gently threatened to get him arrested, she’s known him for almost three decades, and thinks she understands him at this point. Even in his aging, Flint is still very much the personality that she first met. He is an explosive enjoyer of life’s highest points, a free spirit who resists being tied down (even when it would really do him some good -- for example, being tied down by common sense, or sleeping INDOORS). She feels a sincere connection to him because of the similarities in their youths, the way they strongly differ, and the chances he has given her to be someone who matters -- someone who actually makes a difference, has a presence in a life, rather than a listening bartender or a passing pretty songbird. 

Clav considers him (mostly) reliable, humorous, endearing, and motivated. She’d also love to get under that belt and ride him until neither of their legs work, but that’s neither here nor there. She cares for him, wants him in her life more than he is, and tries her very best to keep him on the right path… with very mixed success. 

Of course, just because she trusts him the most doesn’t mean she’s blind. She relies on him confidently for short term tasks, grateful endlessly, though frustrated he won’t take her money. If he would take her money, then she’d at least have a chance to outbid the dangerous career path that keeps him in the saddle, and to give him a reason to stay with her. She knows he’s getting older, and wants him to be safe. She also knows she loves him, but is reluctant to admit it. She doesn’t want to be spurned, or worse, be accepted for a fling and then hung out to dry when career once again comes first. She’s urgent to take care of the “problem” with the Harpsichord quickly, because she doesn’t know how long she can rely on Flint’s chaperoning before he longs to find somewhere to pick a fight and earn some platinum. The reason that she hasn’t yet told Flint, in sincerity, about her feelings is the same that makes her wary of his flight. 

Now that he’s around all the time, however, helping her despite the lack of financial motivation or and the call to roam, maybe she’ll have to reconsider that fear?

Viradir Valkurjian

Viradir embodies a hard lesson learned for Clav. Though she was friends first with Flint, it was Viradir who came in after hours and heard her play -- encouraged her and took an interest in her that went beyond that of customer service. Rather than being charmed by banter, he was interested in something much closer to Clav’s heart; he was interested in her singing and her playing, Clav’s premier forms of expressing thoughts and feelings that she usually kept veiled. It was akin to having someone who read her diary tell her that her writing and her penmanship was beautiful, and ask for more. Though it wasn’t what he meant, Clav perceived his interest in her playing as an interest in her true self. She got very attached to that idea of being seen and wanted on a creative level, and it made her more compliant to Viradir than she should have been. 

Viradir is a high elf, with rich, warm skin and sunny blonde hair. He, like Flint, was money motivated -- though unlike Flint he took great pains to use money as a social lubricant. Money was his tool to enter higher society, to accumulate influence and respect. He has a very good ear for music, a critic’s ear, though he rarely plays himself except to practice the fundamentals, an extremely robust understanding of the market for performance, and connections. His greatest strength is his persistence and sociability. If one lets him talk long enough, he can usually win them over by insistence and praise -- it was the same tool that he used to convince Clav to let him teach her, to begin performing at when the Roost was open, to leave the Roost, Flint, and her life as a barmaid behind in lou of performance, and to lean hard into the character of the silver-tongued high-society musical instigator. The last of which eventually wore down Clav’s desire to create to such a degree that she stopped playing completely, after a fight with Viradir over the keeping of her pregnancy formed the last nail in the coffin. 

Clav now resents him extremely. She opened her eyes at last toward the end of the relationship, and realized that she was not being connected with, but used. Usually the kind of person to veil her insults, Clav has made an exception for Viradir (though not around her son), because anything other than “Stay away from me and my son, I don’t ever want to see you again” bounced right off of him. When he wants to, he can be very willfully ignorant, and as always career focused. He tried for a few months after their split to convince her to return to performance after the birth of their son, going so far as to offer to take care of him (wow!! Can you believe that?), but she declined every offer and hasn’t entertained any talks with him since Blythe was born. Viradir is equally resentful of her. After all, he made her. He took her from playing quietly to avoid waking tavern goers to singing for rooms full of aristocrats, and she let all of that go for what? Her success as a musician would have been nonexistent if not for him. He considers her unfocused, unmotivated, and utterly without a sense of what's best for her.

The Harpsichord

When it arrived, the harpsichord was in fixer-upper condition, but it looked similar in some ways to the picture on the right. Rather than yellow, it is vermillion. 

The interior painting appears at first glance to be an abstract scene of a concert hall, but instead of musicians on the stage, in the spotlight there is an open door in a freestanding doorway. The hallway that it leads to grows smaller and smaller in perspective, and seems to spiral out of sight in a way that bends the eye -- almost like an optical illusion. The interior of the hallway is remarkably detailed for oil paint, so detailed that one could hold a magnifying glass to the image of the hall, and still see smaller, spiraling details the eyes couldn’t parse. 

Though there is only this on the stage, the rest of the concert hall is absolutely full of life. The scene is completely cacophonic and boschian. Strangely-shaped visitors mingle with realistic ones, dance with them, climb over seats and out of their mouths. Along the concert hall’s ceilings, fruit trees drop an endless bounty like rain down on the onlookers. Red starlight spills in through crevices in the chipped paint of the ceiling. Though chaos unfolds in the seats of the concert hall, the center walkway to the stage is clear -- almost like a holy site, beckoning the viewer to take those steps to the stage, to the spotlight, and through the door. 

Oneshot Summary:

Shemshime’s Bedtime Rhyme

This dark tale, like most, starts on a bright night. A night of arcane awe and splendour, the night of the Magefair! The city is packed, filled to the brim with wizards wishing to show off their skills and the less magically gifted looking for fun, games, and a simple time of relaxation as the nights pass them by. Seeking this revelry, or perhaps for some other reason, you have come to Candlekeep, to stay at the House of Rest. However, rest is the last thing these seemingly innocuous seekers will get.

Theme:

Escape room-esque

Growing eldritch horror

Player Rules:

4th Level

1 Uncommon Magic Item