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Cyric seemed unhurried; he hovered in the air, coldly observing...
Chapter 337
He watched Casalos climb higher and higher. "You can't escape, little iron dragon," he taunted, then began chanting an ancient incantation. Dark energy gathered around him, forming a massive magical net that enveloped Casalos.
The chaotic magic that Faerûn lost the control of the magic network could not affect any of his spellcasting. Lost dragons are "semi-legendary dragons" who live in negative energy planes without the magic network, and casting spells outside the network is their instinct.
The elemental forces surrounding Casalos began to become chaotic, an effect of "Shadow Removal," which could weaken or even eliminate all generalized magic within its area. If caught in this net, even elemental forms could be forcibly dispelled, which would be fatal. Casalos made a swift judgment, abruptly changing its ascent to a dive, heading straight for Cyrek.
This move caught Cyric off guard, and the dragon, representing the very essence of death, hesitated for a moment, which was exactly what Casalos needed.
Casalos charged at Cyrek and suddenly unleashed a powerful "Breath of Radiance." This wasn't a dragon's regular breath attack, but a magical effect that complemented its breath, producing a dazzling light that temporarily blinded its opponent—crucially, radiance-based abilities were extremely effective against creatures with negative energy.
Cyric's spellcasting was thus interrupted, and the "Shadow Removal" net collapsed.
Taking this opportunity, Casalos reverted to his physical form, activated several of his "Super Breath" feats, and unleashed a solid, highly effective radiant breath at Cyric.
The beam struck Cyrek's head instantly and remained focused on it, illuminating its dragon face as if it were a burning torch. Cyrek let out a mournful roar, and the black mist around its body surged wildly, trying to extinguish the light. Just then, Casalos attacked again, sending a disintegration into the beam, destroying Cyrek's blasphemous protection once more, and the superimposed flames flickered sporadically in the intense light.
"Ah!" Cyric roared in agony, the blasphemous shield on his body flickering a few times before vanishing completely. But the old Lost Dragon was still incredibly powerful; it quickly recovered, its eyes burning with even more intense rage, which transformed into a powerful, reality-distorting psionic energy that surged towards Casalos like a tidal wave, attempting to destroy all its will and force it to give up its resistance.
An unprecedented weakness and despair enveloped Casalos, making it feel as if life had lost all meaning. But the stubborn will within its dragon soul resurfaced, refusing to succumb to this man-made despair.
"You think this is death?" Casalos sneered. "I've been dancing with death since the day I hatched, and I've never been afraid of it!"
Casalos's will once again broke free from the influence of the "Death Impulse," while the pseudo-Laplace's demonic deductions yielded new findings—Cyric's time as a Death Hunter was still very short, and it was still quite inexperienced with its various abilities, even those that could be used at will could not be used continuously. If this interval could be seized, it might be possible to limit Cyric.
Just as Casalos was preparing to implement his new tactic, Cyric suddenly unleashed his "Black Dragon Breath" psionic ability. This was no ordinary dragon breath, but a psionic attack that directly targeted the mind, manifesting as a black dragon's acidic spit, yet corroding and poisoning the mind. Casalos had activated his mental defenses before it was unleashed, but he was still struck by this power, feeling a sharp, intense mental pain.
Limited by its age, Casalos's arcane abilities are still too weak, but its will remains a solid bulwark against all mental attacks.
Just two more bursts of radiant dragon breath, and the continuous damage and stacked flames will be enough to kill this evil spirit dragon that has not yet come to understand itself.
Just then, a distant commotion arose below—it was Razor, having completed its cleanup of the temple. Its massive maw, filled with sharp teeth, precisely caught Melkor, who had been thrown into the air during the battle, while Razor flew towards the battlefield high above, still carrying the archmage of Waterdeep, Kelben Black Staff, atop its head.
Cyric noticed the arrival of reinforcements. Unwilling to be besieged, he quickly made a decision, using Shadowstep several times in succession to increase the distance between himself and Casalos, and finally disappeared into the night of Waterdeep.
"You won't be so lucky next time we meet, Iron Dragon!" Cyric's voice echoed in the air, filled with resentment and threat.
Casalos was panting heavily, its scales glowing hot from the intense battle. It dispelled its elemental form, reverting to its normal shape, and looked down at Melkor, who was struggling in Razor's mouth.
"You're going to kill me without doing anything?" Melkor, who had always seemed so confident, suddenly howled first, his voice filled with resentment after his defenses crumbled. "You flew all the way to Waterdeep, weren't you here to find the Tablets of Fate?"
Casalos shook his wings and resumed his usual sarcastic tone: "I'm not a god, and I don't want to be one in the future, so what do I need the Tablet of Fate for?"
Melkor seemed shocked by this answer: "Don't you seek power? The Tablet of Destiny holds power beyond the gods, the source of power for the gods above gods, the origin of all gods!"
“Are you an idiot, Melkor? Oh, I almost forgot, all three of you brothers are idiots.” Casalos drew his mocking blade. “What, you made a list for your priests to motivate them, listing bishops, priests, and clerics by rank and position, and then a junior cleric stole the list, wrote his own name on it, and he became a bishop? Oh, oh… my fault, my fault, you think even crazier and more idiotic than that! You actually think that junior cleric who stole the list can seize your divine office, power, and authority, and replace you!”
Melkor fell silent, his expression frozen in a strange state between shock and shame.
Casalos, without further ado, flicked its tail and took Melkor from Razor's mouth, carrying the saint higher into the air. A sphere of chaos elemental energy engulfed Melkor's body. Melkor's saintly body instantly disintegrated under the corrosive influence of the chaos element, and the god of death let out a final shriek in its dying moments.
Immediately afterwards, a massive magical turbulence storm swept across the skies above Waterdeep, and the Dead Magic District was shrouded in darkness like a dark cloud. Melkor's soul completely dissipated; he didn't even leave behind a final curse, and thus returned to the tomb of the astral gods with his eyes wide open in death.
Meanwhile, the retreating Death Hunter Cyric had already flown to the wilderness far from Waterdeep.
Above a cold, flat plain, he spotted a group of adventurers camping. These reckless fellows were sitting around a campfire, talking animatedly about their recent adventures, completely unaware that the shadow of death was looming over them.
Cyric swooped down, and in the blink of an eye, the campfire and the ground within a radius of several dozen meters were reduced to dust. The Death Hunter coldly surveyed these pitiful victims who had vanished without a trace, his inner rage unabated.
Just as it was about to leave, a faint metallic glint caught its attention. It was a broken longsword, its blade rusted and its hilt worn and tattered. But it had survived the Death Hunter's overclocked, explosive dragon breath!
Curious, Cyric poked at the broken sword with his claws, and with each touch, the longsword began to undergo an astonishing transformation. The blade gradually grew longer and larger, its shape twisting and deforming until it finally transformed into a pair of sharp claw sheaths that perfectly fit the Death Hunter's forepaws.
“A divine artifact!” Cyric’s eyes gleamed with fanaticism. “Hahaha, so it’s a divine artifact. You’re finished, Casalos.”
83. Minor Issues
The night sky over Waterdeep was still shrouded in dark clouds. The two-dimensional cocoon formed by the magnifying glass of magic was faintly visible in the arcane vision, occasionally casting a few distorted dark purple rays that lingered around Isis or Midnight, who had returned from the underworld, making the broken streets look like a miniature divine realm of the goddess of magic.
Milkor
Chapter 338
Although the lingering magical storm had dissipated, the remnants of the Dead Magic District still hung heavy like an invisible miasma, oppressing the entire city. The sounds of battle in the streets and alleys gradually subsided, the horns of the Watchers and the flapping wings of the Gryphon Riders intertwined, mixed with the low chants of the Dragon Singers, like a funeral dirge, bringing a temporary pause to this defensive battle.
Casaloz perched atop the ruins of the tower in the center of Waterdeep, its massive body obscuring half the ruins. The dragon magic flowing through its veins had not yet fully recovered, and occasionally, stray sparks of fire would erupt from its nostrils, hissing as they landed on the scorched ground. It slightly narrowed its outer eyelids, surveying the chaotic yet orderly aftermath of the battle below: the Watchers' spears pierced the last few struggling demons, griffon riders swooped down from the sky, tearing apart the fleeing souls with their steel claws, while the dragon chorus soothed the mortal souls corrupted by the aura of death with whispered melodies. Order was slowly returning, but… this was merely the calm before the storm.
The pseudo-Laplace's demon stirred the elements within its body, weaving them into a chaotic computer that wove countless variables into a vague yet believable vision of the future: Baal's army was approaching Waterdeep, Baal's Sons and the Flamefist Mercenary Group were heading north along the trade route, and countless corpses killed by the disease were crossing the seabed of Sword Bay. At their speed, the two armies would be like two pincers, choking Waterdeep's throat within six days of their departure.
As for the third Slate of Fate, Baal will surely bring it to him personally—not to surrender, but for a final gamble.
“Mentor!” A clear voice rang out from beneath the tower, interrupting Casalos’s thoughts. He looked down and saw Isis standing at the edge of the ruins, holding a shattered stone tablet in her hand. It was the second Tablet of Fate, recently retrieved from Hades’s realm of the dead. Her skin glowed softly in the moonlight, her white hair was slightly disheveled by the wind, and a smug smile graced her face. Midnight, Kavoran, Eden, and Elminster, who followed behind her, had varying expressions, while only the Thinker Ohmora Cedar maintained the old bronze dragon’s usual indifference—or perhaps it was just another bout of social anxiety—its massive body shrank behind the crowd, its head bowed as it gnawed on a shield it had unearthed from the ruins. The parrot-like beak scraped against the bronze shield, the cracking sound particularly jarring in the silence.
"Well done, little girl." Casalos's voice was deep and approving. It flicked its tail, clearing a shard of rock to make room for Isis and the others. It glanced at the Tablet of Fate, finding it utterly unremarkable, and felt no unease. The Tablet of Fate was merely bait used by the supreme god to reshape the rules of the pan-Faerûn pantheon. Those three fools had taken a bite, turning Faerûn into chaos—it was simply…
Isis stepped onto the ruins, looked up at Casalos, and a complex emotion flashed in her eyes: "Mentor, what should we do now? Continue searching for the third Tablet of Destiny?"
Casalos snorted a spark and chuckled, "No need. The holder of the third tablet will come to us."
"Why..." Midnight couldn't help but ask, her voice tinged with doubt as her gaze shifted between Casalos and Isis.
Elminster cleared his throat and took over the conversation, his tone carrying a prophetic composure: "Don't you understand yet, young mage? The first tablet was in Bane's hands, but Bane was killed by your mentor and the God of Loyalty; the second tablet was hidden by Melkor, but Melkor was also killed by your mentor; the third tablet is naturally with Baal, and the only way for Baal to escape the fate of his two brothers is to return the Tablet of Destiny as required by the supreme god, and regain his divine power to return to Asgard."
Eton nodded and continued, "I understand, but Baal, like all the other gods, is now a saint whose soul has been banished from the divine realm and forced to reside in a mortal body. He cannot return to the divine kingdom, and therefore cannot return the Tablet of Destiny, unless..."
Isis's gaze turned to the center of Waterdeep, where a golden, suspended staircase, invisible to ordinary people, stretched straight to the heavens, seemingly a bridge connecting the mortal realm and the divine realm. She frowned and asked, "Unless you ascend to the Heavenly Staircase! Master Elminster, where else can you find the Heavenly Staircase... I mean, outside of Waterdeep."
“Cormier had one, but it fell with the fall of the goddess of magic; the Temple of Dawn in Shadow Valley had one, but it was destroyed by the echo of the goddess of magic summoned at midnight.” Elminster stroked his beard, his gaze deep—as long as Iron Dragon’s gossip wasn’t directed at him, he could still play the role of the old sage. “As far as I know… this is the only one left.”
Casalos, upon hearing this, lowered his head and glanced at Isis and the others, his tone tinged with mockery: "So, Baal will come. And he will bring His army, the third Tablet of Destiny, and His laughable ambition, heading straight for Waterdeep. In a few days, He will be standing here, attempting to return to Asgard using the Heavenly Rank, and then..." He paused, a cold glint in his eyes, "...and then I will tear him to pieces."
Isis frowned, as if she wanted to say something more, but Casalos had already turned away, its enormous wings slightly unfurled, obscuring half of the ruins. It didn't want to continue the conversation, for fate was already clear enough: Baal's plan was doomed to fail.
“Mentor…” Isis’s voice rang out again, tinged with hesitation, “About Cyric…”
Casalos stiffened slightly, its tail flicking involuntarily, stirring up a gust of sand. It turned its head, its gaze falling on Isis, its tone tinged with complexity: "What do you want to ask?"
“I…” Isis bit her lip, a struggle in her eyes. “I know he betrayed us in Shadow Valley, but I always thought he was just lost. Then in Tanris, you said you killed him… But tonight, he appeared above Waterdeep as the Lost Dragon, right?”
Casalos remained silent for a moment, considering how to answer the question. It didn't want Isis to know too much about Cyrek. Not because it distrusted him, but because it saw it clearly: this little girl, Isis, had actually developed feelings for Cyrek. He had been her teammate, perhaps even someone she had once placed certain hopes in. But Cyrek… even though he was no longer the Wanderer, and probably couldn't become the future Trinity Mad God, he was still a complete monster, twisted by the power of the Styx.
How come this girl is bisexual? It's one thing to get entangled with Midnight and get caught up in this vortex, but how did she also get involved with Cyric? Is this the destiny of the third generation of the Goddess of Magic?
“Yes,” Casalos finally spoke, his voice low and calm. “I killed him in Tanris, but clearly, death was not the end for him. He crawled out of the River Styx and became a Lost Dragon. Tonight, he came for revenge, but I drove him away.”
A complex light flashed in Isis's eyes. She lowered her head and murmured, "I thought... he still had a chance to be redeemed."
“Redemption?” Casalos scoffed, his tone icy. “Little girl, don’t waste your kindness on something unworthy. Cyric is no longer the person you know. He is now the Death Hunter, the guardian bound to the underworld, an existence closer to the essence of death than the three gods of death. If you still harbor illusions about him, he will tear you to pieces without hesitation the next time you meet.”
Isis didn't speak, only silently clenching the Tablet of Fate in her hand, her knuckles turning slightly white. Casalos looked at her and sighed inwardly. It knew that the messy affairs of love and affection were something only Isis could figure out. The only saving grace was that this little girl was bisexual, and Midnight was still by her side and would always be by her side; she would only have to bear half the pain... perhaps?
Even a pseudo-Laplace's demon couldn't figure this out!
Chapter 339
"Alright, stop standing around." Casalos flicked his tail and turned to walk towards the edge of the tower. "The Battle of Waterdeep has just ended, and that guy Piergaren is probably swamped with work. He's supposed to be a mascot, but he insists on doing everything himself. I don't know where he picked up that habit. Does he think the Hidden Lords Alliance doesn't exist? You guys, go and clean up the mess in the city for him. I need to check with the Thinkers and the others about the situation in Sword Bay."
Isis burst out laughing at the word "mascot," which dispelled some of the grief brought on by the reappearance of Cyric. She jumped down from the ruins and joined in the cleanup efforts.
"Hmph, that pile of rotting bones underwater, Baal really knows how to pick a spot." Casalos muttered to himself, flicking his tail impatiently, creating a gust of hot air. "Too bad, I hate water the most. The wet feeling is like being wrapped in a pile of mud, disgusting."
The undead legion marching from the depths of Sword Bay posed a real threat to Waterdeep. Casalos had long considered Waterdeep his own; in fact, at least half of Waterdeep was now under his control, though no one knew it. How could he tolerate Baal leading a horde of undead infected with the Lavok plague to meddle? After attempting to extrapolate a future beyond the comprehension of the pseudo-Laplace's demons, Casalos ultimately decided to send "The Thinker" Ohmora Serdar and "The Tide Chanter" Kenneth to lead the bronze dragons to infiltrate the waters of Sword Bay and establish a perimeter. The moment the undead legion moved, news would travel back immediately.
84. Playing game after game
A heavy stench of decay permeated the air of Baldur's Gate; the stench of death, like an invisible miasma, suffocated the entire city. The once bustling streets were now deserted; dilapidated houses and overturned stalls spoke of the devastation brought by the plague. Piles of rotting corpses lay at street corners, and crows circled low, emitting piercing cries. Occasionally, a few undead creatures would stagger out of the shadows, their empty eye sockets glowing with an eerie green light, dragging their mangled limbs aimlessly until they were discovered by a patrol of the Flame Fist mercenary group, who pierced their skulls with spears, bringing them to their knees.
Baal stood atop the highest watchtower of Baldur's Gate, overlooking the ruins that had almost become a dead city. His mortal body was nothing more than an ordinary male shell, with an unremarkable face, short stature, and a slight hunchback, dressed in a tattered black robe, but his eyes burned with a divine, dark flame, exuding an unquestionable majesty—or rather, a demonic killing intent.
His divine power was taken away by the god above, but the cunning and dark ambition belonging to the god of murder always lingered in his soul.
“Melkor, you fool,” Baal muttered to himself, his voice laced with sneer. “You thought you could control the Tablets of Fate all by yourself? Instead, you were torn to shreds by that iron dragon. Well, your failure has paved the way for me.”
His break with Melkor was not unexpected. Baal never trusted anyone, especially those two so-called "brothers." Bane's tyranny and Melkor's greed had already shattered the alliance between the three evil gods, and Melkor's attempt to monopolize the Tablet of Fate was merely the final straw. Baal was prepared; after his falling out with Melkor, he quietly returned to Baldur's Gate—a stronghold he had cultivated for many years since his godhood.
The devastation at Baldur's Gate was not Baal's doing; when he arrived at Baldur's Gate, the city was already a living hell.
Several years ago, a group of adventurers set off from Baldur's Gate, embarking on yet another adventure to explore the Howling Forest. However, they inadvertently stumbled into the Tomb of the Sorcerer, awakening the slumbering demigod lich, Lavok. The adventurers barely escaped back to Baldur's Gate, only to find themselves carrying a magical plague created by Lavok. As they succumbed to the disease, a plague spread like wildfire, reducing Baldur's Gate's population from hundreds of thousands to less than a third of its original size. The infected died horribly, their skin festering, their flesh torn apart, ultimately transforming into undead creatures that roamed the cities, attacking all living things.
The Flame Fist Mercenary Group, in alliance with priests and adventurers from various temples, fought with all their might and, after several years, brought the situation under control. They built a sanctuary in the center of the city, using the power of benevolent gods to erect a radiant barrier protecting the remaining residents. At the same time, they sent patrols to exterminate the undead, gradually reclaiming the city.
However, the source of the plague—the curse of Lavok—remained unbroken, and the situation remained unclear. A god gave Baldur's Gate guidance: if the Flamefist Mercenary Group could destroy Dragonspear Fortress, which had been taken over by demons, He would have reason to bestow a miracle to help Baldur's Gate eradicate the plague. However… the gods were suddenly banished from Asgard and demoted to the mortal realm, the Faerûn magic network collapsed, and magic became chaotic.
The Flame Fist Mercenary Group's hard-won stability collapsed overnight. Incidentally, a certain troublemaking dragon, now replaced, actually wants to send the Baldur's Gate plague to the Moonshadow Isles... I wonder what his motives are.
Baal stood atop the watchtower, sensing the pervasive aura of death in the air, a slight smile playing on his lips. He stretched out his hand, and a shadow flowing with dark golden divine light appeared in his palm. With a gentle inhale, the surrounding plague aura, as if drawn by an invisible force, slowly gathered in his palm, eventually transforming into a ghostly green crystal core, radiating intense negative energy fluctuations.
“Lavok’s little trinket is quite a nice gift.” Baal murmured, his voice weakened by the prayer spell he cast with his own divinity as a sacrifice, but he couldn’t hide the greed flashing in his eyes. “Since it’s delivered to my door, I won’t be polite.”
Baal's first step was to awaken the mortals who bore his blood—the Sons of Baal. These descendants of demigods hid in every corner of Baldur's Gate; some were street thugs, some disguised as merchants and nobles, some were pet dogs in the arms of noblewomen, and some were monsters lurking outside the city. Without exception, the will of Baal flowed deep within their souls. Under His divine call, these Sons of Baal quickly gathered, and with fanatical "loyalty," launched an armed coup against the Flamefist Mercenary Group.
The coup was swift and efficient. Despite the support of the Temple and adventurers, the Flamefist Mercenary Group was already exhausted by the plague. Taking advantage of this, the Son of Baal launched a night raid on the Flamefist's command headquarters, seizing control of the mercenary group's leadership through murder and betrayal. In less than three days, the Flamefist Mercenary Group's banner was adorned with Baal's dark gold insignia, and the soldiers, originally loyal to Waterdeep and Order, were forced to submit to their new master.
“Mortals are always so easily dominated by fear.” Baal stood in the main hall of the Flamefist Command Center, his gaze sweeping over the new commander kneeling before him—a son of Baal—a hint of mockery flashing in his eyes. “Take your mercenary group and head north along the trade route, feigning an attack on Waterdeep. Don’t rush into a fight; just keep them occupied.”
"Yes, Father God," the commander replied, bowing his head.
Barr nodded in satisfaction and turned to walk towards the street outside the command post.
His second step was to convert the undead creatures of Baldur's Gate into his own legion.
He stood in the center of the street, holding in his hand the eerie green crystal core formed from the plague. A dark golden divine light surged from the saint's body, intertwining with the negative energy of the crystal core. An invisible force spread out from him, covering the entire Baldur's Gate. The corpses in the streets and alleys began to tremble, their bones cracking. The undead awakened by the plague raised their heads, eerie green flames burning in their empty eye sockets, all turning towards Baal, who now appeared aged and withered.
"Arise, my legion," Baal murmured, his voice carrying an undeniable authority. "Your souls belong to me, your hatred belongs to me, your slaughter... belongs to me as well."
Tens of thousands of undead creatures rose from the ruins of Baldur's Gate; some were merely walking skeletons, others were even more wretched.
Chapter 340
Their flesh and blood rotted, yet their movements were uniformly synchronized, like puppets guided by invisible strings. Baal estimated that these undead creatures numbered about two-thirds of Baldur's Gate's original population, enough to form a massive undead army. Powered by Lavok's plague and sustained by divinity, this undead army far surpassed Bane's ragtag force by several Wallaces's.
“Cassaloz…” Baal murmured, a cold glint in his eyes, “I know you’re waiting for me in Waterdeep. Damn Iron Dragon, you killed Bane, you killed Melkor, and now you want to kill me?”
Six days after Melkor's fall, Baal issued the order for a general offensive.
The Flame Fist mercenary group advanced majestically towards Waterdeep. Meanwhile, the undead army, driven by Baal's divinity, slowly sank to the bottom of Sword Bay. Tens of thousands of undead creatures marched underwater. If arcane vision could penetrate the seawater, one would see a ghostly green aura of negative energy merging into one on the seabed, like a river of death, silently flowing towards Waterdeep.
Baal stood atop the port's watchtower, the third Tablet of Destiny in hand, watching the army depart. The Heavenly Staircase in Waterdeep was his only chance. If he could ascend the staircase and return the Tablet of Destiny, he could escape the curse of the gods and return to Asgard. As for Casalos… once he regained his divine power, would he fear the threat of an ant?
“Come on, Casalos,” Baal muttered to himself, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Let’s see who has the last laugh.”
He seemed to have forgotten that he was one of the thieves who stole the Tablet of Destiny.
Inside Waterdeep, Casalos lowered his head in boredom, glancing through the window at the busy figures in the council chamber. Piergalen, the open lord of Waterdeep, was sweating profusely as he directed the guards in setting up fortifications, while Elminster leisurely flipped through a tattered spellbook, occasionally glancing up at Casalos before quickly turning his back as if he hadn't seen him. Kelben Black Staff stood in a corner, speaking quietly with several mages, his brow furrowed, clearly quite dissatisfied with the current situation.
Casalos grinned, his massive head smashing through the stone windowsill as he thrust into the council chamber: "Hey, Piergaren, I heard you got drunk at the tavern the other day by a bard and even sang a love song for a half-elf mage? Sigh, taking a break from your busy schedule is a good thing, but you're really not suited for singing!"
Piergellen nearly dropped the map in his hand upon hearing this, his face flushing red as he stammered, "Who, who's talking nonsense! I was... I was on official business! Yes, it was official business! Waterdeep needs support right now, and Daphne is from an ancient half-elf mage family..."
"Do I need to sing love songs to get support?" Casalos's dragon eyes narrowed slightly, his tone tinged with a hint of teasing. "Then next time we have a meeting, you can sing me one too? I've been a bit irritable lately, so I'll need some music to cool me down."
Piergellen was speechless, so he simply turned away and pretended to be busy, his ears turning as red as ripe apples. Casalos, seeing this, let out a low laugh and turned his gaze to Elminster: "Old man with the white beard and pointed hat, don't just sit there reading. I heard there's your old flame in Waterdeep, and she's secretly had a child with you. Why don't you hurry and go find her? With all this war and chaos, it wouldn't be good if she ended up stranded out there!"
Elminster slammed the spellbook onto his forehead, his white beard and hair tangled up in a knot: "Cassaloz, do you have the blood of a bronze dragon or a brass dragon in your mouth?"
Because of his ancient mobility, he didn't notice the way Kelburn's black staff looked away after hearing that.
“Red copper dragon? Brass dragon?” Casalos scoffed, flicking his tail to the ground, causing the council chamber floor to tremble slightly. “Don’t try to smear me. I am a pure iron dragon, the leader of the sub-iron dragon race, a staunch member of the Order. Those chaotic idiots of the red copper dragons are always playing pranks; I don’t have time for that. The brass dragons are talkative, but their stories are all made up; they start contradicting themselves after just three sentences. I’m telling the truth!”
"truth?"
Elminster nearly ripped his beard off, then shook his head and buried his head back in his book without saying anything more.
Seeing this, Kelburn forced himself to remain calm and snorted coldly, interrupting Iron Dragon's attempt to continue. He dared not let his teacher and old friend know what he had done back then: Years ago, a dragon that had transformed into a woman approached Kelburn Black Staff, hoping that Kelburn Black Staff would use magic to help her conceive her lover's child—that is, Elminster's child.
As a chosen one of the Goddess of Magic, possessing the silver flame of the Goddess of Magic within him, Ilminster was not allowed to bear children without the Goddess of Magic's permission. Kelben Black Staff, of course, would not inexplicably betray his teacher and old friend with a dragon. But no one expected that the Goddess of Magic would actually issue a divine oracle, ordering Kelben Black Staff to cooperate with the dragon... So he knew that what Casaloz said was true.
Originally, this was a divine oracle from the goddess of magic, and even if Elminster knew about it, he wouldn't be blamed. But who told the goddess of magic to suddenly die?
The Archmage with the Black Staff is now in a real bind; this Iron Dragon is just too much of a nuisance!
"Cassaloz, if you have nothing to do, go help Pilgrim set up the defenses. Don't waste time here. The Flame Fist Mercenary Group is already approaching the trade route. If we don't prepare soon, Waterdeep will truly become a dead city."
"Flame Fist Mercenary Group?" Casalos sneered, spitting out a burst of sparks from his nostrils that burned Piergelen's map. Then, staring at the dumbfounded man, he asked, "Heh heh, I remember hearing a few months ago that you were planning to join forces with them to take Dragonspear Fortress. How come they're backstabbing you now, Piergelen?"
The paladin's son's face turned pale, then red, then white: "That assassination attempt on me disrupted our operations. By the time I finished dealing with my business... the kingdom's fate had changed!"
“You let that assassin go after such a big incident… You’re really being polite to Storm Silverhand,” Casalos turned to the old sage again: “Old man, did you hear that? That crazy woman you’re keeping is causing all the trouble. Why can’t you keep an eye on her?”