The Vault Beneath Neverwinter
Rain fell in sheets as the investigator climbed the steps to the Neverwinter Museum. There had been a break in the night before, but the number of city officials and museum staff at the scene was far greater than Lorren had expected. She removed her hood as she entered and drew her notebook from a hidden pocket in her left sleeve.
“Lorren Taran,” a familiar voice called from the stairs to her right. She looked up to see an old high-elf with small spectacles and a pristine white beard descending the steps. Five tall, nimble half-elves shuffled behind him, scribbling in their own notebooks and barely looking at her as they followed. “The famous detective of Neverwinter at my disposal. How honored I am to have you here to assist me in this matter.”
Lorren bowed with formal courtesy, though her veins burned with a quiet contempt as she did so. A human bowing to a high-elf was one of the most degrading gestures she could imagine, yet refusing to bow, especially to a male high-elf, would have been taken as an insult.
“Lord Worenstall. I am happy to help.”
The high-elf offered a thin smile. “Follow me, please.”
The party moved toward the stairs that led down. The soft patter of elven slippers was almost soundless as they descended in uncanny unison. Inside the lower chamber, Lorren took in the scene: two piles of black sludge, a scatter of arrows across the floor, and blood spattered on several surfaces. At the far end of the room the outline of a mirror was visible. The glass itself was gone; in its place yawned an empty void that led to a secret room beyond.
“This is where the theft occurred,” Worenstall said, running long fingers along a stone pillar. He nodded toward the pools of goo. “Our orcish guards were outmatched. My guess is this was a professional heist. Trained operatives, with planning and patience. No one knew the contents of this chamber. Visitors could come to the lower levels, but no one had ever discovered the secret vault behind the magic mirror.”
“And where is the mirror now?” Lorren asked as she approached the opening.
“Removed until further notice,” Worenstall replied. “I hauled it out myself when I feared the artifact inside had been the target. Unfortunately, that fear proved justified.”
Lorren ran her fingers along the cold edge where the mirror had been. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and reached for the weave. A faint magical vibration thrummed from the doorway, but the stronger presence came from deeper inside the vault.
“Has anyone entered the vault?” she asked.
Worenstall glanced at her. “Only me. I do not permit others to enter before an investigation.” His voice stiffened.
Before he could object further, Lorren stepped through the threshold.
A collective intake of breath escaped the curator and his scribes. “Inspector, I do not permit—”
“I am not asking your permission, sir,” she called, letting the weave guide her. The magical focus brightened as she moved toward the back wall.
She opened her eyes and studied the black stone, which glistened in the dim light. “Ignese,” she murmured. A small spark of flame leapt from her palm and licked the wall.
The stone caught and a line of letters glowed: Exit, just as you entered.
“Is this a riddle?” Lorren asked, looking back toward the entrance.
“It is a riddle, but the failsafe is more than words,” Worenstall answered. “If a thief attempted to escape this room, the guards would activate and apprehend them.”
“There was more than one then,” Lorren observed.
Worenstall hesitated. “Well, yes—”
“You already knew that.” She did not bother hiding the accusation.
“Clearly you arrived at the conclusion without my telling you. Well done for stating the obvious,” he snapped.
Lorren rolled her eyes and reached further into the weave. The pull this time was different, weaker but insistent, drawing her gaze to the wall on her right. She pressed harder, stretching her concentration. After a few steady moments the burning lines of a teleportation circle began to form. Behind her eyelids a faint glow resolved into glyphs and angular markings arranged in a ring, all converging on a central focal point. She did not know the language, but the curvature and sharp angles suggested infernal origins, based on her previous research.
“There was one left behind,” she announced.
“Impossible,” Worenstall protested and stepped into the vault. He scanned the room with narrowed eyes. “I see nothing that indicates someone was trapped.”
“Here.” Lorren pointed at the wall where the portal had been cunningly disguised. “Someone used a teleportation circle, likely infernal, to escape.”
The scribes outside the vault whispered among themselves; the idea of a trapped occupant had not been considered.
“What was in this vault?” Lorren asked, turning to face the curator.
Worenstall’s posture stiffened and the scribes’ murmurs fell silent. He avoided her eyes. “I am not at liberty to say.”
Lorren glanced at the scribes, then squared her shoulders and fixed Worenstall with a steady look. “If you want me to do this effectively, I need all the details. Now.”
Worenstall barked an order. “Leave us.” His followers scattered and retreated up the stairs, leaving curator and detective alone in the vault.
“Go on,” Lorren said, folding her arms.
Worenstall sighed. “It was a puzzle box.”
Lorren raised an eyebrow. “A puzzle box?”
“Not merely a puzzle box.” He snapped the correction like a wound. “Inside the box is the true danger. The artifact within is something no one should possess. It preys on the weak-minded and exerts influence over its holder. I am terrified of the harm it could do in the wrong hands.”
“What is it? Where did it come from?”
“What it is, I do not know. Where it came from is clearer. It is an ancient Drow artifact. Legend says it contains the power of an ancient being, bound and sealed within. It was recovered nearly five years ago when we excavated a Drow monastery in the Underdark. Only a handful of people know of its existence. How someone else discovered it is beyond me.”
“And why was it here? Were you keeping it in your private collection?”
“Private collection? Heaven forbid. It was in transition. Only here for a few days before being transported to Menzoberranzan, the Drow capital, seven days from today. We were to meet Drow diplomats in a neutral location for the exchange. The item would travel under cover, disguised as part of a trading party heading toward the Icespire Peaks. There is said to be an entrance to the Underdark in those mountains near the crossroads that leads to Drow territory. A village—Phandalin, I believe—was to be the supply stop before the peaks. Beyond that, I do not know more.”
Lorren nodded once, then left the chamber without another word.
“Where are you going?” Worenstall called.
“To do my job, Lord Worenstall.” She was already striding away.
Outside, Lorren slipped into a nearby alley and checked for followers before melting into shadow beyond the streetlamps. With a quick motion she opened a dimension door in the side of a building and stepped through.
Warmth met her damp skin. She removed her cloak and passed through a short hallway into a lit room. A figure in a black cloak stood with their back to the door.
Lorren dropped to one knee. “Phandalin is where the artifact will be,” she said.
The figure did not turn. “You are certain?”
“The high-elf was not lying. He does not know more than he said. I could sense his truthfulness.”
“Very well. Then Phandalin will be where we find the others. The box will draw them. Their desires will make them careless, and that is when we will act. I have heard rumors of strange occurrences in Phandalin. Speak in my tongue as needed. Send the acolytes ahead to scout the village before we arrive. Be discreet. We must not draw attention to the town or to ourselves. Avoid unnecessary deaths if at all possible.”
“It will be done, Exalted Mother.”