📜 Entry: “Beneath the Banners”

Location: Onadbyr, Mordenkain’s Tower
Recorded: Evening before the opening of the King’s Games

Onadbyr is awash in celebration. Streamers coil across lamp-posts, the scent of roasted almonds battles pipe smoke in the streets, and the people laugh as if nothing in the world has ever bled beneath a millstone.

It is the eve of the King’s Games—a citywide spectacle of strength, song, and staged valor. A carnival of the blade. And while I do not begrudge the people their respite, I find the timing... discordant. The streets bustle with anticipation for contests and crowns while I still hear the gurgled gasps of sacrificed nobility echoing in ritual verse beneath the Old Grinder.

While the others made light of the day—browsing prize lists, bartering gear, and speculating on the "Greasy Pole" (gods help us)—I returned to the College of Minstrels. I needed answers. The ritual symbols copied from the windmill could no longer rest quietly in my satchel. They itched. They hummed. I had to know what we stopped—and what we failed to see.

Slick accompanied me—an unexpected but welcome companion in the pursuit of insight. His instincts are sharper than he admits. With his help (and a few choice truths pressed into persuasive argument), we gained access to the restricted stacks. There, with the dust of disuse curling in the margins, we found what I feared: infernal sigils. Summoning marks. The circle we disrupted was no generic invocation. It bore the precision of intent—each sacrifice a transaction. The first called something winged. The second... well, I met the second. He nearly cut me down before vanishing into shadow and flame.

The ritual was mid-cadence when we arrived. The Countess and her ilk may have failed in their objective—but what was the end? Power? Dominion? Or something more insidious?

Balthazar Zephyrwind—curator of the College’s arcane archives—remained skeptical of our tale. Who wouldn’t be? "Devils in a windmill" has the ring of a drunk bard’s parable. But truth welcomes scrutiny. I presented our findings plainly. Earnestly. Perhaps too passionately. In the end, he listened. And more importantly, he directed us to inform the Red Cloaks.

I confess, the idea had not occurred to me. Not because I doubted the gravity of what we’d seen—but because, in my focus, I had come to view the matter as a riddle to be solved, not a crime to be reported. I suppose I forgot that I am not the only keeper of safety in this city.

We found the Red Cloaks stationed near the East Ward. After some initial disbelief (and the usual bureaucratic shell of disinterest), a name broke through: Nathael Wester. Head of the Red Cloaks. A serious man. Not unkind, but burdened. He recognized Slick, which eased our path. Our story did not amuse him. It alarmed him.

Wester ordered increased patrols, despite the upcoming Games already pulling guards thin. He asked questions. Took notes. Sent runners. In that moment, I was reminded that wisdom takes many forms—and that perhaps, just perhaps, duty and clarity can share a uniform.

As night falls, I write from our tower base. The city below twinkles with anticipation. Song drifts through the window from somewhere two streets down. The King himself is said to compete again this year—an unbeaten champion. His presence at the Tournament of Champions all but guaranteed.

Yet I find myself wondering if those who summoned fiends from Hell might see the Games as something more than distraction. A stage, perhaps. Or a sacrifice writ large.

I will sleep tonight. But lightly. I have one more entry in the margins of my notes to copy, and a final sketch of the summoning circle to refine. For all their fanfare, the Games are fleeting. But the forces we encountered beneath the Grinder... those echo still.

May clarity walk with me.

— A.J.