Second Council of Waterdeep
Agenda Item 3: Draconic Rifts – Elia’s Message from the Metallic Council
As murmurs die away, Lady Silverhand lifts her hand. Her gaze flicks toward the gallery.
Lady Laeral Silverhand:
“There is another voice among us. You have seen her before—a shadow at court, a whisper among soldiers. But today, she speaks with the full breath of ancient power. Elia of the North. The floor is yours.”
A small, silver-haired woman rises from her seat near the back. She wears flowing grey robes, and her presence is serene, yet ineffably otherworldly. Her voice is soft, almost musical, yet every syllable lands like silver bells in the minds of those present. She steps forward lightly, as though she barely touches the ground.
Elia (Otaaryliakkarnos):
“I am Elia, and I owe you an apology. I have walked among you cloaked in courtesy and quiet. Some saw me at court. Others glimpsed me at the Masquerade. Few knew my name. That was intentional.”
A subtle current seems to ripple across the room. Her small frame radiates poise, as if gravity itself bends politely around her.
“I am also Otaaryliakkarnos. Daughter of wind and memory, of storm and scale. And today, I speak not in whispers, but in the name of the Council of Wyrms.”
A faint smile touches her lips, though her eyes are unreadable.
“The dragons of the north have watched. We have bled beside you, and not all of us have returned. The wyrm who fell at Oyaviggaton was kin once. His loss does not bring us joy, even if his actions made it necessary.”
She gently unrolls a scroll tied in blue ribbon, gilded with sigils of draconic origin.
“The Council of Wyrms has convened. We, the metallic dragons, seek answers and alliance. But we do not speak with city-states or thrones. We speak with hearts. With warriors. With those who choose the fate of this war not from a throne, but from the field.”
She holds the scroll out, her gaze turning to the adventurers.
“We invite emissaries to come and speak with us. To listen, and to be heard.”
She turns slightly toward the council table, eyes flitting to Neverember, then to Rian Nightshade with something resembling amusement.
“You may send champions. Delegates. Or argue amongst yourselves. But I would caution this: dragons are not patient. And the time for posturing is quickly burning away.”
She steps back, bowing ever so slightly.
“Choose whom you trust. We will not wait long.”
Lady Laeral Silverhand (nodding with a breath):
“We will deliberate swiftly. I believe the choice is already clear, but tradition allows each of you to speak.”
The floor opens for the faction delegates to put forth their chosen representatives. Some may propose their own agents. Others may press the adventurers forward. A moment of political theatre ensues. Meanwhile, Elia returns to her seat with that same faint, knowing smile—as though she’s already seen the outcome in a dream.
Summary: The metallic dragons have called for a separate council, and Elia has formally invited mortal representatives to attend. Though subtle, her words and gaze make clear that she believes the adventurers to be the most fitting choice. Nonetheless, she leaves room for the council’s process to unfold—and for any delegates to voice objections or preferences.
As murmurs rise again and the next item on the agenda looms, Elia leans slightly toward Lady Silverhand, her presence now quietly commanding. Though she remains seated, an aura begins to emanate from her—not of threat or force, but of ancient reverence. The very air around her feels stilled, attuned to something older than the halls of Waterdeep. Her silver eyes glow faintly, soft and watchful.
Elia (softly, to the room):
“When your business here concludes, have them ready to depart. The winds wait for no council.”
Though her voice remains gentle, it is no longer merely a request. It is inevitability, spoken with grace. She folds her hands quietly in her lap, serene once more, yet now unmistakably present.