Vision granted by giving alms to a beggar outside of the Temple in Waterdeep this happened during Act 3, Chapter 2: Death to the Wyrmspeakers.
It is raining again. Not like before—this is not the cleansing drizzle that fell over Waterdeep this morning. This rain is suspended in time, hanging in the air like breath held before a scream. You are back outside the Temple of Bahamut, though you never returned. Not truly.
The beggar is still there.
He was hunched on these very steps just hours ago, his one eye foggy, the other long gone beneath a patch. His beard is still unkempt, his hands still calloused and cracked. But now, in the stillness of the dream, he is waiting for you.
He lifts his head.
“That coin bought more than bread,” he says, voice like gravel rolled in old wine. “You opened a door. And now, you have to walk through it.”
He grins—mirthless, knowing.
“You dream of dragons now. Of fire and crowns.”
He leans forward, tapping the amulet at your chest. “But you were chosen before that.”
The temple doors creak.
You turn.
She steps from the archway.
Acolyte Mirren Velros.
Her robes are damp from the rain you both stood in this morning. Her fingers are still stained with ink. The echo of your earlier conversation clings to the air—her calm voice, her reverence for Bahamut and Ioun, her quiet strength as she passed you the necklace and vanished before you could ask why.
Now she walks toward you again, expression unreadable.
“You asked no questions,” she says. “But you listened. That is the beginning of wisdom.”
She raises her ink-streaked hand and brushes your shoulder.
“Now listen again.”
The rain halts.
The square vanishes.
The world falls away.
You soar above the Serpent Hills, drawn forward by a force not your own. Wind lashes your face as you descend into a vision of cracked earth and bone-coloured stone.
A lone figure stumbles across the dust.
Varram.
Once proud, now broken by secrets and shame. His cloak whips in the wind. His boots drag. He does not seek glory. He seeks escape. Redemption. Perhaps punishment.
He clutches something close. Bound in cloth. Sacred or stolen—you cannot tell. You only feel the weight of it.
He disappears into a sunken temple, swallowed by silence.
And then the silence screams.
You fall.
And land, sword in hand, at the feet of the Platinum Dragon.
Bahamut, radiant and terrible in splendour, towers above you. His wings blot out the stars. His gaze cuts through your armour to the marrow of your soul.
“Alexios,” he says, and the name becomes a vow. “You show mercy when it is inconvenient. You choose justice when rage is easier.”
He bends his great head low, breath warm with celestial fire.
“The cult gathers. The storm nears. Tiamat’s shadow lengthens. But you must not lose yourself to fury. You must be the hand that steadies—not the blade that thirsts.”
His eyes dim, filled with gravity.
“The Council will seek vengeance. You must speak for redemption. Some who wear the Dragon Queen’s mark may yet turn back to the light.”
In the distance, you see five figures—metallic dragons—descending toward a mountain wreathed in clouds. Their voices carry like thunder, though you cannot hear the words.
“Soon,” Bahamut warns, “the metallic kind shall gather. They will decide the fate of your world. And they will look to you.”
His form begins to dissolve into radiant ash. But his voice remains.
“Be ready, Paladin. The road ahead demands sacrifice—not just of flesh, but of pride.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“When the world is weighed, your voice may be the one that tips the scale.”
You awaken.
The rain from earlier still lingers in the streets outside. The scent of parchment and polished metal clings to your cloak. The necklace Mirren gave you is warm again—as if someone just touched it.
And though it is night, you can feel it in your bones:
The storm has already begun.