The Silver Judgement — A Dream of Bahamut
Vision granted by tricking Alexios within the Temple of Bahamut. Adapted from (Notes/Visions/Alexios/Oathbreaker.md) this happened during Act 3, Chapter 2: Death to the Wyrmspeakers.
Sleep comes quickly after your watch, your failure to capture Snezze’s signet ring eating away at the back of your mind. You fall heavier than usual, like chains draped across your limbs. Shadows pool at the corners of your vision until even the darkness behind your eyes feels watched. Then, a sound—clear and ringing, like a temple bell struck by divine will—echoes through the void.
The mists part.
You stand on nothing, suspended in a sky of silver and starfire. Time forgets how to move. And then, from beyond the horizon of thought, he appears.
Wings that eclipse constellations. Scales that shimmer like forged starlight. A presence that is more truth than shape.
Bahamut.
He does not speak, not at first. His gaze, ancient and endless, falls upon you—not with anger, but with disappointment that tastes colder than wrath. There is no room to hide behind charm, nor coin, nor quick tongue. Here, your illusions dissolve.
“You wear masks, child of the shifting path,” the voice comes—not from his mouth, but from everywhere, spoken in judgement by the air, the stars, and your own racing heart. “But none are worn before me.”
The vision shifts.
Below you now, the Well of Dragons yawns like a scar torn deep into Faerûn’s flesh. The land itself recoils. Above the pit, the Drakkorn rises—twisted, massive, and alive with pulsing, infernal energy. Each note it sounds is a siren’s wail for dragons, a call to the chromatic and cruel. You hear wings, thousands of them, circling the storm above, and feel the weight of five heads turning toward you—Tiamat’s hunger made manifest.
The Cult is close. Too close.
Their chants coil around the Well like snakes. Their belief has become power. Their rituals, prophecy. You see fire, blood, the bones of the earth cracking beneath the return of something that was never meant to rise again.
And all the while, your hands grasp at coin—ill-gotten, soft-spoken, and burning now with shame. It falls through your fingers like sand. The storm consumes it.
“You jest,” Bahamut says, “while the world bleeds.”
You fall. The Well swallows you. Just before you scream, light bursts around you—and Bahamut is there, winged and vast once more, catching you in the light of his gaze.
“You cannot trick the heavens, nor cheat the weight of your soul. You may not kneel—but you must choose.”
Then, a figure stirs within the mists beyond him.
Wings folded in twilight. Eyes heavy with memory. A woman—half-shadow, half-starlight—watching. She says nothing. But somehow, you know she sees you, knows you.
“When your scales begin to shift… seek the one who remembers the sky.”
“She waits on wings of sapphire, where cold wind meets old oaths.”
The light fades.
You wake with the scent of incense and ozone lingering on your skin, breath tight in your chest, and your hands clenched around nothing—but the weight of something heavy still pressing down on your soul.