Snapping Branch
Vision granted by drinking a pink potion. Adapted from (Notes/Visions/Failure/TiamatRising.md) this happened during Act 3, Chapter 1: Sea of moving Ice.
The Fall of the World: A Vision of Tiamat’s Victory
The skies bleed fire.
Across the Sword Coast, the heavens split open as the Chromatic Dragon ascends, her five heads roaring in triumph. Tiamat, Queen of Chaos, has broken the chains of her imprisonment and now coils around the shattered ruins of Waterdeep, her colossal form blotting out the sun. Where once stood proud towers of mortal ambition, only crumbling stone and rivers of molten rock remain. The air itself is thick with the scent of ash and blood, and the screams of the dying carry on the winds like a mournful dirge.
The adventurers lie broken at her feet.
One by one, the champions who dared to defy her have fallen. The Dragon Queen’s wrath is absolute. The Gold-scaled Dragonborn Paladin, their shining armour tarnished with soot and ichor, kneels in a ruined street, their greatsword buried deep in the cracked stone. Their once-radiant scales are now dulled, rent by the savage bites and claws of Tiamat’s minions. They raise their weapon in defiance one last time, whispering a prayer to a silent god—before a colossal claw descends, crushing them into the earth, their divine light extinguished forever.
The Changeling Rogue, so used to deception, can no longer hold the illusion. As they collapse, lifeblood pooling beneath them, their human guise flickers and fades, revealing pale, featureless skin marred by deep wounds. Their hands shake as they reach for a blade no longer within their grasp, their form shifting uncontrollably in death, cycling through stolen faces before settling into their true one—blank, vulnerable, and still.
The Shifter Rogue, who so rarely let the beast within emerge, is forced into their primal form by death itself. As they fall, their body convulses, claws elongating, fur sprouting in jagged patches as the Winter of the Feywild claims them. A sudden burst of fey energy erupts from their corpse—a shockwave of ice and eerie blue light—momentarily freezing even the flames licking at the ruined city. A ghostly stag, wreathed in frost, emerges from their fading spirit before vanishing into the void, their connection to the Fey severed.
The Goblin Cleric with great black wings, the bearer of divine light, staggers as their wings are torn and scorched, one of them hanging limp at their side. They try to rise, their small form trembling, their holy symbol clutched tightly. But no miracle comes. No divine force halts the oncoming doom. As they utter a desperate plea to their god, the breath leaves them in a final, choked gasp, their wings folding around their broken body like a fallen angel.
One by one, they are unmade.
The Tabaxi Bard, the last to stand, stumbles backward, their lute shattered, their voice hoarse from cries of defiance and loss. Their once-graceful tail flicks weakly as they take in the devastation before them—their friends, their family, gone. They try to sing, to weave some final spell, but the words falter in their throat. Tiamat’s five heads loom above them, fangs dripping with venom, flame, ice, acid, and thunder.
The bard breathes in sharply, knowing the end has come.
A last, ragged note escapes their lips—half a song, half a prayer.
And then darkness.
A Dark Audience in the Shadowfell
Not the thick smoke of the burning world, but something deeper, colder—an emptiness untouched by time. The Raven Queen’s realm. A vast, endless hall of onyx and shadow stretches beyond sight, its edges dissolving into swirling mist. Statues of forgotten souls stand in silent repose, their eyes hollowed, their faces locked in sorrow. A black storm churns in the void above, casting spectral light across the cold stone floor.
You are kneeling, breathless, your wounds absent but the pain still fresh in your bones.
Before you stands a woman of death and sorrow, her face hidden behind a smooth, emotionless porcelain mask. Her black-feathered cloak ripples in unseen winds, and her gaze, empty and infinite, bores into you with something deeper than sight.
“I have shown you the truth,” she whispers, her voice like rustling pages, like memories slipping from the mind. “This is what awaits if you fail. If you falter. If you break beneath the weight of the Dragon Queen’s fury.”
She steps forward, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the void.
Behind you, something shimmers in the darkness. As you turn, a vast tapestry of golden threads stretches into eternity, intertwining and branching, all leading to a singular point—you, kneeling before the Raven Queen. The strands hum softly, pulsing with memory, each one a choice made, a path taken.
As you turn back toward the Raven Queen, her gloved fingers brush lightly against a single golden thread. It vibrates at her touch, and as she whispers, “Are you prepared?”, the thread shatters—fracturing into infinite paths, an explosion of radiant light that burns against the darkness, casting countless possibilities in all directions.
And then—
Cold.
You gasp, breath hitching as you feel hard stone beneath your back. The darkness is gone, replaced by the icy chill of a cavern. Shadows flicker against the walls as firelight dances. A sharp slap lands against your cheek, jolting you fully into awareness.
Nyx crouches over you, worry and irritation mixed in her eyes. “Wake up, you frost-bitten fool,” she hisses.
The taste of winter lingers on your tongue. The weight of the vision presses against your mind. The echoes of the Raven Queen’s voice remain.
“What will you do to stop this?”