Vision granted by defacing a Harper sign in Waterdeep this happened during Act 3, Chapter 2: Death to the Wyrmspeakers.
Snezze’s Vision: The Claimed and the Claimer
You’re standing on the edge of a battlefield. The ground underfoot is hot, cracked, and slick with ancient blood. Smoke curls from distant pyres. All around you, chaos reigns—goblins, hobgoblins, devils, beasts, clashing in endless war.
And above it all, drums. Your drums.
They beat in time with your heart, every rhythm a chant of your deeds. Your victories. The gift of flight still tingles in your back, a reminder of the divine favour that lifted you beyond your kin.
“You’ve earned this,” the voice behind you growls, all iron and fang. “You’ve marked the world in my name. That Harper scrawl? Defaced. Claimed. Just tonight.”
Maglubiyet’s voice rumbles like distant thunder. The battlefield bends with the weight of his presence.
But the air around you cools.
A pressure builds behind your eyes—not from within the battlefield, but from beyond it.
You feel it. Watching. Measuring. A second presence, quiet but undeniable.
Not in opposition. Not a rival.
Something older.
Inevitable.
Threads—thin as hair and silver like moonlight—dance at the edge of your vision, slipping just out of sight when you try to focus. You don’t know what they are. But you know they’re tied to you.
The battlefield buckles, collapsing in on itself like a story being folded away.
Suddenly, you’re elsewhere.
A corridor, narrow and endless. The walls shimmer with distorted reflections—twisting possibilities of you. One howls with fire. Another kneels in shadow. A third walks calmly, hands bloodied but eyes clear.
Two doors wait at the far end.
One burns.
The other waits in silence.
“Mine,” Maglubiyet snarls. Your holy symbol flashes hot in your palm.
But behind that voice, something wordless passes through you like a breeze through bone. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t ask. It simply… knows.
Then, without warning, the corridor dissolves.
You are in a garden.
Dusky twilight bathes the space in soft golds and muted blues. A marble bench curves beneath a canopy of flowering vines, the scent of lilac and ash thick in the still air. A gentle pool reflects the starlight, though you do not see the sky.
A woman sits alone on the bench.
She is breathtaking. Effortlessly poised. Long lashes over luminous amber eyes. A gown like molten midnight. Her smile is soft, curved just enough to welcome.
Only when you look longer do you see what hides beneath:
The subtle edge of horns, curled and delicate.
A tail, lazily winding around the bench’s base.
The shimmer of leathery wings folded so tight they almost vanish.
She isn’t speaking to you.
She isn’t speaking at all.
The man beside her—seated with his back to you—shifts slightly. His shoulders are rigid. He watches the pond. She watches him.
Then she speaks, her voice like wine poured over secrets:
“You’ve done well. But I need more.”
She brushes something from her sleeve, rises smoothly, and walks away—each step silent, each motion too precise.
She doesn’t look back.
You watch her vanish into the shadows between two trees that weren’t there a moment ago.
The man sighs. His shoulders sag.
He speaks, low and hoarse, barely holding it together:
“I will die before the next council meets.”
“My time’s running out. Serela’s onto me… and if she finds out—”
“We’re both dead.”
He swallows.
“She’ll get us. She always does.”
And then—
The garden unravels.
Threads pull tight around you, snapping out of view like pulled stitches. The scent of lilac curdles to smoke.
You wake.
The holy symbol burns cold against your chest.
And behind your eyes, something lingers.
Not Maglubiyet.
Not yet.
But something else. Watching. Waiting.
Quiet.
Patient.
Inevitable.