A gathering storm threatens as the eight find their way to the City of the Dead at sunset. The sky churns gray and purple above the ancient headstones, and the air carries the smell of rain and earth. Here they find the officiant—a weathered human cleric of Helm dressed in dark red robes trimmed with silver—standing before a closed coffin. On his left, the attorney, Malister Blackmoon, stands solemn and still.
The cleric raises his arm. His voice carries over the graves to their ears:
“We gather as the sun sets, as is fitting. I am Brother Starmer, servant of Helm, Lord of Protection. I stand before you to honor one Dalton Wyrm—investigator, adventurer, and friend.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, chasing around the flashing sky.
“Some of you knew him well. Others only briefly. Know that Dalton died as he lived: pursuing truth. In his final days, he carried a great burden. He saw danger, yet his warnings fell on deaf ears. And so he made a plan. Each of you is part of that plan.”
Brother Starmer looks meaningfully at the group.
“Know that Dalton Wyrm was murdered. Someone killed him to silence him. Someone wants his investigation to be buried with him.”
A pause. The wind picks up, stirring the Brother’s robes.
“Dalton believed that you eight could work together despite your differences. He believed you could pursue what he discovered. He believed you could stop what he feared—and was silenced for. He believed you could succeed where he could not.”
As Brother Starmer places both hands on the coffin, thunder rumbles again, ominously closer. The storm presses in.
“Helm, God of Protection, we commend to you the soul of Dalton Wyrm. May he find peace knowing his work continues in the hands of those he trusted. And may his death be avenged by the completion of his mission, carried out by these eight faithful allies.”
The coffin begins its descent—magically, silently—as the last pale light drains from the sky. Nearby, the mound of loose soil shifts and flows of its own accord, filling the grave with an eerie, unhurried patience.
Brother Starmer brushes off his robes and regards the group one final time. “Stand together. Trust one another. Finish what Dalton Wyrm started. This is how you honor the dead—by fighting for the living.”
The cleric turns and disappears into the gathering darkness.
Malister Blackmoon steps forward, his expression composed. The evening has gone fully dark now, and the first drops of rain begin to fall.
“Dalton Wyrm left you each an additional sum of five gold pieces, with instructions to gather at the Yawning Portal this evening to celebrate his memory and to make plans—that is, if you’re interested in earning the rest of your inheritance.”
He draws out an ornate iron key, its head shaped like a raven in flight. Even in the dim light, the metalwork catches the occasional flash of lightning.
“This opens a private mausoleum here in the City of the Dead—vault 237, in the southern section. It was this location that Mr. Wyrm identified as important to the impending crisis. You may wish to investigate at the docks first. Or speak to the families of some of the missing victims.”
A beat.
“What you do is your concern, though I would note that the secondary seals and wards on the key will remain active for only another three days. After that…” He shrugs, elegantly. “I suggest you don’t delay, if you’re curious about earning the full sum of your inheritance.”
Malister hands the key and a heavy purse to Dante, then regards the group with a faint, unreadable expression.
“I can be found at my offices in the Castle Ward should you have questions. Good evening… and may you fare better than Dalton did in his final investigation.”
He bows and departs into the rain.
With that, the group stands alone among the graves, with more questions than answers. These weigh on them heavily. They spend several minutes in hushed discussion, voices low against the coming of the storm.
The snap of a twig from somewhere in the darkness draws their attention.
Four figures step from behind a mausoleum. In the flashes of lightning, the blades they carry glitter, long and sharp.
The tallest grins at them—and in an ugly, sneering voice— calls out: “If you give us your money and your weapons, we may let you keep your lives!”
Wilrick recognizes him. It’s the thug he followed the previous evening.
