The room is thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, and pipe smoke—a gamblers’ den tucked away in the seediest part of Waterdeep. The tables are dimly lit by flickering lanterns, their light catching the greedy gleam in players’ eyes as dice clatter and cards shuffle. The air hums with tension, the kind only gold and risk can conjure.

At the far end of the table, a human man holds court with the swagger of someone who believes fortune bends to his will. His smirk is sharp, his fingers deft as they manipulate cards with a subtlety only someone trained—or desperate—can achieve. He throws down a winning hand, laughter booming as he scoops up the pot, the glow of triumph unmistakable.

And then it hits you, like a dagger twisting in your gut. In him you recognize Dilbraxus. In him, you see you. Not someone like you, not a resemblance, but truly you— the face, the hands, that cocksure grin. All once you. A thought you’ve had just days before wells up, unbidden but undeniable. Was this your life, in another time, another body? It’s possible this man is the first of you, the original. The realization is both surreal and suffocating.

You watch yourself—him—leave the table with his ill-gotten gains, oblivious to the storm brewing in his wake. The other patrons begin to murmur, their voices low and venomous. “Cheat,” one growls. Another spits on the floor, the sound of chairs scraping back signaling the gathering fury of the wronged.

They rise as one, a pack hungry for justice—or vengeance. You remain frozen, unable to warn the man you once were, as he slips out the door and into the shadowed streets. They follow, and you follow them, their whispers turning to shouts, fists clenched and blades drawn.

The rest unfolds in painful clarity. You see it as though through a fog, yet every detail burns into your soul. They catch him in an alley, gold spilling from his pockets as he stumbles, his charm and bravado crumbling under their wrath. Blows rain down, knives flash, and the cocky smirk is replaced by bloodied gasps.

He bleeds out on the cobblestones, the chill of the night air his only companion as the mob dissipates. And then comes that creeping darkness, that unseen power you always feel lingering around you. It’s speaking with him, a bargain is being struck. This dying man turns to you then, the you who can only watch in dark fascination and with a gasping breath he reaches out to and utters, “SIX.”

And then you’re back in the forest, the weight of the moment crushing down on you. You can still hear the echoes of laughter, the clink of coins, and the rustling of cards. But now, every sound carries the weight of a man long dead. And now, you are left with more questions than answers. In your hands, the staff glows as another red thread wraps around it.

You have never been to Waterdeep. Perhaps that is now a lie.