While we waited for Captain Flynn to return to Waterdeep, I found time once more to visit Marisol and to spend some time with Disad, my son.
In the evening, Marisol and I would speak of things; she of her craft, the gossip of the district. I spoke of the battles I had fought, of death, rebirth, and Ravens.
I spoke too, of new companions, an air-genasi named Flit, who had joined our band after we’d slain a dragon in Goldshire.
I spoke of the war with the Klingons, of fighting onboard ships with demons, of spelljammers and elven blood-feuds. How I’d found a chart leading to the sphere where my mother had been marooned, and how quickly I had also learned that the man she’d bourne children to had been carrying precious cargo away from Beregond, not seeking treasures far afield.
I spoke of perhaps visiting the Nine at some point, a side-quest to fully awaken the blade I bore.
I spoke as well of visiting one of the Cities of the Ancients, where strange, grey-skinned humanoids dwelt without magic. How they herded strange abominations whose cries could chill the blood, of luminous platters of glass, and strange magic-less wands that killed at a distance.
The hour was late, and Dishad needed settling, so we slept.