Fifth Entry

We found Cragmaw Castle in a state best described as “dignified ruin.” Though many of its walls leaned at angles that made me uncomfortable, it was clearly still inhabited—smoke in the air, noise from within, and a faint stench that told me that chores were the least of their worries. We stayed hidden behind the tree line as Ragar took Smeak and another goblin—Harold, I believe—forward to scope it out.

I watched with silent horror as Harold misunderstood what I can only assume was a simple scouting mission and instead marched straight into the castle, loudly announcing our arrival to someone inside. Behind me came the unmistakable smack of Syldithas’ clawed palm meeting his forehead—the first of many to come.

Apparently, Harold asked permission for all of us to enter. And somehow it was granted. General field notes state it best: Goblins remain a frustrating, unsolvable riddle.

We took the unexpected invitation as a strategic opportunity. Our goblin recruits—still jittery with purpose—were dismissed to find the sleeping quarters while the rest of us followed a goblin escort into the heart of the stronghold.

King Grol was waiting for us.

A bugbear of considerable girth and a rather underwhelming command of diplomacy, he welcomed us with a tone that sounded like he’d once heard a bard describe “manners” and decided to give them a go. His attempts were… earnest. I’ll give him that. Gruff language, stilted phrases, and the occasional almost-smile. I might’ve found it charming, had the stakes not been so high.

I noticed Ragar’s ears twitching, eyes flicking toward the halls, clearly searching for a chance to break away. So I assisted her. A little mutter and a flicker—a distant noise courtesy of Prestidigitation—turned heads just long enough for her to slip away unnoticed. I felt a bit proud in this unspoken moment. I wondered if I would’ve had the same insight to help if I hadn’t been meticulously studying the team’s tells and expressions all this time.

That’s when I noticed something else: Raph’æl was scanning the room with confusion. I tried to see where he was looking, but his anxious gaze was hard to follow. Then it struck me. Finnegan. Where was he? I didn’t recall having seen him since our arrival.

We were ushered to a large, crude table and told we were to dine with the King. A gesture of civility or perhaps… intimidation? I still couldn’t tell.

With Finnegan mysteriously absent and the rest of us doing our best to seem unthreatened by the bugbear’s crude hospitality, it was Raph’æl who finally spoke. Ever the diplomat—at least when no one more charismatic was present—he straightened his back and offered Grol a nod that was half respectful, half wary.

“We’ve reason to believe,” Raph’æl began, voice steady but cautious, “that someone we’re seeking—Gundren Rockseeker, a dwarf of some importance—was brought here under duress. We’re not here for blood. We’re here for him.”

Grol tilted his head, expression unreadable beneath the shag of matted fur and scar tissue. He scratched at his jaw with claws that could probably gut an ox.

“I was holdin’ a dwarf,” he grunted, each word chewed like bad meat. “Not for me, though. For someone bigger. Meaner. Told me to keep the stone one safe. Paid well.”

He offered no name, and I didn’t expect one. Bugbears love their chains of command just as long as they’re on the lower, easier-to-blame end of it. But my stomach twisted at the term “safe.” Safe, in goblin-speak, was rarely a kindness.

The meat of questionable source arrived—blackened outside, raw inside. Grol, with a gleam of pride, insisted we eat. Raph’æl and Syldithas looked visibly pained by the idea. Super, not so much. Too busy picking his teeth(?) of whatever residual beetles he had left.

As some of us reached for the food, Grol suddenly slapped down his palm, jostling every utensil at the table, and squinted. “Where is the furry one?” he asked.

“She’s using the restroom,” I replied too quickly. Once again, I twitched at the phantom pain that came with speaking out of turn. Was that even right to say? Are there even restrooms in the surface world? All I had seen are outhouses as of late…

Grol grunted and waved a female guard off to fetch her, announcing that proper etiquette dictated no one should eat until everyone is seated. Raph’æl in particular looked positively blessed by that news, immediately setting down his fork along with the rest of us.

Additional words were exchanged, but I’ll admit—I was no longer listening. My focus had shifted entirely to the plate in front of me. All this time, I had been eating my meals in my tent, away from prying eyes, so the prospect of having to ingest anything in front of others had me absolutely paralyzed. I stared at the oozing mystery meal, wishing upon every visible star that it might grow legs and crawl off the table on its own accord.

Suddenly, I heard familiar voices chiming in from behind us. Ragar had returned and draped over her shoulders like a very talkative cloak was Finnegan, looking thoroughly satisfied and utterly sloshed. I knew that look. I’ve worn it. Far too many times I’d been force-fed sacred wine or Chauntean mead under the guise of “ritual necessity.” So the question wasn’t what happened, but why now, Finnegan?

The answer came swiftly. Apparently, he’d wandered into the castle on his own well before the rest of us and—gods help us—begun trying to barter for Gundren Rockseeker’s release. Whether he charmed or annoyed his way into an audience, I still don’t know. What I do know is that when the rest of us tried to jump in and offer additions to sweeten the deal, King Grol raised a hand and spoke over us.

“It is too late,” he growled, with the smug self-satisfaction of someone who enjoys letting others know they’ve been outplayed. “I already took payment. From the Spider Alliance.”

I froze.

Spider Alliance?

I’d never heard of such an organization, but the very name sent a chill through me. My first thought was Drow. Lolth. The bane of The Messengers and the inspiration behind my violent rearing. Already I was worried about the possibility of being forced to unmask at the table, now this comes about, making it nigh impossible to breathe silently.

It’s alright, Fanesca, I reminded myself. Not everything with ‘spider’ in the name has to lead back to Her. But my heart thudded regardless.

We were left with a temporary understanding: we had two days to return with a better offer or fulfill a favor King Grol proposed—help him seize control of the nearby town. In exchange, we’d get Gundren.

Once outside, huddled in the safety of the tree line, we debated. Loudly. Poorly.

In the end, our consensus was born of grim logic: we could not take on a fortified castle full of goblinoids, not with a half-drunk wizard and a dozen more goblins sleeping within, thanks to us. There would be no siege. No bold declarations.

We’d have to do this the hard way—quietly, precisely. We would sneak into Cragmaw Castle. And we would take Gundren back. Syldithas suggested we move close to the midnight hour.

———

“Stay close,” Ragar whispered to Raph’æl and me as we slipped through a crumbled breach in Cragmaw Castle’s wall. The moonlight made our steps easier, but I still felt like each footfall risked shaking the castle’s sleeping bones awake.

Inside, a single goblin lay dozing in the corner, breath rattling in its throat. I suppose we could’ve tried to sneak around, but that wasn’t the call we made. In eerie silence, the three of us struck in unison—clean, fast, efficient.

Necessary.

But as I watched the life drain from that goblin’s eyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d tipped something. Not just alertness. Something… deeper. Like fate itself had shifted a fraction, like we’d nudged a pendulum off its arc.

We passed through a narrow corridor, damp with mildew and rot, and crept into the next room. There, we found three more goblins—kneeling. Praying. Their posture was reverent, their whispers hushed and rhythmic. I couldn’t tell who—or what—they were offering their faith to. It wasn’t one of the old gods I’d been forced to study. Not radiance. Not law. Something darker. Wilder.

I glanced at Raph’æl. He met my false eyes with a frown and a slow shake of the head. We didn’t need words to understand one another in that moment. Whatever these goblins were invoking, it wasn’t benevolent.

Then came the last room.

Ragar entered first—and stopped dead. I followed her gaze upward, and what I saw twisted my stomach into something cold and hollow. Suspended among the rafters was a thing I had no name for. Serpentine in body, with a maw that opened not like a mouth but like a star: flaring, tendriled lobes and, at its center, a hooked beak. I wanted to believe I was imagining it, but I wasn’t.

All three of us silently agreed—we had to leave. We began to retreat, slow and careful.

Then a musical wail rang out.

I snapped toward the sound just in time to see movement from the room behind us. The praying goblins had risen. The star-mouthed beast lunged.

And then—magic.

Raph’æl’s hands were on my shoulders, his lips moving in Elvish as he cast Sanctuary. My body shimmered with the warding light of the spell just as he darted forward, scimitar flashing in the torchlight to intercept a charging goblin. Ragar, almost in perfect synchronicity, dove towards another.

We fought. Fast, hard, and desperate. Goblins scattered under their blades. My spells flashed as I weaved behind the others, searching for moments of opportunity. But the air had grown heavy, wrong.

That was when I heard it.

The musical wail—familiar, unmistakable—broke through the tension. My heart sank.

The hurdy-gurdy.

Before I could even curse Finnegan’s name, a surge of wind crashed through the corridor, slamming us off our feet. I hit the ground hard—head ringing, lungs empty. I thought for a moment I’d blacked out, or worse. But then—

I saw them.

Raph’æl. And Raph’æl. And another Raph’æl—blurs of motion, identical, scattering like shadows as they engaged goblins, a traitorous Finnegan and that monstrous creature. A fascinating ability I had yet to see him perform until this moment. Across the chamber, Ragar was locked in battle. Super had arrived, flipping and bounding like the tiny engine of destruction he is.

And me?

I was being dragged.

Raph’æl’s hand gripped my wrist, pulling me into an adjacent room, away from the beast, away from the storm. I barely had time to collect myself before I realized: only one of him stood beside me now. The others remained behind, buying us seconds.

But we weren’t alone.

With a snarl and a crash of splintered wood that knocked Raph’æl right off his feet, King Grol stormed through the door before us. Morningstar in hand. Teeth bared.

We had escaped one horror and stepped into another.

From the rafters to the throne—this place had swallowed us whole.

Super moved first. Like a bolt of lightning made flesh, he was on King Grol in a heartbeat—bounding off stones, walls, even the banqueting table as he danced around the bugbear’s vicious Morningstar. Raph’æl’s illusionary doubles followed suit, scattering like afterimages, their mimicry fracturing the battlefield’s focus.

I took a step back—then another. The noise blurred, the movement of bodies and weapons blending like pigments on an overwet page. My head spun. There was too much blood. Too much uncertainty. Too many ways this could go wrong.

And yet—I had power.

Not prophecy. Not destiny. But something. My hands, my magic, my will… they could mend, protect, stall.

The real Raph’æl peeled himself off the stone wall where he’d been slammed and began raising his crossbow. His face was bloodied, one eye nearly swelling shut. My hand moved without thinking, brushing the wound with a whisper of divine warmth. Cure Wounds surged from my palm and into his skin. It hurt—I don’t mean the spell itself, but the burn it always leaves behind in me, like I’m leaking something sacred I was never meant to hold.

“Thank you,” he breathed between bolts. There was something in his voice. Earnest. Gentle. Grateful.

And for a moment… I felt useful.

Then Grol roared: “Ripper!! Dinnertime! Kill them all!”

The woods behind us split with thunderous footfalls. Through the collapsed wall, a massive bear thundered toward me. It wasn’t wild—not feral, not free. This was a beast bred for war.

I panicked. My fingers sparked out in desperation. Prestidigitation. Just a burst of light—blinding, sharp.

The bear flinched.

That one heartbeat was all I needed.

I ran—through shattered stone and ruined doorways—into the next room just in time to see Super struck down mid-leap, a blur of muck and blood. Raph’æl battled Grol directly now, their clash uneven and painful to watch. And between them stepped Syldithas.

No. Jack.

He stood defiant. Brave. Foolish. And then—

Crack.

Grol’s Morningstar landed with such sickening force I felt it in my chest. Jack flew backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground. His body crumpled, lifeless.

Grol’s voice echoed, cruel and commanding:

“Weapons down or the Dragonborn dies!”

Time slowed.

Super staggered, dazed and bloody.

Raph’æl held his ground, eyes flicking—searching for salvation.

Finnegan—or whatever thing wearing his face—stood silent at the edge of the room.

Ragar was gone from my sight.

And I…

…I had nothing left but fear.

I dropped my sickle. My dagger. Let them fall. Let the sound of steel on stone say what we all couldn’t.

Slowly, one by one, the others followed.

Grol stared us down, rage rising in his throat like bile. “Civilization is a lie,” he spat. “I welcomed you. And still you butchered them.”

I lowered my gaze. I won’t pretend his words didn’t sting. In fact, they burned with nearly the same ferocity as my power.

Raph’æl, stepped forward, his voice soft with supplication:

“May I heal him? You still have your leverage—your hostage—but let him live.”

Grol glared.

And then, to my surprise… he nodded.

Syldithas was stabilized. Barely. And with nothing left to prove, nothing left to gain, Grol dismissed us.

“Get out.”

So we did.

We carried Jack—limp, cold, but breathing—into the tree line. The castle loomed behind us, its shadow weighing on us heavier than stone. The “false ally” stood by the king, seemingly having never been with us at all tonight.

Then we heard the horn.

Smeak, bless him, pale and shivering, turned to us: “Aah, that’s a summon. Bunches of more goblins. They’ll come. You’ve got an hour.”

We didn’t speak much after that. We just moved. Hurried. Cart loaded. Wheels turning.

Back to Phandalin.

Back to safety.

Back to lick our wounds—and wonder how much of ourselves we left behind in that ruin.