I have always seen Axeholm as a mini Khazad-dûm adventure. Perhaps the game designers did as well, since the abandoned dwarven stronghold is described as “a dark, sullen tomb, full of dust and bad memories.”
And, if you’re going to have a mini Khazad-dûm adventure, you need a Book of Mazarbul, right?
If you want to put some weight behind the lore of Axeholm and its fall into ruin, a diary with seven missing pages would be a great trinket to find its way into the hands of a character.
I’d choose to have a character discover this trinket amongst detritus of Axeholm – rather than something a player chooses at character creation. Whenever the party takes a short rest, encourage the character in possession of the diary to leaf through its brittle pages, some of which break or crumble.
When a character uses a short rest to explore the pages of the diary, the entries listed below are the ones that catch their eye with regard to understanding what happened at Axeholm. I’d encourage the player to have their character read the contents of these entries aloud, in much the same way Gandalf read entries from the Book of Mazarbul to the Fellowship, so everyone gets the lore. But to each their own.
2nd of Eleint, 172 DR
She came cloaked in starlight. Vyldara of Iliyanbruen (ee-lee-YAHN-broo-en), Moon Elf envoy, bearing oaths of cooperation and friendship from the fair folk of the Neverwinter Wood. The king received her with honor. She walks Axeholm’s stone halls now, learning our ways. The forge fires dim when she passes. A chill follows her. I know not why, but even the stones seem to quiet themselves beneath her steps. There is beauty in her, yes – but to my eyes, it is the beauty of a frozen blade.
18th of Eleint, 172 DR
Vyldara’s words are honeyed, but her gaze cold. I’ve seen miners quarrel for no cause, guards speak in secret corners. Dwarves whisper behind closed doors. Old grudges unearthed. This did not begin until she walked among our folk. Brottor and Delg argued over land that was long settled. The stonecutters now speak of ancient wrongs none remembered before. This is no chance. She stirs memory like a ladle in a deep cauldron. What will bubble up next?
3rd of Marpenoth, 172 DR
A wizard. Vyldara confessed it openly – smiling as though it were nothing. Glamour, she called it. A harmless art. But what dwarf ever called magic harmless? Some now praise her. Others turn their backs. I fear she’s twisting hearts. Rurik guards her apartment and will not meet my eye. The sorceress speaks of her “vision” for a united stronghold. Her magic is not seen – but it is felt, like threads strung between hearts. Tugged by unseen hands.
16th of Marpenoth, 172 DR
Vyldara speaks of reform, of the king’s age, of new ways. Dwarves rise with her words -young ones. They gather at night in the lower halls. Grudges fester. Brothers turn cold. She plants poison with her breath. The king’s own sons questioned his rule. Smiths refused orders. A royal decree was mocked in the ale hall. She lit a fire beneath us, and we did not see the sparks fall until they caught. Axeholm turns inward.
28th of Marpenoth, 172 DR
She is cast down. Sedition, the king declared. Her followers scattered. Vyldara raged as they dragged her to the cell. Her eyes glowed like coals in mist. May the stone hold her. She did not weep. She cursed in a tongue no dwarf knew. The stones cracked beneath her voice. I heard them whisper after. Now we post four guards instead of two. Still, none sleep soundly. It is not enough.
11th of Uktar, 172 DR
The king sent word to Iliyanbruen (ee-lee-YAHN-broo-en) a tenday ago. Let them come for her. Let them bear the weight of her treachery. Axeholm will not suffer her beneath our roof a day longer than necessary. No reply yet. Messengers sent with haste. We fear what may come, or what may remain if they wait too long. She eats little, speaks less, but there is a terrible calm in her silence. As if she waits for something we cannot see.
20th of Uktar, 172 DR
She is gone. The guards are dead. Throats slit, eyes wide. No signs of struggle. Her cell door open. No tracks. Just cold air and a whisper in the dark. Axeholm is shaken. Her chains remain, but twisted. The iron blackened. Runes scrawled in ash across the wall – none we can read. The torches will not stay lit. Some say she walked through stone. Others say she never left.
22th of Uktar, 172 DR
We caught her near the Hall of Oaths. She fought with ice and flame. Darrak fell. I struck the final blow, putting an end to her. Her scream froze the blood in my veins. Her body fell cold, but the silence after… unnatural. Her corpse lies in the Hall, yet we cannot move it. Tools shatter. Ropes burn. The king says leave it – entomb it where she fell. But I say burn it, scatter it, salt the stone. No good comes from this stillness.
22nd of Ches, 173 DR
Strange things stir. Tools move. Fires die without cause. I found runes scratched on my door. Something walks at night, light as breath. Her name is not spoken aloud. Orsik swears he saw her reflection in the forge mirror. Barendd dreamed her voice calling from the deep cistern. We lock our doors and sleep with hammers in hand. But it does not help. The halls feel colder each day.
1st of Tarsakh, 173 DR
I saw her. Pale as moonlight, drifting through the barracks. Her mouth opened, but no words came – only the sound of wind through bone. I dropped my torch and fled. She vanished. When I returned, the barracks were empty – but my journal was moved. Opened to a page I had not written yet. A chill seeps into me that no fire can warm.
12th of Tarsakh, 173 DR
The wail began three nights past. A scream that curdles milk and splits the stone. Doors burst. Children cry in their sleep. It is her. Her vengeance is not done. The wail echoes down every corridor. It shakes our bones, makes our teeth rattle. No place is safe. No hour without dread. The young have begun to cry her name in their dreams. We dare not speak it.
17th of Tarsakh, 173 DR
We do not sleep. She comes by shadow, howling down the halls. Armor cannot stop her. Blades pass through mist. Many of our folk have fled. The high vault is sealed, but the howling still comes. Gardain’s beard turned white overnight. The priest struck his own ears deaf. We are not facing a ghost. We are facing her will, and it will not bend or break.
3rd of Mirtul, 173 DR
They made a stand in the war room. Twenty of them. Brave. Only three returned – shaken, bloodied. The dead, their faces frozen in terror. She walks among the dead, and they follow her. The survivors speak no more. One gouged his own eyes. Another walks the halls muttering her name. Her power grows with each soul she takes. The Hall of Kings now echoes with weeping. We are undone.
10th of Mirtul, 173 DR
I am alone. I hear her weeping through the stone. I smell frost and blood. No food, no fire. She is near. I write this that someone might know. Vyldara is death, and Axeholm is hers. I lit the last torch but the flame cowers, like me. My hand shakes. The runes on the wall glow faint blue. Her voice calls, sweet and cold. I am tired. I have barred the door – but I know it will not hold. Farewell.
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