The Smithy in Beregost seemed to be doing extremely well, with perhaps a quarter of the demand for nails and other metalwork coming through it. It might have been more but the head smith was slain during the bandit raid and only three forge-hands survived. It seemed natural that Imoen would plant at least three of our new collective there and another four within the two remaining taverns. With that, we moved on.

The Friendly Arm Inn was not at all what I expected. Its burgeoning walls stood in a state of disrepair, its great tower keep badly in need of fresh mortar, and its grounds were a veritable fairground of tents and shacks. The shanty town that had sprung up was mostly refugees and no doubt, a few bandits, unable to afford the inn's rates, but instead paying their way in labour. It was pitiful and the stench was worse than Beregost.

It, too, provided a breeding ground for our vision. The inn itself was not as full as I would have suspected, but those that filled its halls ranged from uppity merchants to snotty nobles, most of whom were lacking in coin as well as manners. The Iron Crisis had bankrupted many. And so we began again. We remained for almost a month before heading onto the Gate. It was the same as before. Our collection of coin grew but the need to feed our people saw it dwindle. With the messaging spells, Imoen coordinated all three communes and our missionaries. We remained nameless, and we both adorned hoods, her hair dyed a deep shade of crimson, my own as dark as the night sky.

We sent four teams ahead to prepare the way for us in the Gate, but the Gate was a rough place and we lost all but one of our members. They will be remembered, for they wait for us in that place. Death is not the end. That place is one we spent an increasing amount of time attempting to connect to. We formed it in our minds, with faith, through visions, tapping into our sire's latent power, the power that runs through us. Slowly, we began to make it real. With each passing day, the reality grew.

By the time we crossed the bridge across the river and stood at the doors to the city of Baldur's Gate, our people had established a fourth commune in the frontier mining town of Nashkel, where the troubles surrounding the Iron Crisis were said to have begun. Our people communed with Imoen, and Imoen spoke to the would-be acolytes, initiating more and dispelling the scepticism. The routine remained the same. We felt ourselves growing in power and the crusade gained a life of its own.

It was not long before we were able to arm our people with blades modelled on the daggers our brother had once given to bring about my own demise. It was fitting. The day would come when our people would strike, but only a few knew of it.

Upon entering the city, we headed for the most dilapidated, the roughest region, our cloaks shrouding us. We went alone, despite the pleas of our followers, and we were set upon. My spear spilt blood that day, and four of the five ruffians were given a chance to swear allegiance and join our cause. Only one of them did; the rest tried to flee but there was only one second chance: that chance would be when we tore down the Wall of the Faithless. Until then, no one who was not initiated could know. Imoen's magic surged, striking them down with the most basic of spells. It was the tip of my spear, my dagger, that silenced them.

You must understand that subtly was our true ally; she could have torn the life from out of them, but then what? How many eyes watched the little exchange down the back alley streets as they opened up near the docks? Sometimes, the best placed strike is the one no one notices, one lost in a crowd.