Ghosts and Wine

Our days, as of late, have been filled less with high stakes adventure and more with high stakes financial dealings. Our group has been further discussing what to do with the manor, drawing up budgets, and meeting with important guild representatives. We (thanks to Daara and Reinar Neverember) were able to borrow a kingly sum of money from Mert the moneylender. Hopefully our little business is profitable enough to pay it back quickly. I loathe the feeling of owing money to someone powerful.
 
With the construction on the manor continuing, I can't quite decide if I should continue to rough it and sleep on the floor there, or go back to my flat in the Field Ward. I would crash at Loraleth's if her siblings weren't constantly squabling over one thing or the other. I would almost prefer that noise to the more subtle sounds of the manor in the deep hours of the night. Each night I stay here, it seems that I wake, unbidden, during the witching hour. Though I know that the ghosts here are friendly, my mind is steeped in years of horrific tales and urban legends. Are the creaks and groans of the wood truly just the building settling? I doubt the kobolds make too much noise, and I know where Scorch is at all times. Maybe Daara and Marlaia are lurking about? Perhaps something worse, a shambling visage of terror unbound from the laws of life and death, creeps toward my mostly empty room? Don't get me started on the bizarre alien symphony of noise that the plumbing makes. As unsettling as the noise can get, it does, at a certain point, remind me of a string of events that played out during a simpler time in my life.
 
I must've been 14 or 15 years old. It all started one day in the Field Ward. To be honest, most of the notable stories of my youth begin in the Field Ward. It's where I grew up. It's where I met my first friends. One of those friends was Stiv Krom. Stiv was notable because he was one of the few human boys in my little band of young criminals. It rained that day, and we kicked the mud around in front of Dad's tavern. Stiv had hair down to his shoulders, which was a little uncommon for boys in our neighborhood. Wet from the rain, his hair dangled from his head in messy wet strands. Back in those days, we never really cared about getting sick or anything like that. These days, it's hard to get me out of bed (or up off of the floor) if I have so much as a sniffle.

"So, are you coming with us tonight?" Stiv asked. He referred to the rounds we would make, cutting purses and picking pockets. We weren't professional enough to plan out big heists.
 
Even at that stage, things were getting a little rough for my tastes. More importantly, I had plans that night. "No, I don't think so," I said. "I have plans."
 
"Don't tell me you're hanging out with that drow bitch again," Stiv groaned.
 
I took a little offense at that. "She's not a bitch," I argued. "She's actually really cool. You guys are just ignorant."
 
Mizzana T'Sarran was my first friend and my best friend. We met when I was barely old enough to walk, and we learned our first words in the common tongue together. Her dad, Dhuulyn, worked as a bartender for my dad for a few years while her mom, Cazbrina, worked her way through the ranks of some beauraucratic hierarchy where she would translate things for the City Watch. Because of the way drow relationships usually seem to work, Mizzana was with Dhuulyn for most of the time he was working. She learned most of the same things I learned. Because her family was fresh out of Menzoberranzan, I also picked up the Deep Speech somewhere along the way. Mizzana and I were always chummy. The only reason she wasn't part of the gang was that the boys were a little too attached to the superstitions and stereotypes they had about drow. If I insisted, I still could have had Mizzana join our posse. She didn't want to butt into our fun or make anybody uncomfortable, so I didn't press the issue. I did make time to specifically hang out with Mizzana. The other guys bellyached about it all the time.
 
"Maybe you should find yourself a human girl, Fryd," Stiv said, as he often did. "After all, that drow witch is as likely to feed you to giant spiders as she is to bed you down."
 
That was another supposition to which I took offense. "First of all, human girls are boring," I said. "Second of all, Mizzana and I don't have that kind of relationship. We're more like siblings."
 
"Aye. And if you did have a sister, a real sister, would you regularly sneak off to the North Ward just to hang out with her?" Stiv asked.
 
He had me there. It was true that I had to make special trips to the North Ward to meet with Mizzana. The T'Sarrans moved there when Cazbrina secured a loftier position as a professional translator. Also, my dad is all the family I have in the world, and I only like spending time with him in small doses. "Idiot," I said, "if I did have a real sister, she would probably live with me, and I'd see her everyday."
 
"Whatever, Fryd," Stiv said. He bent over to pick up a nib that he found in the mud. "Hey," he said, wiping the gray mud from the copper coin, "if you're going to the North Ward anyway, I know of something you can check out."
 
I really didn't intend to do any work during that night's journey to the North Ward, but I decided to hear Stiv out, anyway. "What've you got?" I probed.
 
"Well, I heard tell from my cousin about this house on Sashtar Street," Stiv said.
 
I knew Stiv's cousin. The man was a hardened criminal who didn't spend much time in the city between sentences at work camps. I did know him to be pretty reliable when it came to information and rumors. "What about this house on Sashtar Street?" I asked.
 
"Well, there was a murder-suicide there. There was this couple that lived there; the man was a cobbler, I think. I don't know what the wife got up to. Anyway, the man had an affair, and when his mistress found out he was married, she snuck into the house while the couple slept and cut their throats. The mistress couldn't live with what she'd done, I suppose. The story that the Watch is going with is that she stabbed herself in the heart. Since then, there's been a lot of dispute between the families of all the dead people involved. They're still working out what to do with the house and the belongings that were left behind. Until they do, the house is just going to be sitting there, full of stuff and defenseless," Stiv explained.
 
I instantly assumed that somebody had already been there to rob the place and it didn't go as planned. "What's the catch?" I asked.
 
"The place might be haunted," Stiv said.
 
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
 
"Well, once my cousin told me about the place me and Cyran and Gar went for a visit. As soon as we got in the front door, it felt like we weren't supposed to be there," Stiv said.
 
"We're not supposed to be anywhere we go," I pointed out. "What was the problem, exactly?"
 
"Well, first off, Gar spotted a bloodstain on the floor, which we kind of expected, but was still kinda disturbing. Second off, we heard all kinds of noises. That place had to be haunted, Fryd."
 
Whenever I hear ghost stories, I kind of assume that it takes a while for an actual haunting to settle into a place. It sounded like the murder-suicide was fairly recent, so I was skeptical of what Stiv said. "Tell me about these sounds that you heard," I said.
 
"There was a terrible wailing," Stiv began. "There was an intense creaking sound coming from the upstairs part of the house. We turned tail and ran, not wanting to find out what made all the noise."
 
"I see. So I should exercise caution when I go for my visit," I said. "What was the street address of this place?"
 
Stiv gave me the address, and I bid him farewell. I went to my father's tavern to get myself into some dry clothes and pass some time with my studies. I had some of Dad's cheap stew for my meal. Thankfully, the rain let up before I sneaked out of the tavern to make my trip to the North Ward. As a kid, I saw crossing into the North Ward as crossing into another world. The streets were better paved. I wouldn't overhear nearly as many conflicts and arguments as I would in the Field Ward. The people in the North Ward didn't dress in hand me downs and rags like most of the people in the Field Ward. I hated it. The people in the North Ward liked to project a sense of civility and propriety, but I saw the way they looked at me as I wandered their streets. I could tell from the hateful glares that my kith and I were not welcome on the more refined streets of Waterdeep. Of course, we would skulk about anyways, getting up to our mischief. Tonight would be no different.
 
I had to walk a long time before I arrived at the residence of the T'Sarrans. Being refugees, they (Dhuulyn and Cazbrina, at least) were thrilled to be part of their community, even though their house wasn't anything spectacular by North Ward standards. It was the same as every house on their block: built from grey brick, two stories tall, wooden roof, plenty of windows. It wasn't often that I was invited into the house. (I think Cazbrina hates me.) I can remember it well, though. It was almost like any human dwelling, save for the lack of candles, lamps or any other form of illumination. On the rare occasion that I was allowed in, they did have a lantern for me so that I wouldn't knock over their vases or trip over their ornate rugs. The family's most prized possession was probably the painting they had commissioned of the goodly Drow deity, Elistraee. I'm probably a horrible person for this, but I've always wondered what price it might fetch if I stole it. Only a drow would be interested in such a treasure, but it was a truly impressive piece of art.
 
I beat on the T'Sarrans' thick, wooden door. Shortly after, the door swung open and the first thing I saw were red eyes piercing the darkness. Mizzana's father, Dhuulyn, stepped out of the house and into the light of the street lamp. Dhuulyn was shorter than most elves I'd met. He had a bit of a pot belly, too. I guess that's what happens to you when you resign yourself to the good life on the surface.
 
"Ah, Fryd!" Dhuulyn smiled. "It's so good to see you again. How is your old man?"
 
At the time, I was impressed with the progress Dhuulyn had made with his accent. When he was fresh over from Menzoberranzan, you could only understand every other word that came out of his mouth. "He's good," I said. "Is Mizzana home?"
 
"She is," Dhuulyn said. He shouted back into the house in (what I guessed was) the drow dialect of Elvish. The only word I recognized was my name. A young female voice answered in the same language. "She says she'll be right out," Dhuulyn explained. Afterwards, he disapeared into the blackness of the house.
I loitered outside of the T'Sarrans' for a few minutes. It usually took Mizzana a while to collect herself and make her way out the door. I don't know what she would do to prepare for our outings together. Maybe she just liked to make me wait. I spaced out. I looked at some crows lining up on the roof of a house across the street. They each cut striking figures against the cloudy twilight. As I imagined what the birds were cawwing about, I got a painful poke in the shoulder. It was sudden enough to make me jump a little bit.
 
"Ha! Gotcha!" Mizzana said.
 
When I turned to face her, I first noticed that she cut her white hair short again since my last visit. She always complained that it got in her way. Also, she wore a simple purple dress that matched her eyes. It looked really good on her. "Where'd you get that stupid dress?" I asked.
 
Mizzana scratched her head. "Mom bought it for me. She told me that we didn't live in the Field Ward anymore, so I should at least try and dress nicer. I don't know. Out of all the things she's bought for me to wear, I probably hate it the least."
 
"Pants are better for creeping and climbing," I pointed out.

"Yeah, I think Mom worked that out," Mizzana said. "I think that's why she started buying me dresses."

I started walking and motioned for Mizzana to come along. "Let's go," I said.
 
Mizzana quickened her pace to walk shoulder to shoulder with me. "Where are we going?" she asked.
 
"Sashtar Street," I said.
 
"Oh, so you want to check out the spooky death house, then?"
 
"You heard about that?" I was surprised. Usually the underworld people I knew in the Field Ward were the first to hear about these things.
 
"Eavesdropped on a couple members of the City Watch chatting about it the other day. I have ears and I pay attention, Fryd." Mizzana smiled.
 
She was getting too good at this. I had an inkling of a worry then, but I dismissed it because (at the time) I thought we'd be untouchable so long as we were smart about things. "Er, good," I said. "You're ahead of the curve, so I shan't waste any more of our time explaining things."
 
Mizzana and I made for Sashtar Street. Me being a human boy and her being a drow girl, we got lots of interesting looks from people with careers and sturdy houses. These people weren't used to seeing too many non-humans. If they saw so much as a half-elf, most of them would scowl. Our friendship must have been quite a shock to their systems, even worse so if they assumed we were lovers. To be quite honest, I've always been kind of glad that that kind of thing makes people uncomfortable. To me, if a person lives their life in such a way that everyone around them is perfectly at ease all the time, then that person isn't really worth knowing. After about a half hour's walk, we turned off onto Sashtar street.
 
We made our way around the bend as I read the numbers on the houses. Most of the people that lived on Sashtar Street were lighting up lanterns and sitting down to dinner. I hated admitting it, but the stuff that they would eat in the North Ward put my dad's watery stew to shame. I didn't have much time to gawk at some family's roasted turkey, because the death house was easy to spot sitting, completely dark, between two houses whose occupants had put on their lights for the evening. Just to be sure, I read the house number. This was the place.
 
"Well, here we are," I announced. I looked around. I didn't see any guards or members of the Watch creeping in the shadows. I trusted Mizzana's eyes more with that kind of thing, though.
 
"How do you want to play this?" Mizzana asked.
 
"You keep watch," I said. "I'll pick the lock."
 
Mizzana leaned against a street lamp while I crept up to the front door. I took out my lockpick and realized that I'd barely be able to see the keyhole. Just for a laugh, I tried turning the knob. It worked. Either somebody was really stupid or we got really lucky. There was also the third possibility that restless spirits invited us into the house as a trap. I walked back to where Mizzana stood.
 
"It's unlocked."
 
"Already?" She looked surprised.
 
"Yeah, that's just how good I am," I lied.
 
We had a final look around to make sure no one was watching and then went in through the front door. I tried to make out what I could from the dim light that poured in from the street. It seemed like a pretty standard living area: there were a few pieces of furniture, a modestly stocked bookshelf, a place to hang hats and coats. The one thing I found that put me ill at ease was a faint red stain that sat at the light's edge, in the middle of the room.
 
"How cool!" Mizzana gasped. "That's probably where the crazy lady killed herself!"
 
"Keep it down," I said. "We don't want to draw any attention. Also, I need you to be my eyes, at least until we find a room with more windows."
 
"Oh, poor human Fryd. Whatever will we do with you?" Mizzana took my right hand and placed it on her shoulder.
 
Her touch was warm and gentle. It surprised me. I expected her grip to be forceful and her body to be cool as death. Maybe I wasn't totally unaffected by all the drow horror stories floating around. Mizzana led me deeper into the house. She warned me about a thick rug that was just out of my sight in the main living area. She told me that the staircase was on the left side of the house. She listed off valuables as she saw them: some books on leatherwork, some gold candlesticks, a coinpurse on an endtable. I started to work out what would be the most valuable in my head. Mizzana stopped to open a door and then led me into a kitchen area where street light came in through the window from a side alley. I checked the room for food and found some reasonably fresh apples in a basket at the bottom of a cupboard. I ran my fingers over the skin of the apple to check for bruises, and it seemed okay to me, so I took a bite.
 
"You've got to be kidding me," Mizzana said.
 
"Can't have them going bad," I said and handed Mizzana an apple. They were sweet, but not too sweet. They were probably the kind people used in recipes.
 
We ate our apples and threw the cores into the dark corners of the room. We looked around for more valuables, but couldn't find anything that would be uncommon in a kitchen. While I opened doors, I noticed Mizzana standing still, looking up to the ceiling.
 
"What's up?" I asked.
 
"Do you not hear that?" Mizzana posed the question quickly and with definite anxiety.
 
I halted my breath and focused. I did hear something. It was faint and rhythmic and it came from the second floor. Mizzana took my hand and led me back into the living quarters, where the sound was a little more audible. Mizzana then led me up the stairs. We were careful to make as little noise as possible as the rhythmic creaking became louder and more pronounced. As we reached the top of the stairs, the creaking was punctuated by a horrible wailing. It sounded like one of those screaming goats was being stabbed to death. I had goosebumps because I had ghost stories in my head instead of any idea of what was actually happening. Mizzana and I crept from the stairs through a dark hallway as the cacaphony of strange noise intensified. We found ourselves in front of a door when the noise was at its worst and we could feel the vibrations through the floorboards.
 
"I'm scared, Fryd," Mizzana whispered. "You open it."
 
"Open it? Why the fuck would we open it? Let's just get the fuck out of here," I whispered harshly. I didn't know what was being killed in that room, but I sure as hell didn't want to be next.
 
"What if somebody needs help, Fryd?" Mizzana whispered.
 
"Better them than us," I replied.
 
As soon as I spoke the words, the noise came to a sudden stop. I heard creaking in the rhythm of footsteps as someone or something approached the door. "Quick! Hide!" I gasped. Mizzana and I split and went towards opposite ends of the hallway. I couldn't see where she hid, but I hid in the doorway of what I was pretty sure was the shitter. I barely made it there before that door creaked open.
 
Light from the street outside spilled into the hallway. The first one out was a middle aged human man who secured his belt and straightened out his pants. After him came a red-haired dwarven maiden who buttoned her blouse.
 
"Gods, this place gives me the creeps," the dwarf said. "Why do we have to meet in places like this?"
 
The man shrugged his shoulders. "If you have a better place in mind, I'm all ears. I don't care as long as my wife doesn't find out."
 
"I'll definitely have a better place lined up for next time," the dwarf lady said.
 
The man and his dwarven mistress came towards me for a few steps, which caused my heartbeat to quicken. Thankfully, they turned off to descend the stairs. Soon after, I heard the front door open and close.
 
"I think we're clear," I said, loud enough for Mizzana to hear and then step into the light.
 
I came out from the doorway I hid in to meet her. "That was a close one, eh?" My heart lessened its pace.
 
"Yeah. Yeah, it sure was," Mizzana agreed. She only kept her composure for a second before erupting in an explosive laughter. "Oh, gods," She said between fits of laughter, "that dwarf lady sure was a screamer!"
 
Mizzana's laughter made me start laughing. In the back of my head, I knew that we should have been quiet, but my condition couldn't be helped. Mizzana was infectious like that. "Seriously! Who smashes pissers in a murder house?"
 
Mizzana calmed down a bit. "It makes about as much sense as eating apples in one."
 
I found the observation a little awkward. I still don't know exactly what she meant by that. I put on a goofy smile. "Hey, that's two less apples left to rot," I said. "Let's rob the place before someone comes to investigate our laughter."
 
Mizzana took a sack from the kitchen. She made me hold it open and then guided me around the house while she stuffed the goods into it. Once she had the candlesticks and the books stashed, she tied the coin purse to my belt. She led me upstairs to check those rooms. The restroom, of course, had nothing of value. Neither did the guest room on the far end of the hall. We were the hesitant to check the bedroom that the couple came out of. Nevertheless, we went in. The bed was an unmade mess and there were more bloodstains on the floor. It only made us pause briefly. Because the room was lit somewhat from street lamps in the distance, I checked the armoire. I didn't find anything but clothes. Mizzana had considerably more luck. She found a silver necklace in the drawer of an end table. I held the bag open and she tossed it in. As soon as she did, we heard a pained creaking sound followed by a loud wood-on-wood bang. Mizzana led me back downstairs.
 
"The kitchen door is closed," Mizzana said.
 
"Because you closed it, right?" I offered.
 
Mizzana remained silent.
 
"Right. I think we have enough. Let's leave."
 
Mizzana offered no argument. We left the death house on Sashtar Street. We decided to go where we always went when we found ourselves in similar situations. There was a gnome junk vendor who had a shop in the southern part of the ward back in those days. He didn't pay much, but he was more than willing to buy stolen goods from sketchy kids. The coin purse we lifted had a dragon and 15 shards in it. The gnome gave us 50 more silver pieces
 
After Mizzana and I left the junk shop, we started to head north, towards the T'Sarran residence. The sun had fully set and the moon lit up the clouds that lingered from the afternoon rain. Most of the people on the streets had gone home or found a tavern to drink in. It wasn't long before things got too quiet for my comfort.
 
"Do you think the death house was really haunted?" I asked.
 
"Either it was haunted or it had a faulty kitchen door," Mizzana said.
 
"I'm going to tell people it's haunted," I said. "That makes for a better story." I feel kind of silly as I write this, so accurately recounting the events of the night. Ghosts are sensational, but I don't think that ghosts (or the lack thereof) are what make the night so memorable to me.
 
"So, how do you want to split the money?" Mizzana asked. "I think it's only fair that I get more, on account of you're a useless human and you can't see in the dark."
 
"If I'm so useless, why did you ask me to open that door?" I asked

"I didn't ask you to do anything," Mizzana recounted, "I told you to open it. I was pulling rank."
 
"Pfft. Whatever," I said, right before an interesting idea struck me. "Do you have any coin other than what we made today?"
 
"Are you trying to rip me off, Fryd?"
 
"Not at all. I was just thinking that if we combined our coin, we might be able to do something fun," I said.
 
"At this time of night? In the North Ward?"
 
"What? No. I was thinking we could take a little walk up to the Field Ward and trick my dad into selling us some wine."
 
Mizzana stopped and put her hands on her hips. "Wine, Fryd? Aren't we a little young for that?"
 
"Aren't we a little young for a lot of things?" I asked. "If we don't start drinking now, we'll never be able to regret it later."
 
"Oh, Fryd," Mizzana sighed, "you're so stupid sometimes. I'm on board, though. Let's do it."
 
Just like that, we passed the street that the T'Sarran residence sat on and headed instead for the gate to the Field Ward. Ah, the Field Ward. It always smells foul, you can hear a different argument in every house you pass by, and you can't sleep for the body bugs, but at least no one looks at you like you don't belong there. I counted on Borris the beggar to be lying around in the mud outside dad's tavern, and I wasn't disappointed. He was a gaunt, almost skeletal, man with a wispy beard and a bald head. We woke him, and he seemed quite pleased with the prospect of buying us a bottle of wine in exchange for our leftover money. Borris went into dad's pub and emerged quick enough with a large bottle of red wine. We thanked Borris and went about finding a place to do our drinking. We settled for an abandoned lot between the city's outer wall and a row of ramshackle houses. I squinted to see the label on the bottle, and I couldn't make out much in the darkness.
 
"Gimme that," Mizzana said. She snatched the bottle from my hands. "Berduskan dark. Ever heard of it?"
 
"Yeah. I mean, my dad sells a lot of it. To be honest, he taught me more about stealing things than he did about spirits." I was inexperienced at the time, but at my current age (27) I've sampled a wide variety of wines and liquors. I guess you could say that the habit took.
 
"Well, I guess we're about to find out all about it," Mizzana said. She tried to pull the cork out and failed. "Fryd, how are we supposed to get this thing open?" She asked.
 
"Let me see it," I said.
 
Mizzana handed me the bottle. I gripped it with both hands and bit the top of the cork with my teeth. I pulled with all of my might, but only managed to lift the cork a little ways out of the bottle.
 
"This bottle truly does not want to part with its contents," I said.
 
"Ugh. Let me try again," Mizzana commanded. She did the same thing as me, but she was able to get a better grip on the cork with her teeth. She stumbled backwards as the cork popped loose. A little of the wine spilled into the mud.
 
"Good job," I said. "You take the first draft."
 
"Here goes nothing," Mizzana said. She drank deeply from the bottle, gulping a couple of times. When her lips left the bottle, wine sprayed from her mouth. "It's pretty strong," she said.
 
"I think I'll see for myself," I said. I took the bottle and drank from it. I don't recommend drinking wine straight from the bottle with your friends. All I could think about at first was the spit that lingered on the rim of the bottle. I forgot it once I got a good taste of the wine. These days, Berduskan dark is one of my favorites. Back then, the taste was sharper and more unpleasant. It was sweet and heady, but it had a bite that my mouth wasn't used to just yet. I fought the instinct to spit it out and gulped down as much wine as I could. "Yep," I groaned, "that's pretty good."
 
"Whatever, Fryd," Mizzana said. She snatched the bottle to take another slug.
 
We took turns taking drinks from the bottle. We goaded each other on between each one. It didn't seem like long before the bottle got light and the world got spinny. We staggered to a rickety wooden fence that separated the abandoned lot from someone's back yard. I leaned against the fence in a vain attempt to get my bearings.
 
"Oh, the moon," Mizzana sighed.
 
I looked up. The full moon was no longer obscured by clouds and it glowed in the heavens and gave the whole Field Ward an otherworldly beautiful sheen.
 
"Just think, Fryd," Mizzana slurred, "what if my family never left Menzoberranzan? I probably would have never got to see the moon. What if I never got to meet you Fryd? What kind of life would I live, in that case?"
 
Mizzana's drunken words shook me to my core. I knew we were close, but I never expected her to compare me to the fucking moon. Did I really mean that much to her? Impossible. It had to be the wine talking. "Mizzana," I groaned, "maybe you should be quiet before you embarrass yourself." At that point, my legs turned to jelly, and I could no longer stand. I crumpled and sat in the mud, leaning against a fence post.
 
Mizzana sat down in the mud next to me. She rested her head on my shoulder. We sat in silence for a while, marinating in wine. The last thing I can remember before I totally blacked out was Mizzana vomiting wine and apple and whatever the fuck it is that drow families eat into my lap.
 
We woke the next day as a line of cattle were being herded towards the slaughterhouse. The world spun. My head ached. My guts ached. I immediately puked all over my shoes. I saw Mizzana as she crawled across the mud and projectile vomited wine. She couldn't have felt much better than I did. It was a shame that her pretty purple dress was now irreparably sullied with mud and spew. We stayed in the lot and groaned to each other about how sick we were. When we felt slightly less horrible, we said our goodbyes and returned to our homes. I can't imagine how Mizzana's parents reacted to her miserable condition. My dad somehow knew that I paid Borris the beggar to buy us wine and made me scrub the floor of the tavern while I was hungover.
 
It was a rotten day that followed a heavenly night. Thinking about it sort of puts me at ease, which should help with my sleeping troubles. I don't know what happened to the death house on Sashtar Street. I'm pretty sure it was sold. Those ghosts are somebody else's problem now. The only spirits I need to worry about are those sell at our tavern.