Fryd Wrenbrook
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Fryd is a former criminal who is in the process of turning a new leaf to break his family's cycle of illegal activity. He's making some headway as a private investigator and an adventurer.
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Poem in the Margins
*Fryd scribbles in his journal on a carriage ride from one place in Waterdeep to another.*
Zara
Oh, Zara
*He scratches out the lines.*
Gorgeous half elf maiden and the pride of Waterdeep
I'll scribe for you these stanzas
and pledge to you my heart to keep
*Fryd scratches out more lines. He can't shake the dream from the possession. He can't shake memories of battles with monsters and the undead. How could anyone come to rely on him? Some just aren't the type to settle down. Fryd thinks that he might be that type. He asks himself how he fell into that trap.*
Pauper princess
sacred owner of my soul
what need have we for food
when we've love to fill our bowl?
*Fryd scratches out more lines. He puts his face in his palm and leans against the back corner of the carriage interior. He hopes in vain that his stately mind-linked chum from the realm of fire isn't psychically eavesdropping. This isn't going to work. Nothing will work. Fryd tells himself that he has too many shortcomings as a person. He tells himself that he has too far to go before he feels comfortable accepting even a modicum of happiness. He has things to reconcile with Mizzana, probably. He doesn't know how he feels about Mizzana. Zara hasn't ever been particularly warm and welcoming, either. Fryd feels like he sensed something there. He wants there to be something there. He isn't sure. He admits that it's probably nothing. He admits to himself that Zara would probably hate any stupid poem that he wrote.*
*Fryd rips the page out of his journal, balls it up, and throws it out the carriage window.*
Possession Nightmare
If it weren't for the burning buildings, the blackness of the night would be unending. Abominations of undead flesh now have their run of the city. In the Field Ward, I had to run through mud that was ankle deep to escape former friends who had turned monstrous. By sundown, I had to chop off the head of the girl I fancy and put an arrow through my father's good eye. The dead were hot on my heels. Crawling through muck and blood, they never get tired. In the dim twilight, I ran to the North Ward.
In the North Ward, my footing was a little surer. The horrors were no less severe. Smoke that rose from burning tenements guided me deeper into the city as night set in. Thankfully (and regretfully) the hungry dead had softer targets than me in the North Ward. I passed scores of them feeding on the innards of merchants and scribes. Before I could make it deeper into the city, I had to check on Mizzana's parents. Found them eating their neighbors. As they ripped flesh with their teeth, I debated whether to put them down myself or let Mizzana take care of them. In the end, I couldn't put her through that. I returned the T'Sarrans to the grave before I fled deeper into the city.
I thought that perhaps I could rally together with my party at the Brass Dragon so that we might see an end to the madness. I should have known better when I saw Erik eating the face off of some poor barmaid. Formerly, I extended him a courtesy by convincing the others to spare him. I extended another courtesy when I put a bolt through the back of his head. This roused the attention of the others.
At first, I was elated. Then, I saw the red glow in their eyes. They had become possessed by some force of evil. They fought me as though the whole ordeal was my doing. I did my best to defend myself. They did not go easy on me. They meant to kill me. Any time I got a lick in on one of them, Marlaia was quick with a healing spell. Daara mocked me for my feeble humanity before hitting me in the collarbone with a bolt of flame and force that staggered me. I narrowly ducked a decapitation attempt from Urku as he invoked the name of some unfamiliar god. I tried to dodge out of the way of Scorch's flaming blade, but it cut deep into my side. He said that he never liked me. Why couldn't I hear his thoughts? Amity sprung out of the shadows in her humanoid form, only to kneecap me with that pistol of hers. I hit the ground, screaming in pain. She wondered aloud whether I had coin on my person. I saw Igris leap through the air, foaming with at the mouth with the intention of splitting my skull. I narrowly managed to roll out of the way and struggle to my feet. As I staggered away, his axe buried itself into one of my shoulder blades before returning to his hand. I continued forward, seeking the inky blackness of a nearby alleyway. Just before I ducked into it, one of Toraleth's arrows sailed past my head and planted itself in a stone wall.
Once I could no longer hear the taunts and laughter of my former allies, I searched my pack to find a healing potion. After gulping it down, I still felt as though I was on the verge of death. I was at least able to move faster. My tour of the carnage and insanity eventually led me to the Castle Ward. Mizzana stepped out from behind a corner, cutting me off. She accused me of being unfaithful before her eyes began to glow red. She drew daggers. She said that it was time that I got what I deserved. There was no way out but forward. We fought. She slipped shots between my ribs more times than I could count. Somehow, I remained standing long enough to put my Gloom Blade through her heart. I held her as blood pumped out of the fresh chest wound. Our faces close, I said that I was sorry. She spat blood into my face, told me to go fuck myself, and died.
I found another healing potion in Mizzana's personal effects. I had an internal debate. I could drink the potion and continue on. I could dump the potion into the gutter and bleed out. I flipped a dragon to decide. I drank the potion.
Now, in the Castle Ward, things are as black as they've ever been. The only light emanates from my entire world burning to the ground. That, and lantern light. A soft glow coming from a window in the distance. Above the screams of survivors and the moans of the undead, I can hear the song of a bard. I hear a familiar laughter. I make my way toward the window, realizing that the window belongs to the Elfstone Tavern. I throw the door open. I see a band of bards with instruments fashioned from dismembered human body parts. They play to a host of rotting horrors who drink deeply from tankards of blood and bile. At the bar, I see a familiar figure clad in black leather armor. I sit next to him. He looks at me at smiles. He has short, black hair and green eyes.
"Are you enjoying yourself, Fryd?" the other me asks me.
Boy, Howdy. I Sure Do Enjoy Being Alive.
I love women, elves especially. (Humans not so much.) I love the sweet taste of wine. I love the quickening thrill of combat, neutralizing threats, and sneaking through hostile territory undetected. My home, the Field Ward of Waterdeep, has its charms. I love the scent of an aged tome of information or fiction. Even losing in Liar's Dice to the pirates was pretty fun. More than anything, I love all the friends I've made along the way.
There have been times I didn't like so much. Scrubbing the floors of my father's tavern count among those. The years I spent doing petty crime before I reformed do as well. Let's not mention that little swim I took through the sewage when I first met my current comrades. Or all the times I nearly met my end from a mortal wound.
All those times just serve to make the moments of levity all the sweeter in my mind. If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn't. Even if I was able to undo my criminal days, I wouldn't trade what I learned in those chaotic years for the world. I wouldn't be the person I am now. I wouldn't have met all the wonderful people I've met in all my 27 years.
I'm looking forward to our return to Waterdeep. There's people I want to see and things I want to do. For once in my life, I have an optimistic outlook on the future that isn't colored by sarcasm. I do co-own a business now, after all. I will have to give back to the community, though. Wouldn't want my old mates in the Field Ward calling me a sellout.
The Red Wizard
I used to think of magic as a useful tool. It can aid in healing like a doctor's forceps. It can aid in combat like a sword. Magic was as basic a part of my reality as gravity or the weather. In our quest to investigate the plight of Moldavia, we learned that Thayan red wizards were involved. Even given my proclivity for study, I was not aware how deadly an encounter with such a character could be.
It turns out I have been holding on to some falsehoods about magic users, and by extension, life in Faerun. I have felt a kinship with the mystically inclined because they also tend to give themselves to their studies. My ring-bound companion is the perfect example. It seems as though he elects to read whenever he has free time. The main thing that separates me from true students of the arcane is my motivation for gaining knowledge. I do it out of a desire to rise above the rabble of the Field Ward and help the common people. In the case of wizards, warlocks, sorcerers, and other wielders of the craft, (even if their intentions are pure) it seems as though they are motivated by power.
We encountered a red wizard of Thay in our attempt to seal the gates of the city. The power he wielded was unlike any I had ever seen. I watched companion after companion fall, tossed asunder by an uncanny elemental fury. He cast spells. He flew. He shrugged of mortal wounds as if they were nothing. When it seemed as though the day was lost, I considered fleeing for my life. Our luck is bound to run out, eventually. Before I did, I took a shot at the wizard. It seemed like a waste not to when I considered how much my companions had sacrificed in the fight. The shot struck true. The bolt lodged itself into the wizard's skull. The wizard fell at last.
As of this writing, we have taken refuge at a Harpers' sanctuary beneath an alchemist's shop. It seems safe here, but this place will only provide momentary respite from the hordes of the dead waiting outside. I dread to think on what we may face tomorrow. The items we pilfered from the dead wizard may help, but if we come across even more wizards of Thay, we will not survive.
Perhaps I should think on the good things in life. It wouldn't do for the morale of the group to see me so worried all the time.
[Below the main journal entry, there is a post script written in Elvish. The characters are sloppy. The grammar is basic.]
Things seem different. Did something change? It feels like the gods fucked with reality. I have a wealth of memories that seem false, now. Some of my companions seem like they changed suddenly. Was it the gutbuster? I should talk to someone about this. I will not, though. They would think I am insane.
Legions of the Dead
We dispatched the shambling corpses that attacked our camp. I was quick to avenge our driver, who fell victim to the hunger of the rotten fiends. I regret not kneeling to stop the flow of blood from his grievous wounds, but I have no real experience in medicine, and there was danger about. Having felled the fiend that slew our driver, I realized that these shamblers were infected with some manner of parasitic worm. I drew my shortbow and aided the rest of my group in killing the monsters. I attempted to assist Toraleth with one of the worms that crawled beneath the skin of their arm, but they didn't seem to like my idea of using fire to remove the parasite. They dug the worm out themselves.
The next day, we came upon a town that sat adjacent to a bridge and a river. I tried to sneak into the town with Igris to no avail. We earned the attention of a squad of skeleton guards and their wight masters. They split into two waves and attacked us from two different angles. Me and my friends fought well, though and bested both waves handily. I took one of their heavy crossbows and some bolts. The instrument is a tad unwieldy for me, but it puts down an enemy in one shot pretty reliably, so for now, it seems like my best choice for ranged combat. Unfortunately, in the chaos of the battle, our wagon was destroyed. Sometimes, when the gods close a door, they open a window. At some point in the brouhaha of the fighting, we were joined by a cleric going by the name of Brisa.
Brisa is local to the area (?) and was able to give us the lay of the land. We had a zombie-infested town and a well-guarded bridge to fight through. I was prepared for us to fight our way through, but Scorch had an idea, that, at the time, seemed plausible. He used magic to cloud us in darkness. Our party used rope and other means to stay close to scorch. I, of course, have a psychic link allowing me to maintain a good approximation of where Scorch is at any given time. Of course everything went to shit when we were set upon by dog zombies. I threw caltrops to slow their advance. Urku and Igris seemed to have a good sense of where they were, even in the pitch darkness. Using my psychic link with Scorch, I was able to land a lucky hit and skewer one with my rapier. It wasn't long after that that we broke formation and fled the town.
We attempted the dark cloud gambit again to cross the bridge. A group of skeleton archers, hundreds of feet away in the gatehouse, fired a volley on us. Some of us were hit, including Scorch. His concentration was broken, and the darkness lost. We scrambled across the bridge while the skeletons shot at us. I took a couple of hits to the chest and went down. I was sure that I bought the farm, but Urku put a healing hand on me and I removed the bolts from my chest, got up, chugged a disgusting potion, and kept moving. I was the first to cross the gate. I ran and did not look back until much later, when I got a psychic cue from Scorch that the battle ended and the group decided to rest at the gatehouse for a short while. It seems as though some of my foolhardy colleagues are keen to kill every last monster they come across. I fear that I'm just not built for that kind of thing.
An Opera, a Farewell, and a Job
We attended the opera. It was amusing, seeing the others dressed up in noble garb. It wasn't as amusing seeing a bunch of self-important rich assholes gathering for the opera. It's cause of one to wonder: do they come for the opera, or do they come so that the others think that they came for the opera? Anyway, with all the aristocrats exchanging pleasantries around me, I went to the bar in the lobby for a drink. I bragged to the barkeep about my gutbuster exploits (I intend to tell everyone I meet from now til the time I die) and then he poured me a healthy glass of stout absinthe. Stouter than the regular stuff. Looking at it, I could have sworn that it glowed faintly. The others ordered refreshments, as well.
While we were waiting for the doors to open, Zardoz Zord of the Sea Maiden's Faire Carnival was announced. He was a striking man with a similarly striking entourage. As he passed me, he winked. At least I think he did. I asked the others about it, and they seemed to agree. I was curious to see what these people might have wanted with me, but it would have to wait. We entered the auditorium and took in the first act of the opera. Operatic performances aren't usually my thing, but Scorch used a spell to comprehend the giant language and I could actually follow the plot, so that was neat.
During the intermission, we made our way to Mert the Moneylender's private box. He extended us an invitation to the Harpers, an organization promoting egalitarianism and condemning tyranny. I felt that I had the unique temperament and skillset that fit well into the organization, so I agreed to join. It did help that Daara was in their ranks. We watched the rest of the opera from the premium balcony seating.
After the show, I tried to shadow Zardoz and his crew as they left the theater. I followed them a little ways, but making my way through the crowds on the street level in my new fancy duds wasn't exactly optimal for my pursuit. I gave up when I saw them turn off towards the Dock Ward. I returned to the others and we took a stagecoach back to the Brass Dragon.
I felt a lot better once I was back in my leather adventuring gear. I felt worst when I talked to Leif. I made some crack about being glad that he was dead. He got offended and fucked off. After all the abuse we hurled at each other, he gets offended by that? No matter how old I get, people (and also the undead I guess) will never make complete sense.
When we woke the next day, Marlaia was nowhere to be found. She left us all farewell letters. Her sudden disappearance is somewhat puzzling. Maybe the pressure of our insane exploits was too much for her. Maybe the rest of us smell funny. Maybe she really does have some personal things she needs to attend to. Whatever befalls her, I wish her the best. (Now that I think of it, if I ever have need to disturb Marlaia, I can probably write her a quick note on a paper bird and follow it to her location.)
The next day, Mr. Trench showed up at the Dragon. He offered us a job that he was too busy for. It turns out Baron Renette's wife is missing. I was quick to take the job. After my recent fumbles (making a ghost sad, nearly dying of alcohol poisoning, getting intimidated by halflings, failing to retrieve a treasure, and failing to climb a shortish building to name a few) I needed a win. The rest of the coterie was eager to get involved once news of a cash reward reached their ears.
We took a coach out of the city to the Baron's hold. I questioned him. He took offense to my line of questioning. If the nobility needs someone to be pissed off at it might as well be me. Long story short and assuming that the baron's alibi is solid, all signs point to Moldavia Keep.
A goliath scout going by the name of Toraleth helped to guide us to the keep. As night fell, we came close to the keep and set up camp. I took second watch with Toraleth. We talked a little bit about our line of work (and also I told them about the gutbuster thing) but we were interrupted by zombies.
Gutbuster
Gutbuster is a foul and dangerous liquid. I don't know how the dwarves do it. I guess we were trying and failing to make contact with some ghost in the cellar when we found it. I knocked on the barrels that were left down there, hoping to find something secret. Oh, boy, did I ever. I pulled the plug on one of the eldritch wooden casks to discover the rotten dwarvish swill. It smelled worse than the shitwater in the Waterdeep sewers. Thankfully, I can't remember what it tasted like.
Honestly, I'm surprised we all took a drink. I'm a pretty heavy drinker, so of course I would. Daara seems to enjoy her ale and liquor as well. Marlaia and Urku, though? Their curiosity clearly got the best of them. It nearly got the best of all of us. I loathe to think of what would have happened had Igris not discovered us some time later and nursed us back to health. I got a fraction of it when I felt the misery behind Scorch's gutbuster hangover. Igris only had a little taste of it and he was as drunk as I've ever seen a kobold. We could have done without him dragging us up and down all the stairs.
Anyway, once we were all back on our feet, Urku got a summons to the opera. It stated that we were to dress as nobles for the occasion, so we had to go shopping. I opted for a black and white ensemble with a feathered cap. I can't say how well I did; I've never had need of such opulent vestments. The others all look rather striking, though. They have a good eye for these things. We'll be respected as upstanding business owners, yet.
Anything but Halflings
I received some good healing at that temple of Ilmater. Luckily, the clergy there also agreed to help our new friend Keplo so long as they received money sufficient enough for the spell ingredients. Scorch also inquired about having his memory restored. The clergyman, Sir Ander, warned us that the same spell might not work for Scorch and it the materials for another spell would cost us another hundred dragons. Scorch seems like he's decided to go through with it. Maybe, if it works, we can find a way to cheat the ring off of my finger without wasting a wish. It's hard to have my private thoughts about elf girls and the like with someone else sharing my headspace.
When all was said and done at the temple, I said a prayer. With all the magical nonsense I've witnessed in my years, I've learned to respect the gods. There are two that I respect more than all the others: Ilmater and Oghma. I like Ilmater because he's a compassionate god, especially towards all those that suffer in life. The clergy isn't bad either. They put themselves in a place of poverty to help anyone in need. If the lords of Waterdeep were more like Ilmater and his clergy, perhaps the city would be a better place for everyone.
Once everyone received their healing, we decided to check out that hostel in the Dock Ward. We found it, and Daara set upon the guard with all kinds of weird questions. (I may or may not have said some nonsense about mongooses [mongeese?].) When things started to escalate and Daara got a bit handsy, I felt the need to look around for any errant guardsmen or watchmen. What I found was much worse. Angry halflings lined the nearby rooftops, ranged weapons drawn.
Now we could have fought the halflings there in the streets of the dock ward. Hell, we might've even won. But there's a thing about fighting halflings (or gnomes or any of the smaller folk in general.) If you're winning you look really bad. I know that small warriors can be as ferocious as a raging goliath. I've seen Urku and Igris cut people to ribbons with little effort. When your average passer by sees halflings being swung around by their ankles and being thrown through windows by larger folk, they tend to go to the city watch seeking justice for the poor little fuckers. That would've complicated things. It would have been even worse if we went through with the fight and were beaten. It's one thing to meet your end in a hail of dragon's breath or against an army of orcs or something. Being killed by a gang of halflings damages your reputation posthumously. People would stroll past our gravestones and laugh. When I meet my end (with my luck, it'll probably be sooner than later) I hope it's by any other means than a mob of angry halflings.
I stopped the fight by claiming there was a misunderstanding and appealing to the halflings' sense of pity. They allowed us to run out of there with our tails between our legs. Fortunately, we were more or less able to confirm that Dasher Snowbeetle was amongst their ranks. We wasted no time returning to the Snowbeetle estate. Uncle Snowbeetle gave us 200 gold just for the information we were able to acquire. That's the most money I've ever made for failing horribly.
When we returned to the Brass Dragon, I attempted to grill Leif about the ghost child again, but to no avail. Later that night, I was visited by that very ghost child. I think it tried to possess my body, but I managed not to let it in. It told me to "Stop." I assumed it meant for me to stop trying to talk to Leif about the situation. When we woke, I spoke to the group about it. We agreed that we should probably bring in a professional to help deal with things.
Urku complained about hearing a voice in his head commanding us to head to Blackstaff Tower. (Gods, I certainly know how... cramped it feels to have another voice in your mind.) We agreed to go to the tower. It had one of those doors that only lets you in when it wants to. The master of the tower, a dark skinned woman in brown and purple garb, gave us a pitch about becoming part of Force Grey. Essentially, it would involve us going on missions too dangerous for the city guard, and giving us free reign to cause all the damage we need to. At first I was hesitant to join; I'm not exactly a special forces kind of guy. Then Urku pointed out that we would be making the authorities seem incompetent, and I changed my tune. In Force Grey, I doubt that I'll meet my end at the hands of any halflings.
When the Blackstaff woman kicked us out of her tower, we headed for the nearby Font of Knowledge to look for information about our ghost problem. The most interesting thing I was able to confirm was that Leif and Portia (corpses located in the cellar and larder respectively) met their ends through some sort of necromantic means. Before their tenure there, the place was an orphanage headed by some evil hag. The old woman was lynched, but some of the children that lived there were never accounted for. I'm guessing that that's the origin of our torn out throat girl.
We got a lead on a holy person that might be able to help us. As I write this, we're on our way to the City of the Dead to seek them out. No telling what kind weird shit we'll encounter there. Best case scenario, I'll be forced into an awkward conversation with kobolds when we run across my mom's grave. Worst case scenario, zombies, lots of zombies. At least there probably won't be any angry halflings.
How Can I Be Expected to Earn a Living While Also Following an Ethical Moral Code?
So there I was, surveying the warehouse I meant to rob. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark figure with a shock of white hair dart into an alley. It was a bad day. I wanted to get to the top of a tall building to get a better look at the warehouse, and I failed to scale it multiple times. I hope no girls were watching. I need less booze and more active capers beneath the light of the moon and the stars. (Alas, I can't. I'll get to it later.) I also had the nagging sense that I was slipping into my old ways, after having been on a relatively righteous path up until that point. Still, owing a substantial debt spurred me on to shady criminal action. Knowing that we were being tailed, it seemed unwise to go through with the warehouse job in the middle of the day. (Especially since we were being shadowed and warehouse security was at its weakest during the morning shift change.)
As bad a day as it was, I wasn't born the day previous. After some debate, Scorch, Marlaia, and I decided to hide out at a bar and see if our tail would follow us inside. It seems that they knew we would resort to this tactic. They left a note that I should check out something called the Eyecatcher and also some kind of eye patch. It reminded me of my father. I had an inkling of an idea that this would be the kind of thing Mizzana would pull, but I laughed it off as an absurdity. This Eyecatcher is probably another den of scoundrels and lowlives looking to steer me back away from my path towards being a respectable, upstanding person. (Yes, I know that said path is tenuous and rife with mortal peril.)
We finished up at the bar and made our way back to the Brass Dragon. Urku, Igris, and Daara arrived not long after we did. It seems they had a fruitful journey and brought us a somewhat lucrative missing person case. The only catch was that the Zintarum had taken the same job and we had to beat them to the punch. Easy enough. Those that we'd run across hadn't been that tough or smart.
When I brought up our plan to rob the warehouse the next morning, Urku wasn't pleased. He was of the persuasion that those riches should go to their rightful owners. I was of the persuasion that we were the rightful owners of those riches. I tried to convince him that we deserved at least a sizable cut of the treasure. After all, the owners of the goods should count themselves lucky to get anything at all back. They were lucky that the Zintarum didn't just divvy the goods up amongst themselves and sell it all for traveler's dust. In the end though, I came around to Urku's way of thinking.
The slum lords of the Field Ward love their gold. The rent is far too much for accommodations being offered there. If you're a day late or a nib short, they have no problem throwing you out into the mud. Most business owners (from all over Waterdeep) aren't any different from those slum lords. They sell their goods at a steep markup while they pay their employees less than what they need to live. (The workers fight hard for every nib of this money. For Ilmater's sake, look at Loraleth. She's worked herself to the bone her whole life and has practically nothing to show for it.) I guess my point is that, in a world like this, is it really so bad to just reach out and take whatever it is you need? Everyone with any wealth seems to have done so in some way or another. What makes burglary any worse than employing people at slave wages? What makes reclaiming lost treasure any worse than price hikes for food, clean water, and shelter? Illithids are nasty. So are chromatic dragons and beholders. Still, I can't think of any beast nastier or hungrier than the market and the cruel despots who have mastered it.
I guess I owe it to myself and the people in my orbit to be better. I have to rise above my own greed and the circumstances in my life that created that greed. With my skills as an investigator and with the Brass Dragon, I have a real chance at climbing out of the muck and bringing everyone that I possibly can with me. I guess it's best not to let my hunger for treasure interfere with these goals. (And yes, there's a good chance I'll wind up broke, but at least getting there will still be fun.)
The next morning, I had a chat with Eustace Stagget over in the dock ward. I'm sure he loved having his breakfast interrupted by a scruggy lout like me. I asked him about the guy we were after (Dasher Snowbeetle), and he pointed me to the Endshift Tavern over in the Field Ward. After a lengthy inner struggle, I decided to tell Stagget about the loot on Candle Lane. I thought that maybe he would see that it found its way to where it belonged. Of course, there's a good chance he'll divvy it up with his cronies and spend it all on traveler's dust.
I headed back to the Brass Dragon on my way north, and told everyone where I was going and why. They decided to go with me. (Before we left Marlaia stopped me and talked about some encounter she had with a little ghost girl. I empathized with her fear as I had a similar encounter not that long ago. I told her that our ghostly staff was likely holding information from us.) I was glad to have them along, and not just because I enjoy their company. We made it to the Field Ward without much problem. I headed directly for the Endshift. As soon as I stepped in, Loraleth's brother, Taldit became aware of my arrival. He's been training to get into the Watch and he doesn't like me very much. He did everything he could to dig into me. I try to be careful what I say to Taldit. I can be 100 percent certain that anything I say to him will make it back to his lovely sister, and I have a hard enough time staying on her good side. Gods, he's annoying. Captain Armstrong wasn't any more pleasant. I didn't have much luck talking to him. My scaly friends were able to get through to him, though. He said that Shardrunners (a gang that I'd heard Snowbeetle might've been involved with) might be found at a hostel on Spice Street in the Dock Ward. One guy in the Dock Ward sends you all the way to the Field Ward. The guy in the Field Ward sends you all the way back to the Dock Ward. That's guards for you. Scorch used a spell to make it seem like Armstrong pooed himself and then retreated into the ring when he was found out. It was amusing.
While we were in the Field Ward I decided it would be a good idea to see if my father perhaps knew anything about the shardrunners. He lived in the criminal world for a long time, and even though he runs his business as cleanly as he can, he is still very much connected to criminal elements. Along the way, my companions picked up a stray beggar suffering from some disease or another. They managed to cure him, but he was without his memory, so he came with us. Dad offered me pretty much the same information that Armstrong did. I felt foolish for going to the guards first. At least Dad seemed to get along alright with my new companions. I told him to lead the Zintarum astray should they come in. I also told him to tell Taldit to go fuck himself if he saw the little shit. If he does, it'll still get back to Loraleth, but at least I won't be in trouble. It was around this time that Dad brought up Mizzana and I hastily shrugged it off. I'm still having a hard time working out how I feel about Mizzana, and Loraleth makes these things doubly difficult. I really don't like thinking about it. One day, I might have to deal with it. I'm not looking forward to it.
Anyways, we decided to take our new charge south to a temple of Ilmater. I didn't mind so much because Ilmater is one of the gods I actually like. It's been a while since I tried to speak to him. Unfortunately, on the way there, we were ambushed by the Zintarum. They rained hell on us from the rooftops while their armored captain blocked our escape. The kobolds and I lauched a three pronged attack on the captain while the others casted spells at the rooftop archers. It was a nasty fight. Our enemies were tough, numerous, tactical, and murderous. The kobolds did a number on the captain, and I scored the flashy killing blow. I saw crossbows turn on me, and ran for my life. One of them put a bolt in my neck, and again, I found myself in the gutter, dying. Because my father brought up Mizzana, my mind drifted to one of the last noble parties we crashed. We were out on a balcony, under the stars. I had a glass of wine. She (having shared an unfortunate night of drinking with me years prior,) had a wine glass full of clear water. I said something, I can't remember what, and she smiled.
Thankfully, I have more than one person who likes me enough to snatch me from the jaws of death. I'm not in good shape. I have wounds that are bleeding through my clothes and I can't move but to stagger, but we're headed to a temple of Ilmater. Perhaps something can be done there.
Kidnapped?!
[The first paragraph has been written in Fryd's usual manner of using the common script.]
Construction continues on the manor. Lately odd things have been happening. Representatives from various factions around the city have been initiating contact with my comrades. It's a little troubling that they're so willing to make such big commitments so soon after meeting these strangers. On the other hand, I'll welcome any gold that we can funnel towards our titanic debt.
[The following paragraphs have been written in the script of the deep speech.]
Two (perhaps more) of these organizations are quite interested in my repertoire of highly specialized skills. (I'm quite impressed with myself, too.) One of those groups was the Zhentarim. I laughed out loud and neglected to even meet with them. My life of crime is behind me, for the most part. (There's treasure out there that's not going to claim itself. I may need to bend some rules to do it.)
The other group, the Red Sashes, were more nefarious in their communications. As I made my way through the North Ward, headed back to the Field Ward to gather some of my personal effects, I was attacked from behind. There was a stinging pain in the back of my skull, I saw stars, and my vision blurred. I was still able to make out a dark clad figure with a red cloth covering their face when I spun around, swearing. I tried to put some distance between myself and my assailant, but they were far too fast and strong for me to resist. I woke up hours later, bound in a chair with a sack over my head.
After calling out, I was able to confirm that Marlaia was there with me, strangely enough. It wasn't long before our captors made themselves present. Marlaia tried pretending that she was unconscious, Ilmater bless her. I simply greeted my captors. When they stated the organization that employed them, I was nervous. I knew that either they had finally tracked me down for my crimes in the past, or that they were scouting me. Thankfully, it turned out to be the latter. The older male Red Sash outlined the mission, methods, and conditions that the Red Sashes worked under. He then offered us positions on the team. I accepted earnestly. It'll be nice fighting crime and making trouble for the authorities all at the same time.
Marlaia took some convincing, in the process of said convincing, I learned that Marlaia killed an unarmed man in order to protect someone. I didn't think she had it in her. When the Red Sash made his case, I chimed in saying that I would probably need Marlaia to bring me back from the brink of death (as she has before) during my adventures as a Red Sash. I don't know if it was my words that swayed her decision, but she did also decide to join.
When the Red Sashes unmasked us, we found ourselves in an exquisite study. They gave us a carriage ride back to the North Ward from wherever it is their mansion was. (My head pounded unmerciful and I couldn't tell up from down, let alone where I was in Waterdeep.) At some point, they mentioned something to us about coming up with a code name. Fuck. What am I going to call myself? Night Stalker? Too creepy. Shadow Slayer? How do you slay a shadow? I need to come up with something catchy that in no way points to my identity. The Red Sashes are an anonymous organization, after all.
[The rest of the journal entry has been written in the common script.]
Daara and Scorch joined the Watchful Order of Mages and Protectors. Firefighting is part of their job description there. (How in the hell are they going to manage that?) Maybe it'll be a good opportunity for them to expand their magical prowess. After their meeting with Ukoria, Scorch convinced her to come into the tavern and take a look at the ring. After some examination and some kind of failed cast, Ukoria told us that the only way we'll ever be free from the damn thing is if someone wishes it so. It looks like we're going to be stuck together for quite a while. Gods help him if I have to run into a burning building to save a child or something.
After Ukoria left, we spent some time socializing. (Or trying to, at least.) Scorch and Marlaia were having some kind of awkward standoff that we had to diffuse. Marlaia needs to learn to speak up more and talk to us. I'm sure we all value her input more than she realizes. Igris is still incredibly paranoid about cats. Daara, during this time, was just trying to be a good friend to Marlaia, as always. Urku, oddly, was missing. Of course, my squabbles with Leif continue. He pisses me off to no end, but I hang out with him as long as he keeps pouring drinks. At least I'm getting a burgeoning fluency in Elvish out of the deal.
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.
Trollskull Manor at Night
We opted to spend the night at our newly acquired manor. I was ill at ease about the spirits that potentially haunted the place, but everyone else seemed to be in a good mood. After having a look through the place, we decided to go out into the city for supplies to pass the night. Considering the main thing I thought we would have to contend with was vengeful spirits, liquid courage was top priority on my shopping list. We visited the businesses close to Trollskull first.
We went to the bookstore. I'm sure Daara was pleased to acquaint herself with the proprietor who was also a dragonborn. Scorch was interested in finding some books to read during his boring hours in the ring. He wanted to know about the city and also the plane of fire. I suggested that he wanted to read a fine selection of steamy bodice-rippers. We all had a good laugh at that. Well, I don't know about everyone else, but I sure did. I apologized to the proprietor for sending him after smut and then truly relayed Scorch's request. He spent a lot of gold on books. I will try to endure his pouring over basic information that I already know about the city. Also, I'm not sure how interesting the plane of fire could be. Maybe we'll be able to find some way to free him from his ruby prison. Daara and the proprietor discussed entering into some kind of student/teacher relationship. Maybe she'll learn some useful skill that will save us in our most dire moment. Maybe she'll learn a different tune to play on her bagpipes. I would welcome either.
We went to the herbalist. The elvish herbalist happens to be decently good friends with Mr. Trench. They told me to relay their greetings, and later that evening, I did. I was appalled at the cost of their health potions. I think Marlaia was persuaded to purchase an herbalist's kit, so the trip wasn't a total waste.
We also went the the weaponsmiths'. They were genasi couple able to actually speak with Scorch in the language that he knows. Maybe they could help solve the mystery of the ring at some point? My attention was arrested by some caltrops. I've known them to be quite useful in my... past endeavors, so I bought some. I was amused to see Igris order the creation of some traps. I think he intends to use them on Tiger.
We went deeper into the city to gather supplies for Trollskull. Our trip was pretty uneventful. We returned with basic necessities like liquor and candles. When we returned, I was surprised to see that someone was having a drink at the bar. I crept ahead of everyone to see if perhaps some gangsters had broken into the manor to avenge their fallen comrades. I was relieved to see Mr. Trench and Reinar Neverember sitting at the bar. They were there to congratulate us on the new property. They brought wine that was way better than the stuff that I brought. Neverember offered to put us in contact with some of his people to get the place fixed up and running again. We stole some of Mr. Trench's time to present him with the mysterious ledger I found at the warehouse. He couldn't make sense of it immediately, but I know that it's in good hands. He also told me that the box I picked up was something called a bird box and could be used to magically send written messages to other people. It wiill surely come in handy. I also persuaded Igris to show Mr. Trench that eyeball thing he picked up in the sewers. Trench seemed to think it was some sort of key. I'm in no hurry to discover what it opens. Trench and Neverember took their leave shortly after we arrived.
As they left I polished off my glass of wine and put it on the counter, which, if I haven't mentioned it before, is always immaculately clean. I immediately learned why. A spirit began to materialize in front of me. At first, my muscles tensed and I grasped the hilt of my rapier. Soon I realized that this spirit looked innocent. It was the spirit of an elf man, a spirit who began to pour me another glass of wine and who complained that he never thought our company would leave. He was later joined by a cook spirit named Portia. Apparently, they exist to serve the living, and they want Trollskull Manor to be a functioning tavern again. I was a little baffled. Growing up in Dad's tavern, I knew the servers. I watched them die a little bit inside every time they had to deal with a rude customer or clean up someone's vomit, or deal with some other horrid eventuality of their job. These ghosts (Leif the bartender and Portia the cook), though, seemed to want to cook and serve drinks just because that's what they truly wanted to do. Considering their willingness to work with us, we discussed some of our plans for the tavern.
My original thought about the tavern was that it would be a place that would be welcoming to anyone, regardless of background. Everyone else managed to talk me down from that lofty ideal, though. If we want to get out from under our moneylenders, we need to serve the more elite clientèle. I just wish that Leif wasn't such a smug bastard. He was quick to denigrate the Field Ward and it's inhabitants. He was quick to imply that I was dressed like a bum. It made me quite angry, but if we are going to be serving the well to do, a wardrobe change may indeed be in order. I don't have the money for it at the moment, so no use worrying about it now.
After talking things out with the ghosts, we spent the rest of the evening wandering the manor. We discussed features and improvements we would like to see. We all, except Scorch, picked out rooms for ourselves.
Coming Clean
One thought replayed intensely in my head as I crawled out of the manhole to sully the street with the foul slime caked onto my leather armor. My skin itched and I had the taste of 1000 random people's shit in my mouth. I needed a bath, and I needed it immediately. I made this known to my companions, and they didn't fight me on it. We made for the nearest establishment that might offer baths.
That establishment was Mother Tathlorn's House of Pleasure and Healing. Quite a mouthful. (No pun intended.) I was almost a little reluctant to go in when I saw all the prostitutes out front. I am sort of spoken for, after all. (I hope.) When the scantily clad goliath man out front was outlining the prices for us, he made it clear that Marlaia and I would need private baths before we were able to join the others. The price was one gold for the whole lot of the others, but Marlaia and I had to cough up a gold a piece to get individual cleanings beforehand. Sure, it was steep, but if it was me, I wouldn't accept a shard less than what was charged to deal with the amount of mess that my tiefling companion and I brought into the house.
Once I was clean, I left behind the tub of soapy shitwater to join the others. Igris paid handsomely for this ridiculous spread of seafood. I was pleased to sample it. It had been quite a long time since the eggs I ate the other morning. As I ingested bits of raw fish, I observed the others. Marlaia and Daara discussed something, I'm not sure what. I saw Urku talking to Neverember at one point, I'm not sure what that was about, either. With this lot, though, I feel pretty safe in assuming that no one's plotting against me in secret.
Neverember and Floon seemed quite fond of each other. I should have guessed it. I wonder if Neverember ever suffered the wrath of his family for his preferences. With my own proclivities towards nonhuman women, I am glad I don't come from a noble house. The last thing I need is someone like my father telling me who to fuck.
Scorch made himself present. I helped with some translation, and even had a little fun at his expense. It's only fair. He's got me talking to myself quite a bit. I laughed quietly to myself when Igris used the flames coming from Scorch's head to cook bits of fish. I thanked Ilmater and Oghma when one of those bits of fish transformed into Tiger. It looks like I won't be making that dreaded return trip to the sewer, after all.
After we were cleaned, fed, rested, and healed, we made our way back to the Yawning Portal. I was eager to get my cut of the pay. Unfortunately for me, Volo didn't have it. For a second, I thought about roughing him up. Those old days are long gone, though, and luckily for Volo, everybody seemed pleased enough to accept what he offered us instead of gold: the very haunted Trollskull Manor. I expected Erik to turn on us immediately. Instead, he just asked for a job when we turn the place into a business. (Easier said than done.) I was initially against it, but when I considered that Volo would probably never be able to pay us the exorbitant amount that he owed us, Trollskull Manor was better than nothing.
The following morning, Volo took us to get the paperwork involving the property out of the way. Once that was cleared, we went to Trollskull Manor for a tour. The place seems as though it was a thriving inn and tavern at one point or another before ghosts started murdering people there. The manor offers us plenty of space, working plumbing, and even stables. (It does need a lot of work, though.) My father would be proud. Even with the manor's current shortcomings, it almost puts his pub to shame. We didn't see anything too frightening during our walkthrough, but I'm sure the evil spirits will need dealing with sooner rather than later.
The Fucking Cat
I'm glad to be leaving the sewers. It was no fun down there.
Things started out alright. I led the way with my lantern so that the dull-eyed among us could make our way through the foul-smelling labyrinth. It wasn't long before we ran into a creature that looked like a floating cyclopean head that had tendrils with eyeballs at the ends of them. The beast, perhaps surprised by the small army setting in on it, used some of its tendrils to fire off colorful magical attacks that either missed our group or didn't affect us dramatically. I took the lead, leaping over the sewer's chasm of filth to run up to the creature and deliver a satisfying stab with the point of my rapier. Neverember closed in and delivered a finishing blow that made the being plummet into the muck. It seems as though the pampered noble has a bit of fight in him, after all. Perfect.
We continued to follow the symbols on the walls to search for the Xanathar hideout. Aside from the nauseating odor that sickened my comrades, things went smoothly. Then I turned a corner and took an arrow to the shoulder. We were assaulted by then unknown creatures from arrowslits built into the walls of the sewer. I did an impressive acrobatic flip over the muck to put myself on the flank of one of the arrowslits. One of the kobolds went into a frenzy and slew one of our attackers with a skilled strike of his axe through the arrow slit. The other adopted a similar strategy, but wasn't quite as successful. I managed to put an arrow through the other slit and kill one of the bastards. Scorch used his magic to torch one of the hidey holes. Poor Marlaia tried to come to our aid, but fell face first in the sewer. This was a predicament that I didn't envy but would soon empathize with. Daara used psychic insults to hurt the little buggers. This frustrating long range combat went on for a while until all of our lucky blows landed and we couldn't hear them moving around anymore. We went through a door down the way to peek behind one of the arrowslits and discover that our attackers were goblins. The Xanathar are just hiring anybody these days, I suppose.
My new friends decided to search they area before we moved on in search of the hideout. Something told me that I should hang back until I was needed, so I did. It wasn't long before I heard the shrill scream of Igris. I ran to aid my new friends. I attempted another skillful leap over the sewage, but fumbled and fell in. Tiger leaped from my neck into the darkness just before my body plunged into the slimy dung. Some of it got in my mouth. The rotten, swampy taste of the sewage burned my tongue and the inside of my nose. My lantern was doused, leaving me sick and covered in shit in the total blackness of the sewer.
I heard my teammates fighting something in the inky darkness, but I couldn't follow the action. At one point, Scorch came by and lifted me to my feet. Marlaia, Erik, and Neverember passed me by. When the fighting was over, we regrouped. Daara and Scorch provided us with light as we continued our search for Floon Blackmar. It was the best I could do not to vomit in someone's boots as we walked along the cramped walkways.
We came to the lair of the Xanathar. I couldn't see much, but I did see a formidable looking orcish mage torturing Floon with lightning. The others seemed to notice something else that was more frightening deeper in the darkness. From that point on, everything was a blur. The only things I remember are firing an arrow into the shadows only to hear it break against a wall and a headache. No, it wasn't just a headache. It was like my mind was being painfully violated. I nearly succumbed to the pain. Moments from my past, memories of Loraleth and the barmaid who taught me how to read, flashed in my mind. I was prepared to die. Thankfully, someone was able to rescue me with a healing touch. It didn't spare me the painful aftershock of the psychic attack, though.
We searched the lair and found a chest with a fair bit of treasure in it. Some of the others wanted to explore the lair more thoroughly, but I decided to stay put lest I ran afoul another psychic killer. The others found a shortcut out of the sewers.
Climbing towards the manhole, my mind drifted to Tiger. That fucking cat. I hope he was smart enough to find his way out of the sewers. I have no desire to go back down and search for him. (Even if Viktor winds up killing me.)
An Interesting Day
I woke with a clear head today. A rarity, in this era of my life. Who would have thought living on the straight and narrow would be so difficult? Certainly not me. You'd think I know better considering how well read and intelligent I am. If I only applied myself, I could probably be one of the most celebrated noble lords in all of Waterdeep. Alas, you can take a troubled boy out of the streets, but you can't take the streets out of a troubled boy.
I had a simple breakfast of fried eggs. In the old days, I would just wake up and steal whatever I was hungry for. (That, or just drink the rest of the previous night's wine for breakfast.) Now that I'm working for Viktor Trench, I find that quick, simple meals are all that time will afford me. After my eggs, I hopped in a carriage bound for Mr. Trench's flat. Trench and his cat joined me in that carriage and we set off for the Yawning Portal. He was as nebulous and sharp as ever.
We only got part of the way there when the city watch stopped our carriage. Trench had me get out to see what was afoot. I saw what I believe to be some sort of crime scene made to look like a crash of carriages. Whoever perpetrated the crime left all the riches, including a brilliant ring with a red jewel that I pocketed. I figured, if nothing else, this treasure that I "found" might help Loraleth stay on top of some of her financial obligations.
I got back into the carriage and explained everything to Trench. I showed him the ring, and surprisingly, he couldn't make heads or tails of the script on the inside of the golden band, but did note that it reeked of abjuration. I slipped on the ring for safe keeping. We took the carriage the rest of the way to the Yawning Portal.
The Portal is a fine establishment, perfect for mundane patrons and adventurers alike. In my opinion, it lacks a certain charm that smaller, grimier establishments like my father's tavern have. Our meeting was with one Jalester Silvermane, a guardsman convinced that his partner was slain by someone other than the killer Mr. Trench and I caught last year. I'm struggling to remember the finer points of that conversation, now. A lot happened at the Yawning Portal.
First, a commotion at the tavern caught my attention. It seemed as though a group of ne'erdowells had set upon an orcish lady at the bar. Having somewhat of an affinity for ladies who aren't strictly human, I was quick to confront the thugs. Luckily, my endeavor was aided by a tiefling woman I would later come to know as Marlaia. We succeeded in running off the troublemakers, but the orc (Yagra, I believe her name was) was adamant that she could have handled the situation on her own.
After that situation had dissolved, Mr. Trench and I continued our meeting with Silvermane until there was another interruption. The Yawning Portal had been set upon by a troll and a swarm of bloodsucking insectoid creatures. Because of the latter, I nearly met my end. Thankfully, other patrons of the Portal were able to fight off the invaders. Someone was able to turn me away from death's door. There I was thinking that my chances of meeting a violent end were at an all time low.
I suppose I should mention that a Djinn summoned himself from the ring I wore. The tavern owner couldn't tell if he was friend or foe. Though his visage is fearsome and his language is strange, I could tell he was good at his core from his confused, yet gentle body language. He insists on being called Scorch. He has amnesia. We have a telepathic link. I'm not sure what to make of it, yet.
After the brouhaha, Trench continued his interview with Silvermane. I eavesdropped on a meeting between those patrons of the Portal who joined in the battle and a man named Volo. After hearing that the person Volo was looking for, Floon Blackmar, was last seen at the Skewered Dragon, I decided to butt into the conversation and offer my services. These strange characters, lizard people, the lot of them, could surely use my savvy wiles on this job, I thought.
The trio included a dragonborn and two goodly kobolds. Daara the dragonborn is a bard who plays the bagpipes. I find that her music has a unique quality that makes for a satisfying listen. She seems friendly enough. She's sensitive about her physical characteristics, namely her horns. The kobolds are called Igris and Urku. Urku (a paladin of Bahamut, believe it or not) seems to be the more intelligent and civilized of the two. Igris, a simple minded savage, follows Urku's lead for the most part, taking frequent detours to find whatever scraps of food that he can.
Volo offered us gold to track down his friend. 10 gold up front and 100 upon his safe delivery. Not bad for a gig. I even managed to negotiate a doubled payment for Scorch when I convinced Volo that he was on our side and benevolent to our cause. I wonder if the djinn will give me a kickback for negotiating his pay. Only time will tell.
On our way to the Skewered Dragon, we came upon an instance of brutal gang violence. (Such things are all too common in this day and age.) There was nothing I could do to help the guard round everyone up, so we continued on our way until we noticed that someone followed us. We tried to set up an ambush, but due to the simple minded nature of our kobold companions, we failed miserably. Our stalker was none other than Marlaia, the tiefling from the portal. After a brief, awkward discussion, she agreed to help us on our quest.
Before heading into the Skewered Dragon, my coterie entered a place called the Old Zablob Shop. The proprietor was a perverted professional of purple parcels, and I didn't like him one bit. I nearly attacked him when he demanded a lock of Marlaia's hair in exchange for vague information about a street brawl.
After that strange shop we finally entered the Skewered Dragon. It had that charm that my father's place has, but they overcharged for drinks and was bursting at the seams with Zintarum gangsters. I ordered an expensive round of drinks for everyone, but the crowd didn't seem to warm up to us. We piddled about for a bit. Once I got tired of waiting around, I waited for one of the gangsters to enter the lavatory and then I threatened him at knifepoint to get information. It turns out they were holding both Floon and Reinar Neverember in a warehouse on Candle Lane. I slipped out of the bar and tried to run away, but the Zintarum were fast upon us. My intention was to keep running, but when Daara unloaded with her breath weapon, I knew I had to stay and fight. This situation was all my fault, after all. My shortbow never gets a lot of use, so I was shocked that I manage to put an arrow in one of the gangster's throats. My comrades made surprisingly short work of the gangsters. When they were down to their last man, I convinced him to drop his weapon and surrender. We cajoled him into giving up his life of crime and coming with us on our quest. Later, I found out his name is Erik.
As night fell, I knew that I was handicapped compared to my companions. They can all see in the dark to an extent. In the past, I would always wait for a brilliantly moonlit night before I took on my jobs, or even work during the day. In the blackness, my human eyes betray me. I had no choice but to light a lantern on our way to the warehouse.
When we got there, it was clear from all the dead bodies that there was yet another gang rumble there. I turned a corner and we were set upon by Xanathar kenku assassins. One nearly killed Marlaia, but we prevailed in the end. We searched the warehouse. I found a coded ledger and some kind of box. I should turn these into Mr. Trench as soon as possible. Perhaps he can use them to strike a mortal blow against the Zintarum. We also found one of the missing men, Reinar Neverember. No Floon, though sadly. We also found a fabulous treasure about the time the city watch showed up. Despite my desperate efforts to trick Eustace Stagget into letting me near the treasure. I had to abandon it. We did get off the hook for all the dead gangsters, though.
Igris managed to find a paper with directions to a Xanathar hideout. Previous to writing this journal entry, I decoded it. We managed to convince Neverember to stay the night at the Grey Serpent. (Besk Yorland was pleasant to deal with, discreet as always.) In the morning, we descend into the sewers. I dread what horrors we may encounter down there.
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