Allies and Allies
3 Tarsakh 1492, Waterdeep
Companions:
- Casindra “Casi” Naïlo, a half-elf warlock
- Devotion, a tiefling cleric
- Lekslufer Biswell, a half-elf rogue
- Popdaka “Pop” Veinfinder, a dwarven paladin
- Thava Norixius, a dragonborn sorcerer
- Thokk, a half-orc monk
Now that we had an agreement with the infamous Volothamp Geddarm to locate and rescue his missing friend in exchange for a hefty reward, we were ready to head out on our first adventure together save for one small detail: despite being a native of Waterdeep, I was far from an expert on the city’s less-reputable watering holes, and simply knowing the tavern we sought was in the Docks Ward wasn’t much to go on. Fortunately, the directions Volo gave upon my inquiry were simple: between Net Street and Fillet Lane. The latter I knew better than the first, but more importantly, I knew also where they drew close enough together that a fellow Waterdhavian would give such a direction as it being “between” the two streets: the Way of the Dragon, one of the widest and most-traveled streets in all the city.
Walking Waterdeep
Waterdeep is an astoundingly navigable city for one of its size, due in very large part to the large signs at each corner which name the cross streets. As I led my new companions out of the Yawning Portal Tavern and into the crisp evening air, I giddily explained this system of signage pointing to the pair of signs identifying Rainrun Street and Belnimbra’s Street. I led my companions across Belnimbra’s to where Rainrun ended at Snail Street, then directed our path south along the broad boulevard. As we passed the crossing with Shesstra’s Street, I pointed out for my companions the colossal figure of the Honorable Knight, one of Waterdeep’s now-stationary walking statues which stood not far from my childhood home. My companions appeared to enjoy the anecdote I shared of attempting to climb the statue in my youth, and I took a moment to reflect on the simple pleasures of growing up in this most remarkable city.
Shortly thereafter, I was abruptly reminded that this great city is also one full of great danger: the road before us was blocked off by the City Watch, and even in the waning evening light it was abundantly clear that a bloody battle had been waged in the street. At least three survivors appeared to have been disarmed and manacled by the Watch, with at least a half-dozen bodies still lying on the cobblestones. One of the Watch intercepted us when we were still dozens of feet away from the carnage, sternly warning us against further approach. She did confirm that a battle had taken place been between rival gangs, but she seemingly didn’t care which gangs were involved, explaining that they come and go and even change their names from tenday to tenday.
I spotted the sign for Trollcrook Alley, which I remembered well enough from my youth, and ushered my companions in that direction. We were well into the Dock Ward at this point, and the air was ripe with the odors of sewage and salty sea air as we made our way past the tightly-packed tenements. Before we’d reached the other end of the street, Phelan made a startled noise and in the next instant, a shaggy-furred dog stood where once there had been a half-elf. Aurora—who I suspected to be just barely out of her teen years herself and far younger than should be any elf traveling on her own—cried out a delighted “Puppy!” at the sight of our now-canine companion.
Phelan gave a howl worthy of a wolf and raced down the street. A few steps later, the stench of rotting meat hit the rest of us, and I realized that an infamous butcher shop in this area was obviously still in business. “Don’t buy meat there,” I warned with a wince at the foul odor, relating how that same shop had been closed down four separate times while my father was serving in the City Watch. Someone asked me why that was, and I waved my hand toward the building in question—was not its foul stench warning enough?—with an explanation that on multiple occasions, people had gotten sick from eating meat purchased there.
The half-elf-turned-dog was pacing along the sidewalk in front of the butcher shop, his canine nose pressed to the ground and sniffing out… something. We called out to him to try to catch his attention, but as our companionship was still quite new, I suspect no one else was any more eager than I to attempt to physically redirect Phelan’s literally “dogged” attention. Aurora graciously volunteered to stay with him while the rest of us proceeded to the Skewered Dragon tavern, stating that she “had a way with wolves”—no one asked her to elaborate further—and that they would catch up with the rest of us when they were able.
Though we were reluctant to leave the pair behind, the last rays of the setting sun were nearly gone and we needed to press onward if we were to hope to find any clues to the disappearance of our client’s friend. Reminding Aurora that several members of the City Watch were at the other end of Trollcrook Alley should she and Phelan find trouble, the rest of us turned south on Zastrow Street.
Another childhood memory surfaced as we neared the corner with Fillet Lane: the grinning maw of Xoblob still leered out of his store window. Though I remember the building being yellow years before, the façade of the shop was now painted a shade of purple that would no doubt be a lurid hue in full daylight.
“That thing used to creep me out when I was a child,” I noted, indicating the miniature stuffed beholder to my companions, and Casi shuddered in agreement.
The Old Xoblob Shop had begun its existence as a pawn shop, but had gradually transformed into a shop full of curiosities which my mother and I had visited several times a year to see what was new and potentially interesting. I recounted to my companions how I’d always felt as though the beholder mannikin’s eyes were watching me, though the elderly shopkeeper had always been kind, and I lamented that he had likely passed on in the twenty years since I’d last been in Waterdeep. A late patron exiting the shop apparently caught the tail end of my remarks and claimed that “he” was just inside. It was then my turn to be confused, for Old Xoblob was the name of the shop’s many-eyed mascot, not its proprietor. However, recognizing that this was not a mystery my companions were interested in unraveling—and indeed, we had a more-pressing issue to investigate—we turned about and continued to the Way of the Dragon, the great avenue at the end of Fillet Lane.
The Skewered Dragon
The next road to our south was Net Street, as I recalled, and I realized our destination was near. It turned out to be even nearer than I thought, however, as the very second building we came across had a shingle overhanging the sidewalk, declaring the establishment to be the Skewered Dragon. Its entrance faced the alley between Fillet and Net, and “run-down” would have been a charitable description of the tavern’s state. An anchor had somehow become lodged in the roof of the one-story structure, and much of the glass had been smashed out of the building’s two front windows. Tarps covered the windows from the inside, but through the intact and uncovered panes, we could see that patrons were indeed inside and imbibing.
Our entrance into the tavern was met with disinterest, though I quickly committed to memory the general descriptions of those that I saw: a human barkeep of middle age with a solitary half-orc male seated on a stool opposite him; a trio of older humans at a nearby table; an elderly woman huddled in a chair near the fire with a bundle of knitting in her lap; a tiefling and a half-elf at the table nearest the fireplace; a large, dark-haired figure slumped over a table at the far end of the room—possibly another half-orc; and a pair of sea kin playing dice at one of the tables beside the broken right-hand window.
“Has anyone seen Doon Flagbar?” Thokk bellowed.
“Floon Blagmaar,” I corrected, grimacing at his utter lack of tact.
“I meant ‘Floon Glabmar!'” he amended, then asked quietly, “What does he look like again?”
“Volo said he was a tall, good-looking man with red hair,” I answered.
Thokk nodded, and turned to the bartender. “I’m looking for a good-looking man!”
The barkeep eyed the boisterous half-orc skeptically. “There are other establishments which offer that service,” he suggested, drawing guffaws of laughter from the tavern’s patrons as well as members of our party.
Blushing and stammering, Thokk stepped back, and Casi and Thava quickly took the lead. They asked the bartender if he remembered seeing two well-dressed men playing cards in the tavern two nights previously, but he admitted that that had been his night off. “Check with the regulars,” he suggested, pointing to the trio at the nearest table.
Leathery-skinned in a way that suggested decades of exposure to salty sea air, the three men affected looks of disinterest as Casi and Thava approached, but were quick to hint that refilling their tankards would go a long way toward refreshing their memories of the night in question. Casi gladly paid the coin, and the bartender drew three large drafts for the “regulars”. I thought I heard someone give a low whistle of appreciation—the dwarf Pop, if I had to guess—and reminded my companions that we had been advised the ale at the Skewered Dragon was both cheap and plentiful.
The libations did the trick, and the story began to emerge: the old sailors did indeed remember seeing a pair of “wealthy fools” in the tavern that night, drinking and gambling together. Soon after “the squirrely one”—presumably he meant Volo—left the tavern, the man we assume was Floon was joined at his table by another man the trio instantly recognized: Renaer Neverember.
When last I lived in Waterdeep, the Open Lord of the city was Lord Dagult Neverember, but he’d been caught up in a scandal a half-dozen or so years previously and removed from leadership, replaced in short order by Lady Laeral Silverhand, the present Open Lord. Neverember had taken the loss of office in stride, however, and had merely relocated to Neverwinter to the north, where he served as that city’s Lord Protector.
Casi recounted much the same for the others of our group, noting that the scandal which had prompted Dagult Neverember’s ouster had involved embezzlement of funds. The former sailors grumbled and spat in agreement, voicing their dissatisfaction in the previous Open Lord, who they blamed for sinking the Waterdhavian navy, then paying the island nation of Mintarn to build new ships instead of putting the shipyards of Waterdeep to work on the job. Given the context that Renaer was a “chip off the old block”, I could assume only that Renaer Neverember was the former Open Lord’s son; from what I could recall, Neverember had only the one acknowledged offspring—rumors named several bastards, of course—who was near my own age, though perhaps a few years older.
I caught movement from the corner of my eye and turned to regard the half-elf and the tiefling, who were feigning disinterest in the conversation. Pop had obviously seen something from them as well, as he tore his eyes away from the tall tankards lined up behind the bar to ask the tiefling about his interest. The tiefling deflected his question, but as I sensed there was something behind the pair’s reaction, I turned to them fully. “Is there something you have to share about Lord Neverember that might help? The man we seek has gone missing, and Neverember might know where he is.” The two men exchanged looks, then the half-elf admitted they had been hired to find Renaer Neverember, who had likewise gone missing two nights ago.
We turned our attention back to the regulars, and after further questioning from Casi, the old tars confirmed that the two men left the tavern sometime later and were followed out by five local toughs, four of whom the regulars recognized and even recalled where the quartet were employed: a warehouse on Candle Lane, several blocks to the north of the Skewered Dragon. They recalled it being just behind a furrier’s shop and marked with the sign of a winged snake on the door.
That piece of information caught everyone’s attention, though for a different reason for one of us. “Why does everyone look like they just realized something?” Thokk asked in confusion.
The half-elf from the fireplace swaggered over to provide the answer to that: it sounded very much like the symbol of the Zhentarim, a mercenary band with a very dark past. Though in current times their main business was running the Black Market and hiring themselves out as guards and spies, in the not-so-distant past the Zhentarim had been a conquering force with ambitions to seize control of all of Faerûn in the name of their evil god: first in service to Bane, god of strife, and later to Cyric, the mad god who’d briefly held the power of the Dead Three: Bane, Bhaal—god of murder—and Myrkul, god of decay.
“Wasn’t that one of the gangs Volo mentioned?” Thava asked, which I confirmed was indeed the case.
Since it seemed our respective missions might be aligned, I invited the tiefling and the half-elf to accompany the rest of us to the warehouse on Candle Lane, and after a moment’s hesitation, they accepted. The half-elf introduced himself as Lek, while his tiefling companion was named Devo. Lek and Thokk seemed to hit it off immediately, and it took some effort to herd the group out of the tavern in pursuit of our next clue.
Pop took advantage of the delay to purchase a tankard of ale, guzzling at all down as quickly as he could. When the drink was gone, he belched and declared it wasn’t half-bad, but it was nothing compared to a “lime juice and rockworm venom cocktail”. I suspect that peculiar concoction is a tale I will have to winnow out of him one day!
The Lone Candle
In putting this tale to paper now, I realize that in our haste to move to the location of the next clue, we forgot to check in on Aurora and Phelan, though I am pleased to report they eventually found us on their own thanks to Phelan’s very keen nose. Nevertheless, northward our band went—minus two but also plus two—until we at last reached the corner of Candle Lane. It was full night by then, and only a single lamp shone down the narrow street. Fortunately, every member of our party was blessed with darkvision, so we were unbothered by the gloom itself as we proceeded down the street, cautiously checking each door as we went. We soon found the door marked with the winged snake of the Zhentarim, but out of an abundance of caution, we checked other doors in the vicinity and found only one other to be marked, though it bore a complex emblem none of us recognized.
(I’ll record it here nonetheless, so that if I should find a chance to research it later, I’ll have a note of what we saw: a kite shield split diagonally with the lower left portion containing stripes and an anchor, and the upper right portion showing a tree above ripple patterns that suggested a body of water.)
The warehouse was dark, its front door was secured with a heavy padlock, and the porch beside the entrance was swept clean. Bars over the windows told us we’d find no easy entrance from this approach, but Devo and Lekk called our attention to the path leading between the warehouse and the building immediately to the left of it. We all gamely walked down the roughly-cobbled track and down the stairs leading behind the warehouse, quickly making our way around back to a courtyard surrounded by a high metal fence and accessible via a gate which hung invitingly open, swaying gently and noiselessly in the evening breeze.
The courtyard was bare save for a pile of ash, and the warehouse loomed high above us at this level, bordering the rectangular courtyard on two sides and sporting a single painted-over window to our left, but also three doors in front of us. Two of those were a set of huge double doors—secured with a chain and another padlock—while the third was a smaller, regular-sized door with a more conventional lock set into it, as well as a peephole slide that likely opened only from the inside. Lek wasted little time, pulling out a set of fine tools before bending over the padlock. He worked deftly even as Thokk peppered him with questions about what he was doing, and soon had the lock disengaged and dangling freely from the loosening chain.
Just as Lek and Thokk got the doors open, Pop stood up from where he’d been examining the ashes. “They’re still warm,” he reported, wiping his hand through his beard and incidentally darkening some of the gray streaks through its length. “It’s a cold night, but the ashes are still warm.” At that moment, I believe the hairs on our collective necks rose—even Thava’s scaled neck, I’m sure—as we all realized there was a very good chance we were not alone.
As tidy as the exterior of the warehouse had been, the interior was anything but: a fight had happened here, and fairly recently. Blood stained the stone floors in streaks where bodies had been dragged into rows along the walls, and discarded weapons were heaped in a far corner. Cloths were draped over the bodies, making it impossible to tell at a glance if either of our targets—or both—were among the dead.
Pop muttered a prayer, though if it was a spell or a benediction for the departed souls, I couldn’t begin to guess, for gentle Thokk became visibly distraught at the sight of the bodies, and though it seemed odd to me at that time—particularly in light of what was soon to follow—the benefit of hindsight affords me the reflection that perhaps his reaction should have been the one we all had: distress over the brutal deaths of unknown strangers. I knew most in our party had already seen our share of death even this early in our adventuring careers—Casi, with the hobgoblin attacks on her village; Pop, in the War of the Silver Marches and subsequent march to Gauntlgrym; and I through my recent travels with my Aunt Kara and in the months after departing her company. I couldn’t begin to speculate on Lek’s past—though he seemed as unbothered as any of the rest of us—and I could only assume that with Thava’s upbringing in a temple and Devo’s clerical training, those two had also tended to the wounded, the dying, and the dead.
As far as I knew, Thokk had never been anywhere but his father’s beachside house until their move to Baldur’s Gate and then Thokk’s subsequent departure for Waterdeep, and here we all stood, witnessing the shattering of his innocence.
Lek either didn’t notice or didn’t care, moving past Thokk to examine one of the covered bodies near the door. When the half-orc yelped at him for touching the dead, the half-elf sarcastically asked, “Aw, do you need your mommy?”
“Yes!” Thokk blubbered, then paused and became suddenly angry. “Wait, I hate my mom!”
“This one’s got a winged snake tattoo,” Pop called, inspecting the bodies across the room from the warehouse doors.
Lek pointed down at an arm sticking out from beneath one of the cloth-covered piles at his feet. “This one has an eye tattoo on its arm.”
“Why are you all touching the bodies?!” Thokk exclaimed in horror, backing away from us all.
“The guy from the bar,” Thava mused aloud, “the one who started the fight. Wasn’t he covered in eye tattoos?”
“At the Yawning Portal, yes,” I explained, responding to Lek and Devo’s obvious confusion. “The eye is the symbol of the Xanathar Guild.” I paused then, deciding not to explain that particular guild’s lengthy history in Waterdeep any further at this time, though I had a feeling such information might become relevant soon enough.
No one questioned my hesitance, however, as Thokk suddenly bellowed in pain, and we looked around to see a feathered shaft had become embedded into his shoulder. Two more arrows whizzed past his head, thunking solidly into the debris-strewn shelf beside him, another arrow clattered off of the stone wall just behind Pop, and a fourth dug itself deeply into my right thigh.
The Ambush
I missed the first returning volleys from my own companions as I fought through the sudden shock, but the squawks of pain which came from beyond Thokk indicated solid hits on the ambushers. Realizing I needed to protect myself from further harm lest this story never be told, I cast a spell of mage armor over myself, then looked about to see how my companions were faring. Devo and Thava were hurling spells of light and fire at the hooded figures which had emerged from cover, while Pop gave a cry to Moradin and charged an unseen figure behind the shelves to my right. Casi cursed in frustration as she missed with her crossbow, and Thokk howled in outrage as he lashed out at the nearest ambusher, which I soon recognized from its beaked face to be a kenku.
Lek darted around a corner to confront the pair of kenku who’d first fired upon Thokk, scoring a clean strike against one though it returned the favor a moment later. The agile half-elf nimbly dodged the sword of the other kenku at that end of the room, however, but Devo was not so lucky, taking an arrow high in the chest I feared might soon prove fatal. The next arrow which flew my direction was thankfully deflected by the protections I’d just cast, so I drew out my own bow and targeted Lek’s second opponent, piercing its left leg.
“They’re kenku!” I called out, unsure if that would mean anything to my companions.
A quick glance to Devo showed the tiefling was already casting a spell of healing upon himself. Thava was far more successful with her own crossbow than was Casi, with the half-elf snarling in frustration as she missed her target yet again. Then, to everyone’s surprise—though we had seen the weapon strapped to his pack—Pop stepped out from behind the shelves with his own shortbow in hand, putting an arrow into the same mark I’d struck and sending it spinning to the floor with a distressed caw.
“A dwarf with an actual bow,” I murmured aloud, shaking my head. I’d seen stranger things, to be sure, but it was my understanding that the term “dwarven bow” referred to a throwing ax, not a finely-crafted recurve shortbow. I certainly needed to take some more time to learn more about this surprising dwarf.
Thokk slammed both of his fists into the opponent in front of him, letting out a roar of primal rage. Lek’s remaining attacker pressed on determinedly, scoring another hit on the half-elf even as Devo’s assailant fired another perfectly-aimed arrow, knocking the tiefling over backward. As I limped toward Devo, another pained grunt from Thokk warned he’d likely been struck again. An arrow whizzed between me and Thava, though I couldn’t say which of us the kenku had attempted to strike, and it mattered not at any rate: I already had the words on my lips for a spell of healing, and though I fear it did little to ease Devo’s wounds, the tiefling sat up almost instantly. He pointed at his would-be killer and called down another radiant beam, though he was too woozy yet for his aim to be true.
Thava also found her aim with her crossbow to be lacking, sharing a commiserating glance with Casi. The odd-eyed half-elf spat out an arcane phrase and thrust out her hand, sending forth a brilliant beam of crackling lightning that sizzled when it struck the bow-wielding kenku nearest Thokk. The enraged half-orc missed his first swing at the battered kenku directly in front of him, but his second punch connected solidly, cracking into the feathered creature’s chest and likely shattering several of its ribs from the bloodied wheeze which emerged from its beak as it fell.
A wounded but defiant Lek rolled away from the opponent he’d been trading blows with, coming to his feet with his bow in hand and shooting across the wooden staircase to fell the other kenku still standing near Thokk. I helped Devo to his feet, and the tiefling stepped forward to touch his friend on the shoulder to envelope him in healing light. Pop charged at the same kenku Lek had targeted, but his swing went wide as his opponent dodged, screeching at its lone companion. Perhaps finally realizing that our group was no mere band of street thugs, the two kenku attempted to flee, but Thava sent a burst of magic missiles their way, dropping them both to the warehouse floor.
Thokk bellowed again and struck his already-dead opponent twice more, and we all stood in stunned silence as he continued to pummel the kenku’s corpse. Pop was the first of us to react more appropriately to the half-orc’s blind fury, stepping to the side and placing his hand on the back of Thokk’s shoulder. The paladin sent forth a burst of divine energy that surely must have eased some of Thokk’s literal pain, but the distressed half-orc merely turned away from the deformed pile in front of him to alight upon the other dead kenku nearby.
Survivors
“This one’s still alive!” Casi called out from behind the shelf, having apparently gone to check on the opponent Pop had felled early in the skirmish.
Pop awkwardly patted Thokk on the back. “Good: maybe we can ask it some questions!”
“Can they even answer questions?” Thava asked, turning away from the gruesome spectacle that was Thokk’s continued catharsis.
“They mostly mimic voices,” Casi answered, swiftly disarming the kenku, “but they can talk, if they have to.”
“Maybe we should send Thokk over to intimidate it,” I suggested, gesturing to the half-orc whose rage seemed to be finally tapering off.
Pop had to direct Thokk toward Casi’s position, and as he stumbled over to the kenku slumped against the wall, Thokk made for a terrifying sight: covered in black feathers and blood—little of it his own—wild-eyed, and breathing harshly.
“No hurt, no hurt!” the kenku squawked feebly. “I talk! No hurt!”
Pop wisely turned Thokk about once more, easing him away from the survivor before he took a notion to beat that one with his gore-covered fists, too.
Lek and Devo set about checking the other kenku, reporting all but one were dead and that one wasn’t long for the world. Thava and Casi then led the interrogation, demanding to know why the kenku was here—”‘Kill them! Kill them all!'” it cried in a nasally voice—and who the kenku worked for—”‘The Xanathar sends its regards,'” it intoned in a deep, growling voice.
Casi leaned in, glaring menacingly. “Are there any more of you?”
“All gone!” the kenku exclaimed, then added sadly, “All gone…”
“Were there more of you?”
“Yes…”
“Where did they go?”
The kenku coughed, then adopted a gratingly nasal voice as it repeated back, “‘Follow the yellow signs in the sewers.'”
“Were there any prisoners? A red-headed man?”
“Two red! Two red!” the kenku exclaimed in its own voice.
“Lord Neverember has red hair,” Devo noted.
“So does Floon Blagmaar,” I added. “So they were both here, then?”
The kenku looked confused, but nodded. “Two red!” it agreed. Casi pressed it about where the two men were, and it seemed to struggle to find an answer. “‘No time to loot the place,'” it rasped, obviously mimicking another voice, “‘just get him to the boss.'”
“Both of them?”
The nasal voice returned again. “‘Toss his friend into the back room in case we need him later.'”
“What back room?” Pop demanded, having finally gotten Thokk calmed down and seated on the floor.
When Casi echoed the question, the kenku jerked its head feebly, indicating the north end of the warehouse.
“Upstairs?” she asked.
“Under,” the kenku corrected wearily.
We glanced over toward the stairs, and indeed, with the darkvision we each possessed, we were easily able to spot the door beneath the stairs. It hung precariously on its hinges, and as Pop stalked over and yanked on the knob, it came away freely in his hand.
I couldn’t see into the small room, but that hardly mattered. Pop reached in, grabbed a fist-full of canvas material, and tore it away, then demanded, “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” countered the cultured but weary voice from within the closet. “Xanathar or Zhentarim?”
“Eh?”
“Xanathar or Zhentarim?”
“He wants to know if we’re members of the Xanathar Guild or the Zhentarim,” I explained.
“Oh! Neither,” Pop explained to the still-hidden man. “We came looking for Bloon Blagfar.”
“Floon Blagmaar,” I corrected.
Pop nodded. “Yeah, him! You him?”
The red-headed man emerged from the small storeroom; he was battered and looked exhausted, but he still cut a handsome figure with his aquiline nose and sturdy build.
“Lord Neverember!” Lek and Devo exclaimed.
“Renaer, please,” the nobleman corrected, wincing slightly, though I couldn’t tell if it was because of the use of his title or the carnage within the warehouse. “You were looking for Floon?”
“Do you know why they took him?” Casi asked.
Renaer winced again. “I… I’m afraid they mistook him for me.” When Thava asked him why that might be, he sighed and hung his head. “It’s because of my father and the money he embezzled from Waterdeep. Most of the money has been recovered or accounted for, but there’s a lot still missing, and the Zhentarim think they can use something called the ‘Stone of Golorr’ to find it. That apparently used to be in the hands of the Xanathar Guild until someone stole it. ” He shook his head. “The Zhents thought I knew something about all of this, but I don’t: my father and I haven’t spoken in years.”
Straightening his shoulders, Renaer determinedly crossed the room and picked up a discarded rapier and dagger from the pile near the dead Zhents. “If you’re planning to go rescue Floon, then I’m going, too.”