Twice Interrupted
3 Tarsakh 1492, Waterdeep
Companions:
- Aurora Moonwhisper, an elven ranger
- Casindra “Casi” Naïlo, a half-elf warlock
- Phelan, a half-elf druid
- Popdaka “Pop” Veinfinder, a dwarven paladin
- Thava Norixius, a dragonborn sorcerer
- Thokk, a half-orc monk
My patience paid off at last! I write this now in the pre-dawn hours of the 4th but I date the entry the 3rd, as the events I describe below began last evening.
As has become my custom of the last few nights, I took to the stage with my viol while the waitstaff of the Yawning Portal Tavern kept a nearby table in reserve as I had asked. As the evening deepened and the shadow of Mount Waterdeep began to stretch even this far south into the city, I was joined by the pair who would soon take over for the rest of the night, Mattrim “Threestrings” Mereg—a human whose fumbles with his lute seem oddly misplaced—and Nadia Greenhollow—a halfling so steady on the hand-drum that the mechanisms which animate Gondish constructs sound arrhythmic by comparison.
Per my agreement with the proprietor, Durnan, any would-be adventurers who entered the taproom but seemed too inexperienced to brave the depths of Undermountain were invited to join my table, and by the time my set drew to a close, there were six such individuals seated around the table, waiting for the meal and drink I promised in exchange for their entertainment of my proposal. I bid my bandmates farewell—erstwhile, I should say, for I think I shall not need return to busking at the Yawning Portal again!—and then joined the motley crew before me.
After introducing myself and offering the usual disclaimer that I was not, in fact, related to the famous Silverhand sisters—a rather flattering comparison I have fielded often since my return to Waterdeep—I asked for their own introductions as I signaled to the barmaid Bonnie to begin bringing food to our table.
Introductions
I record here the relevant details as best I remember them, and with my own impressions thereof:
Aurora Moonwhisper introduced herself first, a very young moon elf who claimed to be an outcast, which I found concerning, given the rarity of that punishment among my father’s kin. However, it soon became apparent that she misspoke—nerves, perhaps—and meant only that she and her family had been forced out of their forest home by a dragon attack. When she named a white dragon as the culprit, my thoughts immediately went to the pair of Whites who menaced my father’s people in the Coldwood during the War of the Silver Marches, and I wondered then if Aurora and I might be kin. I quickly set aside that potentially interesting notion to inquire upon later, as the next in the group began his introduction.
Thokk was all the name he gave, with the omission of a surname becoming all the more curious when he mentioned having been raised by a human father. The charming half-orc had an easiness about him that spoke of either supreme confidence or lack of awareness, and I still haven’t made up my mind which he possesses, if not both. His father’s seaside home had been destroyed during the calamitous tidal effects of the Second Sundering—the return of the continent of Laerakond to Abeir caused many such disruptions to the Sword Coast—so father and son had been forced to relocate to Baldur’s Gate for shelter. Now of age, young Thokk has taken it upon himself to earn enough coin to build his father’s house anew: a worthy and admirable goal for an adventurer, and a glowing endorsement of Thokk’s father that he has such a devoted son.
From the tallest among us to the shortest, the next to speak was Popdaka “Pop” Veinfinder, a dwarf approaching middle age but apparently quite new to his calling: he claimed to be the second-born dwarf of the reclaimed Mithral Hall, marking his years less than a century-and-a-half. As he soon explained, he’d been recently widowed after a long and happy marriage—though the term “recent” likely wasn’t on the same scale as a human might reckon time—but he seems to have gotten a taste for adventure after joining Bruenor Battlehammer‘s crusade to Gauntlgrym.
Next to speak was Casindra “Casi” Naïlo, an odd-eyed half-elf who seemed both charmingly naïve and shrewdly mercenary, a contradiction as stark as the hue of her eyes and which nearly had me missing the rest of her tale as I attempted to unravel it. As she explained it, people have been disappearing around the farming community of Secomber, and a force of hobgoblins in the nearby hills would seem to be the culprits. Casi’s own parents are among the missing, and in my eagerness to blurt that this might be something worth our investigation, I again nearly missed another part of her tale: a curious reference she made to a mysterious shrine.
The third half-elf at the table, Phelan, began with another sad tale of a destroyed village, lamenting the arrival of a necromancer to the environs of his peaceful community and the subsequent horde of zombies which soon plagued them. At this point, however, the story seemed to become a bit preposterous, ending with the village being eradicated by a dragon’s attack and the boisterous Phelan declaring his intent to avenge his family through the slaughter of the necromancer’s family, a shockingly violent admission on his part. Undoubtedly, there is more to that story, but I suspect there is also less, as I got the impression he was embellishing his tale most liberally.
In delightfully sharp contrast to the outrageous Phelan was Thava Norixius, a dragonborn who seemed almost shy at offering up her humble beginnings as an acolyte within a Baldurian temple of Torm, a not-uncommon figure of worship for the scaled folk. She then corrected herself, noting that she actually served Torm’s friend and fighting companion, the dragon god Bahamut, who has few grand temples of his own outside of the splendid shrines some metallic dragons craft for him within their lairs. As I, too, revere the Platinum Dragon—among a small number of goodly deities I find particularly inspiring—I felt an instant sense of kinship with Thava, even as I puzzled over how she seemed also to be at odds with herself.
With our introductions complete and our meal nearly finished, I attempted to detail my proposal for our first quest together, or more correctly, their first quest together which I would document. I’d scarcely gotten more than a half-dozen words out of my mouth before a raised voice nearer to the door of the tavern angrily accused another patron of killing his friends. My tablemates and I looked over to the source of the disturbance in time to see a man tattooed with symbols of the Xanathar Guild throw a punch at a tall and comely half-orc, which she reacted to gleefully as though he’d offered up an entertaining diversion. Four other ruffians crowded around the wrestling pair, and as hungry sharks drawn to the scent of blood in the water, the other patrons of the bar began to gather around the combatants.
The Brawl
My new companions began to move toward the commotion as well. Apparently dissatisfied with the limited perspective of his shorter height, Pop invited Thokk to throw him—perhaps in jest?—closer to the fracas, and the amiable half-orc happily complied, pitching Pop across the tavern. One of the large room’s many support posts intervened, however, but fared worse in the encounter than did the sturdy, well-armored dwarf. Thava cast a simple cantrip likely intended to distract the brawlers with illusory bursts of light, but the efficacy of her efforts was not immediately apparent. Left alone at the table, I jumped atop it to increase my vantage point, whereupon I noted that the four companions of the tattooed man had now joined the brawl which seemed to not be going in the instigator’s favor.
Aurora darted into the fray, appearing to have engaged one of the thugs directly, though even from my perch atop the table, I could not see how that action resolved. The proprietor of the inn seemed similarly inclined as I to view the conflagration from a higher position, and he climbed onto the bar in order to yell at the brawlers to leave at once. Peace-loving Thokk helped Pop to his feet then inspected the results of his handiwork upon the unsuspecting support post, but I could not see what the dwarf himself did after that because of the gathered crowd, and I similarly lost sight of Casi and Phelan. For her part, however, Thava seemed momentarily distracted by something as she neared the vicinity of the Well, but whatever it was, it did not impede her casting of that most-famous of unerring attacks—magic missile—and the glowing green darts Thava summoned flew over the assembled patrons to sting whomever she had targeted. While I remained interested in the goings-on across the room, I turned my attention to whatever it was that had captured Thava’s attention, and heard a buzzing sound which seemed to be increasing in volume, or as I soon learned, in proximity.
The Intruders
Perhaps startled into motion by Thava’s spell, perhaps hearing the same buzzing sound as Thava and I, or perhaps simply realizing the brawl was fast becoming lethal, the crowd began to disperse from around the combatants and also away from the Well, which turned out to be quite fortuitous as a hideous troll finished climbed its way up the walls of the Well and over the four-foot-high barrier protecting patrons from falling into its depths. The troll was accompanied by nearly a half-score buzzing creatures, the majority of which were clinging to the green-skinned monster’s warty torso while three others flitted above its head.
“Troll!” Durnan exclaimed, seeing the new threat as easily as I, and no doubt assessing it to be the most immediate danger to his patrons. He seized his old greatsword from above the taps, then began to make his way toward the Well, calling out for us to focus on the stirges unless we possessed flasks of lamp oil or spells of flame to use on the troll. As Durnan passed him on his way toward the giant, Thokk appeared to hand him a flask of what I soon learned was, in fact, lamp oil.
Though I sincerely doubt the monster was heeding Durnan’s advice, the troll focused on the stirges, pausing for a moment to dislodge the engorged creatures hanging onto its body, and the blood-bloated beasts drifted lazily into the depths of the Well. The other three, perhaps assuming they’d find easier targets elsewhere, went after others who stood nearby, though their attacks were for naught against all save Aurora, but she seemed to have taken the hit well enough.
The half-orc woman who had been the initial victim of the melee roared out in triumph and stood, and with the terrified patrons now racing for the perimeter and the exits, I could see that she seemed to have successfully pummeled her opponent into unconsciousness. Casi—sweet-faced, innocent-looking Casi—stood over the tattooed man’s unconscious form and did… something, and though I couldn’t see what, the effect upon the three thugs nearest her was immediate: they screamed in terror and began to scramble backward. The fourth, apparently oblivious to his companions’ flight, pushed at the half-orc woman to try to get to his fallen boss.
There’s little a dwarf loves more than killing giants, so it came as little surprise that Pop happily turned his warhammer about and clobbered the troll in the chest. Thava made an effort to slash her dagger at the stirge which hovered before her, but missed the agile creature by a few inches. Phelan was far more successful against his own flying opponent, nearly slicing it in half with his scimitar and sending the mangled creature into the pit after the sated stirges.
Though my wont is to stay out of such conflicts and merely to observe and record, there were two immediate reasons for my intervention at that time: a troll is no small matter for even seasoned adventurers, and as Durnan had asked for, I possessed a simple cantrip with which to hurl flames at the troll, and thus to hopefully prevent its uncanny ability to regenerate from its injuries. Though I am admittedly a poor shot, a troll is not so small a target, and my fire bolt struck its mark.
Aurora’s shortsword made short work of her own stirge, and she moved immediately toward the troll. Ever the voice of peace, Thokk attempted to reason with the monster, though even he should know there’s little less reasonable than a hungry troll. Casi tried her own arcane assault on the monster, and seizing upon her diverted attention, the one thug who’d not fled in terror from the unassuming half-elf darted in behind her and snatched up the unconscious instigator, ducking a fist from the half-orc woman and making all-haste for the exit. The last remaining stirge attempted again to bite Thava, but having learned her lesson about the agility of the tiny creature, the dragonborn summoned forth another set of magic missiles, frying the stirge with one dart and stabbing the troll with the other two.
The less said about Durnan’s dramatic charge, the better: though I do not think I need ever work in his establishment again, I do wish to remain in his good graces! As for the rest of us, Phelan and Pop pressed the troll from two sides—each scoring a solid hit—and I was once again successful in charring the monster with my fire bolt. With its regenerative capabilities thwarted by the flames, Aurora stepped in and struck the troll to the ground, whereupon Durnan made use of Thokk’s gift of oil to douse the still-twitching form. Ever-thoughtful, Thokk handed a tinderbox to Pop, who gleefully showered sparks over the fallen monster to set it alight.
As you read this tale in the months and years to come, be thankful that you were not present for the stench of a burning troll.
The Aftermath
Disgruntled, embarrassed, annoyed—who could say with dour Durnan?—but apparently satisfied that the threat had been neutralized and that the many enchantments laid upon his tavern would prevent the blaze consuming the troll from so much as scorching the floorboards beneath it, the tavernkeeper gruffly acknowledged my party’s efforts, seeming especially appreciative of Pop’s crushing blows. As the proprietor stomped away and disappeared into a room behind his bar, other staff surged forward to tend to the wounded, which by that point was restricted to only minor abrasions suffered by patrons jostled in the scrum, the puncture wound suffered by Aurora, and the bruised forehead of Pop—though again I say the clear loser of that encounter was the now-splintered wooden post: Thokk attempted to shore it up, but it will undoubtedly require replacement!
The combatants whose brawl had first interrupted our band’s meeting were nowhere to be seen: three had fled in terror from Casi—there’s far more than meets the eye with that lass!—while the fourth had dragged away the unconscious instigator, nor did I observe when the half-orc woman slipped out of the tavern, for indeed, she was no longer among the crowd as overturned chairs began to be righted all around the taproom.
“Brave adventurers!” cried out a voice. “Oh, how delightful to see such brave adventurers!”
The Client
For most Waterdhavians, the speaker needed no introduction: while his well-kept facial hair, fine dress, and crisp cravat signaled he was someone of wealth and influence, it was his trademark floppy hat which immediately identified him as Waterdeep’s most infamous raconteur. As he made his way toward the Well, the fact that none of my new companions were themselves natives of the City of Splendors compelled me to identify him by name to them.
“Volothamp Geddarm,” I explained, “a famous author. His books are—” Here I stumbled, unsure how to explain politely. “Well, at least they’re largely first-hand accounts,” I finished charitably, for indeed one could not accuse Volo of not putting himself in harm’s way for the sake of his Guide series.
Not slighted at all by my less-than-glowing introduction, Volo turned to me with a grin. “Indeed, I am he, good lady!” he exclaimed. From the look which passed over his face just then, I knew instantly what topic he would next broach, and I swiftly denied again any kinship to the legendary Silverhand sisters, complimentary as the comparison continues to be. When he asked if our party had a table at which we might gather, I sheepishly gestured to the one atop which I still stood.
As the inn’s staff leveraged the smoldering troll corpse into the Well, my new party assembled around the table once more. Volo dragged over another chair from nearby, nervously adjusted his cravat, and introduced himself grandly before swiftly segueing into a lament about the recent outbreak of violence in Waterdeep’s streets. I’d heard rumors from others that such incidences were on the rise, but until that evening’s brawl, I’d seen little evidence of gang activity spreading beyond the Dock Ward, a district which has unfortunately always had more than its share of criminal activity.
To his credit, Volo quickly got to the point: a friend of his named Floon Blagmaar was missing, having apparently disappeared two nights previously after Caravance-related carousing. Volo expressed his concern that his friend may have been “kidnapped or worse”, and offered a modest sum of ten gold pieces each as a retainer for our services. As is characteristic for Volo and his tendency to embellish matters, he immediately followed up that offer with one that stretched belief: ten times that amount once we’d found Floon.
Thokk cheerfully agreed to his terms and Pop seemed similarly inclined to race off to the rescue, but the rest of the party was far more skeptical of his claims. For the next thirty minutes or more, they badgered the poor man with questions about his and Floon’s whereabouts the night he went missing—the Skewered Dragon, a seedy tavern in the Dock Ward—and their activities—drinking and gambling amiably. As Volo noted, though the location of the tavern leaves much to be desired, it has a well-deserved reputation for cheap and plentiful ale.
His earlier mention of the rising criminal activity was no doubt the reason for one of my companions asking him about what gangs claimed the territory, but I found his explanation that no gang “owned” any specific territory to be less-than-satisfactory, as many do, in fact, own warehouses, taverns, pawn shops, and other fronts for their less-than-legitimate operations. Still, he did name all of the usual suspects for such activity: the Xanathar Guild, the Wharf Rats, the Shard Shunners, and the Zhentarim, but there are always new upstarts in a city such as this. The mention of gangs sparked recognition among my companions, and one inquired about the tattooed man who’d thrown the first punch. Volo agreed the man was likely from the Xanathar Guild, confirming my own suspicions.
I did inwardly agree that it seemed odd that the man hesitating to leap into action to rescue his friend was the same Volo who had once enraged half the spellcasters of Faerûn through his ill-advised publication of an exposé of the magical arts, but as Volo himself noted, he’s hardly a young man any longer. For perhaps the first time in his life, he downplayed a detail, for he named himself to be a mere 130 years old while the truth is likely closer to 160 years. However, as Volo seemed to be absent from Faerûn during the time of the Spellplague, it seems likely he was trapped in some sort of magical stasis during that calamitous event and thus aged not at all for at least a century. When my companions seemed skeptical of this claim, I at last jumped in to explain that Volo was, indeed, far older than he appeared to be, and most certainly was not the only human to be well over a hundred years old while not appearing more than middle-aged: our host for the evening, Durnan, is already into his third century, and he was not absent during the Spellplague as was Volo.
Once again demonstrating she’s far more than she seems, Casi demanded Volo sign a promissory note, agreeing to the terms of payment, but even I could see he did so only reluctantly, perhaps regretting already his impulsive offer to pay out nearly eight hundred gold pieces for the safe return of his friend: he balked, for instance, at adding his signature to the paper as she demanded, insisting that “everyone” would know the writing was his. More likely, I thought, he was loath to give an autograph away for free! Still his agitation and frustration at the interrogation clearly weighed on him, and he came close to walking away from the table when some of the questions became more accusatory; if put in his shoes, I might already have gone elsewhere! With Thokk and Pop both chiming in again in favor of accepting the job, we at long last came to an agreement, and Volo promised he’d not leave the Yawning Portal until the fate of Floon Blagmaar was known.