Recap

Last session, the residents of Trollskull Manor traveled once more to the farmlands of Undercliff, where whispers of walking scarecrows and rotting harvests continued to spread across the vineyards surrounding Stoutfellow Farm. What began as another Emerald Enclave errand quickly became something stranger as the party destroyed one of the cursed creatures stalking the fields, only to realize the danger was far from over.

Meanwhile, Trollskull Manor itself continued its slow transformation from abandoned ruin into something far warmer. Guild inspectors came and went, friendships deepened, and the old tavern began to feel less haunted by death and more haunted by memory.

But in Waterdeep, peace rarely lasts long. And some mysteries do not stay buried.

Ruffled Feathers

Morning arrived at Trollskull Manor with sunlight filtering through dusty windows, the smell of breakfast drifting through the common room, and the unmistakable sound of disaster slamming into the shutters.

Again.

Before anyone could react, a familiar blur of feathers burst through the cracked front window with all the grace of a falling brick. The Emerald Enclave’s increasingly battered pigeon courier ricocheted off a hanging lantern, clipped the edge of the bar, and somehow landed upright with what could only be described as professional confidence.

The bird puffed out its chest. Cleared its throat. And delivered yet another summons.

Somewhere within the bird’s increasingly questionable attempt at dignity came troubling news from the City of the Dead. Graves had been disturbed. Corpses had vanished. And an old groundskeeper named Ambrose Everdawn was requesting assistance before panic spread through the city.

The pigeon then helped itself to someone’s cider, knocked the mug over, and crashed directly into the window frame while attempting to leave. Naturally.

Trollskull Manor, it seemed, had officially become the sort of place where magical birds simply appeared with cryptic assignments before breakfast. And honestly, no one seemed particularly surprised anymore.

“Trollskull Manor, it seemed, had officially become the sort of place where magical birds simply appeared with cryptic assignments before breakfast.”

A Barrel Half-Earned

The morning’s humor did not last long. Not long after the bird’s departure, the front doors of Trollskull Manor swung open once more to reveal Jack and Mary Stoutfellow standing in the tavern with mud on their boots and frustration written plainly across their faces.

The scarecrows were still out there. The party’s previous trip to Undercliff had destroyed one of the creatures haunting the vineyards, but during the night another had returned to the fields, trampling vines and terrifying livestock. Mary, especially, had little patience left for incomplete victories.

The confrontation carried none of the theatrical anger common to Waterdeep’s guild disputes. This was simpler than that. More personal. The Stoutfellows had trusted the party to protect their livelihood, and livelihoods in Undercliff were measured one damaged harvest at a time.

Still, beneath the frustration lingered something important: They had come back. Not to sever ties, not to demand repayment, but because they still believed the residents of Trollskull Manor might actually finish what they started.

Promises were made. The fields would be watched again. And this time, the work would be completed properly.

The Heart of Trollskull

By afternoon, the tension hanging over the tavern had softened once more. Tiny footsteps echoed overhead. Whispered voices shuffled behind half-closed doors. And eventually, the three urchins descended the stairs carrying what they proudly announced were official gifts for Trollskull Manor.

Nat carried a hand-painted wooden sign wrapped carefully in cloth. The lettering was uneven and slightly crooked, painted in bright cheerful colors across rough wood:

THE HEART OF TROLLSKULL

Not outside, Nat insisted through hurried signs and Squiddly’s enthusiastic translation. Inside, where everyone could see it.

Jenks proudly presented a dented lantern missing half its glass that only worked if struck hard enough, which naturally convinced him it was magical. Squiddly contributed a chipped silver bowl intended for tavern tips which he insisted was “mostly not stolen,” a clarification that somehow made the explanation significantly worse.

Laughter filled the tavern, the old house creaked softly around them, and somewhere between the gifts, the teasing, and Jenks already volunteering himself as the tavern’s future lighting expert, something quietly changed inside Trollskull Manor.

For the first time in years, the old building no longer felt abandoned. It felt alive. The sign was hung proudly above the hearth, the lantern flickered stubbornly beside the bar, and upstairs, the sounds of children arguing drifted warmly through halls that once knew only silence.

“For the first time in years, the old building no longer felt abandoned. It felt alive.”

Bells at Dusk

Evening settled slowly over Waterdeep.

The warmth of Trollskull Manor faded behind them as the party made their way through the city streets beneath a sky turning gold and gray. Somewhere along the journey, the business of the day carried them briefly toward the Guild Hall before the final bells of dusk began to echo across the city.

Then the streets grew quieter, the smell of hearthfires faded into damp earth and cold fog, and ahead, rising from the mist like the edge of another world entirely, stood the walls of the City of the Dead.

The Keeper of the Dead

“Some people guard castles. Ambrose Everdawn guarded the dead.”

By day, the City of the Dead served as Waterdeep’s great cemetery and public garden. By night, it belonged to silence.

Lanterns glowed faintly through the fog beyond the gates while bare trees clawed at the mist overhead, gravel paths twisted between ancient tombs and weathered statues worn smooth by centuries of rain, and waiting beneath a pale white lantern stood Ambrose Everdawn.

Some people guard castles. Ambrose guarded the dead.

The aging groundskeeper carried himself with the weary dignity of a knight who had spent too many years standing watch over things most people preferred not to think about. For months, graves throughout the cemetery had been disturbed. Bodies, always the poor, forgotten, or unclaimed, had vanished beneath cover of darkness without explanation.

No shattered wards, no signs of grave robbers. Only empty coffins and unanswered questions. And now another body had disappeared.

Gregor Grimmsby. The latest dead man to walk away from his grave.

Gregor Grimmsby’s Grave

Ambrose guided the party deeper into the cemetery through curling fog and rows of crooked headstones until they reached a small clearing where the earth itself had been torn apart.

Gregor Grimmsby’s grave lay open before them. The coffin below showed signs of frantic scratching from within. The dead had not merely been stolen. Something had risen.

“The dead had not merely been stolen. Something had risen.”

As the party examined the grave, pieces of a strange puzzle slowly began to emerge from the mud and darkness. Strange traces of necromantic residue lingered in the soil. Tiny tracks disappeared into the fog. Burial patterns revealed that only the forgotten dead seemed to be targeted.

And somewhere nearby, unseen eyes watched from the mist. The deeper the investigation went, the stranger it became. This did not feel like random grave robbing. It felt deliberate. Careful. Intelligent.

Through Fog and Powder

The trail eventually led beyond the cemetery walls and back into the sleeping streets of Waterdeep itself. Rain began to fall lightly across the cobblestones.

The city at night felt different here, quieter, older, full of shuttered storefronts and fading lanternlight reflecting across wet stone. The clues guided the party through narrow alleys and silent intersections while the fog thickened around them in pale drifting waves.

And then they found it. A small storefront glowing faintly through the mist. Its painted sign creaked softly overhead in the night air:

Dandymop’s Fine Wigs & Powder

Even by Waterdeep standards, it was not the sort of establishment most people expected to find connected to missing corpses. But the trail ended there. And somewhere inside the quiet little wig shop, light still moved behind the curtains.

The Shoppe Across the Street

“Waterdeep was a city built on secrets.”

The party lingered across the street from Dandymop’s beneath the dim glow of rain-slicked lanterns while the city held its breath around them. Rows of porcelain wig stands stared blankly from the shop window like silent witnesses frozen behind glass, the scent of rain mixed faintly with lilac powder drifting through the damp evening air, and beneath the quiet creaking of signs overhead, something about the little shop felt wrong.

“The night had not answered the party’s questions. But it had shown them where the answers were hiding.”

Not openly sinister, not monstrous. Just hidden. Waterdeep was a city built on secrets. Some were buried beneath taverns. Some slept beneath graveyards. And some waited quietly behind locked doors beneath a painted sign advertising wigs and perfume powder while the fog rolled endlessly through the streets outside.

The night had not answered the party’s questions. But it had shown them where the answers were hiding.