Waterdeep does not hide its secrets.
It scatters them.

If the night before had been about reputation and rumor, this one was about following a trail that no longer wanted to be followed. By the time the party realized that, they were already moving—less curious now, more certain, and with the uneasy sense that the city had noticed.

Waterdeep does not hide its secrets. It scatters them.

The Sleeping Wench

The Sleeping Wench offered the first piece of truth.

Floon Blagmaar and Renaer Neverember had been there. They’d shared drinks, lingered just long enough to be remembered, and then left together for another tavern down the ward: the Thirsty Sailor.

The answer came easily. Almost too easily.

A bard struck up a tune while the party listened—competent, practiced, the kind of music that blended into the room unless you knew what to listen for. No names were exchanged. No one made a show of it. In Waterdeep, even witnesses knew better than to stand out.

With direction at last, the party moved on.

City Detail: A nameless bard can be just a nameless bard… or someone you’ll recognize later. Waterdeep has a habit of hiding its threads in plain sight.

The Thirsty Sailor

The Thirsty Sailor did not pretend to be anything it wasn’t.

It was loud, crowded, and already flirting with chaos despite the early hour. Sailors fresh off the docks packed the room shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere near the back, a fight was already in progress, drawing cheers instead of concern. No one rushed to stop it. Violence here wasn’t an interruption—it was ambience.

As the party pressed in, Doc headed for the bar.

A heavy hand caught his shoulder. The dockhand who grabbed him was bigger, broader, and smiling in the way of someone looking for entertainment. He lifted Doc clear off the floor and looked him over with mock concern.

“Little guy,” he said. “Not sure you belong here. You even old enough to drink?”

Doc didn’t struggle. He didn’t shout. He waited until the man leaned in close—too close—and answered with action instead of argument. The exchange was fast and decisive, ending with the dockhand unconscious on the floor and the room falling silent for exactly one heartbeat.

Then the Sailor erupted.

Laughter. Cheers. A drink slapped into Doc’s hand as he was hauled up onto the bar. Bets were settled. Approval was given. No one called the Watch.

In the Dock Ward, the rules were simple: if you could stand your ground, you were welcome to stand at the bar.

In the Dock Ward, the rules were simple: if you could stand your ground, you were welcome to stand at the bar.

Once the noise settled, the party got what they came for. Floon and Renaer had been here. They’d drank. They’d left together for the Skewered Serpent—the very tavern Volo had told them to start with.

More troubling still, they hadn’t left alone.

Someone had followed them into the street.

Momentum: This is the moment the hunt stops being a question and becomes a chase.

The Skewered Serpent

By the time they reached the Skewered Serpent, the night had sharpened.

The tavern was closed—not for the hour, but for the aftermath. Doors barred. Windows dark. The Watch lingered just long enough to make it clear that whatever questions had been asked here were already finished. The bodies were gone. The city had moved on.

It was Kiril who noticed her.

The Tiefling woman stood just off to the side of the street, positioned where she could see everything without being seen herself. It was the same woman who had redirected them earlier. The same calm eyes. The same unreadable expression.

She didn’t pretend not to recognize them.

Floon and Renaer had arrived here after the Thirsty Sailor. They hadn’t stayed long. Violence followed swiftly and deliberately. By the time the Watch arrived, the story was already over—and not one the city intended to revisit.

Kiril listened without interrupting, weighing every word and every omission. When the tiefling finally fell silent, the shape of the night became clear.

This wasn’t a disappearance.

It was a taking.

This wasn’t a disappearance. It was a taking.

Down to the Docks

The trail pointed downhill.

The party took a roundabout path toward the waterfront, zig-zagging through narrow streets and alleys, careful not to arrive like people who wanted to be seen. By the time the docks opened up before them, the air had changed—salt, rot, wet wood, and the soft slap of water against stone.

This was where bodies were left.

It was also where tempers finally broke.

The argument started small. Practical. Where to stand. How close was too close. Whether something should be placed under the surface or kept above it. Words overlapped. Voices rose. Planning turned into frustration, sharpened by exhaustion and the growing certainty that time was slipping away.

Raven and Doc squared off near the edge of the pier, both convinced the other was missing something obvious. The stone beneath their feet was slick with spray, the water below dark and impatient. A wrong step here wouldn’t just hurt—it would swallow.

Nearby, dockworkers continued their labor, hauling crates from ship to wagon as if nothing of consequence was happening. Others lingered closer to the water, splashing and laughing, unaware that a rescue was being argued into existence only paces away.

Someone shifted. Someone lost footing.

The argument dissolved into motion—hands grabbing, curses cutting off, the sudden realization of just how close the edge really was. When it was over, the party stood damp, rattled, and very aware that the night had teeth.

The docks had made their point.

Pressure shows itself in strange ways. Sometimes the city doesn’t have to attack you to make you feel the edge.

What the City Had Decided

By the time they gathered themselves, Waterdeep had already passed judgment.

Floon was missing. Renaer was missing. Whatever had taken them knew the Dock Ward well enough to vanish into it. The Watch would not help. The taverns had said all they would say.

What remained was a choice.

The party stood at the edge of the water, no longer chasing rumor or coincidence. The city had narrowed their path to a single direction, and it was clear now that turning back would not make things safer.

Some friends, Waterdeep was saying, had to be found the hard way.

Next: The trail doesn’t just lead to answers. It leads to a door.