Previously…

The night at the barn should have ended with relief. Instead, it ended with blood on the straw, lightning in the dark, and a child born under violence.

Lyra Marantz survived the attack—but only barely. Her son lived, marked by the strike that should have killed them both. And when the smoke cleared, nothing felt finished.

Morning After the Storm

Dawn came quietly. Too quietly.

The party woke to the creak of cooling wood and the smell of damp hay—and to the absence of someone who should have been there.

Keylith was gone.

In his place lay a letter, written with care and without apology. The Marantz family needed him now. Lyra needed him. And the child—Xander most of all. The road ahead was dangerous, and someone had to stay behind to make sure the danger did not follow them.

Some paths do not diverge in anger, but in responsibility.

Before they left the barn, the party did one more thing—something practical, grim, and necessary. They dug graves. Two of them. Deep enough to convince anyone who came looking that Lyra Marantz and her child were dead and buried.

In Waterdeep, names matter. Graves matter. And that morning, the party learned how easily both could be rewritten.

The First Night: The Trade Way

They did not make much distance that day.

The road south was cold, the sky a hard, unyielding gray. When night fell, they made camp just off the Trade Way, close enough to hear wagons pass but far enough to feel exposed.

Sleep came in fragments.

Every sound carried too far. Every shadow seemed to linger a second longer than it should. No attack came—but no one truly rested. The battle still echoed in their thoughts. Keylith’s absence sat heavy among them, an empty place around the fire.

They were moving forward, but none of them felt as though they had left anything behind.

The Second Night: The Griffin’s Roost

By the following evening, stone walls rose ahead of them—Zundbridge, and with it, the welcome sight of an inn.

The Griffin’s Roost offered warmth, food, and a roof that did not sway in the wind. It should have been enough.

It wasn’t.

They slept in beds this time, but the unease followed them indoors. Doors muffled the wind, not the memory of being hunted. Safety felt temporary—borrowed rather than owned. When morning came, they were rested in body, but not in spirit.

Two nights on the road, and neither had brought peace.

The City of Splendors

Waterdeep announced itself long before they reached its gates—walls rising like a promise, banners snapping in the cold air, traffic thickening with carts, travelers, and ambition.

The South Gate was busy, orderly, and mercilessly polite.

Forms were produced. Questions were asked. Names were written down with practiced efficiency. The city did not threaten them. It processed them.

The city did not threaten them. It processed them.

Then the rhythm broke.

A guard paused. Reached beneath the desk. Produced a weathered wanted poster—its edges soft from age and handling.

He looked at the paper.
Then at Doc.
Then back again.

There was no raised voice. No accusation shouted for all to hear.

“You’re coming with us.”

And just like that, Doc was escorted away—separated by procedure rather than force. The rest of the party was waved through the gate with directions to inquire at the Castle Ward if they wanted answers.

Waterdeep did not explain itself. It rarely does.

A Moment of Wonder

Before they found their way deeper into the city, the party passed a signpost at a crossroads in the Southern Ward.

Its arms were carved with street names and sigils that refused to stay still. As they watched, letters shifted. Arrows reoriented themselves. One route shimmered faintly, as though pleased to be noticed. Another grew longer, its distance stretching and folding in on itself.

A Little Wonder

No guard watched it. No coin was demanded. It was simply there—magic woven so casually into the city that no one stopped to stare except newcomers.

For a brief moment, the weight they carried eased. Not enough to forget what had been lost. But enough to remember that the world was still strange. Still capable of quiet beauty.

Then the noise of Waterdeep swallowed the feeling whole, and the city moved on.

The Yawning Portal

The Yawning Portal announced itself with sound before sight—laughter, music, and the scrape of chairs against stone.

Inside, the tavern was warm and crowded, thick with the smell of ale and roasted meat. Adventurers packed the room, their stories overlapping in half-heard boasts and shouted laughter. At the center of it all yawned the great well—dark, vast, and waiting.

They found a table. Ordered food. Tried to feel like they belonged.

When they asked after Davil Starsong, the room shifted just slightly, like a breath held too long.

Davil arrived with a half-orc bodyguard at his side and a smile that suggested he already knew why they were there. Talk turned to rumors. To an artifact whispered about as the Eye.

Then the door opened again.

Five men entered. Four hooded. One bareheaded—his scalp and face marked with eye tattoos that did not blink.

The tavern did not notice. The party did.

Moments later, the tattooed man stepped forward and pressed a dagger to Davil’s throat.

“Where’s the Eye, you traitorous bastard?”

Davil didn’t flinch.

Instead, he smiled—and began to speak.

He mocked the tattoos. Insulted the man’s courage. His lineage. His imagination. Each word landed cleanly, cutting deeper than the blade at his neck. The crowd watched as the aggressor faltered, his confidence unraveling under the weight of Davil’s voice.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

This was not a bar brawl yet. It was a demonstration.

And somewhere between the laughter, the tension, and the gathering storm of violence, the party learned one final lesson:

Waterdeep does not reveal its dangers all at once.

Sometimes, it lets them speak first.

Next time: initiative is rolled, and the City of Splendors shows its teeth.