After the long night in Trollskull Manor’s attic, riddles whispered through old boards, spectral echoes lingering in the rafters, and Squiddly proudly hoisting a newly liberated troll skull like a trophy, the house finally settled into silence.

For the first time since claiming the manor, the party slept without interruption. No ghosts; no riddles. No hidden voices in the walls, just the creak of old beams and the slow breathing of a building that had waited many years to be lived in again.

Morning, however, brought a very different sort of surprise. And it smelled like breakfast.

The Morning After

The scent drifted through Trollskull Manor slowly at first, the faint aroma of eggs and toasted bread carried along the drafty hallways. There was another smell mixed in as well. Smoke. But noticeably less smoke than the previous attempt.

One by one, the party emerged from their rooms, drawn downstairs by curiosity and the unmistakable sounds of activity in the kitchen. Inside they found Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly hard at work.

The urchins had decided, entirely on their own, that the tavern needed breakfast. The results were… earnest.

Eggs were slightly overcooked around the edges. Bread had been cut into uneven slices. A few charred spots on the pan suggested that the morning had begun with more enthusiasm than experience, but compared to their earlier attempts, this meal was a triumph.

“The manor was still dusty, still crooked, still haunted by its past, but for the first time, it smelled like breakfast.”

Nat stood proudly beside the stove, arms folded with the confidence of a general inspecting her troops. Jenks fussed with plates and utensils while Squiddly darted around the room carrying mugs and attempting to look extremely professional about the whole affair.

When the party began sampling the food, the verdict was unanimous. It was good. Or, as the players jokingly put it around the table: “Less burnt.”

The phrase immediately became the official culinary rating scale for Trollskull Manor. And in that small moment, laughter echoing through the kitchen, sunlight creeping through dusty windows, something quietly important happened. The manor began to feel like a home.

A Tavern Needs Supplies

“For the first time since claiming Trollskull Manor, the alley felt less like a mystery … and more like a neighborhood.”

Of course, even the most enthusiastic breakfast required ingredients. Which meant someone needed to venture out into Trollskull Alley. Clover volunteered.

Stepping out into the morning air, he found the alley already beginning to stir with life. Shutters creaked open as shopkeepers began their day. A cart rattled somewhere down the street. The smell of fresh bread drifted faintly from a nearby bakery, mingling with the cool autumn air of Waterdeep. For the first time since the party claimed Trollskull Manor, the neighborhood felt less like a mystery and more like a community.

Clover passed Havershamble’s shop, its sign swaying gently in the breeze, before continuing past Trollskull Tailor, where bolts of fabric were being carefully arranged in the window display. Eventually he reached his destination: Appleton’s Fine Comestibles.

Inside, the shop was warm, bright, and pleasantly crowded with shelves of carefully arranged goods. Jars of preserves lined the walls beside baskets of fruit and neatly bundled herbs.

Artis Appleton greeted him warmly, joined by his twin sons, Hughie and Arno, who eagerly helped gather the supplies Clover needed. Coffee. Fresh fruit. Bread. Simple things, but exactly the sort of things a future tavern might one day serve its guests.

The conversation was friendly and relaxed, the sort of neighborly exchange that slowly builds the invisible threads connecting a community. By the time Clover stepped back into the alley, his arms full of provisions, Trollskull Alley had grown even livelier, and for a brief moment, the future of the manor felt real.

Three Sharp Knocks

Back at Trollskull Manor, the morning calm didn’t last long. Three sharp knocks echoed through the front door.

Before anyone could answer, the door swung open and a familiar voice rang out: “Good morning! Broxley Fairkettle, at your service once more!”

“Broxley Fairkettle swept into the tavern like a traveling storm made entirely of paperwork.”

The halfling swept into the tavern like a traveling storm composed entirely of paperwork. His burgundy scarf was immaculate. His waistcoat pressed to perfection. Under one arm he carried a leather folio stuffed with documents, while the other hand balanced a small stack of freshly printed broadsheets.

He paused just long enough to survey the room with a professional eye. Dust from recent repairs still lingered in the air. The floorboards creaked slightly underfoot. The manor, clearly, was still a work in progress.

Broxley nodded approvingly. “Good bones,” he declared. He then slapped the broadsheets down onto the nearest table. “Well, well! Look at that! No headlines featuring you this morning. A very promising start! Taverns thrive on reputation, you see. Not scandal.”

He gave a cheerful wink. And then the real reason for his visit emerged. Guild membership.

The Fellowship Pitch

Broxley launched into his explanation with the confidence of someone who had delivered this speech dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times before. Opening a tavern in Waterdeep, he explained, meant navigating the city’s complex web of guilds: Carpenters, Plumbers, Glassblowers, Vintners, Street laborers.

“In Waterdeep, opening a tavern isn’t just about ale and music. It’s about guilds, contracts, and the quiet power of paperwork.”

Each with their own expectations, regulations, and, most importantly, fees. Fortunately, Broxley represented a solution. The Fellowship of Innkeepers. With practiced efficiency, he laid out the party’s options.

• The Fellowship Package: A modest membership fee granting access to all necessary guild relationships, faster approvals, reliable workers, fewer unpleasant surprises.
• The À La Carte Route: Technically possible, but far more complicated. Negotiating with each guild separately meant delays, overlapping fees, and a mountain of paperwork.
• The Independent Path: Legal, certainly, but painfully slow. “Repairs approved in a year or three,” Broxley said cheerfully. “Assuming no one files an objection.”

The Duel of Words

The party had questions. Many questions. They asked about costs. About obligations. About alternatives. They joked about opening the tavern independently. They wondered whether Broxley himself might be exaggerating the difficulty.

Broxley responded to each challenge with unshakable good humor, negotiating with him felt less like a conversation and more like sparring with a very polite hurricane.

When someone asked what exactly the Fellowship offered, Broxley spread his hands dramatically. “Legitimacy, my friends. Protection from unexpected inspectors. Supplier discounts. Invitations to festivals. And, most importantly, the right to hang our plaque by your door.”

He tapped the tabletop for emphasis. “You would be amazed how many doors a small piece of official brass can open.”

“Negotiating with Broxley felt less like a conversation and more like sparring with a very polite hurricane.”

A Decision Deferred

In the end, no contracts were signed that morning. The party listened carefully, asked thoughtful questions, and weighed the possibilities, but the decision, whether to join the Fellowship or strike out independently, would require more thought.

Broxley seemed unsurprised. Thinking, he assured them, was free. Waiting, however, could become expensive.

With a graceful bow and a quick gathering of his papers, he prepared to leave. “Splendid! Or at least… actionable.” He adjusted his scarf, tucked the broadsheets under one arm, and headed for the door.

“Now then, Frewn’s Brews awaits my keen oversight, and trust me, you’d rather I not let him set the standard.” With that, he clicked his heels, hummed a jaunty tune, and departed as quickly as he had arrived.

The door closed behind him. And once again Trollskull Manor fell quiet.

The Shape of Things to Come

For a while, the party simply stood there, absorbing everything they had just heard. Owning a tavern in Waterdeep, it seemed, involved more than ghosts, riddles, and mysterious artifacts. It meant contracts. Neighbors. Guild politics. Expectations.

Upstairs, the troll skull still waited to be mounted on the wall; downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of breakfast and burnt eggs; and somewhere beyond the city walls, the first whispers of trouble were already stirring in the countryside of Undercliff.

“Upstairs waited a troll’s skull; downstairs waited a kitchen full of burnt eggs; somewhere between them, Trollskull Manor was becoming a home.”

But for now, Trollskull Manor stood in a fragile moment of calm. A building slowly becoming a home; a tavern slowly becoming a dream, and a future slowly taking shape, one decision at a time.