The morning after the scarecrows burned, Trollskull Manor smelled faintly of soot, wine, and damp plaster. Which, by Waterdhavian standards, was apparently progress.

For the first time in days, there were no murderous constructs lurking in the fields outside Undercliff. No midnight stakeouts beneath moonlit rows of crops. No desperate fights against things stitched together from straw and vengeance. Instead, the party awoke to something far more dangerous: Guild inspectors.

And in Waterdeep, those could be worse.

The Long Walk Home

Past one in the morning, the moon hung crooked above Mount Waterdeep as the party made the long walk north from Undercliff. Mud still clung to boots and cloaks. Smoke from the burned scarecrows lingered faintly in the fabric of their gear. The city gates welcomed them back with weary familiarity; even the watchmen looked too tired to ask questions.

Waterdeep, however, was still awake.

As the group passed through the North Ward, warm torchlight spilled from tavern windows into the narrow streets. Music drifted through the cool night air — fiddles, flutes, the uneven pounding of drums, and the occasional roar of drunken laughter. Somewhere nearby, someone was singing badly and confidently.

Then came the sound of breaking glass.

Thirty feet ahead, a man exploded backward through a tavern window in a spray of shattered lanternlight and beer foam, crashing into the middle of the street with another man tangled around him. The two rolled across the cobblestones throwing punches while half the tavern crowded around the broken window cheering wildly.

The other half barely looked up from their drinks.

Maple tried to determine whether anyone was actually dying.

Raven stared in exhausted disbelief.

Doc immediately moved closer to watch.

And Clover — either inspired by civic responsibility or sheer instinct — acquired a half-full wooden pail from somewhere nearby and hurled its contents onto the brawling pair with impeccable timing.

The reaction was immediate.

The fighters froze.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

And somewhere from inside the tavern, someone shouted:

“THAT COUNTS! PAY UP!”

A handful of coins exchanged hands near the window while one of the musicians simply kept playing as if men flew through tavern windows every night in Waterdeep.

Which, judging by the reactions around them, they probably did.

By the time the party finally reached Trollskull Alley, the city had settled into that strange quiet only great cities know — never truly asleep, merely breathing slower between disasters.

Dreams and Breakfast

By the time the party finally reached Trollskull Manor, exhaustion had settled into their bones. The Urchins were already asleep in the taproom booths beneath mismatched blankets, the hearth burning low and warm against the chill creeping through the old manor walls.

One by one, the house fell quiet.

Clover lingered longest near the fire.

And when sleep finally came, it came strangely.

He dreamed of scratching beneath wooden floorboards. Tiny claws scraping slowly through the dark. Somewhere nearby, something chewed patiently on what sounded horribly like bone.

Then came the smell.

Rotting herbs.

Wet stone.

Rosemary.

A pair of green-gold eyes blinked once from the darkness beneath the floor.

Clover woke with a start.

The fire had burned low to embers.

Somewhere deeper in the manor, old pipes groaned softly in the walls.

Morning arrived a few hours later with bacon, smoke, and absolute chaos.

True Dusk-Oak

The first to arrive was a broad-shouldered carpenter named Soukaev Thranroth of the Carpenters’, Roofers, and Plasterers’ Guild. He entered Trollskull Manor like a priest entering a neglected temple, trailing sawdust behind him with every heavy bootstep.

He barely greeted anyone. Instead, he pressed calloused fingers against beams, muttered grim observations under his breath, and marked warped boards with quick strokes of chalk.

“Rot.” Thunk.

“Not level.” Thunk.

“Pre-Blackstaff joinery. Shame.”

The entire inspection unfolded in the kind of silence that made everyone instinctively stand straighter. Even Doc looked mildly concerned.

Soukaev eventually stopped beneath one of the great support beams in the taproom and rested his palm against the old dusk-oak like a man listening for a heartbeat. Then, almost reverently, he muttered, “Still… true dusk-oak. Spine of the World. Worth saving.”

For a moment, the old manor didn’t feel abandoned at all. It felt ancient. Valuable. Tired, perhaps, but not broken.

Naturally, the moment lasted all of three seconds before another guild inspector nearly slammed the front door off its hinges.

“Still… true dusk-oak. Spine of the World. Worth saving.”

-Soukaev Thranroth

The Dunnyman’s Verdict

“Alright,” barked a loud voice from the entryway, “whose name is on the deed to this glorified outhouse?” In strode Naska Droon of the Cellarers’, Plumbers, and Dunnymen’s Guild carrying enough tools to siege a castle and enough attitude to charge extra for it afterward.

The argument between the two guild representatives began immediately. Apparently, this was not their first encounter.

The party soon learned that Waterdeep’s guild rivalries were less professional disagreements and more blood feuds conducted through passive-aggressive repair estimates.

“Ceilings don’t flood,” Soukaev muttered flatly.

“No,” Naska fired back, “but I’ve seen your joinery sag faster than a wet privy door.”

At one point, Soukaev threatened hazard fees. At another, Naska accused his guild of treating structural collapse like a personality trait.

By the time the two inspectors finally separated, the party possessed:

• one restoration estimate,
• several warnings about haunted plumbing,
• and a growing suspicion that Trollskull Manor itself might be personally offending the entire city.

Naska’s inspection proved even less comforting. According to the dunnymen’s guild, the manor currently suffered from:

• cracked pipe collars,
• sewer line instability,
• moldy privy gas,
• graywater pooling,
• and a drain that may or may not have attempted to bite her.

“Something down there whispered at me in Celestial,” she announced while emerging from the cellar covered in pipe grease. “I don’t speak it, but my knees started sweating.”

As terrifying plumbing assessments went, it was not especially reassuring.

Still, beneath the sarcasm and guild sniping, both inspectors seemed to agree on one thing:

Trollskull Manor was worth saving.

And somehow, that mattered.

“Something down there whispered at me in Celestial. I don’t speak it, but my knees started sweating.”

-Naska Droon

A Cask from Undercliff

Not long after Naska disappeared back into the streets of Waterdeep muttering about “psychic pipe-backups,” the sound of wagon wheels rattled into Trollskull Alley.

A stout cart bearing the mark of Stoutfellow Vineyard rolled to a stop outside the manor. Two weary farmhands climbed down and began wrestling an enormous wine cask toward the front door, the burned seal of Stoutfellow Reserve stamped proudly across the oak.

“Compliments of Jack and Mary,” one of them announced while wiping sweat from his brow. “Said to tell you: ‘May it drink smoother than the night that earned it.’”

The Urchins descended immediately.

Squiddly circled the barrel with professional suspicion before knocking twice against the wood.

“Yep,” he declared. “Certified full.”

Jenks wrapped both arms around the cask and whispered, “My precious,” before Nat physically dragged him backward by the collar.

She signed something sternly toward the party.

“Nat says don’t drink it all before the tavern opens,” Squiddly translated. “She doesn’t trust any of you.”

Honestly, fair.

By the time the barrel was finally rolled into the cellar, Trollskull Manor smelled faintly of sawdust, old stone, and sweet berry wine.

And for the first time in days, the house felt less like a ruin…

…and more like a tavern waiting to happen.

The Guild of Everything

The cask was eventually rolled inside beneath the cheers and wildly unhelpful supervision of the children, leaving the taproom smelling faintly of oak and sweet berry wine for the rest of the afternoon. And for the first time in what felt like ages, Trollskull Manor didn’t feel haunted. It felt busy. Alive. Messy in the way homes are supposed to be.

Which, naturally, meant the Urchins decided to conduct an official inspection of their own. The front door burst open with theatrical force.

Squiddly marched inside wearing a pot lid strapped to his chest like armor. Nat carried an oversized clipboard with deadly seriousness. Jenks followed behind wielding a broken broom like a halberd.

“Ahem,” Squiddly announced in his most official voice. “We are here on behalf of the Guild of… uh… Everything.” Jenks nodded solemnly. “Compliance and cookies division.” What followed was perhaps the least useful inspection in Waterdeep history.

Nat wandered the manor scribbling imaginary violations onto the clipboard while Squiddly translated her increasingly dramatic gestures.

“Structural soundness: questionable but heroic.”

“Magical vibes: spicy.”

“Potential treasure beneath floorboards: statistically guaranteed.”

At some point, Jenks accidentally flooded part of the kitchen while attempting “stress tests” on the plumbing. At another, Squiddly attempted to measure the length of the bar using pirate feet.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, the children began assigning official titles to the party:

• Maple became Chief Nature Advisor.
• Doc was placed in charge of Security and Heavy Lifting.
• Raven received the title of Arcane Risk Management.
• Kiril was immediately declared Head of Shadows.
• Clover was assigned morale and snacks.

Nat also insisted Clover remain responsible for sweeping “because he sings while he does it.” Honestly, nobody argued. The manor echoed with laughter for most of the afternoon.

Even Lif seemed calmer. The ghostly spirit spent much of the chaos silently correcting crooked mugs and repositioning abandoned tools behind the bar while the children sprinted through the tavern pretending to be guild officials. And somewhere between the fake inspections, the broken mop handles, and Jenks loudly announcing the discovery of “possible pixie spores,” something changed.

No Place Like Home

Squiddly eventually hopped down from a stool and glanced quietly around the tavern. Sunlight spilled through dusty windows. Clover’s music drifted softly through the taproom. Someone was laughing in the kitchen. “When we used to sneak in here before you bought it,” Squiddly said quietly, “it was always cold.”

For once, nobody interrupted him. “But now…” He looked around the room again. “Now it feels like home.” The room fell silent for just a second.

“The Guild of Everything officially declares this tavern mostly ghost-proof!”

-Jenks

Then Jenks raised the inspection clipboard proudly overhead. “The Guild of Everything officially declares this tavern mostly ghost-proof!” The moment shattered into laughter again almost immediately.

“When we used to sneak in here before you bought it… it was always cold. But now… now it feels like home.”

-Squiddly

Do Ghosts Keep Pets?

But it lingered anyway. By evening, the manor had settled into a quieter rhythm. The hearth crackled softly. The guild paperwork sat stacked across the bar in uneven piles. The Urchins lounged near the fire while Raven worked beside the glow of lantern light.

And then Squiddly asked a question that changed the mood of the entire room.

“Uh… Miss Raven?” He stared uneasily toward the cellar door. “Do ghosts keep pets?”

The story came out in fragments after that. Scratching beneath the floorboards. A cellar door creaking open. A rat with smooth gray fur and strange green-gold eyes. The smell of rosemary and mildew. Jenks throwing a rag at it only for the creature to calmly disappear beneath the floorboards near the fireplace.

And then, for just a moment, the fire had burned blue.

“Rats don’t look at you like that.”

-Squiddly

Raven tried to dismiss it as nothing more than an unusually bold alley rat.

But Squiddly shook his head immediately. “No way,” he whispered. “Rats don’t look at you like that.”

The tavern creaked softly around them. The fire popped.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Finally, Squiddly glanced once more toward the cellar stairs before lowering his voice almost to a whisper.

“If ghosts can have pets…” The firelight flickered across the room, “…maybe hags can too.”

“If ghosts can have pets… maybe hags can too.”

-Squiddly