They had all slept at the Yawning Portal — separate rooms, modest rate, the kind of arrangement that comes out of a shared crisis rather than any particular fondness. By morning the brawl was already settling into the category of things that had happened and couldn't be un-happened. They were alive. They had a deed. They had somewhere to be.
The walk to the Castle Ward courthouse was the first time all three of them had simply been in the same place without something immediately trying to kill them, and Corrin Greenbottle used it to introduce himself. He was a halfling of sixty years, small enough that most people looked past him entirely, and he had the easy manner of someone who had spent a long time perfecting the art of being underestimated.
"I'm Corrin Greenbottle. Nice to meet you."
"Well met, Corrin. I'm Caelith Morn, a paladin of Torm. You seem to be a bit of a sneaky bugger — but you fight well."
Corrin filed that away without much visible reaction. Caelith was twenty-two, half-elven, built like someone who had been trained young and had not stopped training since. A Torm paladin: direct, principled, the kind of man who would notice things and say something about them.
"I'm Lylnyler Fienderck. Friend of Caelith. I once saved him."
Caelith said nothing to the word *friend*. He was not the sort of man who corrected people in public about the precise nature of an arrangement that was already difficult to explain. But something in his bearing made it clear that *complicated* would have been closer.
The three of them walked on into the morning city.
The Magistrate's Seal — courthouse transfer
The Castle Ward courthouse ran on the quiet competence of career clerks who had seen everything and were surprised by none of it. Magistrate Kylynne Silmerhelve was a composed, middle-aged woman in city robes who glanced over the deed Corrin produced, confirmed it was in order, and stated the transfer tax without ceremony.
Twenty-five gold. Payable now.
Corrin opened his mouth. He had already put together something plausible about the current state of his finances.
"Split it three ways."
The look Caelith gave him was not a threat. It was simply the look of a man who had stood next to Corrin in a brawl the night before and watched where his hands went and had a reasonable estimate of how many silver pieces had found their way into Corrin's pocket without their original owners being involved. It was a look that said: *I know, and now you know I know, and this is the moment where we decide whether this is going to be a thing.*
Corrin folded.
They split the tax — eight gold and change each, Caelith covering the remaining fraction — and Magistrate Silmerhelve stamped and signed the deed. Trollskull Manor, North Ward, was officially theirs.
Caelith asked what she knew about the property's history. It was the right question, asked with the particular warmth that made the Magistrate look up from her records rather than simply answering at her desk. She pulled out a ledger: the manor had changed hands several times over the decades, last owner died without an heir, property had sat vacant for a few years. One entry noted neighbor complaints about unexplained disturbances — filed as unresolved.
Caelith asked whether the clerk who had filed the report was available.
The Magistrate's Seal — young Aldric's report
After a short wait, a nervous young man appeared in the doorway — Aldric Summerfoot, mid-twenties, ink-stained fingers, the look of someone trying to decide whether being summoned by the Magistrate was good news or bad. He remembered the report. A neighbor had complained about noises, objects moved, things thrown. The inspector had filed it as structural settling and vagrants. But Aldric lowered his voice: the inspector had come back pale and hadn't wanted to talk about what he'd seen.
"He filed that report and put his retirement papers in within the same tenday. That's — that's not nothing."
The inspector's name was Broxley Fairkettle. Retired now. South Ward, somewhere near Whaelgond Way.
They fanned out across the South Ward to find Fairkettle's address, working the narrow streets separately and setting a rendezvous point. A woman hanging laundry pointed Caelith toward a narrow townhouse. A shopkeeper confirmed it for Lylnyler. Corrin, methodical as habit, had already noted the name on the door before the others arrived.
Caelith knocked.
A long pause. The shuffle of heavy footsteps. The door opened a crack — a heavyset man in his late sixties, grey stubble, still in his morning clothes, with the immediate wariness of someone who had been retired for years and had learned that unexpected visitors rarely meant anything good.
"Can I help you?"
"Sir Broxley, I presume? My name is Caelith Morn. We recently obtained the deed to Trollskull Manor, spoke with the Magistrate, and heard some disturbed stories. We were hoping you could tell us what you saw before we go there ourselves."
Fairkettle's jaw went tight at the name of the manor. He stood there for a moment and then opened the door wider.
"You'd better come in."
Whaelgond Way — Broxley's sitting room
He led them into a small, tidy sitting room and lowered himself into a chair. He did not offer tea.
"I filed it as structural settling. I know what I wrote. That's not what it was."
He paused.
"I've done hundreds of inspections. Empty buildings, derelict properties — you name it. That place, something in there didn't want me there. I heard it before I saw anything. Banging, from upstairs. Then a chair came across the room at me. Not fell. *Came*. I left. Wrote it up as settling, put my papers in, and haven't thought about it since."
He looked up.
"Until now."
Caelith explained that hauntings, in his experience, were usually tied to unfinished business — something that had gone wrong and stayed wrong. Had Fairkettle ever heard anything about the property's history?
"I don't know the full history. But I asked around after — couldn't help myself. The last owner was a man named Lif. Ran the tavern there for years, by himself mostly. Good reputation, decent ale. Then one day — gone. No body found, no explanation. The tavern just closed. Neighbors said it happened overnight."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Nobody knows what happened to him. But if you're asking me what I think? I think Lif never left."
He looked back at Caelith directly.
"Whatever's in that place — it's not malicious. The chair came at me, yes, but it stopped short. Like it was warning me off, not trying to kill me. That's the only reason I didn't lose sleep over it."
A beat.
"Much."
The party asked about Lif — any family name, anyone who might know more. Fairkettle thought for a moment.
"Just Lif, far as I know. Never heard a family name. He was a fixture in the North Ward — kept to himself, ran a clean establishment. If anyone knows more about him, it'd be the neighbors on Trollskull Alley who were there back then. Or Durnan at the Yawning Portal. That man's been in Waterdeep longer than most buildings."
He paused.
"There's also the North Ward watch post on Delzorin Street. If there was ever a missing persons report filed on Lif, it'd be there. Though I wouldn't count on them having dug very deep into it."
They thanked him and left. Fairkettle looked, if not entirely at ease, then at least slightly less burdened than when they'd arrived — the specific relief of a man who has finally told someone about the thing he has been carrying alone.
Durnan's Assessment — the barkeep of the Portal
Back at the Yawning Portal, Durnan was behind his bar doing what Durnan always did — watching, wiping things down, holding the space with the patient authority of a man who had cleared out worse things than this morning's crowd. Caelith greeted him. Corrin took the lead.
"Have you ever heard of the name 'Lif'?"
Durnan set down his rag and looked at Corrin with that flat, unhurried gaze.
"Lif."
He said it like he was turning the name over.
"Aye. Ran a place up on Trollskull Alley. Good barkeep. Quiet man, kept his business clean. Disappeared maybe — six, seven years ago? No warning, no word. Just gone one morning."
He leaned on the bar.
"Why are you asking?"
"We've recently got our hands on the deed for Trollskull Manor but heard rumors about it being haunted. We think it might have something to do with Lif. Hoped you could help."
Something shifted almost imperceptibly in Durnan's expression — not surprise, more like confirmation.
"Haunted. That'd track. Lif loved that place. Put everything into it. No family that I knew of, no life outside those four walls. A man like that doesn't just walk away."
He paused.
"I always figured he died in there. Never found a body, but that doesn't mean much in this city."
He straightened up.
"If it is Lif — and I'd wager it is — he's not there to hurt anyone. He's there because he doesn't know what else to do with himself."
A beat.
"Fix the place up. Reopen it. Give him his tavern back. My guess? That's all he wants."
He picked up his rag. Then, without looking up:
"Watch yourselves in there anyway."
Corrin thanked him. Caelith agreed it sounded like good advice. Durnan gave a single nod and went back to his work.
Trollskull Alley was a narrow cobblestoned street in the North Ward, the kind of street that had been built before anyone decided that streets should be wide enough for two carts to pass. At the end of it stood a four-story timber-framed building with a faded sign hanging crooked above the door. Paint peeling. Shutters hanging loose. Roof sagging in one corner. Clearly empty for years. But solid underneath — good bones, the kind that wait.
Trollskull Manor — the exterior revealed
They entered cautiously. Caelith pushed the door open first.
The common room was dim, thick with dust. Tables and chairs stood in their last positions, cobwebs strung between the rafters, light coming through shuttered windows in thin grey blades. A long bar ran along one wall. The place had the particular quality of rooms that had once been warm and still remembered it.
"Hello, Lif. Are you around?"
Silence.
Trollskull Manor — Lif's welcome
Then — a single wooden cup slid slowly across the bar and stopped at the edge. The movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like someone setting a drink out for a guest.
Caelith went still. His Divine Sense was already active, and what it told him confirmed what the cup had suggested: an undead presence, close, present. Not aggressive. Watching.
"I'll have a beer, thank you!"
"Me too, please!"
A pause. Then two more cups slid down the bar to join the first. One for Lylnyler as well, whether he'd asked or not. The air in the room felt slightly less cold.
"Cheers! Lif — we've recently obtained the deed to this place and we want to fix it up for you so you can run it again like you once so gloriously did."
Another pause. Longer.
Then every shutter in the common room swung open at once. Daylight flooded in. Dust swirled and caught the light in clouds. The room didn't feel like a haunted building anymore. It felt like a tavern waking up from a long sleep.
"Excellent. We'll find some men to fix it up. I hope you'll let them work without disturbance."
The cups on the bar slid back neatly into a row — orderly, deliberate, the way a barkeep tidies up before the last patron leaves. A message as clear as anything spoken aloud.
Lif would behave.
They needed roughly a thousand gold for repairs and had rather less than that among them. Renaer Neverember was still upstairs at the Yawning Portal — Durnan said so, room three, probably still asleep. Corrin was already halfway up the stairs before Caelith finished thanking him.
Corrin knocked.
"...yes?"
"It's Corrin. We need to talk to you about the manor."
Movement. The door opened — Renaer disheveled, blinking, pulling the door wider with the resigned look of a man who had expected to sleep later than this.
"Come in."
He sat on the edge of the bed, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at them.
"What about the manor?"
"We need gold."
"We got the manor, found out it's haunted, and need to repair the place — which requires money."
Renaer's Offer — the partnership sealed
Renaer listened. Then slowly nodded.
"How much?"
"One thousand."
Renaer let out a slow breath. Not shocked — it was clearly not a number that surprised him — but not jumping at it either.
"I can do that. But I want something in return — not money. I want in. This city is dangerous for me right now — both the Xanathar Guild and the Zhentarim have reason to want me dead or leverage over me. I need people I can trust at my back."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"You three pulled me out of that safehouse without knowing who I was. That's worth something."
He extended a hand.
"One thousand gold for a quarter share in the manor and a place at your table. Deal?"
"Deal!"
Caelith asked about the size of the share Renaer had in mind. Renaer clarified: a quarter stake, decisions staying with the three of them, and a room in the building once it was livable — somewhere to lay low when he needed it. Caelith nodded.
They shook hands around the room. Renaer regarded Lylnyler with the careful look most people gave a warlock on first acquaintance, then extended his hand anyway. He would arrange a discreet withdrawal and have the thousand gold ready by morning. He would meet them at Trollskull Manor.
The Carpenters', Roofers', and Plasterers' Guild occupied a solid building in the Trade Ward, the kind of place that smelled of sawdust and ledgers. A clerk perked up considerably when Caelith described a full renovation of a four-story building on Trollskull Alley, and called over Gwynda Hammerstone — a broad-shouldered dwarf woman who was the guild's project estimator and who gave the impression of someone who had priced everything in Waterdeep at some point and forgotten very little of it.
"We've obtained the deed to Trollskull Manor and the building is badly in need of repairs. Timber frame, full renovation. The roof is structurally damaged, the rest is mostly cosmetic. As soon as possible."
The Carpenters' Guild — Gwynda's estimate
Gwynda was already scribbling.
"Full renovation, structural roof, cosmetic interior, timber frame four-story. Trollskull Alley — I know the building, actually. Walked past it plenty. We can have a crew out for an assessment tomorrow morning, start work within the week if everything checks out."
She looked up.
"Cost for a job like that — I'd estimate nine hundred fifty to eleven hundred gold, depending what we find once we're inside. I can give you a firm number after tomorrow's assessment."
She slid a guild contract across the desk.
"Two hundred fifty gold deposit today locks you in."
Caelith agreed. They split the deposit between them — Caelith contributing a hundred, Corrin eighty-nine, Lylnyler sixty-one, the exact sum. Gwynda took the coin, stamped the contract, and handed them a copy. Assessment tomorrow morning. Work beginning within the week.
Lylnyler, when he counted his share, was left with one silver piece and seven copper to his name. He said nothing about this.
With Renaer's money coming in the morning and the guild contracted, there was still the matter of the Candle Lane safehouse — the place where they had found Floon Blagmaar the night before, in the hands of the Zhentarim. The afternoon was young enough. They used the front door key and went back.
The ground floor was much as they had left it: overturned furniture, dried blood on the floorboards, the smell of a place that had seen violence recently and not yet been cleaned. The four guards they had left unconscious were gone — they had woken up and walked out, which was probably the best outcome available.
Corrin moved into the basement first, quiet as a thought, one hand on the hilt he didn't need to draw. Caelith used his Divine Sense. Lylnyler followed.
The basement was a large stone-walled room, cold and dry. Against one wall: a stack of paintings wrapped in cloth, more than a dozen of them. A crate near the far wall. A desk with papers scattered across it. And on the desk, sitting alone as if placed there deliberately: a paper bird, folded with care from a single sheet, clearly not a child's toy.
Corrin signaled the all-clear. The basement was empty of people.
Caelith examined the papers at the desk. The paper bird caught his attention first — he recognized it for what it was: a sending bird, a magical construct that carries a spoken message to a named recipient. This one was unused. On the wing, in small and precise handwriting, was a name: *Urstul Floxin.*
Caelith did not recognize it. He pocketed the bird without comment.
Corrin examined the crate. Inside: fifteen silver bars, each stamped with a merchant's mark. He counted them, glanced once at Caelith's back, and slipped them quietly into his pack.
The paintings were oil on canvas, Waterdhavian noble portraits and landscapes, wrapped in cloth but clearly valuable. Thirteen of them. Lifted, almost certainly, from wealthy homes in the North or Sea Ward.
Corrin found the papers coded — layers deep, beyond a straightforward reading, though the bones of it were legible enough to see: numbers that looked like dates or quantities, a location reference half-obscured by cipher. Lylnyler looked over his shoulder and then took the papers from him.
Candle Lane — the basement below
He read them through once. Then again.
His background in dark and unsavory circles had given him a working knowledge of the kind of code that criminal organisations used when they didn't want their messages read by anyone but their own. What he found in those pages was clear enough: scheduled shipments, quantities, dates over coming weeks. A location cited multiple times as a meeting point — Kolat Towers. And a name, used sparingly, always in connection to that location: Manshoon.
Neither name meant anything to the party. They pocketed the papers.
In the far corner of the basement, partially hidden behind the crate, were two bodies. Zhentarim, from their dress. Not killed by the party — the wounds were blade work, precise and professional, done before the party had ever arrived the night before. On one of them, a belt pouch. Fifteen gold pieces and twenty-two silver. Caelith took it. On the other, folded in a breast pocket: a note in plain Common.
*Clean house before Floxin arrives. Leave no witnesses.*
Someone had ordered these two men dead before a senior Zhentarim operative showed up. Either the organisation had turned on itself, or something else had gotten here first.
Corrin tried to carry out the paintings. Caelith stopped him immediately.
"Those are stolen goods. They go to the authorities."
"They go to whoever offers the best price."
The argument didn't last long. Lylnyler proposed the obvious middle ground: the paintings were bulky and traceable. They were in a locked building. Leave them here, come back later with a plan, report them once they knew more. Neither man loved it, but both men accepted it. Caelith was satisfied they weren't walking out with noble portraits under their arms. Corrin accepted it readily — perhaps more readily than he needed to.
They went upstairs and locked the door behind them.
Outside on the cobblestones, the afternoon light was long and slanted. They pulled the door shut and turned to go.
Candle Lane — the Watch arrives
They heard the boots before they saw the uniforms — the measured tramp of a dozen veterans rounding the corner. A broad-shouldered man in the blue and black of the City Watch raised a hand. He had the build of someone who had been doing this job for a long time and had met every kind of story, and his face said he was prepared to hear another one.
"Hold there. Captain Hyustus Staget, City Watch. You mind telling me what business you have coming out of that warehouse?"