The Harbor

Dalmor emerged from the dim cabin, the bright morning sun nearly blinding the young man. He raised a hand in vain attempt to block the sun from his eyes, but to no avail. The cry of gulls, the call of sailors, and the crash of waves filled his ears. He smiled, knowing that his journey would soon be at an end, this months long trip up the coast with nothing but moldy bread and fish to eat. He longed for the taste of real food once again, roasted pheasant, spiced potatoes, and candied fruit. A silent vow passed his lips that he would never dine upon fish for the rest of his years.

As his eyes adjusted and the world cleared before him, the harbor swam into view, with a hundred sails belonging to countless ships gliding upon the water. Numerous ships sat at the docks, awaiting their masters to send them forth once again into the uncaring seas. Beyond them were the familiar spires of Waterdeep.

He turned at the sharp bark of several rough sailors carrying the heavy iron lockbox that he had recovered mere weeks ago. Quickly moving out of their way, he smiled at his apparent fortune. Others had spent countless years searching for the treasure that lay within, secured in a chest that could only be opened with an intricately crafted key. A key that his cousin kept on a chain around his neck.

Troubles in Waterdeep

Cadrian stood on the balcony, enjoying the taste and fragrance of his pipeweed as he gazed out the Great Harbor of Waterdeep. The morning sun had cast a golden glow across the water, and many sails pulled tight as they caught the wind to make the tide. The same crisp and chill wind caught his pipe smoke and blew it out toward the water.

He turned back and walked back into his study, where a large oaken desk dominated the room, carved with depictions of numerous entwined dragons. Sitting upon the desk was the subject of his recent worries, a ledger showing that his company was losing significant amounts of gold every month.

Wringing his pudgy little hands together while fidgeting in his seat was a plump little man, his brass spectacles perched upon his long nose. His stringy gray hair sought to escape from the balding crown, and his eyes had the look of perpetually being on the edge of tears.

"M'lord, it is as I told you, the numbers do not lie. The losses of those caravans have hurt the profits of House Irlingstar immensely." He leaned forward in his chair, as if seeking Cadrian's approval.

"Zimmmer, what more do we stand to lose if the cargo is not recovered?"

"Well... let's see... they've threatened to cease shipping through us... and... there's a possible threat against your person."

Cadrian slammed his closed fist down on the desk, "Damn, I wish I had never agreed to this serpentine deal. Do it, have someone hired to go into the swamp and recover the cursed thing."

Journal of a Mercenary

The wind was oddly chill for this time of year, as it blew south from the Sword Mountains, or perhaps my memories are growing foggy with the passage of years. My knee began to ache, and the place on my shoulder where I was once stabbed by an orc blade felt sore when I rolled out of my tent this morning. I figured it was only a day more before the caravan reached Waterdeep.

Something odd about last night, at first I thought I was dreaming, but I thought I saw the caravan master leave the campfire, and then go off into the shadows to speak with some dark figure. I scarcely heard a word of their conversation, but when I awoke this morning I found that one of my fellow mercenaries had disappeared in the early hours. While it is not unheard of, the coin we were promised is more than enough for wenching and ale when we arrive in town. Theran also did not seem the type to desert in the middle of a trek, and some of his gear was left behind.

I look forward to sitting by the fire, with warm flesh in one hand, and a frothy mug in the other.

- The Journal of Harek Stragerson, Fifteenth day of Eleint, 1372