Act 1. Masks

Briar let out a long, begrudging sigh as one of the guards held out a gloved hand expectantly. Without meeting their eyes, he slung his satchel from his shoulder, unbuckled the dagger at his hip, and handed over the bundle of pouches, blades, and assorted gear. Each item left his fingers with noticeable reluctance, like parting with old friends.

"Be gentle," he muttered under his breath, "They’re worth more than I am."

When the guard moved in to pat him down, Briar opened his arms with a weary, sarcastic flourish. "You know, if you’re going to feel me up, at least buy me a drink first," he quipped with a crooked grin. The guard gave him a flat look in return but continued the search, thoroughly and without humor.

Once satisfied he wasn’t hiding anything up his sleeves—literally or otherwise—the guards escorted him toward the holding cells. Briar winced with every step, his thigh wound aching and stiff, but he didn’t complain. Truth be told, for all the indignity of being disarmed and tossed into a cell, it was probably still better than the broken-down shack he’d planned to sleep in tonight. At least here there were walls that kept out the wind and a roof that didn’t leak.

The stone bench inside was hard and unforgiving, and the straw mattress in the corner smelled like it had witnessed more than its fair share of desperate nights and bad decisions. Still, Briar sat down slowly, stretching his injured leg out in front of him and leaning back against the cold wall with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his ribs.

Sleep didn’t come easy. He tossed and turned on the narrow bedding, shifting every few minutes as his wound throbbed or a distant clang echoed through the stone halls. He kept one eye cracked open half the night, watching shadows drift across the barred door, ears trained for trouble. Even in what passed for safety, old habits held firm. This wasn’t the worst night he’d had—but it was far from restful.

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Night
Sleep eluded Briar, but that didn’t mean he was unaware of the night’s movements. Although he and Kael were the only prisoners tonight, the Watch post wasn’t quiet—not by a long shot.

Boots thundered across the flagstones at all hours, voices barked commands down corridors, and doors slammed with hurried purpose. Briar caught snatches of it through the iron bars: rumors, half-spoken reports, the unmistakable stench of undeath clinging to the uniforms of guards who’d seen too much in too short a time.

A dozen ghouls, someone whispered near his cell door. Found creeping through alleyways and cellars in the Dock Ward. Civilians were attacked—some even torn apart before help arrived. No one knew where they’d come from, but the panic was unmistakable.

Briar didn’t see the captain —too busy coordinating patrols and barking orders deeper in the compound—but he did catch a glimpse of someone else: a Magister, sweeping through the post like a thundercloud wrapped in velvet black robes. Two wizards in the dark green colors of the Watchful Order flanked her, their arcane focuses glowing faintly with active wards, and more than a dozen constables followed, tense and alert. They stopped just long enough to eat and confer over steaming mugs, their conversation low and urgent.

They were hunting a necromancer.

But by the time dawn bled into the sky and the streets of Waterdeep began to stir again, no one had been found. Just bodies. Just blood. Just silence.

---

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Early morning
The morning brought no peace—only the clatter of keys, the scrape of boots, and a new weight in the air. The door to Briar’s cell creaked open, and a pair of Watchmen stood aside to admit a figure who moved with quiet authority.

Her black robes were sharply pressed, edges trimmed with silver thread that shimmered faintly in the morning light. A small silver pin rested at her collar. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight braid, and her expression was unreadable—neither warm nor cold, simply… measured.

Behind her, a clerk with an ink-stained satchel trailed silently, and another of the constables stood at the ready just outside.

"Good morning," she said with a voice as composed as her appearance, each word wrapped in the neutral, formal tone of practiced civility. "I am Magister Elira Vorn. I’ve just spoken with the other party involved in last night’s incident."

Her gaze drifted momentarily to the fresh bandages on Briar’s thigh, then returned to his face. "I hope the Watch’s sergeant-healer has seen to your wound?"She didn’t wait long for confirmation before continuing, her tone still even. "I’d like you to recount your version of events for the record. Be truthful, and precise. The City prefers clarity over dramatics." She gave a small, polite nod. "You may begin when ready."

Briar stood up straight, brushing straw from his sleeves, and offered a firm hand to the Magister. "Name’s Briar. Aye, your healer did good work—leg’s back in working order." He gave it a quick shake for proof.

Speaking calmly, smoothly and as honestly sounding as possible,
"The man I brought in, Kael Thorne, was once a friend. We ran a few jobs together years back, but we had a falling out. Haven’t seen him since. Last night, just as I was settling down, he broke into my place. Said he botched a job and got caught up in something nasty—mentioned a sewer gang, a beholder, and wererats chasing after him. Claimed he saw something he shouldn’t have. He wanted gold to disappear, but I didn’t have enough. That set him off. He stabbed me in the thigh."
Briar gestured to the leg, still sore despite the healing.
"I tried to disarm him without hurting him—honest—but he wouldn’t let up. I had no choice. I got him in the side and he passed out. Brought him here instead of leaving him in the gutter." He gave a tired shrug. "That’s the truth of it."

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Early morning
Magister Elira Vorn listened without interruption, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable. As Briar finished, she gave a small, thoughtful nod and briefly glanced at the clerk behind her, who scratched down notes with efficient strokes of the quill.

"Mr. Thorne," she said evenly, "provided a different account. He claims the altercation was the result of a personal disagreement between the two of you, and that he acted purely in self-defense. He has not pressed any charges against you."

She let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing.

"Now, based on your statement, you are claiming that Mr. Thorne unlawfully entered your residence, assaulted you with a weapon, and attempted to rob you." Her tone didn’t shift, still calm, still measured—but now with the faintest edge of weight behind it.

"To proceed formally, I must ask—do you, Citizen Briar Locksqur wish to press charges against Citizen Kael Thorne for housebreaking, assault, and attempted robbery under the laws of Waterdeep?"

Briar thinks quietly for a few moments before asking. "What consequences would Kael face if I did press charges? Is he able to press charges on me? What would happen if we both decided to press charges on each other? What would the next steps be?"

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Early morning
Magister Elira regarded Briar with the practiced patience of someone who’d been asked versions of this question a thousand times.

"If you press charges," she said, "Mr. Thorne would be formally tried under city law. For housebreaking, assault, and attempted robbery, he could face a sentence ranging from a fine to imprisonment or forced labor—depending on the severity, his prior record, and mitigating circumstances. Given that he used a weapon and injured you, the sentence would likely not be light."

She folded her hands neatly before continuing.

"If he presses charges against you, the same process applies. You would be judged on any injuries you caused him and whether your actions were reasonable defense. We would review your story, his, any evidence or witness testimony. If both of you press charges against each other, the court treats it as a mutual grievance—both sides are investigated, and if warranted, both can be punished."

"If neither of you presses charges," she said, "then the matter is treated as a mutual disturbance of the peace—regardless of who struck first or where it occurred. In such cases, the law permits me to levy a fine of up to two dragons from each party to settle the incident."

There was a pause.

"In any case, once charges are formally laid, I am required to render judgment. That judgment can be immediate if the facts are clear, or delayed for up to ten days if further investigation is needed. You are not required to press charges, Mr. Locksqur. But if you do, this will move out of our hands and into the law’s."

Briar shifted his weight, the soreness in his leg reminding him of the night’s chaos. He looked the Magister over, his expression earnest but worn, like someone who’d carried too much in silence. He let out a breath and crossed his arms loosely, eyes flicking toward the corridor where Kael had likely been taken.

"Can I ask for your opinion on this?" he said, his voice quieter, almost thoughtful. "I don’t want to press charges. Not really. I think he’s in over his head, scared, desperate. Whatever he saw, whatever mess he’s dragged into—I don’t think he came looking to hurt me. I think he came looking for a lifeline and panicked when I couldn’t offer him one."

He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration and concern battling on his face.
"But that said… he did break into my place. He did stab me. And who’s to say next time it won’t be someone else, or worse? I keep thinking—maybe a cell isn’t the worst thing for him right now. Might even be the safest place for him. Somewhere quiet. Protected. Somewhere he can think and cool off before he does something worse."

His gaze finally met the Magister’s fully.
"So… what would you do, in my shoes? As someone who’s seen both sides of this—should I let him go and risk he burns out completely, or let him sit and maybe… finally get the time to breathe and think straight?"

Magister Elira held Briar’s gaze, her tone measured but resolute.

"If I were you, I would press charges. The law isn’t just about punishment; it’s about truth and accountability. Kael broke into your home and stabbed you. That deserves recognition by the law, not dismissal."

She folded her hands.

"If what you say is true—that he’s scared, hunted—then a charge ensures we keep an eye on him. It gives him structure, maybe even safety. Letting this slide helps no one, least of all him."

He gave a subtle shake of his head, more to himself than anyone else, and slowly lowered his gaze to the stone floor. The breath he released was long and hollow, like it had been caught in his chest for far too long. He swallowed hard, then finally looked back up at the Magister, the light in his eyes dimmer than before.

"Do it," he said quietly, his voice rough. "Press charges."

While still somewhat enervated from the previous night's fracas, Lunareth was buoyed by thoughts of mingling with the movers and shakers of Waterdhavian society. I wonder what juicy tidbits will be dropped; I have to prioritize those which may be of interest to Those Who Harp, as well as anything reeking of necromancy.

As Luna exited the inn, he reviewed his route mentally. Continue northwest on Presper to Snail, and then make a left on Snail. Continue until it hooks left by Scroll, continuing left, crossing Waterdeep way when the name changes to the High Road. Continue north all the way to Hassantyr's street, at which point turn right, and go until Saerdoun. Turn left, and then right to the Misty Beard.

With the path firmly in mind, Luna started to walk briskly through the Dock Ward. He had a date with adventure to keep!

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Early morning
The Magister gave a small nod, the folds of her black robes shifting as she turned to leave. "Very well. The charges will be filed. You are free to go. Thank you for cooperating."

A moment later, one of the constables returned with Briar’s satchel, dagger, and the rest of his belongings. The gear had been handled with care, but it still felt foreign after a night locked away.

"Here," the guard said, offering the items with a neutral tone. "You’re free, but we’ll need a place we can reach you. Just in case the Magister calls for another testimony."

He held out a small scrap of parchment and a stub of graphite. "Address, if you don’t mind."

The Misty Beard, North Ward - Morning
The sun was still climbing over the eastern rooftops of Waterdeep when Lunareth reached the Misty Beard.

Luna stepped into the courtyard behind the building, where several workers were already unloading crates from a delivery cart. A flurry of motion and mechanical rhythm stood at the center of the activity: Trelza.

Trelza was a Tridrone—a perfectly symmetrical, three-faced Modron with three spindly arms and legs, each moving with mathematical precision. The being’s form shimmered faintly with planar energy, and it wore a stained leather apron that somehow managed to look crisply pressed. Each of Trelza’s faces turned independently, surveying the workers with tireless scrutiny.

"Unload rate consistent. Placement grid correct. Box seventeen misaligned—correct it. You there—yes. Do not stack wine atop citrus. Acidity deviation unacceptable."

Despite its rigid voice, there was a curious efficiency to its movements—each crate indicated with a pointing arm or a blinking sigil from its chest-mounted runes.

Luna approached with a polite smile. He cleared his throat.

"Applicant recognized," Trelza stated flatly before Luna could speak. One of its three eyes turned toward him.

"You seek temporary assignment. Query: field of expertise?"

It waited, still as a statue, save for one hand precisely directing a sprite to stop dragging a table across the flagstones.

"I appreciate the hospitality," he said dryly, his usual sarcasm tempered by fatigue. "Really brings back memories."

He stepped forward and gave the guard a nod, reaching into his coat to check that his belongings were back in order. Satisfied, he continued, "I don’t exactly have a fixed address—I tend to keep moving, you know how it is. But if anything comes up, send word to the Tiny Tavern. Branric always knows how to reach me."

The guard gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, and with that, Briar slipped through the doors into the morning light. The city was waking up around him, and though the night had left its mark, the day still offered a chance to get back on track.
With a lingering glance back at the station, he turned his collar up and made his way through the winding streets toward the tailor—his steps steady, if a little slower than usual.

The House of the Moon had covered planar beings in its curriculum, and modrons had stood out to him—more for their strangeness than their celestial or infernal counterparts. He recalled Master Thaelien’s lecture, voice calm and patient as ever:

"Modrons, my young seekers, are the children of Mechanus—the plane of ultimate law. Each knows only what it must, never more, never less. A tridrone, for instance, can command duodrones and receive orders from quadrones, but it cannot even comprehend a pentadrone's thoughts. Their world is tiered in perfect structure, devoid of whimsy or chaos. They do not dream, they do not lie."

Watching Trelza now, Luna saw the truth of those words in every precise movement. She—or it, really—was coordinating the staff with a tireless efficiency. No flourish, no wasted gesture. Just duty.

It struck Luna again how strange it was to find such a creature not just on the Material Plane, but managing logistics and the roster in a place like the Misty Beard—a haven of whimsy, magic, and spectacle. Likely summoned long ago and given some clever loophole of autonomy... or perhaps adopted by the Marlpars out of curiosity or utility.

Either way, here it was.

Luna knew that neither charm nor wit would be of much help with this denizen of Mechanus. He was eager to to start. His first night out of the cloister was not one he would like to remember. Rather, he wanted to create new memories of excitement and intrigue to overwrite the foul ones of the ghoul. Trying his best to calm his fluttering heart and jangling nerves, Luna addressed the living tetrahedron, doing his best to be emotionless and precise. "Name: Lunareth. Actual Expertise: Religion and rituals of Selûne. Expertise as relates temporary assignment: discreet waitstaff. Disposition: Currently waiting for assignment."

The Misty Beard, North Ward - Morning"Acknowledged. I am Trelza, model: Tridrone. Origin: Mechanus, plane of ultimate order and law. Standard function: serve Primus, supreme modron ruler," her voice precise and mechanical.

"My background: Deviation was detected. I was classified as rogue unit. Command signal from Primus terminated. Autonomy activated."

"Follow up: Summoning wizard reprogrammed communication protocols to allow verbal interaction beyond modron syntax. Reasoning: retention for service at this establishment designated Misty Beard Tavern."

"Current status: operational. Task: assist tavern operations and observe external variables outside Mechanus parameters. Purpose: unknown. Investigation: ongoing."

She paused, having finished her reciprocal introduction.

"Designation: Lunareth. Expertise: noted. Temporary assignment: Approved. Position: discreet waitstaff for the masked soirée at the Vaerlen estate. Compensation: two silver coins per day. Commencement: immediate. Compliance with discretion protocol mandatory."

She paused again.

"Directive: Proceed to Vaerlen estate. Contact point: Majordomo Elric Dannemar. Objective: receive procedural training and task-specific instructions. Compliance required. Temporal buffer allotted: only sufficient for punctual arrival. Depart immediately. Clarification unnecessary unless deviation occurs."

Meiroth’s Fine Silks, Trades Ward - Morning
The bell above the door gave a soft, melodic chime as Briar stepped into Meiroth’s Fine Silks. The air inside was warm and quiet, scented faintly of lavender and pressed linen. Sunlight filtered through high arched windows, catching on delicate threads of gold and silver woven into robes that hung like art across the walls. Cloaks of deep forest green, ocean blue, and moonlit gray lined the racks—each one meticulously cut and clearly expensive.

From behind a velvet curtain, an elf emerged. He was tall and composed, his robes a rich shade of green with embroidery so fine it looked like dew-frosted ivy. His silver-blond hair was tied neatly back, his angular face calm but curious as he took in Briar’s road-worn appearance.

"Good morning," he said, voice smooth and precise. "You’ve come to Meiroth’s. I don’t believe we’ve met—what can I help you with?"

He approached the counter with a polite nod to the attendant, adjusting the collar of his weather-worn coat to look a touch more presentable.

"Good morning," he began, his tone courteous but casual. "A friend of mine—goes by Legolas—stopped by here yesterday. He arranged an order for some formal wear on my behalf. There’s a masquerade and apparently I need to look like I belong there." He offered a faint smirk, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

"I was told to swing by today to get fitted. Not looking to make your job too hard—I’ll stand still and everything."