Act 1. Masks

Kael snarled beneath Briar’s weight, thrashing with raw desperation. With a sudden surge of strength, he twisted his hips and planted a boot against the floor, managing to shove Briar off just enough to break the pin. Briar stumbled back a step, grimacing through the pain pulsing from the stab wound in his thigh, the heat of blood soaking into his trousers.

Still gripping his dagger, Briar crouched low, knees trembling but posture ready. He saw Kael tense—saw the way his weight shifted, the way his shoulder dipped. The kick was coming.

Briar gritted his teeth and braced, angling his dagger forward in a desperate gambit. If he could time it just right, he could catch the incoming boot and drive the blade through the sole and into Kael’s foot, maybe cripple him long enough to end this without killing him.

But the pain in his thigh flared white-hot at the worst possible moment. His muscles locked up, and instead of steadying himself, his wounded leg crumpled beneath him. The shift threw off his aim—and that’s when Kael’s boot smashed directly into his face.

The impact was brutal. Briar’s head snapped back with a crack, a flash of stars bursting behind his eyes. Blood burst from his nose, and he tumbled backward, dazed, vision swimming with pain and disorientation.

But instinct took over again.

Even as the shock rocked through his skull, Briar let his good leg sweep wide in a low arc. The heel of his boot caught Kael’s ankle just as he moved to lunge—and the timing was perfect. Kael's balance gave way, and he crashed to the floorboards with a heavy thud, air rushing from his lungs in a grunt.

Gasping for breath, blood dripping from his face and his thigh burning like fire, Briar rolled onto his side, blade still clutched in his hand. His head pounded, but he forced himself to stay alert. The fight wasn’t over—but he had a moment. A single, precious second to decide what came next.

Briar
Kael hit the ground hard, coughing as the wind was knocked from his chest. He rolled to his side, wheezing, clutching at his ribs with one hand while the other scrambled to reclaim his fallen dagger. He glared at Briar through bloodshot eyes, fury and panic warring on his face.

"Why don’t you just stay down, Briar?" he spat, voice hoarse and ragged. "You never know when to give up, do you? Always playing the saint, always trying to save people who don’t want saving!"

He dragged himself to his knees, wobbling slightly, his breath shallow. "This ends bad for you if you keep pushing me," he growled. "I don’t want to kill you—but I will if it means walking out of here with that gold. Don’t make me do it."

Kael lunged with fury, his fist slamming into Briar’s ribs, forcing the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. Briar stumbled back, trying to regain his footing, dagger still clenched in one trembling hand. His chest burned, and his injured thigh screamed with every movement.

"I’m not going to let you rob me," Briar growled through bloodied teeth. "Knock this shit off, Kael. I was going to help you!"

Before the words could even settle in the air, Kael’s backhand cracked across Briar’s face, splitting his lip and sending his head snapping to the side. Blood splattered across the floorboards. The taste of copper filled Briar’s mouth, and he staggered again, this time nearly falling.

"You want coin? A meal? A place to sleep?" Briar snarled, eyes blazing, pressing back into Kael’s space. "Fine. But you don’t get to pull a blade on me like I’m just some mark."

Desperation flashing in his eyes, Briar slashed with his dagger, trying to catch Kael in the shoulder and end this madness. But Kael twisted expertly, and the blade whiffed past with a hiss of air.

Kael tried to press the advantage, but Briar moved first. He stepped inside Kael’s reach and drove a solid punch into his gut. Kael let out a grunt, the air leaving him in a sharp exhale as he buckled forward slightly from the blow.

"You’re not the only one hurting," Briar barked, his voice cracking as much from frustration as pain. "Stop being so godsdamned reckless!"

Kael, wild-eyed and desperate, lunged forward with a savage slash of his dagger. The blade came in fast, low and erratic, aimed more in panic than precision. Briar barely managed to meet it in time, steel clashing with steel as he parried the strike with a sharp clang that echoed through the crumbling hideout.

Before Briar could press the advantage, Kael suddenly shifted tactics—dirty and effective. With a snarl, he drove his boot hard into Briar’s already bleeding thigh. Pain shot through Briar like lightning, his leg buckling beneath him as he staggered backward with a guttural cry, his vision briefly swimming. The agony threatened to drop him, but he caught himself against a cracked wooden beam, teeth clenched, fury rising like a wave.

"You bastard," Briar hissed.

Fueled by pain and adrenaline, he surged forward, raising his dagger high and bringing it down with brutal force toward Kael’s shoulder. The first thrust missed—Kael shifted, the blade scraping along his leather tunic. But Briar didn’t hesitate. He adjusted mid-strike, snarling through clenched teeth, and plunged the dagger a second time.

This one struck true.

Steel bit into the side of Kael’s chest, just below the ribs. The air left him in a strangled gasp as he stumbled, then crumpled backward onto the floorboards, the fight spilling out of him all at once. Blood welled around the wound, soaking into his tunic, and for a moment, he just lay there—shocked, breath ragged, eyes wide.

Briar stood over him, chest heaving, the dagger still in hand. His thigh throbbed with each heartbeat, but his gaze didn’t waver.

"You didn’t have to do this, Kael," he growled. "You made me."

Luna leaned up against the wall of the Warm Beds, breathing heavily, blood oozing from the wounds in his side. He turned the gemstone over in his hand. This is…concerning. I may have to go back to the cloister for more information, but first, I must get some food, rest, and healing. I have already committed to serving at tomorrow's party. For that matter, maybe Those Who Harp would be able to shed some light on this as well.

Luna placed the ominous gemstone into his coin pouch and turned toward the inn entrance. Moving slowly, so as not to further exacerbate his wounds, Luna staggered into the Warm Beds and up to the counter. "How much for a meal, a bandage, and a night's rest? Also, if you would kindly call the Watch, please. There is a dead—well deader—ghoul decomposing outside your front steps." With that somewhat ominous pronouncement, Luna slipped down to the floor in a daze.

Warm Beds Inn, Dock Ward - Night
A sharp gasp came from behind the counter as Lunareth slumped against it, his silver-streaked hair damp with sweat and his robes stained with blood and ash. A barmaid—plump, no-nonsense, and fast on her feet—was already halfway around the counter before he finished speaking.

"By Moradin’s beard, what happened to you?" she exclaimed, kneeling beside him. She gently guided him down to a seated position, easing the weight off his injured side. "That’s ghoul-bite if I’ve ever seen one. Don’t you go falling asleep on me, love."

She turned her head sharply and barked over her shoulder: "Dorn! Vuthrik! Get yer lazy boots on and fetch the Watch! Tell ’em there’s a corpse on the step and a half-dead elf in here with ghoul-marks to prove it!"

From the back room, two broad-shouldered dwarves emerged, all calloused fists and bristling beards. One was still chewing a piece of bread, the other adjusting a leather apron. They grunted in tandem, looked at Luna, then each grabbed a cudgel off a nearby rack before stomping out into the night, muttering about necromancers and city taxes.

"You’re lucky you made it to the Warm Beds, love," the barmaid said more softly now, dipping a clean cloth in warm water and beginning to clean the worst of the blood from Luna’s side. "We’ve seen our fair share of trouble down in Dock Ward, but not many walk away from a ghoul encounter, let alone bring news of it polite as you please."

She stood just long enough to call over another worker—this one a thin halfling boy with alert eyes. "Boil some broth and grab a healer’s salve from the chest. Room six’s empty. We’ll not have this one bleeding out at the counter."

Briar's shack, Cod Street, Dock Ward - Night
Kael’s lips parted like he meant to speak, but no sound came. His chest hitched once—twice—and then he slumped sideways with a ragged exhale. His eyes fluttered shut as unconsciousness claimed him, the tension draining from his limbs in one limp, bloodied sprawl across the floor.

Briar stood still for a moment, the throb in his thigh nearly blinding, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air. Then he dropped to one knee beside Kael, grimacing through the pain as he reached out to check for a pulse.

It was there—weak, but steady. Kael was alive. The wound, while deep, had missed anything vital. He’d lose blood, and he’d be in agony when he woke, but he’d wake. Eventually.

A quick search confirmed what Briar already suspected. Kael had nothing—no purse, no pack, not even a proper coat against the night chill. Just the clothes on his back, worn and torn, and a single dagger tucked into his belt. No rations, no coin. Nothing.

Briar sat there a moment longer, his dagger still sticky with blood, trying to decide what in the Nine Hells he was going to do next.

Breathing hard, Briar stared down at Kael’s crumpled form, blood darkening the fabric around his side. His own leg burned with every heartbeat, hot and sharp, but he forced himself to move. No time for second-guessing. No time for pain.

With a grunt, he yanked the dagger Kael had tried to gut him with from the floor and the second dagger he had in his belt and tucked it into his pack. Then, with practiced speed, he retrieved his own dagger from where it had clattered during the scuffle. He paused for just a moment, then shoved both blades deep into his satchel, out of sight. Evidence for later—or protection for what came next.

He crouched beside Kael, grimacing as his thigh flared in protest. Blood was still oozing freely. Using his own knife, he sliced several long strips from the bottom of Kael’s already-ruined tunic and cloak. First, he looped the makeshift bandages around his leg, tying them tight with shaky fingers to slow the bleeding. Then he turned his attention to Kael, pressing a wad of cloth against the stab wound in his side. The gash was deep, but not immediately fatal if treated quickly.

"You idiot," Briar muttered under his breath. "Could’ve just eaten the damn ration."

With a grunt of effort, he hauled Kael’s unconscious body up over his shoulder. The man wasn’t especially heavy, but Briar’s wounded leg turned every step into a dull war against gravity. Still, he pushed on—limping and staggering—out into the night air. The moon hung low over the rooftops as he made his way toward the nearest city watch post.

Dock Street, Dock Ward - Night
The watch post stood like a hunched old man at the edge of Dock Street—three stories of soot-dark stone and timber beams, its outer walls stained with sea salt and city grime. A rusted lantern swung above the door, casting jittery orange light across a faded shield bearing the crest of the City of Splendors.

Two bored-looking guards lounged beneath the archway, spears propped lazily against the wall, deep in quiet conversation—until they saw Briar approaching.

He must have looked half-dead himself, limping forward with blood soaking one pant leg and a man slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Their posture changed instantly—straightening, hands reaching for weapons, one already stepping forward.

"Hells," muttered the first guard, a woman with cropped black hair and a scar along her cheek. "What’ve we got here?"

Without ceremony, Briar eased Kael down—gently as he could manage, but still with a final grunt of effort—until the man’s body landed in a heavy thud at their feet. He stepped back, breathing hard, one hand instinctively resting on the satchel at his hip.

"This is Kael Thorne," Briar said, voice rough from exertion and smoke. "He tried to rob me. Came at me with a dagger. I defended myself… barely." He gestured to his bandaged thigh, the blood seeping through the crude wrappings. "We both got a little cut up, but I got the better end of it."
Briar raised a hand slightly, as if to ward off questions. "Look—I don’t know the full story. Something’s chasing him. Someone. He’s scared, desperate. I think he needs more than just a jail cell... but I’m not the one to sort that out."
He looked down at Kael for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then back to the guards.
"Get him patched up. Lock him up if you have to. Just keep him alive. That’s all I ask."

Lunareth watched with a sense of satisfaction as the dour dwarves departed. They wont have any trouble, I reckon. He leaned on the barmaid's sturdy shoulder as she walked him up the stairs to an empty room, the number six in fading paint adorning the lintel. As he shuffled along, he said "thank ye, lass, but I think I can lay my head down and rest. Elvish blood and all, whatever is left of it inside me anyway."

Luna submitted to the ministrations of the resolute woman and her halfling helper. Once the wounds in his side and back were bathed and bandaged, he heaped thanks on the two of them as they left him with a dinner of soup and bread. As he ate the simple—yet hardy—fare, Luna took out the obsidian stone and gazed on it once again. Thinking through his years of study, Luna became more concerned. Whilst onyx is not uncommon, it is known amongst practitioners as being of ill-luck, useful in animating the dead, and was associated with the evil Shar. Obsidian, however, is significantly less expensive. It bodes ill if the rituals for creating these obscenities is becomes easier.

Luna drifted off to an uneasy sleep, his mind bouncing between the ghoul attack and tomorrow's party.

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Night
The scarred constable crouched briefly beside Kael, checking his pulse with practiced fingers. "Still breathing," she muttered, then straightened and nodded to her partner. "Go get the captain. And ask if we need a Robes down here."

The younger guard blinked. "A magister? You think it’s that serious?"

She gave him a pointed look, eyes narrowing. "Two injured men, one unconscious, one confessing to a knife fight in the streets. Yeah, I think it might be."

The guard jogged off into the post without another word.

The constable turned back to Briar, her expression firm but not unkind. "Alright, sir. I appreciate you coming here instead of dumping him in the harbor, but you know how this works. We’ll need to hold you too, at least for tonight. Standard procedure until the Watch confirms your account. If everything checks out, you’ll be out by morning. I don't know if you were expecting something else, but this is not the Savage Frontier. We follow the Code here."

Warm Beds Inn, Dock Ward - Next morning
Lunareth stirred as the early light of dawn crept through the warped wooden shutters of Room Six, casting slanted beams across the roughspun blankets of his bed. For a moment, the memories of the night before clung to him like a chill mist—jagged teeth, foul breath, the sharp pain in his side. But when he sat up, slowly and with a grimace, he was surprised at how well he felt.The bandages held firm, the stiffness in his muscles was manageable, and the nausea from the ghoul’s bite had abated entirely. Elven resilience was a gift of his bloodline, but even that had its limits. Clearly, Selûne had not turned her face from him.

The room was modest but clean. A chipped washbasin sat in the corner beside a small table where his empty soup bowl and crusty bread plate remained.

Luna stretched, grimacing as he felt the tightness in his side. Oh, for one of the healers in the House of the Moon, he thought. After performing his morning ablutions, Luna sank to his knees in prayer to his goddess, thanking her for her protection and beseeching her for the same as well as guidance for the day and the future. Feeling spiritually refreshed, Luna collected his belongings—secreting the obsidian in his coin pouch—collected his used dishes, and brought them downstairs to the kitchens, where he left them in the hands of one of the scullery maids.

While I would like to run directly to the library at the House of the Moon, I do have a commitment today. One which should not only get me paid—twice!—but also may put me in contact with the Harpers. With that excited thought, Luna retraced his steps to the Misty Beard to seek Trelza and adventure.

"The fight didn’t happen in some alley or out on the street," he said, the edge in his voice sharp as flint. "I was back at my place. Settling in for the night. He broke in—forced his way inside—and jumped me. No warning. No conversation. Just a blade in the dark."

He took a step closer, limp pronounced, blood smearing across the stone with every movement. His tone grew colder, harder, as he locked eyes with the taller of the two guards.
"You and him are lucky I didn’t leave his body cooling on the cobblestones. If I hadn’t decided to drag him here, you’d be waking up to a corpse and a mystery. No names. No answers. Just another bleeding mess to clean up before breakfast."

There was a long moment of silence. The torches on the walls crackled. Kael groaned faintly at the guards' feet.
Briar exhaled slowly, then added, quieter now but no less firm, "So. Tell me straight—do I get a healer and a place to lie down and a warm meal in the morning? After what I’ve been through, I think that’s the least the city can offer."

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Night
The constable didn’t flinch at Briar’s words. She’d heard tougher talk from men who bled out two minutes later. She just crossed her arms and gave him a long, cool look.

"Keep your mouth level and your hands where we can see ’em," she said flatly. "Otherwise a Robe might make this a full-blown song and dance. And trust me—you don’t want to be center stage for one of their performances."

In Waterdeep, magisters wield significant authority. They can pass sentence instantly, though most sentences are conditional on the supporting evidence of witnesses. Any citizen of Waterdeep can appeal to the Lord’s Court within two days of being sentenced by a magister, but most such appeals fail.

She gestured to the blood-slick trail behind him. "You’re not walking out that door until the magister hears who started what, who stuck who, and whether either of you’s got a bounty tied to your name."

Her voice softened slightly, but not by much. "Now, you want straight answers? Here they are: Yes, you’ll get a healer. Yes, you’ll get food. Every prisoner does—gods know we’re not savages. But don’t come in here swinging your story like a blade and demanding a hot meal. You’re not the only one who’s had a long night."

Briar raised his hands slightly in surrender, his expression sheepish beneath the grime and bruises. He limped forward, one brow arched, the corner of his mouth tugging into a tired, apologetic smile.

"Sorry—ma’am," he said quickly, glancing at the stern-faced guard who’d clearly had just about enough of everything. "Didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve just had... a night, you know? One of those nights. Frustrated, bleeding from places I shouldn’t be, and running on fumes and regret."

He paused a few steps away, wincing as he shifted his weight to his injured leg. "Didn’t mean to bark. Just trying not to keel over in the middle of the street or get thrown in a cell next to him." He jerked a thumb toward Kael, still groaning on the ground like a particularly pitiful sack of potatoes.

"Look," Briar added with a lopsided shrug, "just tell me what you need me to do. I’ll stand in the corner. I’ll sit in the gutter. I’ll fill out paperwork. I’ll sing a tavern tune off-key if that keeps me out of more trouble tonight."
He gave a weak grin, blood-speckled and too exhausted to be charming, but trying nonetheless.

City Watch post, Dock Ward - Night
The door to the watchpost creaked open again, and the second constable stepped back inside, boots damp from the misty night air. He gave his companion a short nod, then turned to Briar.

"Captain’s word just came down," he said. "The Robe’ll hear the matter tomorrow morning."

He looked over at Kael’s slumped form, still unconscious but groaning and breathing, and gave a small shake of his head. "We’re to put ’em in separate cells, no contact. Sergeant Tarmek’s on duty tonight, and the captain says he’ll tend to their wounds before lights-out. Man’s a bastard, but he can stitch a wound better than half the city’s sawbones."

The first constable grunted in acknowledgment. Then the two guards moved to haul Kael toward the back cells, while a grizzled sergeant emerged from the adjoining room, eyeing Briar’s bloody thigh and sweat-slicked face.

"Come on.," the sergeant muttered. "Let’s get you patched up and locked down away from him."

Dock Ward - Early morning
The morning air in the Dock Ward was heavy with salt and smoke, but to Lunareth it tasted fresher than the stink of ghoul ichor. Wrapped in his cloak and with his pack over one shoulder, Luna made his way along Fish Street, retracing the path he had taken the night before—but this time with steady steps and the sun warming his back.

The city was already awake and bustling. Fishmongers shouted about their catches, sailors and stevedores hauled crates from beached carts to narrow doorways, and street urchins darted through alleys like shadows on errands of their own.