Act 2. Beneath the barren birches

Act 2. Beneath the barren birches

City of the Dead, Afternoon
The path soon opened into the City of the Dead, Waterdeep’s sprawling necropolis. Here, silence fell thickly, a heavy blanket over the bustling city just a few streets away. The air cooled, growing damp and rich with the smell of earth and flowers. Majestic family crypts rose up amid the gravestones — miniature stone houses and gothic structures — each a legacy, a monument to ancestors gone but not forgotten.

The group followed the map Melannor had marked, weaving through a labyrinth of resting places until they came upon their destination: a grand family mausoleum, constructed from dark limestone and veined with quartz. The entrance was flanked by two ancient birch trees — their white bark a ghostly contrast against the black stone — their branches drooped, barren and knotted, adding a strange, barren dignity to the scene.

Just a few paces in front of the crypt’s wrought-iron gate gaped a huge hole — a raw, irregular chasm in the earth — as though something from below had gnawed its way upward. The edges were crumbled and barren, roots dangling downward into the blackness beneath. Whatever had opened this rift, it hadn’t been careful; it had disregarded the stones, the soil, and the peace of the ancestors in its path.

Careful of the edges, Sif will examine the hole. Looking for clues to what might have made it and for the best way down into it.

Sif, the earth around the sinkhole is loose and unstable, the edges crumbling slightly under even cautious steps. As you peer down, you see that the shaft drops at a steep angle — uneven and jagged, with torn roots and collapsed soil jutting out from the walls. It’s not a clean tunnel, and there are no signs of stonework or intentional design. Whatever created this hole did so with brute force — something massive breaking through from below, or perhaps a surge of powerful magic rupturing the ground from beneath.

Moreover, from your vantage point at the edge of the sinkhole, you see three possible ways to proceed. One option is to attempt a direct descent using the thick roots that dangle from the walls — they're uneven and partially torn, but might serve as a makeshift ladder for a careful climber, though the loose earth makes it risky. Alternatively, you could buy some rope and rappel down; the nearby birch trees or parts of the mausoleum might serve as anchors, provided they’re stable enough to hold weight. The third option lies in the mausoleum itself — the crypt’s weathered stone suggests age and depth. It’s possible there’s a stairway or subterranean passage within, potentially offering a safer route to whatever lies beneath the surface.

"Let's check the crypt" Cormac suggests.

"I really don't like the idea of our only way out being to climb out of the hole. If we can find a passage into the sinkhole from there. That will be a darn sight easier that a difficult climb if things go bad."

The iron gate to the mausoleum is old but still locked, the rusted metal clinging stubbornly to its hinges. You have a few clear options: someone with lockpicks could try to open it quietly, though the age of the mechanism might make it a challenge. If subtlety isn't a concern, forcing the gate open with brute strength is possible, but it risks making a lot of noise — not ideal if there’s something dangerous nearby or inside.

Alternatively, you could take a few minutes to search the area. There might be a hidden key, a loose stone, or even another entrance tucked away along the crypt’s perimeter or beneath the overgrowth. It would take time, but could reveal a safer, quieter way inside.

Hearing no objections from his party., Comrac walks up to the crypt door and inspects it.

Seeing no easy entrance, he puts his shoulder to the crypt door and pushes with all his might, hoping to force it open.

The rusted hinges screech in protest — a harsh, grating metallic wail that echoes across the burial ground like a cry for unwanted attention. The gate gives way slightly, then groans as it swings open, sending flakes of rust and old moss tumbling to the ground.

The sound barely has time to fade before the earth itself seems to shift nearby.

One of the birch trees — tall, pale, its bark streaked with ancient lines — groans unnaturally. Its branches creak as they twist, leaves rustling not with the wind, but with intention. The trunk bends, reshaping into a vaguely humanoid form as a face emerges from the knots and ridges of the bark. Its eyes glow faintly green, and its gnarled limbs creak as it uproots itself, massive roots pulling free from the soil like long, coiled limbs.

The treant — guardian of this ground — steps forward, towering over you all, its voice low and rumbling like stone grinding beneath the earth.

"Why… do you disturb the dead?"

"Cormac is right the crypt looks to be the best bet if we don’t want to climb." Sif agrees with Cormac’s plan and watches him bust in the door, impressive hit.

-

"The dead have been disturbed by someone or something other than us, we have been asked to bring back peace and rest to the area." Sif says, when the ent speaks, hoping to appease the thing without a fight. "When the danger has passed we will leave the dead to their rest."

Sif waits for an answer, ready pull her shield if things go south.