Act 1. The Night Market Waits for No King

Trade Ward, Waterdeep - Dusk
The last slivers of sunlight melted behind the rooftops of the Trade Ward, turning the city’s stone and slate into long black teeth against a blood-orange sky. The streets, once bustling, had begun to simmer down into a quieter rhythm — shops shuttered, lanterns lit, and voices lowered to murmurs. But down the crooked alley beside the Tiny Tavern, the world felt different.

Shmautz walked with the easy grace of a creature born into silence. The muffled hush of his padded feet against the cobbles barely stirred the rats. He passed a broken barrel and half-burnt wanted poster fluttering on the wall behind it, with the drawing of a man.

At the far end of the alley, a shadow moved and paused. A figure stood waiting, half-swallowed by the gloom between two buildings, the hood of a grey cloak pulled low over the face. The shape was average, nondescript.

Shmautz stopped, stepped back behind the broken barrel and remained silent. He peeked down the ally, trying to figure out, if there were other people around the figure. On the roofs? Behind corners? Was this all safe?

His whiskers trembled nervously.

"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.", he thought.

Shmautz narrowed his eyes, pupils thinning to careful slits as he scanned the alley with the precision of a born predator. His ears flicked, tuning out the hum of distant tavern music and latching onto the rhythm of breathing, the shift of leather, the creak of boots. Nothing. No shadows moved above, no glint of steel in corners, no telltale weight of a second breath where there should be none. The rooftops held only pigeons and dusk, and the corners were empty of watchers. Just the lone figure in grey, waiting — too still to be nervous, too patient to be lying. For now, at least, it seemed... safe enough.

As Shmautz didn't notice any menace, he continues walking down the alley. He tries not to be too fast, nor too slow. As he is just about a few feet away from the grey-hooded figure, he stops. His hands are in the pockets of his robe.

With a bored gesture, he looks around. Then, after a few moments, he says:

"The night market waits for no king."

The figure gave the slightest nod. No words. Just turned, and began walking through the maze of narrow lanes and arched stone paths.

Shmautz was surprised. Instead of responding, the figure just went away.

"What the whisker!? Maybe this is the way those secret spy-things work here?"

Shmautz follows the figure, but doesn't say a word. He's too nervous and doesn't want to show his uncertainty.

So they didn’t speak as they moved through the maze of narrow lanes and arched stone paths of Waterdeep.

The stranger led Shmautz past shops long closed and homes pretending not to listen. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they turned a corner and ducked under a heavy iron arch marked only with faded sigils, too weathered to read. Beyond it: darkness deeper than dusk. A tunnel, half-forgotten by the city, led into the sewers and the underbelly of Waterdeep.

The cloaked figure turned, checking if Shmautz was still following, and slipped into the tunnel. Into the darkness.

For a moment, Shmautz paused.

"Of course, it's the sewers! What the whiskers? My feet will smell like an Ogre's behind. I'll have Branric nose them, once I'm back in the Tavern.

I wonder, how that grey guy can see?"

"You have night-vision, or what?", Shmautz speaks for the first time. He squints his eyes again and looks into the dark. Then he slips in as well, following the figure.

The tunnel swallowed them whole. After a few turns, the figure slowed, pausing beside a worn alcove where a stone ledge jutted from the wall — a meeting place, by the look of it, used more than once.

The hood lowered slightly, revealing a sharp-featured woman with dark auburn hair bound tightly at the nape, faint scars along one cheek, and steady eyes the color of weathered silver. She had a strange blue glow in her eyes, probably caused by some kind of spell.

A simple pin glinted on her cloak near the collar: a silver harp wrapped in a crescent moon — the unmistakable symbol of the Harpers. Subtle, but there for those who knew how to look.

Her voice, when it came, was calm, measured, polite.

"You’re Shmautz," she said, not asking, but confirming. "I’m Neria. Watch investigator, and Harper… unofficially," she offered, voice low but not unfriendly. "We can’t always trust the Watch’s higher ranks — too many pockets lined by the wrong gold. That’s why I asked Branric for someone with instincts, someone outside the usual… circles."

Her eyes flicked to Shmautz'.

"There’s a clandestine auction tonight. Magic items, artifacts, things that shouldn’t be changing hands — certainly not in secret. The Watch can’t intervene directly — not without… political consequences and at least one Lord making it all for nothing." Her mouth curved faintly, dry humor beneath the words. "But the Harpers? We have more flexibility. Your task is simple. Blend in, observe. There’s a noble's son — Darnald Vexley. Soft, foolish, but ambitious. He’s after something powerful, and dangerous if wielded by the wrong hands. Find him. Find out what he’s buying. Track the exchange. Intervene only if you have to."

A pause.