The scarecrows burned and the dawn broke gray over the farms of Undercliff. Our heroes—mud-splattered, straw-streaked, and a little too proud of themselves—watched the last embers die before Mary and Jack Stoutfellow stepped from their porch with torches in hand. Gratitude was short but heartfelt; the farmers promised a cask of Stoutfellow Reserve as payment and sent the adventurers back toward the sleeping city.

The Long Walk Home

Past one in the morning, the moon hung crooked above Mount Waterdeep as the group trudged north. The watchmen at River Gate waved them through with weary familiarity, and soon the flicker of torches gave way to the cozy glow of North Ward windows. Somewhere along Delzorin Street a crash of glass erupted—a tavern brawl spilling into the road.

Doc, naturally, couldn’t resist. Maple tried diplomacy, Raven observed with mild horror, and Clover seized a half-empty bucket of slop and hurled it with impeccable comedic timing. The resulting beer-and-spit bath ended the fight faster than any peacekeeper could have hoped. Waterdeep 1, Chaos 0.

Dreams and Breakfast

By three bells, Trollskull Manor rose ahead like a silhouette from a forgotten painting. The Urchins were asleep in the booths, curled in blankets. Clover lingered longest by the hearth before sleep found him—and when it did, it came cruelly. A nightmare: a rat chewing something that wasn’t food. The sound of tiny teeth, the glint of bone, and then—nothing. He woke cold and silent.

Morning brought warmth and the smell of frying bacon. The Urchins, armed with wooden spoons and unearned confidence, had cooked breakfast. There were menus. There was chaos. There was also—miraculously—edible food. Squiddly used Mage Hand to pour drinks, Nat directed operations like a general, and Jinks managed to only drop half a tray. Spirits lifted; the manor felt alive again.

The Guilds Arrive

The first knock came at mid-morning.
Enter Soukaev Thranroth, of the Carpenters’ and Joiners’ Guild—a man carved from oak and solemnity. He circled the taproom with the reverence of a priest and the scrutiny of a tax collector, tapping beams, sniffing varnish, muttering over every joint.

“Two hundred fifty dragons for perfection,” he pronounced. “Seventy-five for merely livable.”

His voice carried the finality of a gravestone. Yet even he admitted, “These beams still lie true. Worth saving.”

He’d barely crossed the threshold before the door flew open again. In strode Naska Droon, inspector of the Plumbers’ and Dunnymen’s Guild, trailing the scent of tar and the authority of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. Copper divining rod in hand, she locked eyes with Soukaev—and the verbal duel began.

“Beams sag faster than a wet privy door,” she sneered.
“At least my joints don’t leak,” he replied without blinking.

The party watched the clash unfold like an accidental stage play—half insult, half courtship, all chaos. Soukaev left in dignified silence. Naska, victorious and bemused, declared an immediate inspection.

The Dunnymen’s Verdict

Down she went, into the dark. Pipes rattled, water gurgled, something hissed in Celestial. When she emerged, hair askew and eyes wide, she listed her findings:

• Tree-root intrusion in the east drain
• Haunted rat-catcher pipe
• Rot, rust, and a possible sentient valve
• “Mainline leaks like a drunken gnome”
• “Trap drain tried to bite me”

Her total: sixty-six dragons and a smirk. “Respect the house,” she warned, “or you’ll find out what a psychic pipe-backup feels like.” Then she winked at Doc and vanished into the daylight.

Rewards, Reports, and Revelations

Not long after, a wagon creaked to the door. True to their word, the Stoutfellows had delivered the promised cask of wine. The Urchins rushed to help, levitating and pushing and shouting directions until the barrel rolled safely into the cellar—Lif’s old haunt. The air turned colder there, though no one spoke of it.

With the inspectors gone, Nat organized a Guild of Everything inspection of her own. Wearing a too-big hat and armed with a clipboard, she assigned titles:

• Maple – Chief Nature Advisor
• Raven – Risk Management
• Doc – Security & Heavy Lifting
• Kiril – Head of Shadows
• Clover – Morale and Snacks

Their report, signed in crayon and sealed with a banana-shaped stamp, read:

“Structural weirdness: Yes. Friendly ghost: Check. Snack radius: Medium-High. Stage needs sparkle.”

Prestidigitation fireworks followed. Spirits soared. For a moment, the tavern felt like home.

The Rat in the Walls

Evening settled soft and warm. Firelight danced, laughter faded. Then Squiddly, eyes wide, asked Raven the question that stilled the room:

“Do ghosts keep pets?”

He told them what he’d seen earlier—a gray rat crawling from the cellar, its fur slick and its eyes glowing green-gold. It smelled of rotten herbs. When it vanished through the floorboards, the fire had flared blue.

The children laughed nervously, calling it the hag’s pet from old stories, but their laughter didn’t last long. The fire popped once more, throwing a shadow that didn’t quite match the furniture.

“If ghosts can have pets,” Squiddly whispered, “maybe hags can too.”

And with that, the manor fell silent.

Highlights & Threads

The Urchins solidify their place as the tavern’s heart.

Dark Harvest arc resolved; Stoutfellow Reserve delivered.

Introduction of Soukaev Thranroth (Carpenters’ Guild) and Naska Droon (Dunnymen’s Guild) – the “Beams and Backwash” rivalry begins.

Lif’s haunting deepens; psychic whispers and blue fire hint at restless magic.

First foreshadowing of Aryssa Mirthkettle via the glowing-eyed rat.

The Urchins solidify their place as the tavern’s heart.