30 Kythorn 1374
I have, at last, returned to Waterdeep. I have stopped to run errands in the city, while my companions have set off with Shen’s body to my birthplace of Brandykenthwaite-on-Trickle, so as seek his resurrection at the Temple of Yondalla there. I do hope that Most Venerable Hearthmistress Elise Willowgrove blesses them by granting this, our most ardent wish. I hope too that they all have time for a pint or six of ale at the Thirsty Terrasque.
Much has changed in Waterdeep, and not for the better.
The leadership of the Guild has been broken. Guildmaster Drovak has not been seen for months. Deputy Guildmaster Whisperdirk has been imprisoned, charged with the murder of a Calim spice merchant named Nazreen Al Fayed Ibn Fazulyeh—the very same Nazreen, it seems, that was allied with Muldaven. A new Guildmaster has taken over, known only as The Watcher. As his agent he has a a lithe, raven haired lady in tight-fitting green leather leggings, matching bodice, and adorned with a raven tattoo—the very same Cerynn, it seems who was tracking us months ago in the north. From the tales told of her by my fellow rogues, she is a formidable woman indeed.
As my mother used to say, this is more coincidences than you can fill a pillow with.
I’ve tried to leave the impression with Cerynn that I’m alienated from my erstwhile friends, and have become very much a halfling-for-hire. She may, or may not, have bought it. She certainly seems inordinately interested in them, although I’ve provided her with little real information.
Whisperdirk might know more of this—if only he could be freed from imprisonment. However, a direct assault on the the heavily-fortified main prison on Penal Isle is out of the question. Instead, I am considering whether something more round-about might work: some forged transfer orders, perhaps, or some other bureaucratic device to have him moved to the mainland. To this end I’ve identified a possible informant within the Palace of Justice: a grumpy, disgruntled, miserable clerk in the office of the High Magister named Archibald Inzay. Inzay keeps to himself, and seems that he spends almost all of his time working. Some joke that he must be an automaton or construct of some sort. Rather oddly, he travels once a month to the City of the Dead. Perhaps there is something there I might use to enlist his aid, or to leverage into useful information.
It all makes my halfling head spin, even without the usual accompaniment of ale. One thought keeps returning, however, above all else: with so many shadowy threads of fate now knitting together, does it not seem likely that Uncle Reggie’s murderer might also be lurking nearby?