A Visit to the Yawning Portal
As a regular the sights, sounds, and smells of the Yawning Portal taproom were familiar to Darion. The first thing that drew his gaze, after he pushed open the sturdy oak door, was the forty-foot across, gaping, well-like hole at the center of the great room. Other taverns might become mundane to their patrons, but the Yawning Portal never would. It would always be a place embodying excitement and adventure - a brush against the unknown - all because of this hole that led to Undermountain.
The Dungeon of the Mad Mage.
The tavern was lively and crowded tonight, but then it was on most evenings and the ambient chatter of drinkers and eaters made it impossible to hear more than a hint of Mattrim Three-Strings performance on the stage. Darion made his way across the room past tables stuffed with patrons from all walks of life - from ordinary working Waterdhavians like himself, to clerks, functionaries, merchants and even a few nobles dressed in increasingly tailored outfits of increasingly brighter fabrics, to gathered adventurers in all manner of well-worn cloaks, sets of armor, or robes. He gave a nod or a wave to those he recognized among the first group and surreptitiously studied and envied the last group.
Before he'd even apprenticed as a cobbler he'd wanted to be an adventurer. All his friends had. Now, into his fifth decade on Toril, he could safely say those dreams were a thing of the past. Recently, on especially long days of shoe and boot repair, his hands started aching so bad from pulling out hobnails and separating glued leather it woke him at night and sent him sipping at an apothecary concoction to find relief. But if the dream of being an adventurer was gone the desire for it had never fully faded, even if the closest he ever got was sitting at a table next to the well at the Yawning Portal once a ten-day.
And even that was sometimes too close.
Last visit a troll had climbed out of Undermountain and into the tap room. The sight of it - its warty green skin, tangled nest of wiry black hair, long, carrot-shaped nose, its yellow teeth, and bloodshot eyes - along with its gagging reek and howling scream had sent the cobbler tumbling back out of his chair and scrambling underneath the closest table. Because of that he'd only been treated to Durnan's feet and splatters of gore and blood after the tavern owner leapt the bar top and slew the monster with the great sword he always kept near to hand. A burning followed to keep the creature dead and tables were rearranged to cover the scorch marks.
This, and other incidents, made Darion question the wisdom of his once a ten-day ritual with his oldest friends. What sort of father and husband would take such an unnecessary risk and spend coin doing it? But here he was, back for more, savoring the slight knot of unease in his gut as he headed towards their usual table at the edge of the well. At least, he reasoned, he wasn't the only idiot given how crowded the place always was.
A dark haired barmaid bustled away as he approached, an empty tray carried under one arm to better weave her way through the crowded tables. His disappointment must have shown in his expression because Jhalassan reassured him as he sat.
"We saw you coming and ordered for you," she said. "Shadowdark ale and quippers and chips."
"Thanks Jhal," he said, giving a nod to the gray-haired glassblower. "No Bonnie?"
It felt good to sit, which was strange since he spent most of his work time sitting while he worked leather and cork.
"Apparently she had to leave town for a few days to care for a sick relative," Baalbaas, his balding and heavy-set grocer friend said. "So she missed all the excitement of the Watch and the Watchful Order running all over the city. Did you hear tyrant Silverhand had a mind flayer head strung up at the castle gates. Probably something she conjured up to give a false narrative for seizing citizens."
"Yes Beebee," Jhalassan said, invoking the childhood nickname of their friend. "You're onto something there. Our normal barmaid skipped town to avoid the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors."
"I'm telling you there is something off about her," the heavyset grocer huffed. "Sometimes the way she looks at me frightens me. Like she is sizing me up, taking my measurements like an undertaker fitting someone for a coffin."
"Sizing you up to see if she can get a better tip out of your cheap ass," the glass blower said.
The three excluding Baalbaas shared a laugh and an eye roll. Their grocer friend had always been one for rumors and conspiracies, the wilder the better.
"So, how is the cobbler business? Mellor, their tall and thin weaver friend asked.
"Same as last I saw you," Darion said with a shrug. "Busy."
Despite his short answer, the cobbler approved of the change in subject. The weaver obviously tried to avert the conversation from descending into a spiraling rant of musing by Baalbaas ranging from the illegitimacy on the election of their current Open Lord to his outright weird theories on Bonnie. If Darion didn't know his friend was happily married he'd have assumed the barmaid had rejected an advance from the aging grocer.
"The family?" Mellor asked.
"Same as last I saw you," the cobbler said. "Fine."
"By which he means let's skip the typical pleasantries and get straight to the unhealthy obsession we all share," Jhalassan said.
In truth they all saw each other much more frequently than these ten-day get togethers, their families and wives being friends, but this time was set aside to indulge in, as the glassblower put it, their unhealthy obsession - though the cobbler would rather phrase it as 'passion pastime that bored their spouses to a stupor'.
"So what's the news?" Darion asked. "Who has gone into and come out of the well in the last ten-day?"
"Three groups in - the Madder Mages, the Circle of Steel, and the Fellowship of the Flagon," Baalbaas said. "The last was that group of drunk Cormyrean merchants who paid to put their boots into the sand at the bottom of the well and get hauled right back up."
The grocer's fascination with rumors and conspiracies might be annoying, but it also made him highly adept at tracking and ferreting out all the comings and goings into and out of Undermountain through the Yawning Portal. A boisterous bout of laughing and back slapping erupted from the indicated merchant table. The cobbler couldn't hear what was being said from across the tap room, but he assumed the group was congratulating each other over their collective bravery.
"The tale will grow between them and by the time they get back to Cormyr they'll have descended several levels and confronted the Mad Mage himself," Mellor laughed.
"And why not?" the cobbler said with a smile. "Don't the bards say to not let the truth ruin a good story?"
"Don't know if they say that," the weaver said, "But they certainly don't let the truth get in their way when crafting their tales and songs."
Their drinks arrived and they all went silent for a moment as tankards were clunked down in front of each of them and nods of thanks were exchanged.
"Madder Mages?" Jhalassan asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow after they'd shared a collective, sigh-inducing sip.
"A group of five wizards," Baalbaas explained.
"With that name - Halaster probably won't like it - and that composition of skill sets," the glassblower said with a wince. "Their chance of survival is not high."
After so many years of keeping track of adventure parties that went into Undermountain they all considered themselves experts.
"Any come out in the last ten-day?" Mellor asked.
"Six from Silverymoon came out," the grocer said. "Well half of them did and the North Wind interviewed them. If you believe their account, they made it deep. They're story matches some of what others have said - underground forest, elf arch druid, green dragon with a sword stuck in his head, and other encounters. When a death tyrant killed three of them they decided enough was enough. Claimed they found no real riches to speak of."
Baalbaas pulled out a folded cut out copy of the North Wind broadsheet article from a pocket and laid it on the table for them to peruse.
"No real riches?" Jhalassan mused. "Probably means they found a treasure trove, but don't want any thieves or bandits getting any ideas of waylaying them on their way back to Silverymoon."
"Probably," the grocer agreed.
They all sat silent for a moment, Darion day dreaming about treasure - a mountain of coins, gems, jewels, and items of arcane power. Unbridling the imagination about such things was part of the fun of their pastime.
"Does the article say anything about the Fine Fellows of Daggerford?" Mellor asked. "Did Six from Silvermoon encounter them while they were down there?"
The glassblower snorted even as Baalbaas shook his head.
"Fine Fellows of Daggerford?" she scoffed. "Gods above, just speak your mind. What you really want to know is has anyone heard or seen any signs of the scantily clad genasi of the Fine Fellows of Daggerford. Wearing only your undergarments in front of a full taproom is one path to immortal memory I suppose."
"They actually weren't undergarments," the cobbler defended. "Her outfit wasn't made of silk or satin. Those were dragon scales."
They had actually been sitting at this very table when the Fine Fellows of Daggerford descended into the well and had an up close view.
"Covering only the bits undergarments cover," Jhalassan said with a sighing laugh. "The gods and you all know that I appreciate a generous view of feminine flesh. But that outfit was ridiculous and unfortunately her bones are probably now decorating some corner of the Mad Mage's dungeon along with the rest of her crew."
"I'm guessing the dragon scales had some protective warding magic woven into them," Baalbaas said with a contemplative look. "Or maybe the tattoos twining her arms were magic. She actually looked quite competent."
"You're a grocer," the gray-haired woman said, pointing. "He's a weaver, he's a cobbler, and I'm a glassblower. None of us would know magic if it bit us in the ass. I appreciate the young woman bringing a bit of a thrill into our dull, boring, humdrum lives, but she probably didn't have the skillset to go into Undermountain and survive.
There was a lie in her rant. No one who ever saw the look of intense tranquility on Jhalassan's face while she performed her trade, or saw the pieces she wrought, would ever think she lived a 'boring, humdrum life'. Mellor and Darion might be good craftsmen, but their friend was an artist. They might, as children, all dreamed of being adventurers, but there could be no doubt she'd found her calling.
"What would your wife think if she knew about you ogling young adventurers on our nights at the Yawning Portal?" Mellor asked, sly humor in his tone.
"She'd have the same opinion as me on the genasi," the glass blower said with a shrug, then paused to take a swig from her tankard. "Nice looking, flattering outfit, dumb as a doorknob."
Before any of them could respond, or start passing around the broadsheet article on the table, Baalbaas held up a hand and cocked an ear towards the well. Had he heard something? It was possible to catch sounds from down below, but not usually when the taproom was crowded with patrons a bit raucous from the effect of the Shadowdark ale collectively consumed. Which was how a troll had managed to climb up to the lip of the well a ten-day ago with no one hearing it.
Darion glanced up at the bell over the hole, but it was soundless and motionless. He was just about to guide his group back to their conversation when a figure flew up out of the well on flapping wings of pale white light. The cobbler reared back in surprise, almost toppling out his chair like had happened with the troll, but he was just able to keep his balance.
"Can someone lower that thing! We're being chased by these shadow things."
It was a young woman. Darion couldn't tell if she was just bathed in the light of her wings or if her skin was suffused with a small amount of its own pale luminescence. She pointed at the hanging platform used to raise and lower people into the Undermountain.
"There's a rope hanging down a wall to the bottom girl," Durnan called out from behind the bar. "People pull it to say they want the platform lowered. One gold dragon each."
Before the bartender had even finished speaking, the bell started clanging back and forth.
"Oh, looks like my friends figured it out," the flying woman said.
"She's an aasimar," Baalbaas whispered to himself from across the table.
The bell suddenly stopped ringing and another figure came hurtling out of the well, this time on soundless wings of shadow.
"Selune's Tears!" the aasimar yelled. "You can fly too?"
The shadowy form was hard to fully make out, but she seemed a dark copy of the young woman with luminous wings.
"Burn!" the aasimar yelled, bright flame blazing from her hand.
But she gave a quick glance around the room, seeming to notice all the bystanders potentially in harm's way, and snuffed out her fire before she even cast it. Her dark duplicate had no such reservations and sent a bolt of silent shadow at her twin. The aasimar didn't even try to dodge, perhaps out of fear an innocent onlooker would be hit instead. She put her arms up protectively and flew at her double.
The bolt of shadow struck her enroute and pale warding magic flared to protect her, but some of the attack must have gotten through because she cried out. Not letting the pain deter her she crashed into her dark twin and they spun in a grappling maelstrom of shadow and light - the aasimar huffing and cursing and the other eerily quiet.
"Girl!" Durnan yelled. "Bring her down where I can reach her!"
Like when the troll had climbed out of the well, the burly bartender had leapt out from behind the bar and bore his great sword in hand. It occured to Darion, as it often did, that Durnan still looked the same age and remained as spry as when the cobbler first came into the tavern over thirty years ago. Some sort of magic was definitely at work or the bartender wasn't as human as he appeared.
Durnan took a stance at the lip of the well not far from Darion's table, blade cocked back and ready. Some part of the cobbler's mind understood he was closer to unfolding events than he would like, but he couldn't seem to move. He just kept watching, wide-eyed and somehow transfixed to his chair.
Darion at first thought the aasimar hadn't heard the bartender's order, but then the fighting pair started descending towards him. The problem was they still spun and twirled, wings of shadow and light beating against each other so hard a breeze touched the cobbler's cheeks. There was no way for Durnan to attack one without risking hitting the other.
Then, as they came into range, quicker than thought, the bartender sliced his great sword through the air in a whistling arc and shadow flesh parted. The dark aasimar issued a brief silent scream before bursting asunder from a second attack by Durnan, which left the young woman hovering above the well with a confused look in her pale moon blue eyes and her hands raised in a pantomime of fighting.
"They come out of mirrors?" the bartender asked.
"Mirrors," the aasimar confirmed, nodding.
"Platform is on the way down," Durnan said. "Destroy all your shadow selves before you board. One gold dragon each."
"Right!" the woman said, then dove back the way she had come.
All chatter and clattering dishwater had fallen away. With the tap room silent, they could hear what she yelled on the way back down.
"Platform is on the way! He wants us to destroy all the shadow selves before we board!"
"By all that dances!" a feminine voice growled from far below, so distant the cobbler could only just make out the words. "What do you think I'm trying to do?"
"Couple of you stout lads get ready to help haul them up," Durnan yelled.
He shouldered the boom holding the platform to swing out over the well, then operated the winch to start it descending into the darkness. Darion watched it dropping until it disappeared from sight. The taproom was silent with anticipation but the clink of the chain going through the winch mechanism made it hard to hear anything from below, no matter how much the cobbler strained to listen. There might have been the sound of fighting down and there might not, but by the time the entire chain spool was expended and the platform reached the bottom, the bell rang indicating the party was ready to ascend.
The arrival of his quippers and chips was a pleasant surprise for Darion and he spent the time waiting and watching the spooling chain taking sips from his tankard and alternating between bites of battered quippers and chips. Thanks to the straining efforts of Durnan and a couple of men on the winch, the platform came back into view soon enough. On it was the previously flying young woman sans wings, a dark-haired and well muscled half-elf in leather armor, a tall and lanky cat girl tabaxi with spotted fur and interesting looking green and gold vambraces, and a ebony skinned drow with dark-hair and captivating green eyes. The cobbler wondered if she was part of that group who had set up a temple to some sort of elven dancing goddess and, if they danced so much, whether they would need footwear services.
"Which group is this?" Jhalassan whispered. "Circle of Steel?"
Darion very much doubted that as they didn't have much steel at all. The tabaxi carried a crossbow and the half-elf only held the hilt of a sword with no blade and the other two had no weapons at all. Baalbaas wordlessly confirmed this with a shake of his head, but asked the group directly when they, one by one, stepped off the platform and jumped down to the floor of the taproom.
"Which group are you?" the grocer called out.
"Group?" the muscular half-elf asked, voice confused.
"Why don't they have a song when you come up?" the tabaxi complained, tail lashing. "We didn't get the song when we went down because no one was around, and now we're not getting a song on the way out?"
"The name of your adventuring party," Baalbaas explained, speaking to the half-elf.
"Us?" the drow asked before a mischievous little twinkle appeared in her green eyes. "We're the Sweet Sisterhood of Swanmays!"
She held out a fist towards the aasimar who laughed, white teeth flashing, then bumped it with one of her own and nodded in confirmation.
"The Sweet Sisterhood of Swammays," the half-elf sighed and shrugged. "Sure, why not."
Okay, this was supposed to be part of the last chapter. I promised myself the first part would be dealt with in 2k words and this part would be 1k. Obviously I didn't meet that goal so I ended up breaking it in two and posting two chapters at the same time...