02/26/2026: The Night Watchmen

As the group grows quieter, whatever has been pressing against the wall grows calmer. The volume of the harsh whispers decreases — but never quite fades completely.

The keen eyes of Bob spot what looks like the corner of a slip of paper jammed into a gap in the stone. He tugs at it carefully, and discovers a page torn from a notebook. The handwriting is cramped and urgent — and unmistakably Dalton Wyrm’s.

He passes it to Viktor, who reads it aloud:

(SIDE 1)

Ok, Dalton, use that thick skull of yours to connect these clues. They MEAN something. And no — you can’t ask Dante. They’d probably think you’ve lost your mind, and besides, they don’t deserve to be tangled up in this dangerous business. Unless you have no other choice. Let’s hope not.

There have been disappearances from all over the city. Nothing new for Waterdeep — but each spot the person was last seen is marked with a strange symbol.

In the North Ward: the wine cellar of Trollskull Manor.

In the Dock Ward: beneath this stage at the Seven Masks.

On the door of Mausoleum 237, in the City of the Dead.

And always on the full moon…what could it mean?? Always with a masked priest in green robes spotted in the area.

The green door?

What have the Cassalanters let in?

(SIDE 2)

3: PICKLED FISH

Barrelcruncher +2

4: Bolinda Farck

SHIP’S PROW, 4th

Name?

6: Pal + Wiz

Scrawled at the bottom, in what might be blood, is a direct message — its end abruptly cut off:

Dante, I am already dead. Continue the w—

Silence settles over the tomb.

“What does it mean?” asks Bob.

Jeremiah notes grimly, “The Pickled Fish and the Ship’s Prow are both taverns in the Dock Ward.”

Viktor looks up from the page. “I am a pal and a wiz. We were childhood friends and I am a wizard. By the way, when is the moon full?”

The full moon will happen this very evening.

Before this extraordinary coincidence can be explored further, a piercing whistle cuts through the night air somewhere outside. A distant voice shouts: “Murder! The blood leads here!”

All eyes turn to Sean. His boots are dark with blood. So is the single long dreadlock that hangs over his shoulder. The barbarian has not yet mentioned that he dispatched the bandit captain who had been left bound in the neighboring mausoleum.

“What?” Sean demands of the seven pairs of eyes fixed on him in the dimness. “Dalton was my best friend!”

Wilrick and Jeremiah move quickly toward the front of the tomb.

Outside, voices carry on the night air — growing louder. Jeremiah slips into the doorway and peers carefully around the great stone door. Five of the City of the Dead’s night watchmen are clustered around the mausoleum where the party was ambushed by the bandits, their lanterns throwing long shadows across the graves.

Jeremiah reaches back and begins to pull the heavy door shut, hoping to seal them in darkness before the watchmen look their way. Six inches. Twelve.

The hinges let out a screech like a wounded animal. The sound carries down the hillside with terrible clarity. A moment later, they can hear the thud of boots pounding toward them.

“It’ll be all right,” Wilrick tells Jeremiah, who looks decidedly uncertain. “I’m a soldier. They’ll listen to me.” He calls back over his shoulder: “Guards are coming.”

Viktor and Sean drop to the floor and arrange themselves like victims, just in case. Jeff, who is actually injured, remains sprawled atop the stone tomb where he was thrown.

Four watchmen shove their way inside, swords already drawn. The fifth plants himself in the doorway, eyes sweeping the scene, and lands hard on Wilrick and Jeremiah.

“What,” the man demands flatly, “is going on here?”

Wilrick begins to explain — the bandits,  the letter, the open tomb — but the guard’s eyes have snagged on something.

“You opened a tomb?”

“Yes!” says Wilrick, with excitement.

“Graverobbers!” the guard shouts.

Wilrick tries to press the singed letter into the man’s hands — evidence, he hopes,  that might tie the Cassalanter family to the Red Eyes and the disappearances — but the watchman is not in a listening mood.

Jeremiah, reading the room, quietly slips his brass knuckles on.

The fight is quick and mean. When the dust settles, two trembling guards remain standing, their hands raised, swords abandoned.

“We yield! We yield!” The closest man turns his desperate eyes to Jayce.

“They’ll talk if you let them go,” Sean warns quietly.

“Please, sir.” The guard’s voice breaks. “I have children. A dog. A wife!!” 

He raises one hand higher — a gold band catches the torchlight.

Jayce is quiet for a moment. “Go,” he says at last, not looking at Sean. 

“None of this happened. But if I hear you’ve told anyone — anyone — you’ll regret it.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you.” The guards begin edging toward the door.

“Your weapons,” Viktor says.

The men drop their short swords and crossbows without argument. One hesitates, then tosses a small leather purse that jingles when it hits the stone floor. Then, as an afterthought, he begins to work at his wedding ring.

Sean moves toward him.

“No.” Jayce’s voice is sharp. “Let him keep the ring.”

The men scuttle toward the door. Silence descends over the Cassalanter tomb — broken only, faintly, by their scuffing footfalls and the sound of whispers pressing from behind the stone wall.

As the guards flee into the darkness, one of them draws up short. His lantern swings, and the light catches the long dreadlock hanging down Sean’s back — dark and matted with blood. The man’s eyes go wide. He says nothing. He simply walks a long, deliberate arc around the barbarian, giving him as wide a berth as the doorway will allow, before disappearing into the night.

These are not the dreads they are looking for.

Or are they?