By the time the sun gives up and sinks behind the roofs, Waterdeep doesn’t dim so much as change its color. Lanterns come alive in windows and doorways, torchlight catches on wet cobbles, and the Dock Ward takes a deeper breath and decides it can fit even more people than it already has. Fleetswake has the city running hot for a full tenday, and the crowds never really thin. Taverns stay shoulder-to-shoulder from midafternoon until the small hours. Festhalls spill music into the street. Public squares are packed with hawkers, sailors, and locals who pretend they’re only out for the festival and not for the trouble that always tags along behind it.
The harbor wind keeps its edge, but inside the Dock Ward it’s dampened by the crowd of warm bodies. You can hear the sea if you listen for it, somewhere past the laughter and the dull roar of moving crowds, past the steady creak of rigging and the occasional bell ringing from the piers. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of the sea.
The tavern you chose, the Mooring Knot, is full in the honest way, the kind that makes the room feel smaller than it is. Tables are crowded with extra seats pull up. The bar is lined with elbows. A pair of sailors have claimed one corner as if they were born to it, and a cluster of merchants have done the same in another, speaking quickly and laughing as they talk shop. Every time the door opens, cold air knifes in for a heartbeat, and then the warmth swallows it again.
Selyne:
The Mooring Knot is packed so tight it almost seems like there isn't enough air. Tables crowded, stools stolen the second someone stands, bodies shifting like a tide whenever the door opens You spot an open table by sheer luck: a small, battered thing near the edge of the room that’s empty only because a spilled drink still glistens on the boards and nobody wants wet sleeves. You slide in before anyone else can claim it, plant yourself like a wedge, and immediately realize the problem.
Keeping a table during Fleetswake is a job.
Within moments, someone drifts too close with an apologetic smile and a friend behind them. Another patron pauses with a mug in hand, eyeing the extra chairs like they’ve already decided they're theirs. A harried server tries to squeeze past and nearly knocks your chair sideways. The room presses, and every time you shift, it feels like an invitation for the crowd to take what you’re guarding. Now all you can do is watch the door, keep the spot, and hope the others arrive before you have to start defending your territory with more than words.
Even as she was having to fend off tavern-goers after her claimed table, the thought ran joyfully through Seylne'shead for perhaps the hundredth time today. 'By the Lady of Dreams, I've missed this!' She had arrived off a merchant's ship this morning, getting a room at the Mooring Knot first thing. From midday on she had been drifting through the city, letting the chaos tug her from one street to the next. The blend of smoked meat and mixed spices, the allure of hawkers selling all manners of goods, and the flow of people moving through the city swept her along a current, and she gave herself over to it gladly. Two years on Evermeet had left her longing for the whimsy of those who lived on the Sword Coast.
Once the sky filled with the colors of dusk, she made her way back to the tavern to secure territory for her friends. Her hair, a sort of slate blue, is tied into braid and bound with silver thread. Sea-green eyes keep darting between the tavern door, and glaring at anyone who gets too close to the table. She wears a fitted, sleeveless brown jerkin, cinched with belts and buckles at the waist with rugged dark-brown trousers and well worn leather boots. Her forearms are wrapped in deep violet bindings over fingerless gloves. Tonight, she looked nothing like the ethereal Lady Selyne of House Nightstar. This was the road-Selyne, the one who thrived on noise and motion, who found joy in slipping out of grasp just when someone thought they had her.
When the first familiar face walks through the door, she practically leaps from the seat, waving her arms in the air and yelling out over the crowd: "Over here! Come quickly, I need backup!"
Despite the laughter clinging to the air as he walked down the street that would take him to the Mooring Knot, Arthurseemed to carry himself apart from it, shoulders squared as if bracing against some unseen weight. He'd worn his traveler's clothes, a practical close-fitting black outfit. The cloak around his shoulders was simple, a dusty white color with no adornments. His golden blonde hair was cut to a medium-short length, though still as unruly as ever. His gear he had left behind at the estate, though these days he was never truly unarmed.
After opening the door to the tavern and taking those first few steps inside, the tension in his frame melted upon hearing a familiar voice cut through the clamor of the tavern's crowded common area. When he saw Selyneat the far side of the room guarding a table, his shoulders sagged slightly, finally relaxed. With a grin lighting up his face he maneuvered through the crowded tavern to reach her.
"Somehow I'm not surprised you're the first to get here. How are you Selyne?"
A tall woman, just a touch under 6 feet, steps into the Mooring Knot and takes a quick look about. The hood of her bright green cloak is pushed back, revealing her long bright red hair. Beneath she is dressed in an off-white long sleeve tunic, soft brown pants, and sturdy leather shoes. Though they appear well suited for travel, the clothes are well-fitted and look to be made of high-quality materials. She seems to be a bit burdened, with a pack and a lute on her back and carrying a small sack. At her belt are a number of pouches and a pair of daggers are the only weapons to be seen.
She seems to have a determined look on her face at first. But soon she spots Selynespeaking with Arthur. Caragh's face lights up with recognition and a smile comes to her lips. For her friends that know her, they would immediately notice she no longer wears the coat of leather armor that she always had. "Hey! There you are!" she yells loudly across the crowded room of the tavern. She pushes her way through, moving rather nimbly to avoid other patrons as she goes.
Arriving at the table, she brushes past Arthur, her eyes focusing in on the elf. "It is so amazing to see you dear lady! You beat me here? My ship just hit the dock a few minutes ago!" She finally turns to Arthur, looking at him with a grin. "Oh! You're here too! Just a couple more and our crew's complete." Clapping her hand briefly against Arthur's shoulder, Caraghthen grabs whatever seat seems closest. "Gonna have to find a place to stay too. Suppose with the masses here they have a spot still for the night?"
21 Ches, 1501 DR — Waterdeep, Dock Ward
By the time the sun gives up and sinks behind the roofs, Waterdeep doesn’t dim so much as change its color. Lanterns come alive in windows and doorways, torchlight catches on wet cobbles, and the Dock Ward takes a deeper breath and decides it can fit even more people than it already has. Fleetswake has the city running hot for a full tenday, and the crowds never really thin. Taverns stay shoulder-to-shoulder from midafternoon until the small hours. Festhalls spill music into the street. Public squares are packed with hawkers, sailors, and locals who pretend they’re only out for the festival and not for the trouble that always tags along behind it.
The harbor wind keeps its edge, but inside the Dock Ward it’s dampened by the crowd of warm bodies. You can hear the sea if you listen for it, somewhere past the laughter and the dull roar of moving crowds, past the steady creak of rigging and the occasional bell ringing from the piers. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of the sea.
The tavern you chose, the Mooring Knot, is full in the honest way, the kind that makes the room feel smaller than it is. Tables are crowded with extra seats pull up. The bar is lined with elbows. A pair of sailors have claimed one corner as if they were born to it, and a cluster of merchants have done the same in another, speaking quickly and laughing as they talk shop. Every time the door opens, cold air knifes in for a heartbeat, and then the warmth swallows it again.
Selyne:
The Mooring Knot is packed so tight it almost seems like there isn't enough air. Tables crowded, stools stolen the second someone stands, bodies shifting like a tide whenever the door opens You spot an open table by sheer luck: a small, battered thing near the edge of the room that’s empty only because a spilled drink still glistens on the boards and nobody wants wet sleeves. You slide in before anyone else can claim it, plant yourself like a wedge, and immediately realize the problem.
Keeping a table during Fleetswake is a job.
Within moments, someone drifts too close with an apologetic smile and a friend behind them. Another patron pauses with a mug in hand, eyeing the extra chairs like they’ve already decided they're theirs. A harried server tries to squeeze past and nearly knocks your chair sideways. The room presses, and every time you shift, it feels like an invitation for the crowd to take what you’re guarding. Now all you can do is watch the door, keep the spot, and hope the others arrive before you have to start defending your territory with more than words.
Even as she was having to fend off tavern-goers after her claimed table, the thought ran joyfully through Seylne's head for perhaps the hundredth time today. 'By the Lady of Dreams, I've missed this!' She had arrived off a merchant's ship this morning, getting a room at the Mooring Knot first thing. From midday on she had been drifting through the city, letting the chaos tug her from one street to the next. The blend of smoked meat and mixed spices, the allure of hawkers selling all manners of goods, and the flow of people moving through the city swept her along a current, and she gave herself over to it gladly. Two years on Evermeet had left her longing for the whimsy of those who lived on the Sword Coast.
Once the sky filled with the colors of dusk, she made her way back to the tavern to secure territory for her friends. Her hair, a sort of slate blue, is tied into braid and bound with silver thread. Sea-green eyes keep darting between the tavern door, and glaring at anyone who gets too close to the table. She wears a fitted, sleeveless brown jerkin, cinched with belts and buckles at the waist with rugged dark-brown trousers and well worn leather boots. Her forearms are wrapped in deep violet bindings over fingerless gloves. Tonight, she looked nothing like the ethereal Lady Selyne of House Nightstar. This was the road-Selyne, the one who thrived on noise and motion, who found joy in slipping out of grasp just when someone thought they had her.
When the first familiar face walks through the door, she practically leaps from the seat, waving her arms in the air and yelling out over the crowd: "Over here! Come quickly, I need backup!"
Despite the laughter clinging to the air as he walked down the street that would take him to the Mooring Knot, Arthur seemed to carry himself apart from it, shoulders squared as if bracing against some unseen weight. He'd worn his traveler's clothes, a practical close-fitting black outfit. The cloak around his shoulders was simple, a dusty white color with no adornments. His golden blonde hair was cut to a medium-short length, though still as unruly as ever. His gear he had left behind at the estate, though these days he was never truly unarmed.
After opening the door to the tavern and taking those first few steps inside, the tension in his frame melted upon hearing a familiar voice cut through the clamor of the tavern's crowded common area. When he saw Selyne at the far side of the room guarding a table, his shoulders sagged slightly, finally relaxed. With a grin lighting up his face he maneuvered through the crowded tavern to reach her.
"Somehow I'm not surprised you're the first to get here. How are you Selyne?"
A tall woman, just a touch under 6 feet, steps into the Mooring Knot and takes a quick look about. The hood of her bright green cloak is pushed back, revealing her long bright red hair. Beneath she is dressed in an off-white long sleeve tunic, soft brown pants, and sturdy leather shoes. Though they appear well suited for travel, the clothes are well-fitted and look to be made of high-quality materials. She seems to be a bit burdened, with a pack and a lute on her back and carrying a small sack. At her belt are a number of pouches and a pair of daggers are the only weapons to be seen.
She seems to have a determined look on her face at first. But soon she spots Selyne speaking with Arthur. Caragh's face lights up with recognition and a smile comes to her lips. For her friends that know her, they would immediately notice she no longer wears the coat of leather armor that she always had. "Hey! There you are!" she yells loudly across the crowded room of the tavern. She pushes her way through, moving rather nimbly to avoid other patrons as she goes.
Arriving at the table, she brushes past Arthur, her eyes focusing in on the elf. "It is so amazing to see you dear lady! You beat me here? My ship just hit the dock a few minutes ago!" She finally turns to Arthur, looking at him with a grin. "Oh! You're here too! Just a couple more and our crew's complete." Clapping her hand briefly against Arthur's shoulder, Caragh then grabs whatever seat seems closest. "Gonna have to find a place to stay too. Suppose with the masses here they have a spot still for the night?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric
Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer || Bronnryn Hethgar, Cleric