The City of the Dead was the only place in Waterdeep where the deceased could be buried legally. It was surrounded by a 40-foot-tall wall of cobbled stone that separated it from the Trades Ward on the eastern side of the plateau that the City of Splendors sat upon. Square watchtowers and battlements sat atop the wall. The party approached the main entrance. As they neared the wooden gates, they could see scenes featuring skeletons had been artfully carved into them. “Cozy,” Varien said. Siegfried told his companions that the City of the Dead’s green lawns and white marble tombs were visited often during the day by many citizens, though its grounds were off-limits after dusk, when the gates were locked. The adventurers could see that the watchtowers were manned by members of the City Watch who themselves were watching the grounds with professional interest. The party passed through the gates unmolested. Inside, gravel pathways led throughout the well-manicured gardens where sheep roamed free on the rolling grass hills. Elegant mausoleums, ornate gravestones and mournful statues adorned the public park. Tombs and crypts both great and small doted the landscape. “Varien, I feel like I can see everything,” Erwen said perceptively, “but I don’t know what we’re looking for.” “A way to get underground,” Varien said to Erwen. The cemetery was famous for its two monuments: The Warriors of Waterdeep , a 60-foot-high impressive stone sculpture depicting a circle of three men and two women striking down trolls, orcs, hobgoblins, bugbears, and barbarians, all of whom were falling backward outward all around them, and Ahghairon's Statue , a tall, marble sculpture that was an incredibly lifelike sculpture of the bearded, robed mage in his prime. Ahghairon stood atop concentric steps, facing west with his hands outstretched to indicate the City of Waterdeep around him, and the statue had a smile on his face. Siegfried knew the steps were lit by night with rows of torches, and were a favorite meeting-spot by day. Several Waterdhavians were eating their lunches sitting on the steps or lounging on benches around the statue. Siegfried showed the Sunnites where the teens would go to make out. “There are many spots for lovers to enjoy one another’s company, but in this graveyard, those liaisons can end badly, especially after dusk,” Siegfried said. There was an official-looking sign posted on a retaining wall that said “Don’t risk your loved one’s life: go home before dark.” He pointed to where some wag had pasted up a poster next to the official notice with a rather vulgar drawing of a lady vampire snacking on her hapless date, with the phrase LOOSE LIPS FLESH RIPS in garish calligraphy beneath. Another poster showed a man embracing a shapely woman, whose face over his shoulder was a horror of tentacles and teeth. EXAMINE YOUR DATE BEFORE YOU SEAL YOUR FATE, the sign said. Not to be outdone, someone else had scrawled ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT UNNATURAL PREGNANCIES on the wall, with a cartoon of a woman holding her horribly misshapen belly. An advert for mithril mats , or chainmail-lined picnic blankets, was pasted up nearby. DON’T TAKE YOUR GIRL TO SEE THE GHOULS , another piece of graffiti read. The locals did not seem at all perturbed by the gauntlet of warning signs posted near the grass. The adventurers noted that there did seem to be a City Watch presence within the City of the Dead that took the form of walking patrols. Erwen spied a dirt-covered dwarven gravedigger taking a quick break from his duties, resting his arms on his shovel while he stared wistfully at a scattered flock of sheep grazing near a freshly dug grave. He chewed on a long blade of grass, mimicking the grazing animals. GOING NECKING? WATCH OUT FOR VAMPIRES , Alec read another piece of graffiti. Next to it was a lewd poster of a half-naked woman stuck in an open grave, waving to a man for help. STEPSISTER OR SHAPESHIFTER? The sign read. Erwen walked up to the dwarf and indicated the sign. “With all these signs posted around here, people must be dying to get laid!” The pear-shaped dwarf threw his head back and laughed uproariously, his long grey beard undulating as the midday sun reflected off his bald pate. He wore a grimy cloak closed at approximately where his neck would be, if he had a neck, pinned with a guild clasp marking him as a member of the Gravediggers’ Union. “Ah, laddie, the work I do, laughter is sorely needed, so thank ye,” he chuckled, slapping Erwen on the back, leaving a muddy handprint. “Given our somber surroundings, that is.” “It’s a lot nicer than in the city proper,” Erwen said. “At least there’s some fresh air.” “Ah! I see you’re a man after me own heart,” the dwarf said with a friendly smile. “It is a little piece of Heaven, which is fitting, wouldn’t you say?” “I see what you did there,” Erwen said. “Parkland is at a premium, so I try to keep the grounds as pristine as possible, despite the interment that goes on here day after day,” the gravedigger said. “Well, it looks pretty spectacular out here,” Erwen said. “But unfortunately we’re not here to admire the landscape.” He turned to his friends. “What are we looking for, anyway?” “Hall of Heroes, my good man,” Siegfried said from the path. “Ah!” the gravedigger said. “It’s due east. You can’t miss it. Look for the blue marble. We keep it to a fine polish, we do!” “And what about the Deepwinter Vault?” Siegfried asked. At this the dwarf looked taken aback. “Ah. Oh. Er, why would ye be visiting that cursed vault?” Siegfried presented Azuredge, its blade wreathed in blue flame. “Not a question that needs answering,” he said. The dwarf cleared his throat. “Well, fair enough. Ye can’t be missing the Deepwinter Vault if ye take the northern path. You’ll be getting there eventually.” He looked the party up and down. “Though I daresay you’re not dressed for the weather at Deepwinter.” Varien turned and walked east. Erwen gave the dwarf an appraising look. He figured the gravedigger was more comfortable around the dead than the living. “You’re the first people to ask me about Deepwinter Vault in a good long while,” he was saying. “Most visitors to the City of the Dead keep their distance, they do, especially around that derelict crypt, they do.” Erwen pointed at the sheep. “Do you have names for the sheep?” The gravedigger turned to look at the flock and Erwen slipped ten gold coins into the dwarf’s pocket surreptitiously. “I count sheep when I need to rest, sure, but I do know them by name even though I’m not a shepherd.” Erwen backed away as the dwarf continued to prattle on. “Fewer than there should be, though,” the gravedigger mused solemnly. “Yes, we’re missing some sheep, we are. Very strange.” Erwen rendezvoused with his friends and the party headed due east towards the Hall of Heroes. They saw it as they crested a hill, and took in the sight of the blue-marbled construction that looked more like a museum than a mausoleum. Siegfried knew that the Hall of Heroes was the official Warriors’ Tomb of Waterdeep, for fighters and all who fell in battle while defending the City of Splendours. A large cross-shaped structure made of blue marble, it was famous for its trophy hall and public viewing of the many crypts and tombs of some of Waterdeep’s greatest champions, the heroes and warlords of the city. It also served as a museum showcasing the early ages of Waterdeep. The party mounted the steps towards the Hall of Heroes’ front entrance. There were a few tourists admiring the surroundings, and a handful of museum staff who wore robes identifying them as acolytes of Oghma, the God of Knowledge. Siegfried produced a warrant authorizing the seizure of the Ettin Axe of Uruth and looked for the person in charge. The adventurers cut an intimidating figure as they moved as a unit into the Hall of Heroes. A stooped, white-haired cleric of Oghma wearing priestly vestments and eyeglasses soon appeared from one of the museum’s recesses. “Welcome, visitors, to the Hall of Heroes. I am Sandrew the Wise. And-” Erwen elbowed Siegfried’s thigh. “Does he have a lisp? Is his name Andrew or Sandrew?” the Halfling asked. “I think he said Sandrew,” Siegfried said sotto voce. “How may I help you all this beautiful day?” Sandrew was saying. Siegfried loomed over the wizened curator and presented the warrant without fanfare. Sandrew accepted it and, taking a moment to focus the lenses of his eyeglasses, gave it a quick read, his eyes darting across the parchment. A bushy white eyebrow arched. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, my.” “The Masked and Open Lords require that you surrender the Ettin Axe of Uruth into my custody immediately,” Siegfried said, with all the bureaucratic bluster he could muster. Sandrew turned the writ over with the practised fingers of a man used to caring for fragile and valuable documents with only a hint of a nervous tremble. “This, er, all appears to be in order, good sir,” Sandrew stuttered as he stared up at Siegfried’s expression of expectance. “However, I regret to, er, to say that you’re two centuries too late?” Varien shrugged with an armoured squeak and strode past the curator into the main atrium of the Hall of Heroes, eager to see what all the fuss was about and why a visit here was necessary. “And in those two centuries, did you consider informing the Masked Lords of this?” Siegfried asked darkly. Sandrew cringed, but remembered himself and straightened up somewhat. “Of course we, er, that is, my predecessors, informed the appropriate authorities of, the, er, misappropriation of this relic.” “Because the Open Lord of Waterdeep seemed to be under the impression that you had the Axe,” Siegfried said. Hence she sent me here, to you.” Siegfried towered over the curator, his expression like shadowed stone. “You wouldn’t be hiding things from the Open Lord of Waterdeep, now would you? Because that would be a conspiracy against the City of Waterdeep, now wouldn’t it?” “Of course not!” Sandrew protested weakly, his voice going up an octave as he withered under Siegfried’s gaze. “I have had a fine working relationship with several Open Lords of Waterdeep during my tenure, including her Lordship Laeral Silverhand.” “But clearly not enough of a relationship to admit the failures of the Church of Oghma to protect Waterdeep’s sacred relics or admit to their theft or loss!” Siegfried thundered. “Or is this a case of embezzlement, Sandrew?” “Embezzlement?” Sandrew was rocked by the accusation. “I am sorry, sir, but you are labouring under a misapprehension-” “Do I have to come back here with an auditor?” Siegfried asked. “There have been audits, there have been divinations,” Sandrew sputtered. “There was in fact a full investigation, meticulously documented. Perhaps it would be best to show you the scene of the infamous crime, as it were.” He motioned to a nearby set of marble stairs that led upwards. Varien wandered into the centre of the vaguely x-shaped structure that opened into a two-storey high atrium. The second storey was supported by ranks of thick pillars with alcoves off to each side containing statues of notable Waterdhavian heroes. Skylights allowed beams of sunlight to enter the chamber, bathing the great sarcophagus that sat on a raised dais in the very centre of the room. “The Crypt of Nimoar the Reaver,” Varien read from the plaque in front of the dais. “Founder of Nimoar’s Hold, Hero of the First Trollwar, Siegebreaker of the Burning Cliffs and Victor of the Orcfastings War. An impressive resume.” Varien activated his divine sense and was flooded with a powerful sense of goodness and righteousness ringing like heavenly music in his ears. He did, however, pick out a somewhat discordant strain of evil just at the edge of his sensorium. He followed his divine sense to a chamber in the southern section of the Hall of Heroes. Here he found a great carving depicting a strange scene – a mustachioed man in armor was holding a sword hilt aloft, but the end of the blade was not a sword, but a snake, a dangerous-looking asp with its jaws opened wide, threatening the wielder. Above the statue, carved in a sort of forced perspective, was a levitating wizard, his hands obviously weaving the complicated passes necessary to cast a spell upon the man’s sword below. The details were striking. Varien recognized the mage’s visage from the larger statue outside in the City of the Dead, Ahghairon. “Huh,” he said. Through the overwhelming atmosphere of reverence and consecration, there was a hint of darkness. Varien checked the statue and found that it was all a single carving. He did discover a placard. In the Year of Warlords (1030 DR), Raurlor began to increase Waterdeep’s standing army and navy to a size not seen since the fall of Phalorm. Over the next two years, he turned the city into a garrison and military encampment, brooking no dissent from the populace. In the Year of the Nightmaidens (1032 DR), Raurlor proclaimed the Empire of the North. Raurlor wanted to use Waterdeep’s acquired wealth and strength-of-arms to create an empire in the North, with Waterdeep its capital (and Raurlor its ruler), and gathered armies for the purpose. Ahghairon defied him before all the people, and Raurlor ordered that the mage be chained. Ahghairon struck aside with magic all who sought to lay hands on him, until in a fury Raurlor drew his own blade and struck at the mage. Ahghairon rose into the air, just out of reach, and as the infuriated Warlord slashed repeatedly at his rising feet, gestured. Raurlor’s blade was transformed in his hand, from steel into a hissing serpent. The Warlord was bitten, and died of the venom before the shocked people assembled there. Ahghairon then gathered all the captains of Waterdeep’s army, and all the seniors of the families of Waterdeep. While runners were sent to gather them to the Palace, flames roared and crackled in the Warlord’s empty chair-of-state at Ahghairon’s bidding, so that no-one could sit there. Then at a gesture from the mage, the flames were gone as though they had never been, leaving the chair unmarked. Ahghairon, in front of the assembled audience, seated himself, then, and proclaimed himself the first Lord of Waterdeep, saying that henceforth wisdom and not armed might would rule in the city. Visit the Reliquary on the second floor to visit Warlord Raurlor’s blade. Varien decided to go upstairs. Sandrew the Wise led the party upstairs and fell back into his familiar role as a tour guide, describing the history of the Hall of Heroes and indeed the City of the Dead more generally. The party walked along a hallway that opened into the atrium, giving them a good look at the sunlight-bathed sarcophagus on display in the central chamber of the Hall of Heroes. Siegfried interrupted Sandrew’s flow with an intimidating look. “Where’s the Axe, Sandrew?” “I-I am getting to that,” Sandrew stuttered in reply. Erwen, somewhat frustrated, cast locate object and conjured in his mind the image of a powerful magical axe. He was suddenly seized with a location approximately 20 feet directly behind him. He whirled about and pointed. “I’ve found it!” he said smugly. “Found what?” Siegfried said, spinning the haft of his magical axe in his hands impatiently. “That looks like a powerful axe you’ve got there, Seigfried,” Erwen said. “Is that the one we’re looking for?” “Erwen, this is Azuredge . Azure. Edge. We’re looking for the Ettin Axe. Ettin. Axe. ” Siegfried said with the patience of a teacher schooling a child. Erwen’s face fell. Embarrassed, he slunk away. Varien mounted the stairs and made as if to catch up with the rest of the party, but was distracted by a bright glow emanating from a chamber off to the side. He turned to investigate. He entered the antechamber and found himself standing before a swirling portal. He stepped back out into the hallway and spied the party just as they were about to turn a corner. “Bob!” he called. “I need your expertise.” Bob broke off from the group and followed. Erwen slunk behind him. “Yes?” Bob asked Varien. Varien pointed into the room at the portal. “I need your expertise on that,” he said. “Hmm, magic things,” Bob said. Erwen poked his head around the corner and gaped at the gate. “This is a portal , or gate ,” Bob said. “According to the script over top, it says “ To The Field of Heroes. ” Erwen took off like a shot running for the portal. Varien reached out and grabbed a hold of Erwen’s bearskin cloak. There was a squeaking sound as the soles of Erwen’s feet continued to move on the marble floor. The Halfling ran in place. “Not so fast, Erwen,” Varien said. “Let’s wait for Bob’s full analysis.” Erwen pouted. “This looks like the portal to a place called the Field of Heroes,” Bob said. “Is that like ‘the farm’ for family dogs?” Erwen asked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is portal magic worked by the famous mage Anacaster,” Bob said. “His work is well known across Faerun. Note the reinforced archway that holds enchantments in a superior design.” “So what, it’s like a portal to some sort of hallowed ground for Waterdeep’s heroic dead?” Varien asked. “Exactly,” Bob said. Varien squatted down next to Erwen. “Let’s use our brains about it, Erwen.” He produced an apple, cut out two wedges, and gave one to Erwen. Erwen munched happily on the apple. “Let’s make sure this place is safe, eh?” Varien tied the apple to a length of rope, swung it above his head to build up speed, and let it fly at the portal. The apple flew through the energy barrier. A moment later, there was a flash and the apple shot back out. Varien deftly caught it in mid-air. Glyphs on the outer ring of the portal flared to life. NO LITTERING . “Seems friendly enough, yeah?” Erwen asked. “Well, I didn’t expect that,” Varien said to Bob and Erwen. He looked at the apple, which seemed unharmed, and gave it a tentative bite. “Delicious.” “Want to tie the rope around me?” Erwen asked, seized with inspiration. Bob stifled a snicker. Varien shrugged, untied the apple, and hitched the rope around Erwen’s waist. “Do you want to walk through or do you want me to toss you?” “These could be my final moments,” Erwen said. “Maybe you should just toss me.” Varien looked at Bob, who nodded assent. He picked Erwen up and tossed him unceremoniously through the portal. “I should have attuned my tuning fork!” Erwen shouted. There was a flash and Erwen disappeared, trailing rope.