On the Western shores of Faerûn lies the city of Waterdeep. A place of business for many, opportunity for others, and called home by countless thousands but all know it as the City of Splendor. Its history is old; older than the noble families that rule in the upper wards, older than Baldur's Gate or Icewind Dale, older even than Neverwinter Forest and the great plains that succumbed to the Spell Plague and Calamity; it has persevered. Its history is Contiguous; the city behind its high, white walls has never fallen. This is the hub of many races who make up the spanning castes. This is a city of spectrums; great wealth and oppressive poverty; festivals and fairs and crime and corruption; adventure and intrigue and pampering and imbibing. A dichotomous city. Nobles of the North Ward who parade through the streets and throw elegant balls to flaunt their wealth just beyond the walls that divide them from the Field Ward homes that hold a thousand hungry mouths, some of them old beggars, others children made orphans by a parent's vice or war or both.

Each of its seven wards houses humans, tieflings, dwarves, half-orcs, elves, dragon borne and half another world of creatures. Merchants can be heard calling out the contents of their stalls in the Trades Ward; smells of freshly caught fish, ripe fruits and spices brought in by traders who travel over the Sea of Swords.

The streets of Castle Ward are pristine, patrolled by guards who don colorful and exquisite armor. Statues that act as street signs, pointing towards the courthouse, a local theater, or the king's extravagant castle. Just beyond the crimeless Castle Ward, is the Sea Ward, home of a dozen religions with gaudy temples, some built of stone, others carved straight into massive statues, the size of titans, that loom over the city of Waterdeep. Their features sometimes disappear into the sky, when the clouds hang low or when a fresh morning fog rolls in from the sea. They've been still for so long that houses have begun to appear near, around and on them. At one time, their names were known, and their history, told often. But the city is old, and with time, the people have lost the stories.

In the Dock Ward, amidst the seafoam and the smell of salt water, raucous laughter, or murderous shouting (sometimes it's hard to tell the difference) can be heard from behind brightly lit tavern windows. Saltydogs partake in bouts of violence. For brawls go hand-in-hand with hard liquor, and the liquor flows like water there. The dark alleys that pepper this ward are the hunting grounds for cutthroats; the busy harbor a playing field for a thief with sticky fingers. Nobles avoid this place, as much for the general smell as the inherent danger; like a lamb wandering into a pack of wolves.

The great graveyard, called the City of the Dead, sits in the eastern portion. It houses countless dead, from seven and seven and seven generations past. Walls have been erected around it, guards patrol it, in case any upstart necromancer is looking for flesh for his dark magics. No dead wander about, it is but a large graveyard, but that doesn't stop the children from telling ghost stories, or daring one another to sneak in and stay the night. Childish things, the adults will say. But even a grown man is superstitious enough that he wouldn't partake in any dare of that sort.

And on the southern side of the city, looms Mt. Waterdeep, a natural landmark that sweetens an already beautiful city. Under the summer's bright sun you can see the griffon aerie perched on top of the mountain, as if it were a crown. It once housed the original denizens that started the city of Waterdeep, tunnels and mines run through its core, but it's been long since abandoned. Or so the city thought; there's been rumblings in the dark, sounds from the old mines, a patrol disappearing here or there. Some say it's a troll, or perhaps Underdark creatures striking in the night. Others rumored that a mage took residence there. He experimented on things better left untouched. He went mad. Some say, on those cold, still nights, you can hear his laughter echoing off the mountainside.

But that is a story for another time. This story has more humble beginnings. We start our adventure in the warmth of the Yawning Portal Inn. Two old friends and one soon-to-be comrade find themselves, as they say, in the right place, at the wrong time.