The Beached Leviathan — Neverwinter Docks

The door groans shut behind you, cutting off the salt wind and the gulls' screaming. For a moment you stand still, letting your eyes adjust to the swaying lantern-light and your ears to the tavern's low roar—the clatter of dice on wood, the hiss of the fire pit, a half-drunk sailor singing a shanty three verses behind his companions.

The Beached Leviathan tilts. You feel it in your knees, a perpetual list to starboard that the regulars navigate without thinking. A halfling's centre of gravity helps—you find your balance faster than most, and the smirk on Harrag's scarred face as he watches you from behind the bar suggests he noticed.

You've got coin enough for one meal, maybe two. A room for the night if you're careful. And nothing but the road behind you and the open coast ahead.

The Guild Board catches your eye—a chaotic mosaic of yellowed paper and fresh ink. The red notice practically glows in the firelight:

URGENT: Wizard missing. Tower sealed.Last seen three days ago entering his residence in the Halfling Quarter. The door is locked from within. Magical wards active. No response to knocking or messengers.Reward: 500 gold pieces.Inquire at the Moonstone Mask. Ask for Lady Miriel.

Five hundred gold. That's more coin than your family's caravan earned in a season. Enough to buy a room for a month, gear yourself properly, and have silver left over for information about the raiders who destroyed everything you had.

The hooded figure in the corner booth hasn't looked away from you since you walked in. They're nursing a single cup of wine, untouched for the last ten minutes, and their posture says waiting.

Harrag wipes a tankard with a rag that may once have been white. His eyes meet yours—a half-orc's yellow-gold gaze, ancient and knowing, carrying decades of tavern wisdom. He nods once, an invitation.

The docks stretch beyond the portholes, a labyrinth of wharves, warehouses, and shadowed alleys. A city guard patrol stomps past, their captain pausing to shake down a fishmonger for a "dock tax" that definitely isn't official policy.

Four paths. Four choices. Each one leads somewhere.