Waterdeep, the City of Splendors.

Was its splendour in its abundance of guild halls? Its wide streets, flanked by shops selling the finest and most diverse wares found anywhere on the Sword Coast? In the vast and venerable City of the Dead, with its beautifully carved mausoleums? In the Castle Ward, with its white marble palace and titanic walking statues, visible from almost any part of the city? In the cultural melting pot that was the North Ward, where nobles and common people alike came together in enduring communities? In the dramatic shadow of Mount Waterdeep herself?

No, the true splendour of Waterdeep could be found in the Dock Ward. Acres of tangled lanes and avenues, cluttered with shops and taverns and always riotous with the sounds, sights, and regrettably unavoidable smells of the city. You could stumble out of the doorway of one inn and trip your way into another, doubtless feeling your purse a coin or two lighter in the process. Even at dawn, the faint strains of a fiddle-spun sea-shanty and the shatter of glass reached Renark as he moved through the cobbled streets. Faded, painted signs emblazoned with familiar names - The Blushing Mermaid, The Hanging Lantern, The Splintered Stair - made him wonder for a moment whether one more night in Waterdeep would be such a bad thing… but the Dock Ward and its many inviting inns could wait. His destination this morning could not.

The street ahead of him turned and suddenly there were the docks. The expanse of Deepwater Harbour sprawled out before him, the waters thick with ships flying all the colours of the Sword Coast and beyond. From humble rowboats to majestic galleons, they easily numbered in the hundreds. Not even the rumour of a bronze dragon settling in the harbour’s depths had been enough to chase them away. What a daft rumour.

Renark had barely left the shadows of the city streets before a ragged cleric in a robe adorned with kelp and stained with sea-salt held up a hand to halt him. “A pilgrimage to the Queenspire, before you take to the waters?” The cleric thrust a grubby hand towards him, fingernails crusted with what could have been dirt, blood, or both. Chances were, he’d bathed in the shallows further to the south, and creatures that typically crawled in the damp sand had now taken up residence in the water-logged tangles of his beard.

By contrast, Renark looked remarkably well put together, though that wasn’t saying much. A once-fine open-collared shirt, rough-spun trousers, and boots that had lasted longer than they should have. He’d even shaved this morning, made himself look as presentable as he could, knowing what lay ahead. His worldly belongings had been stashed in a travelling bag, with the exception of a sword in its scabbard. As a half-orc, he was no more remarkable here than a Tabaxi or a Tiefling. If his green skin stood out on the docks, it was only because he'd had the chance to bathe in something other than seawater this morning.

“I’ll make my offerings to the Depths right here,” he said, with a nod towards the churning waters of the harbour. The wooden piers that stretched out to the many moored and anchored ships were already busy with crews coming and going, and just about everywhere was a sea-salt stained cleric of Umberlee looking to collect the Wavemother’s tithe. Lines of sailors stood waiting for their turn at ramshackle shrines that had been cobbled together from driftwood and the remains of wreckages, trying hurriedly to give gold to the Queen of the Depths, to the Golden Lady, and whichever other patrons they hoped might bless them on their way as they left the shore behind.

Renark side-stepped by what would certainly not be the last of Umberlee’s faithful to beckon him towards her temple. The Sea Bitch was his destination, truth be told - but not a temple of Umbleree. It was a ship named for her, looking for able-bodied crew. An auspicious name, he thought, rubbing a piece of gold between his fingertips, contemplating where and when to cast it and a handful of others into the harbour water. Either Umberlee’s vanity would mean the ship was blessed because it honoured her, or cursed because it dared to carry her name. It was about even odds either way. Renark glanced at the coin and with a deft flick of his thumb, sent it spinning into the harbour as he began making as direct a route as he could towards The Sea Bitch. The gold coin glittered for a moment under the water's surface, before it sank into the darkness below.

Better not to know which way that would’ve landed.