He met the half-ogre's speculative gaze. "You know who I am?"

The brute nodded. "I know who, but I don't know why."

Beldar smiled thinly. In certain circles he was known for his fascination with monsters. Of course, he wasn't the first wealthy well-born with a taste for exotic creatures, but Beldar's interest was less easily explained than most. He slew not for bounty, nor entertainment. He did not line the walls of Roaringhorn mansions with mounted trophies, nor did he collect living specimens. Occasionally he purchased some of the more interesting bits of slain monsters for magical uses, but what man with his resources did not?

The truth was something Beldar pondered daily but had never spoken aloud. It sounded too vainglorious, even for a noble of Waterdeep, to announce an important destiny awaiting him. Stranger still to claim his path to greatness would begin when he mingled with monsters. So he'd been told years ago by a seer of Rashemen, and so he believed, with every breath he drew.

It wasn't Beldar Roaringhorn's way to wait for destiny to find him. He seized every chance to seek out the company of monstrous creatures. Fortunately, the travels expected of an idle younger son of a noble house of Waterdeep afforded opportunities aplenty to do so, far from the ever-watchful eyes of kin and the expectations of Waterdhavian society.

Boldly, he clapped the half-ogre on the shoulder. "Gorkin, is it? Let me buy you a drink! Perhaps we'll find business interests in common."

"Perhaps?" the brute scoffed. "You think I kept you from yon tangle out of the softly dawning love in my heart?"

"That possibility never occurred to me," Beldar replied with a wry smile. "How's the ale in this establishment?"

"Wouldn't know. I'm not allowed to drink here. They say it makes me mean and ugly." Gorkin bared his fangs in an ironic smile.

"Hmmm. Had I known," Beldar responded dryly, "I'd have offered to buy you a drink before I wagered on the outcome of your fight."

The half-ogre's bark of laughter sounded like a file rasping on a rusted blade, and he gave the noble a friendly swat on the shoulder. "A place down on the docks'll let me in-or used to, before I bought me one of their girls."

His small, piggish red eyes studied the young nobleman, turning thoughtful.

They beheld dark chestnut hair falling in waves to shoulders, a fine-featured face with skin that evidently-remarkably-held its sun-browned hue year-round, dark eyes rimmed with sooty lashes that must be the envy of many a woman. Wiser than most idle young wastrels out of Waterdeep, by the looks of him, with a swordsman's lean and fit build. Small, dapper mustache, and that air of style all wealthy young Waterdhavians wore like a golden cloak.

"Could be I'd get me another girl, if you was doing the asking," the half-ogre wheedled.

Beldar fought to keep revulsion off his face. "Let's start with a drink. If the wenches offer you their favors, what befalls is your choice."

"But you'll pay?"

The nobleman gritted his teeth. This sort of "mingling with monsters" hadn't featured in his dreams and speculations.

"I'll pay," he said shortly.

Gorkin grinned wickedly. Turning, he pushed through the crowd, out into the deepening night, and led Beldar down a steeply sloping street to the docks.

The Icecutter stood hard by Luskan's longest wharf, a first port of call for sailors just off the cold waters. It was a tavern only slightly less rundown than the fighting-den they'd left and full of patrons only slightly less disreputable. Oddly enough, its taproom was scrupulously clean. They took the nearest empty table.

A small, slim serving lass came over to them at once, a tray of battered tankards in her work-reddened hands. She placed two foaming drinks before them and swayed deftly back beyond the half-ogre's hopeful reach.

"The ale comes with Vornyk's compliments," she said flatly. "He doesn't want any trouble. Drink it and leave, Gorkin."

The half-ogre emptied one tankard without coming up for air, thunked it down on the table, and belched mightily.

"Another," he demanded, tossing his head toward Beldar. "He's paying."

The wench glanced at the Waterdhavian, fire rising in her brown eyes. "You'll pay for all damage, too? And a healer, if need be?"

"I hardly think such will be necessary," Beldar replied coolly.

"Tell that to Quinta," she snapped. "Enjoy your ale. 'Tis all you'll get this night."

Beldar watched the wench's quick retreat to the kitchens. She wasn't conventionally pretty; too thin for beauty, and not gifted with the lush charms Beldar usually sought in women of negotiable virtue. Yet unlike many dockside wenches, she was clean and neat, her long, thick brown hair carefully pulled back into a single braid. Those brown eyes were large and very bright, and something about her light step and swift, efficient movements appealed. A little brown bird, come to roost in an unlikely nest…

"That's the one I want," Gorkin announced.

The nobleman chuckled mirthlessly. "I'd not wager a copper on your chances. Who's this Quinta?"

Gorkin plucked up and drained Beldar's tankard. "My last girl. Haven't seen her since."

Before Beldar could inquire more closely as to just what that meant, a huge man was bustling up to them, a large, well-laden food tray nestled against his food-splattered apron.

He gave Beldar an oily smile and with swift skill served more ale and set surprisingly appetizing fare before them: a thick seafood stew in hollowed-out roundloaves, a small wheel of cheese, and a bowl of pickled vegetables. "Two gold, the lot."

An outrageous price, but as the half-ogre was already devouring cheese and stew as if starvation loomed large, Beldar dropped two gold dragons into the man's outstretched hand and threw in a sigh for good measure. One coin was promptly bitten, whereupon the man grunted approvingly, gave the half-ogre a curt nod, and left.

Watching him go, Beldar murmured, "Your peg-legged partner is surprisingly good at games of chance, considering how poorly he bluffs."

"Poorly? Got the better of you, didn't he?"

"I refer to his comments about Waterdeep."

The half-ogre raked his stew with a finger and caught a plump mussel. Tossing it between his fangs, he swallowed without chewing.

"'Twas no bluff. Kypur heard it from an old mate what has an ear out for wizard-talk. There'll be lively times a-plenty hereabouts, once most folk hear. 'Course, some Luskan ships'll run afoul of the sea-devils, but most jacks'll quaff to their own misfortune so long as Waterdeep's harder hit."

Beldar nodded absently, but his thoughts were not of the longstanding rivalry between the two northern ports.

So 'twas true. Waterdeep was under attack by sahuagin, in numbers sufficient to be a serious threat. His family and friends were in danger, his home threatened. The rising bloodlust of a warrior bred and trained sang through his blood, but not loud enough to silence a single, devastating truth:

Waterdeep was under attack, by monsters, and Beldar Roaringhorn wasn't there to seize his destiny!

He wanted to dash out and find a fast coach or ship about to sail and ask Gorkin a thousand questions, too… but the half-ogre waved away his first few to empty the pickles into his mouth. Making a face, he followed them with the soggy remnants of his loaf-and then reached for Beldar's. The noble waved at him to eat it all and waited impatiently until the last crumb disappeared.

Gorkin leaned back, patted his belly in satisfaction, and growled, "I've one more need to settle, then we'll talk."

He rose and stalked to the back of the tavern, most likely to seek relief in an alley out back. In Beldar's opinion, the quality of the ale was such that Gorkin might as well return his portion directly to the cask and call it a loan. No one would notice the difference.