“Mantol Derith,” Captain Brorb beams, as you approach the huge stalactite a thousand feet across that glitters in phosphorescence that lights the cavern. There are many tiny dots of light, windows, stairways that circle and spiral around it.“They say the city is known in the upper world. A trading center where you can find kuo toa, drow, svirfneblin, duergar and the like mixing with folk from the upper world.” The messenger nods her head in agreement, eyes on Mantol Derith. “There are four major trade enclaves; drow, svirfneblin, duergar, and one from the upper world, the Zhentarim.” Turning the crew, he gives orders to drop sails. The anchor is lowered, and the ship’s boat made ready.
On the rocks above the beach, sitting on a ledge, is an elf in robes of green and gold, a long wooden quarterstaff across his lap. He seems to be watching the ship with interest. Once the Whisper drops anchor, Captain Brorb turns to the company, “I kept my word, and brought you to Mantol Derith.” Looking towards the water, and in the direction that Sloopbludop once stood, he nods his head, his duty to his high priest done. Taking a breath, he lifts his head, “The entrance is a secret door about halfway down that tunnel,” he points to an opening in the rock. “The password is ‘groht’,” he explains. Eldeth pipes in with, “That’s an archaic word meaning ‘stone’ in the old tongue of my people,” the dwarf remarks.
“What is your plan, Captain,” Baern asks? Thoughtful, Brorb pauses before he replies, “The crew and I have just been discussing that. We’re thinking of pooling our funds, buying some cargo, look for some passengers,” the captain replies. “I had not thought beyond this trip, and have to admit, I wondered if this was my last voyage, given how it started.” Everyone sadly recalls the destruction of Sloopbludop where they first met the captain. “We are grateful Captain Brorb, to you and your fine crew for seeing us safely here.”
The company goes over their equipment, and decides to transfer all of the treasure to the invisible stone chest, and leave the two zurkhwood chests with the ship. The small chest holds a pouch of 1,000 gp in gems, “Here’s a thousand gold in gems to help you get started. We managed to find a bit of treasure here and there during our time together, only fitting that you and crew take a share.” Captain Brorb fairly beams, clearly not expecting any payment. “Honored,” he bows, “honored my friends. We thank you, this ought to help us immensely.” He bows again, and the crew all salute the company as they leave the Whisper. “Farewell,” the sailors call as they descend to the beach. “May the Sea Mother protect you, friends,” are the last words they hear from the captain.
Moving across the sandy beach, they see the waiting elf get up and come down to the beach, sauntering in a friendly way. Sladis Vadir is a druid. “Greetings,” he says in common, “Are you looking for a guide in the Underdark? I know all the best ways to all the best places?” He points, “Blingdenstone, Gracklstugh, Menzoberranzan, Neverlight Grove,” he pauses a moment, then hurries on, “Just tell me, Sladis Vadir, at your service, where you seek to go down below, and I will take you safely there!” Crab looks at the elf suspiciously but like Baern, finds the druid unreadable. Tammuz finds the elf disturbing, something about the fellow strikes him as off, although he has no specific thing to point out. “We’ve seen all of those places we care to, thanks,” Baern says flatly. The elf does his best to offer his guide services, but the company has no desire to seek anything but a way out. They don’t think to ask the elf, a surface dweller, if he knows the way. “Perhaps those aboard the ship you came on might need my services,” Sladis asks? Baern shrugs, “You can ask. Good luck,” he says and turns towards the opening in the stalagmite’s base.
The opening is fifteen feet high and twenty across. The past goes to the left across the front of the stone and Tammuz sees the other end, as the tunnel is lit and seems to dead end. “Let’s watch this,” Crab says nodding her chin at the elf approaching the Whisper. Captain Brorb steps to the rail flanked on each side by two crossbow bearing kuo toa. The elf raises his hands and then speaks. The conversation lasts less than a minute, and the elf nods, and turns around, walking back to the path he took from his ledge above the beach. “I guess Brorb has no use for the guy either,” Crab chuckles. They turn and head down the tunnel.
The walls of the tunnel are rough stone, but the floor is smooth and wide. The secret door is halfway down on the right-hand side of the passage. The secret door is not immediately visible, but Tammuz searches and soon finds it. Shrugging he says, “What was the word, groat?” Nothing happens and Eldeth speaks the word, “Groht.” The secret door slides open silently revealing a softly illuminated tunnel leading towards a well-lit, open space.
The path you are on turns out to be a trench that bisects an enormous cavern with a 30-foot-high ceiling supported by naturally formed stone columns. Continual flame spells cast on stone lampposts reflect off crystals embedded in the walls and ceiling, illuminating myriad fountains, waterfalls, streams, and pools. A network of walkways and small plazas crisscross the rocky ground of the outpost, paved with crushed crystals that also reflect light. The cavern outside is dimly lit by phosphorescent growth on the stone. Water drips from stalactites onto leather tarps covering clusters of merchant stalls west and east of the trench. Beyond these marketplaces are well-tended gardens of mold and fungi, crystal walkways, and stone bridges. Thousands of years’ worth of trickling water carved out the cavern where the drow, the duergar, and the svirfneblin established Mantol-Derith. Four warehouses have been excavated at the corners of the cavern, each controlled by an enclave and containing offices and temporary lodgings for its merchants. Stone staircases on opposite sides of the cavern lead upwards.
The main cavern is split in two by the trench. The side with the stream is the West Marketplace: The drow and Zhentarim markets are clustered here, on the west side of the trench. A stream runs nearby, crossed by two stone bridges leading to the drow and Zhentarim enclaves. The stream is 5 feet deep and fed by the Darklake. The water isn’t fit for drinking according to Captain Brorb. The other side is the East Marketplace: The svirfneblin and duergar markets are clustered on the east side of the trench.
Climbing up the bank is easy and after a look around, Baern leads the way towards the Zhentarim market. Everyone is wide-eyed at the bustling market filled with drow, duergar, derro, svirfneblin, tieflings, dwarves, humans, elves and more races than most can remember seeing in one place. Mantol Derith is a true melting pot between the surface and underdark. The sight of a mind flayer shopping gives everyone the creeps, even those with no idea of their lore.
The first thing that really hits those from the surface are the smells; the meats, breads, and the few fruits and vegetables that make it down mixed with brewing coffee, baking pastries and the spices of the upper world. Mouths water and everyone grabs something from a vendor, a crusty roll, a skewer of beef, a pie. A stall manned by a grey bearded human catches Baern’s eye, and he heads in that direction with the party trailing along behind.
“Well now, here’s a motley crew,” the fellow grins revealing white teeth and a pleasant smile. “Frecklin,” he says in greeting. “Welcome. Let me know if I can help you find something.” Vorkath stares at a gleaming greatsword, even nicer than the silvered one he carries. “You have good taste, that’s pure mithril,” he says patting the huge hilt. “We have some goods, jewelry, statues, that sort of thing. We’re hoping to maybe do a trade, pay the difference in coin?” Rubbing his hands together, Frecklin says, “Show me what you’ve got and tell me what you want.” It is hard not to stare as the occasional drow walks by. the Zhentarim stall. Frecklin sees the worries glances and chuckles reassuringly, “You have nothing to worry about from the drow, or anyone else in Mantol Derith. The peace is kept very harshly. Don’t start a fight. Don’t steal. They come down harsh on anything that might hurt trade, and Mantol Derith is all about trade. The four main factions all work together to enforce peace swiftly and surely.
They trade all of their jewelry and art objects, keeping only gems and coin, over twenty thousand worth, and accept in trade the mithril greatsword +1 for Vorkath (5,000 gp), two heavy crossbows (Baern & Tammuz) (2,000gp each), a huge maul +1 for Obie (2,500 gp) , a light crossbow +1 for Buppido (2,000gp), and for Eldeth a Greataxe +1 (2,500gp). On top of this, Frecklin passes over 5,000gp in coin mostly gold with some platinum thrown in. They are not done shopping, and decide to get an additional bag of holding in black for Tammuz in exchange for a 500gp ruby, and a pot of Keoghtom’s ointment for 750 gp that heals wounds (2d8 +2) and cures poison. “Do you have a caravan heading to the surface,” Crab asks? Frecklin nods, “Yes, ours is due back in seven days.” Baern asks, “How much does it cost to join it?” Frecklin shrugs, “Depends. If you’re any good with those weapons, we could pay you. Or you could pay to walk along with us. Or pay to ride. The faster and more comfortable, the more expensive.”
Frecklin directs the group to the stairs on the west wall, “Go up a level and there’s an inn that will have beds to fit you lot,” he points, “I’ll send word when the caravan arrives. Wandering through the market, they make their way up the stairs to the west side inn. “Welcome,” the bartender looks at the seven, “looking for rooms?” They agree they are, and decide to exchange a 20 gp diamond for a three bedroom suite. It has a balcony that looks over the Darklake where the phosphorescence lets you see for quite a distance. The stay in the room is short, as the smells of surface foods and drinks draw the company (most of them) down to the tavern below.
To the left of the bar is a small stage big enough for a half a dozen performers. The sole occupant is either a very large gnome, or a very small dwarf, and people are split about 50-50. Hormel Rockdiver is a dwarf, a very short dwarven bard. He is playing an odd looking horn, and the crowd seems to be enjoying his tunes. Most of his music is quite lively, and you find your toes tapping despite yourselves. There are a half a dozen others in the tavern.
There are two tabaxis at a table, one in black, and the other a warrior in armor, another table holds a dark owl fellow sitting with a warrior who has a dark leather trench coat and a long, black chin beard.A drow monk is sitting with an elven woman, both not speaking, but paying little attention to the music. All sorts of surface foods and drinks are ordered, but generally those born below the surface seem less than thrilled. Tammuz keeps trying offered tidbits but finds nothing he would want to have again. The others dig into steaks, roasted chicken, and things like potatoes that travel well.
When the horn player takes a break, Baern wanders over to him. “Baern Ironbrew,” he holds out his hand, and the fellow shakes it, “Hormel Rockdiver, at your service.” Baern compliments his playing, and then brings out his harmonica thinking, ‘I need to look for some other musical instruments tomorrow,’ and he sets a mental reminded. “What brings you down to the Underdark,” Baern asks? “Money,” the diminutive dwarf replies, “Met the caravan folks heading down and heard what they were paying in Mantol Derith for upper world musicians. I figure if I live through this, I will have a nice nest egg to take back to the surface.” They begin talking music, and after a bit, get up and play a set together that is well received.
One by one, the group, or members of it, visit every table and talk to all the patrons, and listen in to conversations where they can. Tammuz overhears the tabaxi in black warning his armored companion, “You’re crazy to go down into the Underdark alone, Heckles.” Eventually, he speaks with them, introducing himself to Heckles and his companion, Ferriston Myerly. Ferriston works in Mantol Derith, part of the upper world trade delegation. Heckles eventually says, “I am searching for something to help somebody I care about. Apparently, something that can help is down here, and I aim to find it.” He is reluctant to give out more information, and deflects the questions away.
The owlin, Glidewell, has disturbing eyes that reflect any and all light, but remains relatively quiet and seems more keen on listening, and gives out little besides his name. “Came on a caravan as a guard, that work sucks.” The other fellow at the table, a human named Judas Coin (when he introduces himself Glidewell rolls his eyes at the name) is or was a caravan guard who is eager to make it as a singer and musician. He looks the part with his long chin beard, fit physique and long, leather trench coat. “You are fucking A right that caravan guarding sucks spider balls,” the man says looking unhappy.
The elven woman, is a boyer and fletcher who makes bows that she sells in the Underdark, “I’m enjoying working with different materials, and the styles they choose are interesting,” she says smiling. Her bow looks like an elegant piece of work. It is not hard to see that she probably makes good money making custom bows, “Mostly for drow, which is weird, but at least in Mantol Deriuth, they pay well.”
The monk, a drow named Unwen says he teaches martial arts here in Mantol Derith, “I am one of the reasons the guards here are so quick and deadly,” he says with no hubris at all, just stating a fact. “Could you train us,” Baern asks? After finding out the group is leaving in a weak, “Sadly, no,” he replies, “a week is not enough time to provide you with any real training.” Outside of Sarith, he is the most pleasant drow they have met to date. Unwen is happy to talk about Mantol Derith and his training as martial artist.
Before leaving to go up to bed, Tammuz casts eyes of fate on the armored tabaxi. As his magical energies bend time to his will, he quite clearly sees the armored tabaxi standing on the bow of a ship Tammuz recognizes at once, the Whisper. The ship is moving across the Darklake away from Mantol Derith, and Heckles stands in the bow, gazing ahead. Back up in the room, he reveals this to the group. Splitting up two to a room, the minotaur Obie is the odd man out, and he sprawls across a huge pile of cushions just inside the door from the balcony. The night passes quietly, as usual, with watches set and kept.
In what would be morning of the next day, Tammuz discovers that bacon and chicken eggs are good to eat. After breakfast, the group returns to the market. Finding a stall selling musical instruments, he browses a while, tries several and eventually settles on a lute with velvet lined case for 100gp that even includes an extra set of strings. While they are looking for other caravans going to the surface, the Whisper sets sail with the tabaxi Heckles for a passenger. Eventually, they reach the office of Ghazrim DuLoc who runs the Zhentarim enclave in Mantol Derith.
“Welcome, I am Ghazrim DuLoc, how can I help you,” the man asks with a big politician’s smile? Ghazrim is an aristocrat from Amn, a nation known as the Merchant’s Domain, was a tremendously wealthy nation in west Faerun. “There are many ways to the surface, from walking along side one of our caravans under its protection for 50 gold pieces, up to 10,000 gold, “I have access to a teleportation circle that can get all of you to the capitol of Amn, Athkatla in an instant.” Baern asks when the next caravan is due, “We have one scheduled to arrive in three or four days,” he replies after consulting a book on his desk. “What about working our way up to the surface?”
Ghazrim looks surprised, “Well, we only use our own guards, so you would have to join up and be trained,” he explains. “We don’t use mercenaries,” he says as if the idea is ludicrous, “we like our own people, properly equipped and uniformed.” He pulls out a large scroll, “I have a standard enlistment contract here, if you are interested?” Baern takes the sheet with a dubious grin, “Do you mind if we look this over?” Ghazrim smiles, “Not at all. We pay the best rates!” Bidding the company goodbye, they wander the city, making it to a window overlooking the beach where they see the Whisper is no longer at anchor.
In the east market, Tammuz speaks with a svirfneblin, handing over his goggles. “Could you make a magnifying lens attachment for these?” The deep gnome looks them over, and nods, “Can you leave these with me?” Tammuz nods, “Eighty gold, half up front.” Tammuz passes over the request coin. The man takes the goggles, “Take me a day,” he thinks a moment, “they’ll be ready tomorrow.” As they return from checking out the east market, Crab turns pale, “Did you see that,” she asks in a low voice and surreptitiously points to a window. There is nothing there. “What did you see,” Obie asks? “Ghazrim was walking, and I swear he was talking to a beholder.” There are looks of alarm, “A beholder? For real?” Crab nods, “It was a sickly gray and looked like it was missing several eye stalks. They watch the area for a half an hour, but there is no sign of either.
Making their way over to Frecklin, they ask him about it. He nods, “Aye, that is the main guardian of the Zhentarim warehouse, disturbing thing, I personally can’t stand even looking at it.” This seems hard to believe, but they believe Crab saw it, and this confirmation is more than enough. “A beholder guard,” Obie shudders. Winding their way back to the inn, they pass a quiet night, dinner in the tavern, and then sleep with watches set.
The following day is spent resting until it is time to go pick up lenses Tammuz ordered. The svirfneblin seems pleased with his work, showing him the set of attachable lenses that clip onto his existing goggles. The lenses will double the proficiency bonus to investigate using sight. They come in a padded hard shell case, and the deep gnome accepts the rest of his payment. “May they serve you well. Keep them clean and don’t scratch them,” he advises.”The lenses are the hardest crystal I have, but metal can scratch them.” Tammuz tries them out and is amazed at the magnification. “Thank you,” he says simply.
Checking in at the main Zhentarim office, they find that no caravan has arrived today.