As every Waterdeep resident knows, the bustling Dock Ward is the city's lifeblood—but also its most chaotic corner.
People from every corner of the continent might show up here. Waterdeep, the City of Splendors, claims everyone can find their place.
Humans, elves, gnomes, dwarves—all roam here. In shadowy corners, cloaked figures might be yuan-ti or drow.
This is likely the best spot to see half-elves and beastmen. Human slavery is banned in Waterdeep, so nobles eagerly import sturdy beastman slaves.
But Waterdeep isn't a melting pot—it's a grindstone, smoothing out edges to reveal either a gem or just more flaws.
As the legendary mage Elminster once said, this is Faerûn's easiest place to make a name—or its biggest hero's graveyard.
Beneath Waterdeep lies a vast dungeon, with a labyrinth of tunnels no one can fully map. Even the most seasoned dwarven miners get lost, never resurfacing.
And that's without mentioning the monsters—or the people scarier than monsters.
Legend has it the mad mage Halaster Blackcloak still haunts Waterdeep's depths, his tower phasing through endless planes, his wealth and knowledge scattered below.
So, dreamers chasing mithril fortunes flock to the Underdark, but only one in a hundred returns with treasure.
In the lively Dock Ward, a figure in yellow-and-black armor passed through. No one dared meet his gaze.
Armored warriors were common, and though the colored armor was odd, the massive weapon on his back silenced questions.
Seasoned folks know powerful mages come in many forms, but strong warriors come in two: those in full, faceless heavy armor, or shirtless berserkers frothing at the mouth.
The glow on that greatsword was visible to the blind. A warrior wielding such an enchanted weapon? Likely a legend.
Numbers mean nothing to legends. Crossing them means death.
So, with Su Ming carrying a few gold bars, no one dared approach. They parted around him, their glances tinged with awe.
Su Ming didn't care about their opinions. He'd just left Waterdeep's biggest magic item shop, parting ways with the owner on bad terms.
A Bag of Holding for 20,000 gold coins? Highway robbery. That's a fortune in dollars.
The owner insisted 30-pound bags were fairly priced. Can't afford it? Try a 6-pound bag.
These were crafted by archmages. Bigger capacity meant more materials and time—no haggling.
Su Ming wondered if his freshly learned Common tongue was the issue. The price was steep. He could pay, but it didn't feel worth it.
He sat on the dock, watching seabirds and sailboats, breathing unpolluted air, mulling it over.
His income was in dollars, but spending in gold felt like a loss.
If he earned gold and spent gold, wouldn't that balance out?
Earning gold in Waterdeep, short of theft or robbery, was too slow. And thieving didn't suit his style.
But he knew a world where gold came faster. A couple of jobs there, and he'd have coins aplenty.
Gold's gold, no matter whose face is stamped on it.
First, though, a trip to the "Blizzard" universe for a 16-slot bag.
Stormwind was smooth sailing. The orc invasion hadn't hit, and the northern filial son hadn't acted yet. Su Ming spent time in Goldshire picking up Common, then strutted into Stormwind.
It wasn't the game's grand city yet—just a modest town around Stormwind Keep.
Only after the orcs were repelled and the kingdom reclaimed would it become the majestic city of the future.
But it was all humans. Asking directions led him straight to the tailor shop.
For some reason, in this universe, he felt an urge to hop while walking and kept wanting to buy a horse.
Bad news at the tailor: the biggest bag was a 10-slot silk pouch.
"For the King's glory, what? Mageweave, runecloth, mooncloth? Never heard of 'em," the tailor said.
Su Ming sighed. Should've gone to Darnassus.
But the elves were in seclusion, even from human allies, and weren't welcoming visitors to Darnassus.
"Fine, two 10-slot bags. I'll pay in gold."
He pulled a gold bar from his armor, smelted without markings for universal use.
It looked like a giant nugget of high-purity gold.
"Why a gold bar? Steal it from kobolds?" the tailor asked, head aching. Shouldn't he exchange it at the bank first?
"Want their big candles too?" Su Ming quipped, rolling his eye.
"Alchemists need candles. I don't," the tailor replied, missing the joke.
He sent an apprentice to the bank and tried upselling Su Ming a silk robe.
The style wasn't bad, and the price was fair. Su Ming spent 1 gold, 25 silver on a robe to use as pajamas back home.
Too bad he didn't have Stormwind rep for a discount.
Grinding rep here would have to go on the to-do list. Azeroth had goodies—gem central.
Ever seen a cat's eye stone big enough for glasses? Or an Azerothian diamond scope?
Su Ming half-wanted to grab a pickaxe and fly to Un'Goro Crater to mine. A fist-sized diamond brought back to Marvel? Priceless.
Soon, bags and robe in hand, he stuffed the pajamas in, took them out, stuffed them back.
"Works fine. See ya, I'll be back."
The tailor, baffled, waved him off. A bag not working? It's just a bag.
Weird guy.
In another world, a forest path.
A woman's scream scattered the birds.
"Let me go! Help!"
A woman in a red dress was trapped in a fishing net, held by a massive hand belonging to a troll.
The troll's skin was rough and spotted, standing about three meters tall, hunched, carrying boulders on its back, crossing a stream with the woman.
"Stop yellin'! Troll good. You for dancin', pretty bird! Stonefoot don't eat birds!"
It held her up, peering with small, glowing green eyes, speaking in a hollow, rumbling voice like it came from a tree or a well.
"Let me go! Please!"
The troll ignored her, tossing the net over its shoulder, muttering to itself.
"Troll go home. Pretty bird be wife, dance pretty. Pretty, no fear. Stonefoot good."
Water splashed under its feet, its weight crushing riverbed pebbles—likely where its name came from.
"Ahhh!"
"Bird dance. No appetite for bird."
The troll carried her across the river, soothing her as it trudged along the path.
After it passed, two white-haired heads poked from the bushes.
"Looks like we found her," he whispered to the woman beside him.
The white-haired man looked weathered, with a thick beard and a diagonal scar across his left eye. His golden pupils gleamed like a beast's.
He wore chainmail, two swords on his back, a wolf-head pendant on his chest trembling slightly.
The woman beside him was young, also white-haired, with a shorter scar on her left cheek.
It didn't mar her beauty—it added a wild charm.
She too carried two swords. If not for her white shirt instead of armor, they'd look like father and daughter.
"Okay, it's big and seems gentlemanly. What's your plan?" she asked.
"Plan is, I think I know it."
The man replied in a low voice, stepping from the bushes to intercept the troll.
"Gods…" the woman muttered, facepalming. Why always like this?
He raised a hand, signaling the troll to stop.
"Stonefoot?"
The troll's green eyes locked onto his face, its massive head leaning close, reeking of foul breath.
"Ugh."
Silence fell. The woman in the bushes quietly drew her sword, oiling it.
As their faces nearly touched, the troll stepped back, tossing the net to the ground. The woman inside yelped.
"Vodka man! Stonefoot know you. What you want?"
The man pulled a blue potion from his pack, shaking it before the troll, letting it hear the sloshing.
"Trade. This for your bird. Not vodka this time—it's 'Swallow.' Just as strong, good stuff."
Swallow's main ingredients: dwarven spirits, celandine, and drowners' brains. One sip would drive a human mad.
But for a troll? Probably a decent drink.