The Black Anchor Emporium
The South Bank of Luskan pulses with the chaos of the docks, where the shouts of sailors and the creak of moored ships mingle with the salty wind off the Sea of Swords. It’s the evening of 14 Alturiak, 1373 DR, and you tread carefully over frost-slicked cobblestones, sidestepping barrels of fish and coils of tar-soaked rope. The Black Anchor Emporium looms ahead, a squat, fortified warehouse with iron-shuttered windows and a heavy oak door. Its faded sign—a rusted anchor entwined with a serpent—sways faintly in the chill breeze, barely legible in the torchlight. A low hum, like a distant heartbeat, prickles your skin, hinting at arcane wards woven into the walls. Two half-orc bouncers, their scarred faces shadowed under hoods, lean against the stone, hands on club hilts. One steps forward, his gravelly voice demanding, “Ten gold each to see Zerev. Pay up or shove off.” His partner’s club taps rhythmically, eyes narrowing as you weigh your coin or your words.
With payment or a sharp retort, the door groans open, revealing a dimly lit interior heavy with incense and the metallic tang of oiled steel. Dark wooden shelves line the walls, cluttered with vials, daggers, and cloaks that shimmer faintly under flickering candles. A counter at the back, strewn with trinkets and a locked ledger, is manned by Zerev Kalth, a wiry Calishite in a dark green silk robe. His olive skin bears a faint burn scar on one hand, and his sharp black eyes glint beneath heavy brows. A gold tooth flashes as he smirks, tapping a sapphire-pommeled dagger. “Welcome, travelers,” he purrs, his Calishite lilt smooth but edged. “Coin and grit? I’ve got your needs.”
Environment:
The air outside is biting, with a damp chill rolling off the sea, carrying the stench of fish, tar, and rotting wood. Frost clings to the cobblestones, and a gray sky threatens snow, casting the docks in a gloomy half-light. Inside, the Emporium is warm but oppressive, the candlelight casting long shadows that dance across the shelves. The faint hum of wards buzzes in your ears, and the creak of the floorboards underfoot feels like a warning. The atmosphere is tense, every glance from Zerev or his bouncers carrying the weight of a potential threat.
Local Inhabitants:
The shop isn’t empty. A grizzled dwarf in chainmail, a battleaxe slung across his back, haggles loudly over a potion vial, his voice a low rumble. A cloaked human woman, a rapier at her hip, inspects a short sword, her sharp eyes flicking to you before returning to the blade. A nervous halfling, clutching a bulging satchel, hovers near a rack of scrolls, muttering as he counts coins. The two half-orc bouncers linger inside, flanking the door, their clubs ready and their gazes heavy. Zerev leans forward, his serpent-etched signet ring catching the light, his smirk daring you to name your price or test his patience.