# Clatter in the Coster Market 22nd Day of the Falling Leaves, 1491 DR • Seven Suns Coster Market, Protector’s Enclave As recorded by Finn Gatherwell. The morningfeast sun gilded the spires of Neverwinter as merchants in the Seven Suns Coster Market raised their awnings. The air smelled of spice-bread and alleybreath in equal measure—a bustling bouquet every city-dweller knew well. Under striped pavilions, coin-song already rang out: a butcher’s cleaver on the block, a weaver’s shuttle clacking, a newsboy crying the hour’s tidings. Elunara Dawnspear stood beside a stall of honeyed pastries, one hand resting on the simple spear slung across her back. The Moon Elf paladin’s silver armor caught the morning light, and for a moment a passing grandmother mistook her for a marble statue of Selûne come to life. Elunara just smiled and handed the old woman a fallen pastry. It was a small kindness—the sort that kept beauty alive in a city still mending its cracks. At the market’s heart, Qelqiroth Shestendegesh bowed his dragonborn frame low to let two wide-eyed children tug at the tiny drake perched on his shoulder. The little dragonling cooed, and Qelqiroth’s golden eyes crinkled with gentle pride. He had traded battlefields for city streets, yet honor clung to him like the scent of myrrh from the Temple of Torm. “Easy now,” he rumbled as one child yanked too hard on the drake’s wing. “She’s ticklish.” The children erupted in giggles. Around Qelqiroth’s feet, a tabby cat wove between his armored boots, purring as the dragonborn reached down to scratch it behind the ears. Here stood a figure who once shattered horrors in Amn, now soothing strays and children without a second thought. Not far off, at a stall belching sparks and hissing steam, Robertra Plateforge was having what one might call “a morning.” The human armorsmith’s red braid bobbed furiously as she argued with… an empty suit of armor. “Now you listen here, sir,” she scolded, wrenching a sputtering runestone out of the armor’s gorget. “I don’t care if you *think* you’re a chicken, you will *not* go clucking off during business hours!” The suit of plate mail gave an almighty rattle, snatched the smoking runestone from her hand, and took off at a sprint. Market-goers gasped and dove aside as the enchanted armor barreled forward, its visor flapping open and shut like a panicked beak. “Oh by Mask’s slippery socks—GET BACK HERE!” Robertra shouted, grabbing her hammer and vaulting over her stall in hot pursuit. The runaway armor careened past a table where Irongut Anvilfoot, already on his third breakfast ale, was regaling a pair of guards with the *true* tale of how he accidentally joined an adventuring company. The stout dwarf barely had time to lift his tankard before the empty suit crashed through, scattering mugs and sausages. “Hrast!” Irongut bellowed as foamy ale sloshed into his beard. He lunged to tackle the clattering intruder, but it juked left at the last second with an almost insulting jangle. Irongut ended up embracing empty air and landed face-first in a pie cooling on a windowsill. “Mmphmf!” came his muffled indignation, to which a passing guard sighed, “This is above my pay grade,” and joined the general scramble to get out of the armor’s path. At a nearby booth, Marin Gemcutter yelped as the rampaging plate mail nearly upset his display of humming gemstones. The Halfling bard-turned-jeweler snatched up a particularly loud ruby that had started trilling in alarm. “Easy, darling, easy!” he soothed the gem, as if calming a nervous pet. The gemstone quieted to a soft hum in his hands—just in time for Marin to duck as the suit of armor hurtled over his counter. “By Tymora’s left dimple, what *is* that thing’s problem?!” Finn Gatherwell, proprietor of Gatherwell’s Components and self-styled purveyor of “curious goods and occasionally explosive curiosities,” knew exactly what the armor’s problem was. “It’s the galvanic anima-runestone I sold her,” the Drow wizard groaned, watching the armor caper madly. Finn’s shock of white hair nearly fell into his eyes as he slapped a hand to his face. “I must’ve grabbed the prototype... the one that, ah, wasn’t entirely housebroken.” Indeed, Robertra’s merchandise appeared to be channeling the soul of a headless chicken. With a determined huff, Finn yanked a coppery wand from his belt and joined the chase, calling out, “I can fix this! Probably!” Elunara and Qelqiroth moved in unspoken unison. The paladin shot Qelqiroth a quick grin—equal parts alarm and amusement—before dashing after the others. “I’ll take the left?” she called over her shoulder. Qelqiroth nodded, already angling his bulk to steer the rampaging armor away from a cluster of fruit vendors. The market had erupted into a friendly chaos: not the terror of an attack, but the wild commotion of a city that had seen stranger things and lived to joke about them. A few braver souls even whooped encouragement as the chase barreled past. “Go on, get it!” hollered a half-orc fishmonger, shaking a trout like a pom-pom. “I’ve got ten silver on the dragonborn!” The enchanted armor zigzagged past a fountain and clanged down a side alley, plowing straight through a rack of cured hides that Varri Skynner’s hunting crew had propped against a wall. A chorus of colorful Cormyrean curses rang out from the leather-gatherers. “Sorry! Market emergency!” Elunara blurted as she vaulted the spill of furs. The alley narrowed, guiding the armor toward a brick archway marked with a faded sigil of the city sewers. Robertra was gaining on it, her smith’s hammer raised high. “Stop right now or I swear I’ll melt you down for scrap!” she roared. Whether cowed by the threat or simply out of road, the suit of armor skidded to a halt atop a heavy iron grate set in the cobbles. Finn’s eyes widened. He recognized that grate. It was an access point to the stormpipes—Neverwinter’s ancient drainage tunnels. Before Finn could shout a warning, the possessed plate mail gave one last defiant rattle—then jumped straight down. The grate popped open with a squeal of hinges, and with a tremendous CLANG the armor vanished into the darkness below. Robertra, unable to arrest her momentum, followed with a furious howl and a less dignified crash. Without hesitation, Elunara swung down after them, her slender form dropping into the gap like a silver arrow. Qelqiroth thrust his drake into Finn’s arms (“Hold her, please”) and eased himself through the opening, mindful of his bulk. Finn gulped—he much preferred foraging forests to crawling in drains—but clutching the squirming drake, he mustered his courage and clambered down the iron rungs, into the underworld of the city. The stormpipes snaking beneath Protector’s Enclave were far older than the cataclysm that had shattered Neverwinter a generation ago. Some said they predated even the old Alagondar royals, built in the days when Illefarn’s elves walked these lands. Elunara dropped the last few feet and landed in ankle-deep water. The tunnel smelled of damp stone and something less pleasant—moss and mold and the memory of countless storms flushed out to sea. In the gloom, she was a figure of soft light: Selûne’s symbol at her neck cast a gentle glow, revealing mossy walls and scurrying centipedes on the ceiling. Robertra was already up and storming ahead, boots splashing, hammer strikes bouncing off the curved tunnel whenever the armor’s outline glinted ahead. “Get BACK here, you glorified coat rack!” she shouted, her voice echoing threefold between the dripping walls. Qelqiroth reached the ground next with a heavy thud. He murmured a benediction, and his warhammer shone with a cool, steady radiance—a reassuring beacon in the muck. Finn descended awkwardly, still holding the baby drake. The moment his boots hit the wet stone, the drake wriggled free and scampered to Qelqiroth’s side, growling softly at the darkness beyond the light. Finn produced a small crystal globe from his pocket and whispered a Savrasian cantrip. The orb floated up and began to orbit his head, casting pale witch-light. “I do hope nothing down here considers *me* breakfast,” he muttered. He’d heard enough underdark tales to eye the shadows warily. They found Robertra standing at a junction where several pipe-tunnels converged. The black water here rippled with recent disturbance. “It went that way,” she said through gritted teeth, pointing down a side passage where the mud showed fresh gouges—bootlike impressions without feet to make them. Elunara moved to Robertra’s side and laid a calming hand on her shoulder. The paladin’s touch was warm, a gentle contrast to the chill underground. “We’ll catch it,” Elunara said, voice as steady as a lullaby. “And we’ll make sure no one is hurt. Perhaps… ease up on the melting threats until we’ve tried asking nicely?” There was a playful tilt to her eyebrow. Robertra opened her mouth—likely to argue that one does not “ask nicely” to inanimate objects—then caught the glimmer in Elunara’s moonlit eyes and snorted. “Fine. Diplomatic approach first. But if that fails,” she hefted her hammer, “negotiations will enter the ‘smash and grab’ phase.” As the four crept down the tunnel, an uneasy hush fell. Qelqiroth’s scaled brow furrowed. The dragonborn could feel something beyond the simple chaos of an animated armor. A whisper on the edge of hearing, perhaps, or a tremble in the stale air. He held up a gauntleted fist, signaling a halt. Water dripped from the ceiling in irregular plinks, like the off-beat of a heart. Finn’s orb-light threw their shadows long and thin. “Do you hear that?” Qelqiroth asked softly. Elunara strained her ears. “I hear water…and Robertra’s breathing,” she whispered back. (Robertra, to her credit, began breathing more quietly.) Finn tilted his head. Drow eyes were keen in darkness, but it was his other senses that stirred now—an instinct born from Savras’s gifts. “Magic was here,” he murmured. “Something… old. It’s like catching the end of a song, but you can’t recall the melody.” He rotated slowly in place. “There.” He pointed to a side wall caked in lichen. Etched into the slime was a faint sigil, eight-pointed and crude, as if scratched by claws. As the group drew nearer, Elunara’s holy light made the marking shimmer. It looked less like a glyph and more like… an eye. An eye half-lidded, as if drowsing. Robertra shuddered. “That’s not one of mine.” Her voice, usually brash, was almost a whisper. Elunara exchanged a glance with Qelqiroth. The paladin had seen plenty of old ruins and wards in her travels; this felt different. The eye carving seemed to watch them in turn. Qelqiroth tightened his grip on his hammer, recalling stories of Netherese sigils and far-realm signs best left alone. “Whatever scratched this here, it wasn’t our lively friend in the armor,” he said quietly. A clatter from up ahead jolted them from the strange reverie. Around a bend, the tunnel opened into a circular spill chamber lit by a shaft of hazy sunlight from a grate above. The suit of armor stood in the center of the space, ankle-deep in refuse and rainwater. It was eerily still now, as though whatever force drove it had run low. Perhaps the fall had knocked some sense into it—or knocked the runestone loose. But the companions had no chance to approach gently, for between them and the armor something squelched and splashed in the filth. Finn gagged at the smell before he saw it: a mound of quivering flesh, pallid and shot through with black veins. It lurched on pseudopods like a diseased octopus hauling itself from a nightmare. Two dead milky eyes rolled in its misshapen mass. One moment it resembled a human-sized slug, the next a tangle of melted human and rat limbs. “Plaguechanged,” Elunara hissed, recognizing the Spellplague’s lingering curse. A bit of the Chasm’s old horror, still alive beneath the city after all these years. The abomination gurgled and lunged at the armor, drawn perhaps by the magical runestone’s pulse within. The empty suit swung an arm up in a parody of a boxing stance, but it was clearly on its last legs. “By Torm—get ready!” Qelqiroth bellowed. The quiet reverence of moments ago was gone, replaced by a veteran’s focus. He moved with surprising speed, interposing himself between the creature and his friends. The monstrous thing reared, sludge-like arms flailing. Robertra did not hesitate; *this* foe she could smash. With a wordless battlecry, the armorsmith charged, hammer whirling. She brought it down on one of the creature’s appendages, which burst in a spray of noxious fluid. The beast shrieked—a wet, burbling sound of pain or fury, impossible to tell. Elunara darted in beside Robertra, her spear a streak of moonlit steel. “For the light!” she cried, driving the point into what she hoped was the thing’s core. There was resistance, then a give as corrupted flesh parted. The creature howled, flinging a half-formed limb at Elunara. It struck her shoulder and sent her skidding back, armor scraping on stone. Before it could press the advantage, Qelqiroth was there. The dragonborn planted himself like a fortress, hammer raised high. Holy sigils flared along its head. “Tempus grant me strength—Torm guide my hand!” The hammer fell with righteous force, smashing into the aberration. A flash of light, golden and harsh, erupted on impact. The creature convulsed, pieces of it splattering across the chamber. Finn, who had thus far been fumbling in his satchel for something useful, finally produced a flask of bubbling green liquid. “Duck!” he shouted, and threw it with all his might. It sailed over Qelqiroth’s shoulder and shattered against what remained of the monster. Instead of fire or ice, thick vines exploded from the impact point, rapidly entangling the creature’s gelatinous form. “Yes! That’s the binding brew—I mean, of course that’s the binding brew!” Finn whooped, relief evident. Trapped in coils of enchanted ivy, the abomination gave a last warbling keen. The sound faded into a wet gurgle as its form lost cohesion, slumping into an unmoving heap. Black ichor seeped between constricting vines, but the thing moved no more. A heavy silence followed, broken only by everyone’s ragged breathing and the drip-drip of water from above. Robertra prodded the carcass with her hammer. It jiggled but did not fight back. “Well,” she managed, wiping sweat and muck from her brow. “That… was unpleasant.” Elunara offered Qelqiroth a weary smile. “I suppose that’s one way to catch a suit of armor.” The dragonborn gave a deep, rumbling chuckle. He retrieved Robertra’s rogue runestone, which now lay half-buried in sludge by the empty armor’s feet. Its glow was faint and erratic. “I think this little troublemaker has had enough excitement,” he said, handing it to Robertra. She accepted it with a sheepish nod, dropping it into a pouch. “I’m so sorry,” Robertra sighed. “I only wanted to improve the guard on that armor, not send it sprinting through the city like a headless troll.” Finn hopped over a tendril of vine, joining the others by the inert armor. “No, it’s my fault,” he insisted, ears drooping. “I sold you a defective rune. Truly, I’ll make you a new one that doesn’t… err… *imbue independent locomotion*.” He toed the slimy ground, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Elunara clapped Finn on the back, uncaring that the gesture smeared a streak of grime across his cloak. “All’s well that ends with nobody eaten or pancaked,” she said brightly. “Besides, now we know your invention works. Perhaps a bit *too* well.” Finn managed a weak grin. “There is that.” Qelqiroth surveyed the chamber. His drake, having slipped in behind them, sniffed at a piece of vine then sneezed, unimpressed. “We should alert the city watch about this tunnel,” Qelqiroth said. He nudged a gobbet of plaguechanged flesh with his boot, frowning. “If one of these creatures survived below, others might.” His voice was calm but grave. As one who had spent years fighting horrors to protect the innocent, he did not take even a single abomination lightly. Elunara followed his gaze. By the shaft of light, she noticed something glinting on the far wall. It looked like a piece of metal, tarnished and half embedded in the stone. Curious, she approached and pried it free with the butt of her spear. It was a small sigil-etched amulet, on a rotten leather cord. The design was an eight-pointed star with an eye in the center—the same motif they’d seen scratched in the tunnel. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the subterranean cold. Elunara held the amulet out to Qelqiroth and the others. “This doesn’t belong here, does it?” she asked softly. Finn leaned in, squinting. “Gods… I think I’ve seen that symbol in a tome somewhere. It’s… old. Very old.” His fingers twitched, the scholar in him aching to snatch it up for study, but some wiser instinct held him back. Robertra shifted uncomfortably. “If it’s all the same, I vote we not linger. This place is giving me the screaming willies.” No one disagreed. The eye on the amulet, even caked in patina, seemed to stare accusingly. Elunara nodded and slid the amulet into her belt pouch—gingerly, as though it might bite. “We’ll take it to someone who can decipher it. Maybe the House of Knowledge archivists.” Her attempt at casual tone fell flat. They all felt it: something ominous had brushed past them today, in the dark underbelly of the city. Still, there were more immediate concerns. Like climbing out of here. Qelqiroth carefully lifted the limp suit of armor onto his shoulder with a single grunt of effort. “Can’t leave this fine fellow behind,” he joked softly, trying to lighten the mood. “He needs a good polish.” Robertra gave a tired laugh and took up her hammer in one hand, using the other to steady herself against the wall. Finn retrieved his now-dim orb and tucked it away, letting Elunara and Qelqiroth’s light guide them back. They retraced their steps through the stormpipes toward the way they came, each lost in thought. Elunara found herself remembering the grandmother’s face in the market, the way it had lit up at a simple act of kindness. Beauty, even when broken—she had promised to fight for that. If broken things beneath Neverwinter were stirring, she would all the more keep that promise. Qelqiroth walked with one hand on his drake’s head, the other balancing the errant armor. The gentle cleric’s mind was already turning over how to explain this to the city watch—perhaps Captain Sabine would be less exasperated if he framed it as a *preventative* patrol. He sighed a smoky chuckle at the thought. They ascended the iron rungs one by one, emerging back into the daylight of the alley. A trio of guards had gathered, drawn by the earlier commotion. One officer with a singed mustache opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but on seeing Qelqiroth’s massive frame hauling up a suit of armor dripping with goo, he thought better of it. “Nevermind—I don’t want to know,” the guard muttered, waving them past. Robertra managed a cheeky salute as she stomped by, trailing water. Finn, last out, flashed an apologetic grin and handed the bewildered guard a coupon for half-off at Gatherwell’s Components (“For all your alchemical needs!”) before scurrying after his companions. Back in the sunlit market, the chaos had subsided. Curious onlookers broke into scattered applause as the group emerged victorious—if rather filthy. Marin Gemcutter was already recounting the entire escapade to anyone who’d listen, embellishing with each retelling (“I swear, the armor sang a marching song as it ran!”). He gave the returning heroes a flourishing bow. Irongut Anvilfoot, pie still smeared in his beard, raised a mug in salute. “Drinks on me at the Driftwood tonight!” the dwarf trumpeted. “Preferably *into* me, this time.” Laughter rippled through the gathered crowd. Elunara took a mock curtsy, which earned a cheer, then excused herself to help Robertra lug the soggy armor back to her stall. Qelqiroth, after ensuring no one was injured (beyond pride and pastries), gently reclaimed his drake from Finn. The tiny creature burbled happily and nuzzled into the dragonborn’s neck, smearing a bit of sewer muck on his scales. Qelqiroth didn’t mind; he’d wash later. Finn looked around at the settling normalcy of the market. The morning’s adrenaline was ebbing, and with it came a thread of worry knitting between his brows. He sidled up to Elunara and Qelqiroth as they parted ways with Robertra. “About that symbol…” he began under his breath. Elunara nodded, patting the pouch where the amulet rested. “We won’t forget it.” She glanced toward the grand shape of the House of Knowledge visible over the rooftops. “Meet us at the library tomorrow? I have a feeling we’ll want your expertise.” Finn let out a nervous laugh. “Ah yes, my expertise in obscure ominous doodles. Savras, guide me.” Qelqiroth clasped the slender Drow on the shoulder kindly. “You stood with us down there. That makes you part of whatever comes next, my friend. We face it together.” The words were simple, but spoken with such earnest strength that Finn felt a warmth in his chest beyond the flush of exertion. A final ray of morning sun broke through the clouds, painting the puddles of the market gold. As Finn wandered back to right his toppled component jars, as Elunara headed off to clean her armor (and perhaps say a prayer under the open sky), as Qelqiroth helped a fruit vendor pick up bruised oranges—life in Neverwinter flowed on, bustling and resilient. Above, the banners on the Protector’s Enclave walls fluttered in a rising breeze. No one in the market noticed that the wind bore a curious sound—a near-subsonic sigh, as if something far beneath the streets had finally gone back to sleep. If Qelqiroth heard it, he gave no sign, but he did tilt his gaze thoughtfully toward the ground for just a moment. By midday, the clatter in the Coster Market was just another tale to be traded over ale and gossip. An enchanted suit of armor had given everyone a fright and a laugh. Yet, in the Great Ledger of Fates, the Soul Bearer would mark this day with a careful quill. The chasing of the animated armor, the uncovering of an ancient symbol, the vanquishing of a hidden plague-spawn—it was more than a market mishap. It was a crossing of paths, a quiet hint of deeper threads weaving under the city’s bright tapestry. And, as always in Neverwinter, it was a reminder that even on the sunniest morning, the past and present can collide when least expected, leaving heroes—great and small—to pick up the pieces. Later, in the Ledger, the Soul Bearer wrote: > Four souls followed clattering chaos into the dark. > A paladin’s light, a cleric’s strength, a smith’s fury, a wizard’s wit—together they unmasked a lurking rot. > The stormpipes remember their footsteps, and something older remembers *them*. > Above, the city laughs, blissful and unknowing.