The bright light of the sun shone on the clear water of the Sea of ​​Swords. The air was filled with the scent of salt. The waves rocked little boats and colorful schooners rhythmically. The pier of Neverwinter was filled with the rustle of many different voices and the graceful melodies of bards; the shouts of merchants and the booming laughter mixed with curses of sailors.

You were slowly walking along the cobblestone road when you suddenly heard the voices of a couple of dubious men. These grinning guys clearly didn't want to ask for directions. At the moment when you noticed out of the corner of your eye the glint of a dagger in the hands of one of them, a strange dark hand fell on the robber's cheek. He didn't have time to get his bearings as the entire right side of his body was covered in ice that burst out of the hand of the stranger behind him. The robber fell to the ground, groaning and clutching at his wounds with his surviving hand while his comrade, not wanting to repeat his fate, quickly ran away and disappeared into the crowd.

The man who saved you turned out to be a drow dressed in a black robe embroidered with expensive threads. He casually brushed the icy dust off his palm without even looking in your direction and was about to make a clearly caustic comment when suddenly he heard a familiar voice nearby and shuddered, his face changing.

A group of several drow walked leisurely along the pier, led by a plump lady of aristocratic appearance, apparently giving them a tour. The elven ambassadors quietly answered her something, not even bothering to show interest.

Their voices made the man quickly straighten his robes and, throwing a brief sideways glance at you, return to the group, trying to look as if he had never left.