he tall, wide, and stout front door of the Inn of the Dripping Dagger in Waterdeep is centuries old, though it has been replaced over the years, board by board and metal plate by metal plate, as various parts of it have worn out. For all this time, it has been an unusually large, but counterweighted and easily opened, front door—nothing more. Now, however, it has begun to whisper short and menacing sentences. Why? What do its cryptic utterances mean?