Woodehous returned to the catering consortium in hopes of restarting his societal upward climb, only to find himself blacklisted. The restauranting powers that be were more than a little indignant over his striking out on his own, and hoped to teach him a lesson. As a result, the only position he was able to obtain was in the employ of a nouveau entrepreneur whose acquaintance he had made back at the Shipmaster's Hall.
Denver Gilliam-a former seaman and, by his own reckoning, a veteran of one shipwreck too many-had recently struck it rich and bought out a block of taverns in the dock district of the City of Splendors. After the buyout, the taverns each maintained a distinctive ambience, even the Lords of Waterdeep couldn't tell they had a single owner, despite the fact that the establishments stood side by side on both sides of the street.
(The few patrons who were in the know had nicknamed the block "Gilliam's Aisle.")
Gilliam offered Woodehous a position, which he quickly accepted, signing a contract for no fewer than three years of exclusive hostelry services. Upon starting work, however, Woodehous discovered that the tavern to which he had accepted assignment was far from the newly fashionable, newly renovated Waterdhavian dock district. Its location wasn't even in Waterdeep, and thus the gentleman hostler found himself maitre d'/cook/waiter at Traitor Pick's in Skullport, where walking upright immediately designated one a member of the intellectual upper crust.
Woodehous had lost track of the time since he had last ventured out into daylight, and was quickly approaching despair as he realized he had not even reached the halfway point in his contract.
When the dinner trade reached its close, Woodehous locked the front door behind him and set out to the Gentleman's Groggery for his evening repast, leaving a sign on the door that simply said, "Out to Sup."
At the Gentleman's Groggery
Though it was true that the cuisine and service at the Gentleman's Groggery did not even come close to the level expected at Traitor Pick's, let alone one of the more fashionable Waterdhavian establishments, when it was Woodehous's turn to dine, he considered one thing requisite: he would be served and enjoy the amenities of any other paying customer. The niceties at the Double G (as the locals called it) were scant, true, but the food was at least digestible, the service less than threatening, and the locale relatively convenient. By default, the Double G had become Woodehous's regular dining spot.
"Hey, Pig," Wurlitzer, the orcish bartender, called as Woodehous entered the establishment, "how's the trade at Traitor's?"
'Typical," Woodehous replied, taking a place at the bar to avoid a rather raucous group gathered at the tables. He requested, "The usual, please, my good fellow."
The bartender snorted in agreement and poured the fallen-from-grace society caterer a glass of wine. "Have you heard about the new place opening down the street? I think it's called the Cup and Lizard, or something."
"You mean the Flagon and the Dragon," Woodehous corrected.
"That's right," Wurlitzer agreed, setting a plate in front of the recently arrived customer. "I believe they're looking for experienced help. You want me to put in a good word for you?"
"You're the second person today who has offered to 'put in a good word for me,' and though your kindness is appreciated, I prefer to decline at this time. My next position must certainly be as far away as possible from this hellhole we call home," Woodehous replied.
"Skullport's not such a bad place," the ore responded defensively. "I've lived here me whole life, and although it's a slight comedown for the upper-crust likes of you, I have a feeling things are beginning to look up."
"Oh, really?" Woodehous replied sarcastically, immediately afterward hoping that he hadn't hurt Wurlitzer's feelings. The ore was the closest thing he had to a friend. "How so?"
Wurlitzer immediately began to brim with excitement.
"I was hoping you'd ask," the ore replied. "Guess who we have as a guest tonight?"
"I have no idea," Woodehous replied, in no mood for guessing games.
"It's an old friend of yours," the ore prodded. "C'mon, guess."
Realizing the bartender wouldn't give up until he did, Woodehous swallowed the sustenance that was in his mouth, wiped his lips with a napkin, and, with a shrug, named the first person that came to mind.
"I really have no idea-" he said, then offered "-the legendary gazetteer, Volothamp Geddarm?"
A look of puzzlement seized the ore visage.
"Does he also like to be called Volo?" Wurlitzer asked, obviously not familiar with the great author's full name.
Woodehous was taken aback in shock.
"You mean Volothamp Geddarm is here… tonight?" he asked incredulously.
Wurlitzer scratched his head, trying to spur on his meager mental faculties. "If you mean the guy who does those guidebooks and likes to be called Volo and was supposed to give you a good review at the Shipmaster's Hall, well, yeah."
"Where is he?" Woodehous demanded.
"Over there," the ore replied, gesturing to the raucous group at the tables. "He seems to be holding court or something. He started out telling a few really neat stories about his travels and attracted a crowd."
A cry of "Yeehah!" was heard from the other side of the room, followed by peals of laughter from various revelers.
"And the next one's even better," the same voice bellowed, an alcoholic slur evident in his voice.
"He seems to be a bit in his cups already," Woodehous observed out loud.
"Sure does," Wurlitzer agreed. "I like it when a newcomer sees fit to enjoy all of the Double G's empties."
"You mean amenities," Woodehous corrected, leaving his barstool to take a place at one of the tables along the periphery of the VIP's audience.
The ore watched in puzzlement, unaware of his own propensity for malapropisms.
Woodehous quickly scanned the numerous empty chairs that surrounded the legendary gazetteer, more than a few of the supper club's clientele had gotten their fill of the entertainment provided by the jaunty and boisterous fellow who claimed to be the greatest traveler in all Faerun.
With the exception of the expensive clothes and the drunken dishevelment of his bearing, the travel writer looked just as Woodehous remembered him. A neatly trimmed beard, a jaunty beret, and a prosperous paunch, all wrapped around a gift for gab, a sly wink, and a smile. This was Volothamp Geddarm, the same gentleman whose earlier unexpected departure from the Shipmaster's Hall had cost Percival Gallard Woodehous his job, as well as several ranks on the Waterdhavian society scales. This was the man directly responsible for his current social banishment to Skullport.
"… And then there was the time I flew to the Horde-lands in a jerry-rigged Halruaan skyship…" the fellow rambled.
Oh, great, Woodehous thought, I guess I'm going to have to sit through a full set of the amazing adventures of Volo. It might be worth it if I get the opportunity to talk to him alone later on. If I play "the good audience," he just might intercede on my behalf back at the Shipmaster's Hall.
"… And then there was the time I was abducted by a group of dopplegangers off the streets of Waterdeep…"
I guess I'll just have to bide my time, Woodehous thought.
The crowd further thinned as the self-absorbed storyteller rambled on. The once-dense mob of fans and admirers had considerably dissipated itself. All were gone save for a few star-struck ores, a pair of foul-smelling dwarves, who freely helped themselves to massive quantities of the gazetteer's libations, an inebriated ogre, who had nodded off in an upright position, and a pair of thuggish drow, who listened to the storyteller like panthers listening to approaching prey.