Walking through halls of darkest stone,

Grey speckle dusted by ancient bone,

Here, Halaster Blackcloak calls his home.

In ancient Netheril he was born, or so claims some sagely tomes.

The Melairkyn dwarves, these halls were once the home,

Now the haunt of Mad Halaster, a place filled with dying groans.

With bright lights and spells, swords and glittering armour to their deaths in droves,

Like moths to the chests of lost gold, and eye burning hoards of gems piled in dazzling cones,

The heroes come calling, but they speak in soft tones,

For in Undermountain, life is your's merely on loan,

Beware lest you die alone!

Round corner you come on battle, eyes burned by flash of wizard's flame,

Warriors cleave chest, rend metal and slaughter in quest for fame,

And skulking thieves look for foe unaware, their heart's to eternal tame...

Called by their gods for hundred reasons, priests of the Realms know this no game,

For fail in precious, honoured quest, and their deities them will raging blame!

Some come for the tales of deeds done, battles won, no tale twice the same.

But things are done for less lofty aims, treachery as wicked as the drow's shame,

Unhallowed gods are praised, grizzly rites carried out to praise their name,

On shores of Sargauth River, underworld city of Skullport thrives from pirates' gain,

Where slaves are bought and sold, some for work, some for food, all in pain,

'Ware least in the glooms, vampires feast on your doom as vein wine they drain,

Walking in silent ways, the mind flayers, gather here to feast on mortal's brains,

While beside them the dark elves, hunt, scheme, plot and maim.

Well this then, all lies beneath this inn's very fain!

Speak not of Halaster, and fear his name!

A tale engraved into the walls of the Yawning Portal Inn, and oft recited in the district of Waterdeep