In time, the trees were cut back to form a clearing for a rough campground, which grew into a fortified compound, and later, a thriving trade center complete with a stout keep and wide paddocks for horses. From those paddocks came the steeds that would one day carry the Purple Dragons of Cormyr into battle.

Local pride runs deep here, for as the saying goes:

“Ever seen a host of mounted Purple Dragons lower lances and charge? Well, they’re riding Waymoot!”

That boast has since given rise to a realm-wide expression for the thunder of hooves or a mounted charge: “Waymoot come calling.”

Waymoot lives and thrives on the flow of travelers through its gates—caravans, foresters, adventurers, and wanderers alike. Its people welcome all who come, though most never guess that Cormyrean legend whispers this forest town to be the true heart of the realm.

The Sleeping Kings of Cormyr

Among the folk of Cormyr it is said that the line of Obarskyr kings do not lie truly dead. Instead, their spirits withdraw after death to a spell-hidden grotto, somewhere beneath Waymoot, where they rest in eternal vigil. There, they await the hour when the realm faces its darkest peril—when they shall rise again, ghostly blades in hand, to defend the kingdom they ruled in life.

Some claim these royal spirits slumber directly beneath the keep, and point to the strange feeling of watchful menace that lingers in its lower halls as proof. At times, faint clangor of steel echoes from the depths below, said by locals to be the sound of those spectral kings stirring in their long rest.

True or not, there is an undeniable presence about Waymoot—an unseen awareness that seems to weigh upon all who linger long within its heart.

The Dragon’s Door

Layered upon this legend is another tale, remembered across Cormyr in an old snatch of song that children still sing:

Bring me the key from dungeons deep,
Where undead knights a-rusting sleep,
That doth unlock the dragon’s door,
And we’ll swim in gold forevermore!

The rhyme refers to a collapsed labyrinth of dungeons beneath Waymoot’s central square—real catacombs that once served as the treasure vaults of a gold dragon. The wyrm, taking on a frail human guise, used the abandoned undercellars of a long-ruined keep to store its hoard unseen.

In time, a beholder broke through from the caverns below and slew the dragon, claiming the cellars—and presumably still lurks there to this day.

Waymoot’s folk grow up hearing these tales, though outsiders are more likely to recall the town’s earlier days: of troll raids that plagued the forest, and of the clearing that became Cormyr’s first stronghold within the King’s Forest.

Lord Filfar “Trollkiller” Woodbrand

Waymoot’s ruler, Lord Filfar Woodbrand, is as legendary as the town itself. Once a young warrior who fought nearly single-handed against a troll attack, he earned the nickname “Trollkiller”—a title he modestly dislikes but which Cormyreans speak with pride.

Those who know him describe a man of immense physical strength and genial humor, as famous for his feats in the tavern as for his courage in the field. He once halted a wagonload of thieves by planting himself before two galloping dray horses, seizing them by the bridles, and lifting both creatures off the ground until the wagon shuddered to a halt. When the brigands inside drew steel, Lord Woodbrand simply tore the reins apart like cobwebs, lifted the wagon bodily, and hurled it end over end across a field. The battered men tumbled out, dazed and defeated, their blades bent like toys.

On another night at the Silver Wink—his favored drinking-spot—Woodbrand is known to hoist two full benches of seated drinkers and carry them around the taproom without spilling a drop from their tankards. His feats of strength have become something of a local sport: visitors are often drawn into games of tug-of-war with the lord himself, who stands alone at one end of the rope. Inevitably, the contest ends with a laughing crowd being dragged—en masse—out the door into the street.

It is said that no one in Cormyr can match him in sheer might. The fortunate traveler might witness him at play, though only the foolish attempt to arm-wrestle any Waymootan—since the “weary local” will inevitably call upon his “friend,” the lord, to take their place.

Lord Woodbrand is not all brawn and bluster. His people adore him for his compassion and loyalty, and for the sight of him among the stables—holding stallions at bay during breeding, or aiding in the birth of foals with a tenderness that belies his size. Those who have seen him at such moments understand why Waymoot’s folk would follow him through fire.

The Town of the Horse

Today, Waymoot is known far and wide as the town of the horse. The open clearings around it are dotted with horse farms whose stock is prized across Faerûn. The Purple Dragons rely on these stables for a steady supply of strong, swift, and obedient warhorses.

Among the best known are:

• Llamskir’s Farm, the oldest and most famous;
• Tirin’s Farm and Burilla’s Farm, both of exceptional repute;
• And Kryson’s, the smallest but perhaps the most carefully bred of them all.

Merchants from Suzail, Arabel, and even beyond Cormyr’s borders travel here to buy light, medium, and heavy warhorses, as well as sturdy forest wagons of high clearance and clever design—perfect for navigating the winding roots and narrow bends of the King’s Forest trails.

Landmarks

Palaces

Lord Woodbrand’s Keep

Dominating the northern edge of Waymoot stands Lord Woodbrand’s Keep, a compact but soaring fortress of stone and timber. Its curtain walls bristle with ballistae and catapults, and an external jail clings to the north side like a barnacle of grim intent.

Within the walls lie a barracks and stables, both spacious and well-kept. The keep’s central tower, however, is notoriously cold and damp. In winter, the winds sweep through its halls like the cries of banshees, wailing down the corridors until even seasoned soldiers shudder by their hearths.

Lord Woodbrand meets such weather in his own way: by striding through the halls carrying whole felled trees, which he splits and breaks apart into firewood with his bare hands.

Few outsiders ever see the interior of the keep, but those who do never forget it. Mounted upon its walls are stag heads larger than cottages, preserved by potent enchantments that give off a faint, eerie glow. Their watchful eyes seem almost alive—an uncanny echo of the legends that claim the sleeping Obarskyr kings lie entombed somewhere beneath the keep.

Temples of the Town

Despite its rustic setting, Waymoot hosts not one but two temples, each beloved by locals and travelers alike.

The Sheltering Hand

A handsome stone temple dedicated to Tymora, the Lady of Luck. The Sheltering Hand does brisk business among travelers, adventurers, and those who risk much and sometimes lose. The clergy believe that all folk must take chances, and so they aid those who do.

Priests of Tymora here are generous: they charge fair coin for their healing magic, yet always send the cured away with a hot meal and a purse of travel money—a blessing disguised as charity. Faith matters little to them; aid given is luck shared, and Tymora smiles upon those who gamble on kindness.

The temple is led by Chancepriest Gothric, a tall, dignified man who seems every inch a king himself. Under his benevolent rule, the temple has grown prosperous enough to acquire a guardian golem, revealed during the last troll raid when it strode forth to defend the temple with divine fury.

The Sounds of Joy

Across the square stands The Sounds of Joy, a temple dedicated to Lliira, Lady of Joy. Its high priestess is the enchanting half-elf Jezarai Moonbolt, known throughout Cormyr as the Queen of Joy. Once a priestess of Waukeen, Jezarai turned to Lliira in the wake of the Goddess of Joy’s return, and her festivals are the stuff of legend.

When the goddess sends Jezarai a vision—a sign that a festival must be held—a messenger races to Suzail to spread the word. Nobles, merchants, and commoners alike journey through the forest to attend these night-long revels of music, masks, and dance.

At sunset on the festival’s eve, Jezarai lies upon the altar, and as twilight deepens, Lliira herself blesses her with a wild, continuous shapechange that marks the start of the celebration. Music fills the streets, colors swirl in lantern-light, and the joy of the goddess spills into every corner of Waymoot.

Even at the height of revelry, Lord Woodbrand ensures order—stationing watchful eyes throughout the town to guard against theft, fire, and mischief. Thus, the divine joy of Lliira never turns to chaos.

Shops

Nightstar Guiding & Outfitters

“Travelers’ Gear for Every Journey”

Waymoot is not a town of many shops, but those it has serve the endless stream of travelers passing through. Most sell basic adventuring supplies—rope, packs, candles, torches, oil, and trail rations—without great distinction between them. Yet one stands above the rest for its quality, reputation, and clientele: Nightstar Guiding & Outfitters.

This well-stocked establishment is run by Liriel Nightstar, a striking and capable ranger (level 7) with keen eyes and a sharper wit. The shop’s shelves hold everything a traveler might need—maps, boots, chests, tents, lamp oil stored in rigid belt boxes, even wire and cord of rare make.

It is more than a store; it is a meeting place for adventurers, foresters, and wanderers. Many gather here to share stories over cups of brandy or steaming herb teas, exchanging tales of the wilds and the road ahead. Among such talk, a persistent rumor is whispered—and with good cause—that the lady Liriel is a Harper.

Taverns

The Moon and Stars

There is no place in Cormyr quite like The Moon and Stars, a grand tavern whose name alone draws the curious from across the realm. Its common room is vast, filled with laughter and smoke, where retired pirates turned horse breeders, wandering adventurers, centaurs, swanmays, and even the occasional faerie dragon mingle without incident.

It was here that Florin Falconhand first met his bride-to-be, Dove of the Knights of Myth Drannor. And it was here that King Azoun IV was once attacked by a Zhentarim mage disguised as a beholder—only to be saved by a ki-rin in human guise, who had been quietly playing cards in a corner all along.

The Moon and Stars is kept orderly despite its volatile mix of guests. Its staff—mostly rangers and ex-adventurers—are all licensed by royal decree to bear arms within its walls. A War Wizard (sometimes two) is always present, ready to summon reinforcements if danger arises.

This tavern serves as neutral ground for Cormyr’s dangerous and exotic folk. It lies close enough to Suzail to be reachable, yet far enough from the capital’s walls to avoid scandal. More than once, envoys of Thay, Mulmaster’s Blades, or even pirate lords have met discreetly here with Vangerdahast or Cormyrean nobles to negotiate matters too delicate for public ears.

Private rooms and gaming chambers provide seclusion for such guests, while the main hall welcomes all. Patrons dine on pickles, hot buns spread with pâtés, diced fruits, and cheese-stuffed mushroom caps, accompanied by fine wines and ales from one of the most renowned cellars in Faerûn.

The Moon and Stars is a legend in its own right—a gathering place of myth and intrigue, and a tavern not to be missed by any traveler of discerning taste.

Inns

Beruintar’s Hone Warmer

The least known of Waymoot’s inns, the Hone Warmer serves as overflow lodging when the town’s better-known inns are full. It also welcomes more exotic travelers—lizardfolk, minotaurs, and other unusual guests—who are tolerated if not entirely trusted.

Its rooms are plain but warm, each floor offering a hot communal bath and a simple menu of soup, hot bread, and teas. Guests are advised to stay cautious; more than one traveler has been ambushed while bathing, caught unarmed and unarmored.

In short: comfortable enough, but best suited to those who sleep lightly.

The Cup and Spoon

True to its name, the Cup and Spoon is both an inn and Waymoot’s largest dining house. Brightly lit and bustling, it is the culinary heart of the town, drawing both locals and visitors eager to sample the halfling-crafted delicacies of the Whistletar family.

Their dishes grow ever more inventive in their friendly rivalry with the famed Silver Wink, and on some nights the lively dining hall grows so loud that guests find rest impossible.

Three rentable reception rooms and a communal bath separate the noisy hall from the quieter guest chambers above. The rooms themselves are tidy and well-appointed, their beds boasting thick feather comforters that make winter nights a pleasure.

The inn prides itself on order and safety, discouraging adventurers, escorts, drunkards, and anyone who “looks dangerous” from staying. Those seeking peace and wholesome comfort will find it here.

The Old Man

Perhaps the most traditional of Waymoot’s inns, The Old Man feels like stepping back through time. Within its timbered walls, massive fireplaces, aged shields, and dark paneled wood speak of centuries gone by. Bald-headed old veterans snore contentedly by the fire, while the air smells faintly of zzar and polished oak.

Everything here is smooth with age—stairs, tables, and chairs alike. Voices are never raised, and the service is nearly invisible. Complimentary brandy and zzar stand on every sideboard for guests to sip at will.

During one stay, two retired Purple Dragons were seen gleefully hunting for secret passages within the walls—and, to everyone’s amusement, they found some.

The Old Man is the inn for those who cherish quiet conversation, old stories, and the comfort of a slow-burning hearth.

The Silver Wink

Waymoot’s most celebrated inn and Lord Woodbrand’s favorite haunt, the Silver Wink takes its name not from a winking maiden, but from its sign: a glowing sliver of silver moonlight.

The establishment is large, handsome, and proud. Its dining room is renowned across the Heartlands. The stuffed stream crabs and succulent stag are highly recommended. Guest rooms range from modest bunks for lone warriors to luxurious suites of six chambers, all with private garderobes and robing rooms—a rare comfort in Cormyr.

The taproom’s cellar rivals the best of Waterdeep, boasting wines and spirits from Evermeet, Zakhara, Shou Lung, Tethyr, and even a bottle of blackrun wine from Myth Drannor, priced at a thousand gold pieces. One precious Mulhorandi sherry, said to grant magical blessings to those who drink it, costs a staggering 3,500 gold.

Guests dine to the sound of skilled minstrels or the resident trio, The Silvershawms—three Purple Dragons from the local garrison. If fortune favors the traveler, the night’s feast may include a fresh forest boar roasted in garlic butter and ruby wine.

The inn’s famed green icerime dessert, a sweet mint-milk jelly served in frosted goblets, is said to be “fit for the gods.”

Festive evenings at the Wink conclude with a final song to the gods, after which guests drift into quiet talk and secret dealings. The floors are thickly carpeted and hung with heavy tapestries, muffling sound and preserving privacy.

Every guest finds a warm drink waiting bedside, tucked in a towel-lined coffer—a small but perfect grace. In all, the Silver Wink is among the great inns of Faerûn, a place of warmth, rumor, and wonder.

The Spirit of Waymoot

To visit Waymoot is to stand where Cormyr’s heart beats strongest, even if quietly. It is a town born from forest struggle, carved from troll-haunted woodlands and raised to serve both trade and defense. Yet it is also a place of deep mystery—haunted by whispers of kings who sleep below, of dragons and beholders in the dark, and of unseen powers that watch from shadowed halls.

It is a haven of horse-breeding, a crossroads for adventurers, and a meeting ground for nobles and rogues alike. By day, its clearings ring with the snorts of proud stallions and the creak of wagon wheels; by night, with laughter spilling from the Silver Wink or the wild music of Lliira’s festivals.

Its people are proud, superstitious, and fiercely loyal—to their lord, to their horses, and to Cormyr itself. A traveler who lingers here may come seeking only rest and trade, but they leave with stories: of sleeping kings, shapeshifting priestesses, secret meetings between enemies, and a lord strong enough to toss wagons like toys.

And as every Cormyrean knows, when the thunder of hooves rolls across the forest trails, the cry goes up:

“Waymoot come calling!”