Dumarest
Vaquero de Alta California
- Joined
- Jan 20, 2018
- Messages
- 15,721
- Reaction score
- 34,448
The town of Buzău perches on the eastern bank of a broad bend on the River Mihsoori. A large stonework bridge of forgotten age spans the river. As the sun sets, men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits from the mining camps at the eastern fringes of the nearby Wildwood filter into town in rival groups to get drunk and wild and spend their earnings from the prosperous harvest of Spice-wood, which it's said can be alchemized into a medicinally-valuable sopofiric, and Ofanto-wood, the hard yet workable material favored in the manufacture of luxury items far down the river to the South where it's said the people are civilized and have time to sit in salons and wax poetic while snorting various intoxicants. The loggers are a rowdy lot but the townsfolk of Buzău put up with them because of the gold they infuse into the local economy. Without the loggers, the town would likely shrink into a hamlet supporting a few local farms and it's unlikely one inn would do enough business to remain open in Buzău, let alone the two that are currently starting to overflow with boisterous braggarts and friendly fistfights.
And yet...only a few leagues to the west, past the Wildwood, up the Steep Road, beyond the Fungus Garden of Guadalquivir, lurks the baleful and brooding Weirding Wood. It's rumored that even at high noon, it is dark within the Weirding Wood. Some say it's merely the result of the dense forest and canopy blocking out sunlight; others say it's an unnatural darkness that emanates from something within the wood itself. It's said that if one is bold enough to venture upon the Spoorwalk, the only known path into the Weirding Wood, he will come upon a great ancient citadel that lies deep in the heart of the Weirding Wood--the Citadel of Nahr al-Kalb--a crumbling structure of massive stones overgrown by tangled vines and weeds, yet not completely abandoned. There are tales told of strange flickering lights by night, not to be dismissed as mere fantasy or will-o'-the-wisp. There are those who say the old stones are haunted by malevolent spirits of an ancient and wicked religion dedicated to the worship of the Old Gods, gods of evil who are infuriated at having been forgotten and left by the wayside. Some even say they have seen strange cloaked figures skulking about the citadel by torchlight, or they have heard wailing from within. Every now and then it's said that a logger or group of loggers dares to venture into the Weirding Wood in search of the treasures of Nahr al-Kalb, yet if so, none has ever returned richer for the effort. None has ever returned at all. Some blame wandering goblin bandits--others wish it were something so simple as that.
No one in the Inn of the Golden Pheasant casts a second glance at Balin of Iron Hall, Aldon the Elf, or Ray Lane as they sit at a small wooden table near the entrance--the motley populace accepts all races and backgrounds as long as their gold is good. Between the three of them they reckon they have but 49 golden crowns. Unfortunately for the trio, Buzău is a frontier boom town and entertainment and lodging is at a premium. Ale, wine, and whiskey cost far more than they should. Food costs even more. Lodging, forget it. And the ratio of male to female is such that even the ugliest, fattest, foulest-smelling serving wench can depend upon generous tips no matter how terrible her service. Morals are lax in a frontier town where menfolk outnumber womenfolk by 10 to 1, and "service" can mean many things. 49 golden crowns will not last long here. The innkeeper, a wiry old one-eyed hobbit called Lester, wouldn't have it any other way as he rubs his hands together near a hot brazier at the center of the large room and surveys his clientele, his eyes misting over with delight as he calculates his profits and sucks on a briar pipe. He's friendly enough--as long as you can pay. But when your pouch is empty, so is his heart and it's out to the street with you, likely as not on your ear after being tossed by one of his oversized, brutish "doormen." The room is smoky and crowded and so loud with garrulous camaraderie that one has to shout just to be heard over the din and clatter.
[Feel free to ask questions, invent your own backstory as to why you're here, etc.]
And yet...only a few leagues to the west, past the Wildwood, up the Steep Road, beyond the Fungus Garden of Guadalquivir, lurks the baleful and brooding Weirding Wood. It's rumored that even at high noon, it is dark within the Weirding Wood. Some say it's merely the result of the dense forest and canopy blocking out sunlight; others say it's an unnatural darkness that emanates from something within the wood itself. It's said that if one is bold enough to venture upon the Spoorwalk, the only known path into the Weirding Wood, he will come upon a great ancient citadel that lies deep in the heart of the Weirding Wood--the Citadel of Nahr al-Kalb--a crumbling structure of massive stones overgrown by tangled vines and weeds, yet not completely abandoned. There are tales told of strange flickering lights by night, not to be dismissed as mere fantasy or will-o'-the-wisp. There are those who say the old stones are haunted by malevolent spirits of an ancient and wicked religion dedicated to the worship of the Old Gods, gods of evil who are infuriated at having been forgotten and left by the wayside. Some even say they have seen strange cloaked figures skulking about the citadel by torchlight, or they have heard wailing from within. Every now and then it's said that a logger or group of loggers dares to venture into the Weirding Wood in search of the treasures of Nahr al-Kalb, yet if so, none has ever returned richer for the effort. None has ever returned at all. Some blame wandering goblin bandits--others wish it were something so simple as that.
No one in the Inn of the Golden Pheasant casts a second glance at Balin of Iron Hall, Aldon the Elf, or Ray Lane as they sit at a small wooden table near the entrance--the motley populace accepts all races and backgrounds as long as their gold is good. Between the three of them they reckon they have but 49 golden crowns. Unfortunately for the trio, Buzău is a frontier boom town and entertainment and lodging is at a premium. Ale, wine, and whiskey cost far more than they should. Food costs even more. Lodging, forget it. And the ratio of male to female is such that even the ugliest, fattest, foulest-smelling serving wench can depend upon generous tips no matter how terrible her service. Morals are lax in a frontier town where menfolk outnumber womenfolk by 10 to 1, and "service" can mean many things. 49 golden crowns will not last long here. The innkeeper, a wiry old one-eyed hobbit called Lester, wouldn't have it any other way as he rubs his hands together near a hot brazier at the center of the large room and surveys his clientele, his eyes misting over with delight as he calculates his profits and sucks on a briar pipe. He's friendly enough--as long as you can pay. But when your pouch is empty, so is his heart and it's out to the street with you, likely as not on your ear after being tossed by one of his oversized, brutish "doormen." The room is smoky and crowded and so loud with garrulous camaraderie that one has to shout just to be heard over the din and clatter.
[Feel free to ask questions, invent your own backstory as to why you're here, etc.]
Last edited: