The journey across the sea to Hyebrenia, and the port of Shalannan, had been long but largely uneventful. With the salty breeze at their backs, the Roving Adventurers watched as their ship cut through the final waves and entered the great bay of Shalannan. The towering lighthouse of Point Torun stood sentinel on the northern shore, its stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and waves, while Point Frun lighthouse marked the southern edge, its beacon still burning despite the bright midday sun.
Before them, Shalannan stretched out over rolling hills, its three great walled rings stacked one upon the next as the city ascended toward the grand cathedral at the summit. To the southeast, the rugged mountains loomed, their peaks sharp against the sky. To the south, the vast woodlands stretched beyond sight, their emerald canopy promising both adventure and mystery. Across the river to the north, fields of golden grain swayed in the wind, a testament to the city’s prosperity.
As the ship pulled into the dock, the scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meats mingled with the ever-present tang of salt air. The day was bright, the sky a brilliant azure with only the softest of clouds drifting lazily. A cacophony of voices filled the air—merchants hawking wares, sailors unloading cargo, and street performers drawing in passersby with song and dance.
The Roving Adventurers had arrived.
Landfall
No sooner had their boots touched solid ground than Makhulim Metalbrewer stretched with a groan. “Bah! If I never step on a ship again, it’ll be too soon. Me axe arm’s gone soft from all this sitting.” He flexed his fingers as though testing their strength, but the weight of This and That at his sides reassured him.
Marcho Longbottom adjusted his pack, eyes scanning the dockside streets. “A warm meal and a stiff drink first,” he said, already moving toward the bustling city. “Then we’ll see what trouble we can find.”
Faylen Naemenor trailed behind, her longbow Charm slung over one shoulder, the whispered voice of its spectral inhabitant murmuring to her. She paid it little mind, too distracted by the sheer size of Shalannan. It was far larger than any city she had ever visited. “It’s… breathtaking,” she admitted.
“Aye, and filled with souls in need of enlightenment,” Nayzungit added, his towering half-orc frame drawing wary glances from passing dockworkers. His greataxe Clementine rested on his back, the faint green glow of its blade casting odd shadows across his armor. “Perhaps we shall find some converts among them.”
Makhulim scowled. “Keep yer preaching to yerself, or at least don’t do it in my ear.”
A Tavern to Call Home
The party made their way through the winding streets, past vendors selling fresh fish, exotic spices, and trinkets from distant lands. Their destination was the Leafy Seadragon Inn, the most well-known establishment for travelers and adventurers alike. The sign outside depicted a stylized sea creature with leafy appendages curling outward, giving it an almost mystical air.
Inside, the tavern was alive with laughter, music, and the clatter of tankards. A towering bartender with a thick mustache gave them an appraising look as they entered. Behind the bar stood Amira Nyrond, the inn’s owner and a former ranger, her sharp green eyes scanning the newcomers. She was a tall woman with pale skin and long black hair, her movements graceful but purposeful. Nearby, her primary assistant Kronk, a massive half-orc with scarred green skin and broken tusks, hauled a keg onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. His brown eyes met theirs briefly before he turned back to his work.
Amira smirked. “New blood, eh? Welcome to the Leafy Seadragon. What’ll it be?”
Makhulim wasted no time. “Ale. Dwarven, if ye have it.”
Marcho grinned. “Something strong and sweet.”
Faylen hesitated, distracted by a bard singing in the corner. “Wine,” she finally said, slipping into a seat.
Nayzungit folded his arms. “Water will suffice.”
Rumors, Lore, and Quests
Their drinks arrived, and as they clinked mugs, the adventurers settled in. Around them, the tavern bustled with locals and travelers alike. At a corner table, a group of merchants murmured about rising tensions between Shalannan and the inland city-states. Near the hearth, an old sailor regaled a group of young men with tales of a ghost ship that haunted the southern waters.
From the next table over, a grizzled dwarf with a thick gray beard and a scar over one eye leaned in, catching Makhulim’s attention. “Ye lot look like the adventurin’ type,” he grunted. “Heard tell o’ somethin’ strange up in them mountains. A whole caravan disappeared near the high pass last month. No bodies, no wreckage—just gone.”
At the bar, Kronk set down a fresh keg and nodded toward Faylen. “If you’re lookin’ for a hunt,” he rumbled, his voice deep and slow, “folk in the lower ring been talkin’ about shadows movin’ in the streets at night. Things vanish. People, too.”
Amira poured another drink and set it in front of Marcho. “Rumors,” she said, “but sometimes, rumors have teeth. If you’re planning to stay in Shalannan long, I’d keep my ears open.”
Makhulim took a long drink and wiped his beard. “Aye. Seems like adventure finds us, one way or another.”
For now, it was time to drink, rest, and listen. The city of Shalannan was full of stories, and some of them were just waiting to be written.
Basement Bailout
The doors of the Leafy Seadragon burst open with a dramatic BANG, causing several patrons to jump. In the doorway stood Magistrate Kennwall, a foppish man clad in a garishly embroidered coat, his feathered hat askew atop his sweat-dampened hair. He panted, wild-eyed, and jabbered incoherently, his hands flailing as though shooing invisible specters from his face.
“Ghosts! Specters! Wailing phantoms in the night; and the DAY!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with hysteria. “The basement! My basement! It’s haunted, I tell you! HAUNTED!”
A hush fell over the tavern. A few patrons exchanged bemused glances, while others scooted their chairs back, wary of the madman in their midst. Amira folded her arms. “Magistrate,” she said coolly, “you’re making a scene.”
Kennwall gulped, straightened his jacket, and smoothed his mustache. “Ahem. Yes. Well. I do apologize, but this is a matter of utmost urgency! My wine cellar—no, my very home—is infested with horrors most foul! I demand assistance!”
Makhulim raised a bushy eyebrow. “Ye sure it ain’t rats?”
Kennwall clutched his chest as though mortally wounded. “Rats? Rats? My dear dwarf, these creatures are unnatural! Shadows that move on their own! Whispering voices in the dark! And the moaning—oh, the moaning!”
Marcho leaned forward, intrigued. “Sounds like a job.”
Faylen sighed, already knowing where this was going. “And a paying one, I hope?”
Kennwall nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes! You shall be handsomely rewarded! Just—please—rid my home of these ghastly fiends!”
And just like that, their first adventure in Shalannan had begun.
The final climb up to The Summit from The Noble’s District is a journey in itself, each step leading you higher into the heart of Shalannan’s most sacred tier. The air grows cooler and thinner, the sounds of the bustling city fading as you ascend. The towering walls of the second tier gradually recede, and before you lies a broad expanse of carefully manicured pathways, quiet courtyards, and solemn monuments.
As you approach the summit, the white marble buildings gleam like beacons against the azure sky. The winding road, lined with columns and shaded by ancient trees, guides you to the grand gates of The Summit. The stone beneath your feet is smooth and weathered, a testament to the centuries of footsteps that have tread this hallowed ground. The soft crunch of gravel beneath your boots is the only sound, save for the distant bells of the Grand Cathedral.
The Cathedral
The first structure to greet you is The Cathedral, towering above all else. Its spires reach into the heavens, adorned with golden accents that seem to shimmer even in the dim light. The sheer scale of the building takes your breath away—its columns stretch skyward, and intricate carvings of saints, angels, and celestial beings wrap around the exterior, each one more detailed than the last. The soft sound of a choir hums from within, their voices rising and falling in delicate harmony, carried through the open windows that line the cathedral’s upper reaches.
The path from the Cathedral leads you to the old, abandoned Chapel—the remnants of the first settlers’ humble beginnings. Though the Chapel stands in ruin, its quiet presence contrasts sharply with the grandeur of the Cathedral beside it. The wrought-iron fence that surrounds it is tall and uninviting, the gate long since vanished, leaving only an impression of mystery. The windows, some shattered and others boarded, reflect the stories of generations gone by, and the weathered wood of the doors hints at a time before The Cathedral, before Shalannan became what it is today.
Though this forgotten place is hidden behind the towering Cathedral, there is no mistaking its significance. The air here feels still, heavy with the weight of history, and the courtyard—once a place for quiet reflection—is now home to the gnarled apple trees that sway gently in the breeze. Their roots have long since broken the ground, twisting around the stone like the fingers of the past reaching into the present.
The Grand Cathedral – A Monument to Divinity
The Grand Cathedral is, without a doubt, the heart of The Summit, both physically and spiritually. It stands as a monument to the divine, its walls inscribed with prayers, blessings, and blessings for all who pass through its doors. The Cathedral is immense, with an entrance that dwarfs even the tallest individuals who dare to approach. The air surrounding it is thick with reverence, and the hustle and bustle of the city outside is replaced by the soft whispers of prayer, the rustle of robes, and the hum of holy chants.
Entering the Cathedral is like stepping into another realm. The first thing you notice is the sheer scale of the interior. Towering columns rise like mighty trees, their bases lost in shadow and their tops lost among the arched ceiling far above. The vaulted roof is a masterpiece of stonework, adorned with intricate carvings that tell the stories of the divine and the history of Shalannan itself. The light that pours through the cathedral’s many stained-glass windows casts brilliant hues across the floor—reds, blues, purples, and golds mingling in delicate patterns. Sunlight from the heavens seems to pour into the space, illuminating the sacred altars, statues of gods, and the flickering candles that line the aisles.
The interior is always alive with activity, though never in a hurried or jarring manner. Clerics, acolytes, and paladins bustle about, preparing for services or meditating in quiet corners. Some of the walls are lined with gold filigree sconces that hold flickering candles, casting a soft glow across the ancient stone floor. The scent of incense is heavy in the air, its sweet fragrance mingling with the coolness of the stone.
Divinity, Peace, and Power
As you walk further into the heart of the Cathedral, the overwhelming sense of awe only grows. Above you, the massive dome rises, decorated with depictions of celestial beings, saints, and holy figures. The art is both beautiful and humbling, as if the heavens themselves have descended to embrace this place. In the center of the room, an enormous altar stands, bathed in soft light from the window above. This is where the most sacred rites are performed, where the faithful gather in communion with the divine. The priests, robed in flowing white and gold vestments, move about the altar with reverence, their voices a soft murmur as they chant the sacred words that have been passed down through generations.
At the far end of the Cathedral, a massive organ stands, its pipes gleaming in the sunlight. The sound of its music is both powerful and serene, reverberating throughout the building. The melodies echo in the grand chamber, filling every corner with a sense of peace and divinity. The organ is played during the grandest ceremonies, its majestic tones accompanying the hymns of the faithful. Even the mere sound of it, drifting through the halls, brings a sense of tranquility to all who hear it.
The Bank and City Seat – Shalannan’s Power
Directly adjacent to the Cathedral lies The Bank, a large, imposing structure of gleaming white marble and gold, its façade engraved with the names of those who have shaped Shalannan’s financial legacy. It serves as a symbol of the city’s wealth and stability, and the meticulous care that has been taken to maintain it is evident in every polished stone and carefully crafted column.
Inside, the Bank is a hive of activity. The clerks, wearing robes of dark red and gold, move quickly between the marble counters, transacting business, counting coin, and managing the city’s wealth. A steady flow of people, from wealthy merchants to visiting dignitaries, pass through the bank’s doors, each of them tending to their own business or entrusting their fortunes to the institution. There is a quiet hum of conversation as the business of the city is carried out within these sacred walls.
The Bank
Behind the Bank, you will find The City Seat—Shalannan’s political heart. The City Seat is a grand building, its architecture both noble and utilitarian. Large windows overlook the city, providing a commanding view of the districts below. Inside, the rooms are furnished with plush velvet chairs, and large oak desks are lined with scrolls, books, and maps. At the head of the chamber stands the great council table, a place where the city’s leaders gather to discuss matters of governance, strategy, and policy.
The City Seat
The City Seat exudes power and control, but also a sense of responsibility. The officials who meet here are always respectful of the city’s long history, its founding principles, and the role they play in maintaining its stability. Some of the conversations here are heated, others are quiet, but they all carry the weight of the city’s future.
The Council Chamber itself is an imposing room, with high ceilings, stone walls, and the same intricate gold filigree that adorns the other buildings of The Summit. The windows allow light to pour in, but the room is often shrouded in shadow, the heavy curtains drawn to maintain a sense of privacy during discussions. The discussions that occur here shape the very future of Shalannan, and those who sit at the council table know the gravity of their decisions.
The Remains of the Old Chapel – Witness to the Past
Behind the Cathedral, cordoned off from the rest of The Summit, stands the old remains of the first chapel built by the settlers of Shalannan. Its weathered stone is a stark contrast to the gleaming white marble that surrounds it. The wrought-iron fence, tall and imposing, serves as both a boundary and a barrier to curiosity. The gate is long gone, leaving only the faintest impressions of what once stood here.
The chapel’s windows are boarded, many of them shattered, remnants of the youthful pranks that have taken place over the centuries. The door is sealed shut, paneling obscuring the way inside. The building seems frozen in time, locked away from the rest of the world, its purpose forgotten by all but a few. Yet, there is a certain reverence that surrounds this forgotten place. Its history is etched into the very stones, and though the city has grown around it, it stands as a silent witness to Shalannan’s humble beginnings.
The courtyard surrounding the Chapel is a quiet, sacred space. Ancient apple trees, gnarled and twisted, stand in rows, their roots pushing through the cracked stone floor. The sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze is the only disturbance to the silence. Clerics, acolytes, and paladins in tutelage often gather here in small groups, discussing the land’s history, the teachings of their faith, and sometimes even speculating about the rumors that have circulated through the city. These young devotees, eager to learn and to understand, approach the remains of the Chapel with reverence, but also with curiosity, as though the past is a mystery waiting to be uncovered.
Conversations
A conversation between an Elder and an Acolyte of the Cathedral as they go about a daily lesson:
“My Good Son, what wisdom do you seek of me today?”
“Dear Elder, as a lowly acolyte, I am hoping that you could teach me about the history of our beautiful city, the lands around, and the mysteries that go unanswered.”
“My Good Son, I shall try. Please take a seat, take up quill and ink, and record what I shall relay to you on the parchments in front of you.
The Lands of Shalannan
These lands were settled well more than a dozen ages ago, my family came to these lands around the time of the second founding, when the port was constructed yet before the creation of the Great Walls. My family has always ministered to the city locals and the travelers from abroad who seek our blessing. The hands of my forebears helped to consecrate the walls of the Chapel, and then later build the walls of the Cathedral. Our God, Fharlanghn, to which the Cathedral has been consecrated, has led the Port, then the Village, then the Town, and now the City Elders to prosperity. Our wise and understanding Patron, Fharlanghn has provided the guidance and insight to transform our once fledgling port to the grand city that we find today.
The lands around us are plentiful and bountiful. North of the city, beyond the river and forest, are the farmlands and ranches that provide the grains, fruits, and wool for the city centered around the settlement of Beadale. North of Beadale is the mining town of Otian, where parties set out into the northern mountains and return with ore, gems, and minerals that are turned into the weapons and armor of the guard. In the western expanses of the plains is a large lake, Vollous, where a town, Volland, has been founded to catch fish and bounty of the waters and facilitate the movement of logging materials from Greyn, on the extreme western edge of the plains bordering the Great Forest that lies beyond the pass. Between Volland and Otian rests Kylead in the plains of the west, a training center for armies should defense be needed again. To the south of our city, nestled deep within the wood, is Kyfathalas where students identified by the elven visitors to our city may go to learn the ways of the wood and the magic of nature.
Across our lands, there is a calm, but that is being broken by intrusions from the northern mountains, and a number of the guard have been sent to station there, along with some of our brothers to ensure the morale of the men.
As for mysteries, what can I answer for you my child?”
“Dear Elder, can you tell me why the Chapel remains even as the Cathedral stands? Why are we no longer admitted entrance to the Chapel? Can you tell me what of the dragons that were seen in the lands? How can I help in the Hospital? Can you tell me how I can gain piety and serve at the altar of the Cathedral? Can you….”
‘Calm, now, Good Son!! Your heart is too conflicted with all of these questions; as some are not meant for us to know; or at least not for me to provide to you. I will try to answer for you what I feel you should know, but some mysteries you will have to divine yourself.
The Chapel is a site of holiness, and as such was needed to stand during the construction of the Cathedral; you cannot rob one to buoy the other. When the Cathedral was completed the Chapel fell into disrepair, and the High Elders decided it should not be disturbed, and as such it was locked and boarded. This was done swiftly, some of the statements say that the Chapel was declared abandoned and sealed in one night. None were admitted the archives, and some of the scholars believe that were still great works contained in that Chapel.
We are not admitted for, after ages without upkeep, the building may not be sound of structure; hence all are dissuaded from attempting entrance. I can see it in your eyes, and yes, Good Son, I know that there are rumors of voices or lights in the Chapel, and I will say to you again that these are merely the delusions of the weary, the ramblings of the drunkards, or the mischievous putting their own desires onto that building. Bah! I wish I could keep it from site so as to not be so desecrated!
I am not sure how your mind has come to think of fanciful things such as Dragons! Are not the sufferings of our fellow man here and across these lands cause enough for care without needing to try to bring to life a fey creature of legend? Come, come, Dear Son, let not your heart mediate on these things.
The Ministries
For helping in the hospital, you should practice with the Elven elders and learn the ways of medicine from them, or find yourself a place in the clerical order and learn the divine crafts to aid in the healing of your flock. Your path here is still to be found by you, it is up to you to find it and walk it on your own.
If your calling is to serve in the Cathedral, the High Elders will find you and call upon you. They constantly are in meditation to find the proper amongst us to join their ranks, or those that would best serve the Cathedral by being sent abroad in missionary service. Just last week they sent another of our order, an inquisitive young lad who was curious and studious away from the cathedral into service. Although his questions to me had always been about Greyn and the Great Forest beyond, the High Elders saw him most fit for a post in Otian, as he was needed to help with the troops who daily foray into the mountains.
Remember this! While you may have a preference of a path, the High Elders and Fharlanghn will always know the right road for you to walk, and you should always defer your road to them.”
“Dear Elder, thank you for your time. Are the grounds of the Chapel still allowed to us, the pious, to roam and walk for reflection? I should very much like to meditate on the history or our order in a place of tranquility and calm.’
“Good Son, I do not believe that would violate any of the commandments of the High Elders, but do mind that if you are directed to come away then you should do so at once.’
“Thank you, Dear Elder. I shall take my leave of you now. Be well, and may Fharlanghn find you in good health and good fortune on the morrow.’
You approach the West Gate of Shalannan City, the entrance to the overland routes leading to Volland and the southern plains. The towering stone arch of the gate, reinforced with iron, stands as a formidable barrier between the city and the wilderness beyond. Soldiers stand at attention in front of the gates, their eyes scanning the roads for travelers.
The West Gate is flanked by the imposing Tolling Tunnel, a passage that extends deep beneath the city. The tunnel’s name comes from the eerie tolling bells that echo through it at random times, a strange feature that causes many to whisper about the mysteries of the city. The tunnel is dark, damp, and long—some claim that it’s haunted by the spirits of past military leaders or that it’s been enchanted to confuse enemies attempting to invade. Whatever the case, the presence of the tunnel adds an air of mystery to this otherwise heavily guarded area.
Beyond the gates, the dirt road stretches out toward the plains, with caravans and traders frequently passing through. The bustling activity of the military forces here is palpable, as officers bark orders and soldiers conduct drills or sharpen weapons. Horses whinny in their stables, and the sounds of hammers on metal rings out from the armory. While the gate remains open during the day, at dusk, the heavy gates are drawn shut, sealing off the city from any unvetted individuals.
The Barracks and Officers’ Quarters
As you walk further into the Military District, the first structure you notice is the barracks. Tall, squat buildings with narrow windows stand in neat rows, their worn stone facades bearing the marks of time and constant use. The barracks are designed to house soldiers on active duty, and their windows are often filled with the movement of guards, some of whom peer out from the upper floors. The scent of sweat, leather, and freshly polished metal permeates the air, creating a sense of the intense training and preparation that occurs within.
The barracks themselves are crowded with soldiers who live here in communal spaces, each assigned to a small, functional cot and sharing the cramped space with several other comrades. The walls are covered with training schedules, maps, and sometimes crude sketches, drawn by soldiers who use their free time to reflect or amuse themselves.
As you continue through the district, you pass the officers’ quarters—a grander set of buildings compared to the barracks, located at the heart of the district. These structures are two or three stories high, made from more polished stone and better maintained. Their windows are large, and the balconies overlook the entire district. The officers’ quarters offer much more comfort and privacy, with fine wooden furniture and clean linens adorning the rooms.
These officers oversee the movements of the soldiers, ensuring order and discipline is maintained throughout the city. Occasionally, you catch sight of an officer, their uniform gleaming, as they stride purposefully through the district, barking orders to subordinates. The officers’ quarters are also where strategic decisions are made regarding the protection of the city, and you can feel the weight of responsibility that lies within these walls.
The Prison and the Armory
At the far end of the district, you encounter the prison, a grim structure designed for holding criminals and those who have broken the law within Shalannan. The walls of the prison are thick and reinforced, with iron bars covering the windows to prevent any escapes. Inside, the atmosphere is heavy with the scent of damp stone and musty air. Soldiers patrol the perimeter, ensuring that prisoners remain locked in their cells, and you occasionally hear muffled voices echoing from the inside.
Not far from the prison stands the armory, an imposing building where weapons and armor are stored and maintained. Inside, rows of swords, spears, and shields gleam on shelves, while suits of armor—some shiny and new, others worn from battle—hang in organized rows. The air smells of oil and metal, and the sound of smiths hammering out imperfections on swords and shields fills the space. Soldiers often come here to prepare for their shifts or to receive new weapons. The armory is a symbol of Shalannan’s military strength, and its contents are carefully guarded.
Connected to the armory is the brig, a smaller and more restrictive section of the prison reserved for those who have committed severe offenses, such as mutiny or desertion. The brig is darker and colder than the prison itself, and it is said that the guards here are less lenient, with punishment often being more severe. You can feel the tension in the air as you pass by, knowing that the individuals confined here are those who have gravely dishonored the city’s military.
The Stable and The Passage to the Noble’s Rise
As you make your way to the final area of the Military District, you pass by the stable. Horses are vital to the military, especially for the cavalry units and scouts who are stationed at the West Gate. The stable is a large structure, with open stalls where horses are groomed and prepared for patrols. The air is thick with the scent of hay, leather, and horse sweat, and the sounds of hooves and neighing horses fill the space. Several soldiers stand nearby, ensuring the horses are well cared for and ready to move at a moment’s notice.
At the far end of the stable, you can hear the steady rhythm of hooves as cavalry units practice their drills, galloping around the courtyard, their armor clanking as they move in unison. It’s a well-choreographed display of discipline and coordination, and it’s clear that the military is prepared for any threats that might arise from the plains.
As the sun begins to set, you feel the change in the district. The gates, which were wide open during the day, begin to close slowly, with the creaking of heavy iron mechanisms filling the air. Soldiers stand ready by the gates, ensuring that anyone who arrives after sundown will be forced to camp outside the city until morning. Those who arrive too late have no choice but to create makeshift camps just outside the gates, where they will wait for the morning’s first light.
With the gates secured and the night settling in, the Military District grows quieter. The soldiers return to their barracks for rest, and the last few stragglers outside the gates find their places to camp. The district’s activity, once frantic and purposeful, slows down for the evening as the city prepares for another night of peace and vigilance.
The Noble’s District
The Great Gate and Entrance
As you ascend the hill from The Military District, you approach the towering stone gate that marks the entrance to the Noble District. The great archway, made from white marble, is inscribed with intricate carvings of mythical creatures, and the golden accents shimmer in the afternoon light. Guarded by well-dressed attendants and armored half-orcs, the gate seems almost an impenetrable barrier between the hustle of the city below and the opulence above. The half-orcs stand with stone-faced professionalism, their hulking frames a stark contrast to the refined surroundings.
From the top of the hill, you can see the Military District below, its sounds faint but persistent. The clanging of iron chains and the rhythmic pounding of hooves mix with the distant call of drills and orders from the soldiers stationed near the West Gate. Though the Military District is an ever-present reminder of Shalannan’s might, here, in the noble heights, it’s as if the worries of the world below are a distant hum.
The gate opens, and as you step through, you enter a different world altogether. The streets here are wide and well-maintained, lined with tall trees that provide shade over the cobblestone pathways. The sound of soft footfalls and the rustling of leaves dominate the area, punctuated by the occasional carriage or elegantly dressed noble walking with their attendants.
The Palatial Estates and Their Gardens
The first thing that catches your eye as you walk further into the district are the sprawling estates. Each mansion is a work of art, constructed from the finest white marble, with intricate carvings adorning the facades. The houses are vast, sprawling across acres of land with expansive gardens and carefully manicured lawns. Ornate gates and hedges line the properties, and fountains of crystal-clear water sparkle in the sunlight.
As you walk past the first estate, you notice the wealth on display: servants moving in and out of the grand entrance, some of them wearing livery while others walk in more casual attire, often with baskets of fruits, flowers, or fine goods in hand. The houses themselves are a blend of classic elegance and modern excess, each building varying in its own way to reflect the tastes of its owner. Some are modest in their decoration, relying on the grandeur of their size to make an impact, while others opt for extravagance, with garish colors painted on the exterior walls, the windows framed with gold, or oversized sculptures of animals and gods standing in the front yards.
From the gardens, the smells of rich perfumes, fresh flowers, and the occasional scent of cooking meats drift past. The air here feels almost too pristine, every inch of the district carefully curated to perfection. At times, you see a noble family relaxing in their gardens, enjoying the quiet solitude away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the city. A group of children plays by a fountain, their laughter ringing through the air as they chase each other around.
The Street Life and Servants
The Noble District is not just about palatial estates; it’s also a place where wealth flows freely. The streets are kept immaculate, with a team of servants sweeping and cleaning the pathways as they move along. These workers are often accompanied by arcane servants—small, floating creatures or constructs summoned from The Mages District—who assist in cleaning the streets and maintaining the beauty of the district. These magical beings move without a sound, their glowing forms providing an ethereal ambiance that matches the elegance of the neighborhood.
The noble families here may live in luxury, but the work to keep the district pristine is done by others. As you walk, you notice the many servants—humans, half-elves, and halflings—who are responsible for the maintenance of the estate grounds and the care of the nobles themselves. Some are dressed in finery to match their employers, while others are more plainly dressed, serving quietly and efficiently. You see them moving between houses, carrying heavy baskets or pushing carts loaded with goods.
The sound of conversations in various languages fills the air, as various races mix in this affluent part of town. Halflings chat excitedly among themselves, while a dwarf servant polishes the stonework of a grand entrance. A half-elf woman with sharp features tends to the horses stabled in one of the many luxurious estates, while a human man ensures the fountains are running properly.
Occasionally, you see the hired muscle—half-orcs serving as bouncers, bodyguards, or even as attendants in the most opulent of homes. Their presence adds a layer of authority to the area, as they stand at the entrances, stoic and unyielding. They keep watch over the streets, ensuring that no one disturbs the peace or the wealth of the district.
The Back Alleyways and Shadows
Despite the wealth and grandeur on display, the Noble District has its darker corners. Tucked away behind the pristine buildings are narrow alleyways, often obscured from view by large stone walls and overgrown ivy. These back alleys are a place where the less fortunate gather, far removed from the beauty and wealth of the open streets. Here, you find traders dealing in illicit goods—potions, enchanted trinkets, and rare objects not often seen in the light of day.
The alleyways are poorly lit, with the occasional lantern casting flickering shadows on the cobblestone ground. You can hear hushed voices, the shuffle of footsteps, and the soft clink of coin changing hands. The residents of these alleys are often those who serve the nobles during the day, but by night they gather here for a different life. Some sell their services or make deals for a better future, hoping that one day they’ll rise from the shadows and claim a piece of the prosperity that others here enjoy.
The air is thick with the scent of spice and incense, mingling with the quieter noises of the district. As you peer into the darkness, you catch sight of a few furtive figures moving quickly between the alleys, disappearing before you can get a better look. Some of the back doors of the grand houses open to reveal servants moving about, but they quickly retreat back into the shadows when they spot you.
The Sounds and Sights from Above
As you ascend the hill further, the district begins to open up. From here, you can look down upon the Military District, hearing now only the faint echoes of clanking armor, the rhythmic drumming of hooves, and the occasional sound of a soldier’s commands. Though distant, the sounds are a reminder of the bustling city below. The contrast between the quiet, well-kept streets of the Noble District and the rough, regimented nature of the military is stark.
From this vantage point, you notice that the architecture of the Noble District continues to rise, with taller buildings and more extravagant designs the further you go. Some of the houses here look more like palaces, with grand towers that reach for the sky, adorned with spires and statues. The rooftops are adorned with gardens, small towers, and even some observatories, where the wealthiest families take in the view.
The streets here are lined with expensive shops selling fine clothing, rare spices, and exotic wines, but the crowds are fewer. You can almost feel the isolation of wealth in this section, where the most influential people live in relative seclusion from the masses below. The nobles go about their business behind tall gates and walls, with only a few trusted servants and guests ever gaining access to the inner sanctums.
The Hidden Wealth and Disguised Luxury
Even though the Noble District is known for its visible wealth, there are deeper layers of opulence hidden from public view. Inside the homes of the richest families, the walls are lined with treasures—works of art, antique furniture, and exotic curiosities collected from across the continent. These hidden gems are not on display for the public to see but are carefully curated to impress the guests who are invited into the private spaces of these grand homes.
The backrooms of the finest estates hold secrets—vaults of gold, magical items, and enchanted objects that only the wealthiest can afford. Even the servants who live and work in these estates are often aware of the wealth that lies hidden behind locked doors. Yet, most never see it with their own eyes, only hearing rumors from the higher-ups.
As you leave the district, you catch a glimpse of the hidden corridors leading to the private wings of the estates—these are places where only the elite are allowed to enter, and where the real treasures of Shalannan’s upper class are stored away from the prying eyes of the public.
The Guild District of Shalannan City stands as a testament to mastery, ambition, and the pursuit of perfection. Towering buildings, each emblazoned with the sigils of the city’s most powerful guilds, dominate the skyline, casting long shadows over the bustling streets below. Here, artisans who have honed their craft in the Merchant District ascend to greatness, joining the ranks of the elite. The clang of hammers, the murmur of negotiations, and the rhythmic recitation of ancient guild oaths fill the air, while deals—both fair and foul—are struck behind closed doors. The wide, well-maintained roads are filled with carts bearing rare materials, apprentices hurrying to their lessons, and guild members proudly displaying the emblems of their trades.
The Streets of Ambition
The Guild District is a place where fortunes are made and reputations destroyed. Each morning, hopeful artisans arrive at the gates, seeking admittance into the prestigious guilds that rule the district. Some bring proof of their skill—exquisite jewelry, finely tailored garments, masterfully forged blades—while others rely on connections, coin, or whispered deals in darkened corridors. The district is alive with activity, from scribes recording contracts in elegant script to enforcers ensuring debts are paid. Though the streets are wide and well-lit, the shadows hold many secrets, for wherever wealth and influence gather, so too does intrigue.
The Stonemasons’ Bastion
The Stonemasons’ Guild looms like a fortress of carved granite, its entrance flanked by statues of past grandmasters. The air is filled with the sound of chisels striking stone, echoing through the grand halls where massive blocks are sculpted into architectural wonders. Apprentices labor under the watchful eyes of master masons, their hands calloused from years of work. The guild’s influence extends beyond the district, shaping the very skyline of Shalannan City. Contracts for bridges, fortifications, and noble estates are brokered here, each deal signed with a seal of carved marble. To be a Stonemason is to build legacies—both literal and figurative—that stand the test of time.
The Jewelers’ Guildhall: Where Wealth is Forged
If the Stonemasons shape the city’s bones, the Jewelers’ Guild polishes its gleaming façade. Their hall, an opulent structure adorned with gilded filigree and gemstone inlays, is a beacon of wealth and refinement. Inside, master jewelers craft rings, necklaces, and artifacts that command exorbitant prices among nobility and merchants alike. The scent of molten gold and polished silver lingers in the air as skilled hands set flawless gems into intricate designs. Deals here are struck in hushed tones, and not all transactions are recorded in the guild’s meticulous ledgers. Some say that for the right price, a jeweler can craft more than just adornments—perhaps even a perfect forgery.
The Iron Smiths’ Crucible
Few places in Shalannan burn as hot as the Iron Smiths’ Crucible. The forges roar day and night, illuminating the district with their fiery glow. Dwarven smiths bellow work songs as they hammer glowing ingots into weapons, armor, and tools of unmatched quality. Humans and half-orcs work alongside them, sharing knowledge and techniques that date back centuries. The rhythmic clanging of metal against anvil is a song of creation, each strike forging not just steel but the future of warriors and kings. The Iron Smiths are a powerful force, their weapons prized by adventurers and armies alike. Here, in the heart of the forge, strength is not only found in muscle, but in the steel that binds Shalannan’s warriors together.
The Tailors’ Guild: Weaving Prestige
In stark contrast to the heat and clangor of the forges, the Tailors’ Guild is a haven of precision and artistry. Elegant mannequins line the halls, each draped in masterfully woven garments that could clothe emperors. Halfling poets recite verses while embroiderers stitch enchanted threads, and human designers sketch the next great fashion to be unveiled at court. The guild is both a place of artistry and politics, for the right garment can grant power just as surely as a blade. Behind silken curtains, whispers of courtly intrigue mix with the rustle of luxurious fabric, and a single misplaced stitch in a noble’s robe can signal alliances—or betrayals.
The Guild District by Night
As dusk falls, the Guild District does not sleep. The forges dim but do not go cold, the jewelers’ lamps still glow, and the tailors work into the night by candlelight. In hidden rooms above the workshops, secret meetings take place—rival guilds striking illicit bargains, spies exchanging coded messages, and merchants currying favor with those who hold the keys to Shalannan’s wealth. The looming guild halls remain ever-watchful, their banners casting flickering silhouettes against the city’s skyline. Here, in the heart of power and ambition, the fate of trade and prosperity is decided, and only those with skill, cunning, and a touch of ruthlessness can hope to thrive.
The Mages District
Entering the District
As you step into the Mages District from the bustling Guild District, the very air feels different. The subtle hum of magic vibrates in the air, and the cobblestones beneath your feet seem to pulse with a faint arcane glow. The streets here are wide, though not overly crowded, with busy figures in flowing robes and colorful garments hurrying about.
Spells occasionally dart across the cobblestones—wayward sparks from spells being tested by young apprentices, their faces focused in concentration. A bright bolt of energy ricochets off the side of a building before dissipating into nothingness, leaving a trail of shimmering stardust in its wake. The buildings in this district, some tall and spire-like, others squat and weathered, are adorned with arcane symbols, strange runes, and crystal-tipped lanterns that glow softly in the twilight.
In the distance, the towering spire of a wizard’s academy looms above, its silhouette cutting into the sky. The sound of chanting from the academy’s windows carries through the streets, joined by the occasional crackle of energy as powerful rituals are performed above. The streets are alive with conversation as well—wizards yelling orders from their towers to their apprentices below, shouting for rare ingredients, materials, or rare artifacts to be delivered.
The Fluid Scroll
Your first stop is a narrow shop tucked between two grand towers, its sign swaying gently in the wind: The Fluid Scroll. The wooden door opens with a soft creak, and you step inside, the scent of ink, parchment, and the faintest trace of incense filling the air. Shelves line the walls, stacked high with scrolls and arcane tomes, each bound in leather or cloth, some glowing faintly with magical energy.
Behind the counter stands a middle-aged elven woman with silver hair, her eyes glowing faintly with magic as she inspects a scroll. She looks up and gives you a welcoming smile, her hands moving with quick precision, arranging the scrolls in the air with flicking gestures of her fingers.
“I see you’ve come for something,” she says, her voice soft and melodic. “We craft everything from basic arcane scrolls to complex divine rituals here. If you need something special, we can make it.”
As you browse, a few apprentices run past, carrying stacks of parchment or bundles of rare ingredients, and a summoned firefly flits by, hovering in the air like a tiny, glowing star.
“Would you like a custom scroll? We can infuse magic into any item,” the elven woman continues, sensing your curiosity. “The Fluid Scroll specializes in crafting magic into written form, allowing for spells to be easily memorized and cast.”
A shimmering orb on the counter vibrates gently, and the woman gestures at it. “This is a magical storage device for scrolls, it can hold a dozen different spells and even make copies.”
The entire shop radiates with the soft energy of the arcane as you consider what magical knowledge you might acquire.
Ernsteir’s Excellent Enchantment Emporium
Exiting the shop, you are immediately caught by the colorful sign hanging from the next building: Ernsteir’s Excellent Enchantment Emporium, decorated with arcane symbols and glowing with an inviting magical aura.
Inside, the shelves are overflowing with magical items. Wands crackle with unspent magic, staves stand like sentinels along the walls, and potions in glowing vials line shelves in neat rows. Armor, imbued with all manner of protective enchantments, gleams in the dim light of the shop. Swords and axes, their blades humming with latent magic, hang from hooks, while smaller, enchanted trinkets—rings, necklaces, and charms—sit in glass cases.
At the back of the shop, a burly man with a wild beard and gleaming spectacles stands hunched over an anvil, hammering at a piece of enchanted armor. Sparks fly from his hammer, crackling with arcane energy.
“Ah, another customer,” he calls, looking up with a wide grin. “Anything in particular you’re looking for? A new staff? Perhaps a ring of protection? I’ve got plenty of everything here.”
He hands you a rod, its surface etched with runes, and it hums in your hand, filling you with a sense of power. “A bit of enchantment and a touch of whimsy in every piece,” Ernsteir says proudly. “My personal specialty is in weapons—anything you need for combat, I can customize to suit your preferences.”
As you browse the vast collection, a summoned air elemental drifts by, its translucent form flickering like a wisp of smoke. It flits past you and dissipates with a soft crackle of energy.
Whimsy and Wonder
The deeper you venture into the Mages District, the more you feel the ever-present sense of whimsy. Young wizards practicing spells often lose control, causing sparks of magic to dance unpredictably through the streets. A summoned cat, looking both startled and delighted, pops into existence just ahead of you, chasing a glowing butterfly that disappears as quickly as it came.
An older wizard, standing atop a small balcony, leans out and calls down to a student below. “I need more etheric sand from the marketplace, not that dusty old stuff. And tell the alchemist that his formula is off—again!” His voice is gruff but with a hint of amusement.
Nearby, a half-elf wizard levitates in midair, their robes fluttering around them as they float above the street, reading from a glowing tome. Occasionally, they stop and gesture toward a nearby rooftop, causing a series of arcane runes to appear in the sky.
As you walk further, a group of students exits a building, their arms full of arcane crystals and rare herbs. The students chat excitedly, their voices blending with the low hum of the magic in the air. Their eyes shine with the eagerness of those who are on the cusp of discovering something new, something magical.
But there are dangers here too. Occasionally, you see a group of spellcasters gathered around a glowing crystal, their hands moving in synchronization as they attempt to summon a more complex creature, perhaps something dangerous. For every wonder, there is also a risk—the magical mishaps are a part of life here, and everyone seems to embrace them with a casual sort of joy.
The Wizards’ Towers along the Walk
At the end of the district stands the impressive tower of the Arcanum, the tallest structure in the area. Wizards lean out from the balconies, shouting instructions to their apprentices on the ground far below. The tower is a dizzying mix of ancient stone and more recent magical enhancements, and the upper levels are obscured by shifting clouds of arcane energy that swirl around the top like a permanent storm.
The streets begin to quiet as the sun sets, and the spell-touched lanterns flicker to life, casting a soft glow over the district. A soft melody, distant but clear, floats through the air, carried on the evening breeze. It is an elven lullaby, sung by someone high in a tower, a gentle reminder that even in a place as lively and chaotic as the Mages District, there is still space for beauty.
As you walk toward the edge of the district, you catch sight of a small group of wizards gathered at a crossroads. They are debating something heatedly, each with a hand raised to demonstrate a point, their faces animated with excitement. One of them gestures dramatically, and a bolt of energy flies from their fingertip, causing a nearby crate to levitate and spin in midair.
The arcane energy crackles in the night air as the last traces of daylight fade, and you can’t help but smile. The Mages District is a place where magic truly comes alive, a place where the wonder of the arcane and the unpredictability of its nature create an atmosphere of perpetual discovery.
The Merchant District: Beating Heart of Craft and Trade
The Merchant District of Shalannan City hums with the ceaseless rhythm of industry and commerce. The clang of hammer on anvil, the scrape of saw against wood, and the gentle whir of spinning wheels create a symphony of productivity. Here, master artisans shape raw materials into coveted goods, merchants hawk their wares in lilting tones, and apprentices hurry along wide, well-paved streets carrying supplies to waiting hands.
The air is alive with the mingling scents of tanned leather, sawdust, and bubbling vats of dye, cut through by the occasional waft of fresh bread from the district’s many bakeries. This is a place where coin is king, and the right price can buy wonders beyond imagination.
The Marketplace of Masterpieces
The heart of the district is a sprawling market where workshops double as storefronts, and craftsmen display their finest goods. Sturdy dwarven-forged armor gleams in the sunlight, delicate elven filigree shimmers under careful hands, and Nor’lander furs offer warmth even against the harshest cold. Merchants from across the world call out in a dozen tongues, boasting the quality of their wares and luring customers with promises of fair deals and rare finds. Adventurers seeking enchanted trinkets, nobles in need of tailored finery, and locals purchasing the necessities of life all converge in this bustling space, where trade never truly stops.
The Out of Towners: A Tavern of Tales and Tankards
At the heart of the district’s revelry stands The Out of Towners, an inn known for its raucous atmosphere, flowing ale, and nightly bardic entertainment. Here, travelers, traders, and artisans alike gather to celebrate their successes, drown their sorrows, or simply enjoy a night away from the daily toil of craftsmanship.
The inn’s loose cask taps ensure no tankard is ever empty for long, and laughter rings through the air as tales of distant lands and mythical treasures are exchanged. It is said that the best way to learn the true state of the world is to sit for an evening at The Out of Towners, where secrets slip as easily as the ale spills.
The Craftsmen’s Homes and Hidden Paths
Unlike other parts of the city, many of the buildings in the Merchant District are both places of business and residences. Grey stone buildings with slate roofs line the streets, their upper levels serving as homes for the artisans and their families. Children race along the cobbled paths, playing games in the warm sunlight, their laughter mingling with the din of industry. The district is vibrant, a place of life and legacy, where skills are passed from one generation to the next. But not all dealings here are honest. Behind the well-lit main roads, shadowed alleys serve as meeting grounds for whispered negotiations. Some merchants deal in more than just legal wares, and those who know where to look can find items not meant for the open market.
The Merchant District at Dusk
As the sun dips below the horizon, the district undergoes a transformation. The forges still burn, casting flickering light across the cobblestones, and magical lanterns ignite, bathing the streets in a warm glow. The scent of roasting meat fills the air as vendors extend their hours, eager to capture the last customers of the day. The hum of commerce slows but never truly ceases, for in the Merchant District, trade is eternal. The heartbeat of Shalannan’s industry thrums steady into the night, ensuring that when dawn rises once more, the city will awaken to the same relentless march of craft and commerce.
The Tolling Tunnel: Gateway to the World
At the western edge of the district stands the Tolling Tunnel, a massive checkpoint through which all overland goods from Volland must pass. Here, tax collectors assess the worth of shipments, ensuring that Shalannan receives its due from merchants who seek to profit within the city’s walls. The process is meticulous, and every crate, bundle, and wagonload is scrutinized before it is allowed to proceed into the Merchant District. For those seeking to bypass these regulations, whispers tell of alternative routes—though none without risk.
A Walk Through the Grand Bazaar of Shalannan City: The Beating Heart of Trade
The Gateway to the World: Arriving at the Bazaar
The approach to the Grand Bazaar is an experience in itself. Passing through the broad archway that separates the Local District from this hub of commerce, the air shifts instantly—gone is the heavy musk of ship oil and damp stone, replaced by an intoxicating blend of exotic spices, fresh-cut flowers, and the crisp tang of newly unrolled silk.
The Grand Bazaar is a city within a city, an expanse of colorful tents, wooden stalls, and stone pathways that seem to extend endlessly. Traders from every known land have gathered here, their wares displayed in an overwhelming symphony of textures, scents, and sounds. From the frozen reaches of the Nor’lands to the golden dunes of Illidian, from the misty isles of Kang Lan to the imperial grandeur of Kyoto, this is where the world meets.
Here, every race mingles—halflings hawking finely wrought jewelry beside dwarven smiths pounding out intricate blades, elves draping their wares in fine woven tapestries while half-orcs bellow praises of their potent firewater. There is no singular language spoken, for tongues from all across Hyebrenia weave together in a cacophony of haggling, laughter, and heated debate.
The Heart of Trade: A Tapestry of Goods and Wonders
Stepping deeper into the bazaar, the sheer magnitude of the market becomes clear. The paths twist and wind in ways that can leave the unprepared lost for hours, each turn revealing yet another world of marvels.
To the east, the silken pavilions of Kang Lan and Kyoto ripple like water in the breeze. Merchants clad in vibrant robes present shimmering silks, intricate fans, and porcelain so fine it seems almost translucent. A Kyotoan tea master kneels before a low table, brewing steaming cups of jasmine and green tea, the scent inviting even the weariest traveler to pause.
The southern stalls are a stark contrast, dominated by the deep reds and burnt oranges of Illidian traders. Spices fill the air—cinnamon, saffron, cardamom—each more precious than gold in some lands. Mystics sell small vials of oil, crushed gemstones, and charms said to ward off misfortune. Some booths are manned by scholars of the arcane, who speak in hushed voices of relics unearthed from Illidian tombs, their origins shrouded in mystery.
Meanwhile, the Nor’landers—towering men and women clad in furs despite the heat—offer rare pelts, cured meats, and great barrels of mead said to be strong enough to bring warmth even to a frostbitten soul.
The Sounds of the Bazaar: Music, Magic, and Murmurs
No place in Shalannan City hums with life quite like the Grand Bazaar. The steady beat of drums, the lilting notes of flutes, and the occasional burst of laughter from street performers create a never-ending melody that lingers in the air.
Acrobats flip between banners strung high above the market streets, their dazzling performances drawing applause. Fire-breathers and illusionists weave magic into their shows, creating displays of light and flame that leave children and adults alike enthralled. There is an ever-present rhythm here, a pulse that makes it impossible to move too quickly, lest one miss a moment of its wonder.
Yet not all is bright spectacle. In the quieter corners of the bazaar, shadows stretch long. Secretive exchanges take place behind veiled stalls, where merchants offer rare maps, contraband artifacts, and whispers of lost knowledge. Here, hushed voices speak of deals made in secret, where a well-placed coin can procure more than just goods—it can buy silence, information, or even loyalty.
The Docks of Nobility: Where Wealth Meets the Market
Beyond the northern walls of the Bazaar lies another vital artery of trade—the exclusive docks where noble ships and passenger vessels make berth. Unlike the rugged, salt-worn piers of Old Town, these docks are lined with smooth stone walkways and guarded by watchful sentries.
Here, the wealthiest travelers disembark, their silken garments contrasting sharply with the rough tunics of dockhands. Retinues of servants carry trunks filled with treasures acquired from foreign lands, while noblemen and women stride forward with a sense of purpose, their eyes scanning the market for the rarest and most exotic finds.
It is also here that great deals are struck—treaties drafted over goblets of imported wine, alliances made with a handshake and a knowing nod. Those who seek to influence the course of trade, politics, or war often find their first steps taken upon these very docks.
The Shalannan Hospital: A Place of Mercy
Nestled near the heart of the Bazaar, yet distinct from its clamor, stands the Shalannan Hospital. A place of respite for the wounded, sick, and weary, it serves as a sanctuary for all who require aid—regardless of their means or origin.
Healers, clerics, acolytes, paladins, and even some druids, clad in simple robes move through its halls, tending to sailors suffering from foreign fevers, merchants overcome by exhaustion, and beggars with wounds left untended for too long. Here, magic is wielded not as a weapon, but as a gift—clerics of various faiths working side by side to mend the broken and give hope to the hopeless.
Outside its entrance, a small shrine flickers with candles, left by those offering prayers of thanks or desperate pleas for recovery. It is a stark contrast to the opulence of the Bazaar, yet a necessary part of its existence, ensuring that the lifeblood of trade does not falter under the weight of suffering.
The Dancing Swan: A Haven for Travelers and Mystics
No visit to the Grand Bazaar is complete without a night spent at The Dancing Swan Tavern and Inn. The most reputable establishment in the district, it is a place where both the weary traveler and the ambitious entrepreneur can find comfort, entertainment, and insight.
Its great wooden doors swing open to reveal a sprawling interior filled with lively conversation and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. True to its reputation, there are always three bards and two wizards in residence, weaving tales, rumors, and melodies that fill the air with enchantment.
A corner of the main hall is always reserved for those seeking knowledge—merchants bringing mysterious trinkets to the wizards for identification, hopeful adventurers listening to whispered legends in the hopes of uncovering a hidden fortune. Here, deals are sealed over drinks, fortunes are won or lost with the roll of a die, and dreams of grand adventure begin.
Final Thoughts: The Ever-Present Pulse of the Bazaar
Leaving the Grand Bazaar is no easy task—not because of any physical barriers, but because its allure lingers. The scent of distant lands, the sound of a lute playing a foreign tune, the thrill of haggling over a piece of unknown magic—these things stay with a traveler long after they have departed.
It is a place where stories begin, where alliances form, where fortunes are made and lost. And for those who step through its crowded streets, the Grand Bazaar of Shalannan City ensures that they will never walk away quite the same as when they arrived.
A Walk Through the Local District: Where Industry Meets Shadows
The First Steps: Where the Docks Meet the Streets
Stepping away from the docks and into the Local District, the first thing one notices is the change in atmosphere. The salty tang of the sea is still present, but it is now mingled with the scents of labor—wood shavings, tar, and the distant aroma of spiced meats roasting from vendor carts stationed near the entrance.
The streets here are a marked improvement over Old Town’s tight alleys. Though still considered narrow, they allow for the passage of carts laden with trade goods, barrels of ale, and shipments of salted fish. Cobblestone pathways are uneven, worn by years of heavy foot traffic, and in some places, wooden planks have been laid down to cover gaps where the earth has swallowed parts of the road.
The buildings rise taller here, two or three stories at times, leaning over the street as if in quiet conversation with their neighbors. Balconies jut out over walkways, adorned with drying nets, laundry, and the occasional flower box—a rare but welcome touch of life amid the drab colors of stone and timber. Lanterns hang from posts at wide intervals, their glow insufficient to chase away the looming shadows, even during the day.
The Bustle of the Working Class: By Day and By Dusk
During the day, the Local District hums with the steady rhythm of industry. Dockworkers with strong backs and calloused hands walk these streets, some heading home to modest residences, others seeking a warm meal and respite before returning to their duties.
Shops cater to their needs—tailors offering simple but sturdy garments, cobblers repairing worn boots, and smithies forging hooks, nails, and tools for ship maintenance. The air here is thick with the clanging of hammers and the occasional bark of merchants arguing over pricing.
Despite the roughness of trade, the district has pockets of affluence. Some ship captains own homes here, their residences distinct with better upkeep—sturdier doors, iron-reinforced shutters, and in rare cases, private guards standing watch. These homes often feature intricate carvings on their beams, depicting sea serpents, crests of past voyages, and symbols of maritime pride.
As dusk settles, however, a shift occurs. The laborers who can afford to retreat indoors do so, while others take to the few taverns that dot the district—places where coin flows as easily as ale and where a man can drown his exhaustion in a mug of something strong.
The Unseen Underbelly: Where Shadows Gather
As night falls, the Local District’s dimly lit streets become a playground for those who thrive in darkness. Lanterns, sparse to begin with, flicker and fade, leaving whole stretches of the district swallowed in blackness. The scent of industry is replaced with something less tangible—the musty aroma of damp stone, old wood, and a lingering tension that warns travelers to keep their purses close.
Figures move in the periphery—hooded individuals whispering in alleys, hands exchanging pouches with knowing nods. This district does not have the lawless chaos of Old Town’s backstreets, but it has its own dangers. Organized crime finds a foothold here, with local gangs controlling certain corners, charging “tolls” to pass through safely.
The thieves here are professionals. They do not act in random bursts of violence but with careful precision. A purse cut so subtly that its owner notices too late, a merchant’s ledgers tampered with overnight, a warehouse mysteriously short on goods come morning—such are the marks of the Local District’s ne’er-do-wells.
There are also whispered rumors of a hidden guild operating from the depths of the district. Its members rarely show themselves, but those who cross their path and live to tell the tale speak of a society that does not merely steal, but controls—its influence reaching beyond the district’s borders.
The Taverns and Hideaways: The Last Beacons of Light
Not all who roam at night in the Local District are criminals. Some are merely seeking refuge, and for them, the taverns remain open late, offering light, warmth, and some degree of safety—though how much depends on the establishment.
TheBent Hook is among the more reputable choices. A low-ceilinged, smoky hall filled with long communal tables, it serves strong ale and hearty meals at fair prices. The barkeep, a broad-shouldered man with an eye patch and an ever-watchful stare, keeps the peace with a hand always near the club beneath his counter.
For those preferring discretion, there is The Cockeyed Walleye, a more hidden establishment, marked only by a faint blue lantern hanging above a nondescript door. Inside, the air is thick with pipe smoke, and deals are made in murmured voices. This is where captains find discreet crews, messages are passed in folded notes, and those with means can hire expertise for tasks best left unspoken.
Then, of course, there are places best avoided entirely—taverns where fights break out with little provocation, where one may drink something and wake up hours later with empty pockets and no memory of what transpired.
The Journey to the Grand Bazaar: The Path Forward
Navigating the Local District at night requires a keen sense of direction. The streets, though wider than those in Old Town, wind unpredictably, forming a maze of passageways that can leave outsiders disoriented.
As one nears the Grand Bazaar, the scenery begins to shift once more. The buildings here, while still modest, are better maintained. The streets show signs of more regular upkeep, with patches of brick and stonework indicating efforts to prevent decay. The lanterns, though sparse, are at least consistent in their glow, signaling the transition into a district where trade and commerce rule over shadowed dealings.
Still, even here, figures in the dark linger, watching the flow of travelers who pass through. The Local District does not relinquish its grip so easily. It remains in the memory of those who walk its streets, a place where the hardworking and the cunning coexist, where industry meets shadows, and where every step forward must be taken with careful consideration.
In the Local District the streets are slightly wider than Old Town, but still considered narrow by the rest of Shalannan City’s standards.
At night these narrow streets are home to numerous thieves and ne’er-do-wells.
A Walk Through Old Town: From the Docks towards the Grand Bazaar
The Salt-Stained Docks
As your first footsteps on solid land arrive at the docks of Shalannan, the sights and smells around you assail your senses.
The scent of brine and fish guts lingers in the air as the wooden planks of the docks creak underfoot. Seagulls wheel overhead, squawking as they dive for scraps left behind by the latest haul. Ships of all sizes bob in the harbor, their sails furled and hulls weathered from countless voyages. Longshoremen, their shirts rolled to their elbows, sweat under the midday sun as they heave crates of exotic goods onto waiting wagons.
A cacophony of voices fills the air—captains barking orders, merchants haggling, sailors swapping tales of distant lands. The dockside taverns stand like squat, broad-shouldered sentinels, their signs swaying on rusted iron brackets. The Leafy Seadragon Inn is the loudest among them, its windows aglow even in daylight with the promise of cheap ale and cheaper company. Outside, a pair of half-orcs share a skin of liquor, laughing raucously as a dwarven dockworker passes by, shooting them a dark look. Words are exchanged, and soon a war of insults erupts in Common, drawing an amused crowd.
The dockside warehouses loom beyond, their heavy doors secured by rusted chains. Some bear the marks of old fires, evidence of forgotten rivalries or smuggler feuds. Crates are stacked high, their labels revealing origins from across Hyebrenia—spices from the southern coasts, furs from the Nor’lands, and wines from distant vineyards. Yet, the deeper into Old Town one walks, the more the air shifts, the freshness of the sea breeze giving way to something thicker, older, and far less inviting.
The Alleyways of Shadow and Smoke
Leaving the docks, the streets narrow into a tangled warren of alleys barely wide enough for a cart to pass. The ground is slick with the remnants of last night’s rain and the ever-present filth of the city. Here, the buildings lean so close together that the sun struggles to touch the cobblestones below.
A half-orc boy scampers past, barefoot and swift, clutching a loaf of stolen bread as a baker shouts curses behind him. Smoke curls from the chimneys of hidden forges and tanneries, their acrid scents mixing with the ever-present aroma of unwashed bodies and ale-soaked breath.
On the corner of an unmarked alley, a beggar wrapped in tattered wool extends a hand, his voice hoarse with age and drink. Across from him, a dwarven smith, arms like braided steel, haggles with a trader over the price of iron ingots. Their conversation grows heated, drawing a small crowd eager to see whether words or fists will settle the matter.
Further down, a rickety wooden bridge spans a narrow canal where the water moves sluggishly, choked with debris. A gondolier, his pole knocking against the stones, offers rides to those unwilling to navigate the streets. “Safer this way,” he murmurs, his eyes darting to the shadows where hooded figures linger.
The Market of a Thousand Tongues
The air grows thick with the scent of roasting meat, spiced cider, and freshly baked bread as the alleyways spill into the bustling Market of a Thousand Tongues. Stalls of brightly colored cloth stretch overhead, creating a patchwork canopy against the sky.
Merchants cry out in a dozen dialects, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony. A human spice trader from the distant desert lands proudly displays saffron and turmeric, their golden hues glistening under the sunlight. A dwarven jeweler meticulously sets tiny gemstones into silver bands, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble. Nearby, a half-orc butcher deftly carves cuts of meat, his cleaver falling with rhythmic precision.
Despite the vibrancy, the market is not without its dangers. Pickpockets move like ghosts through the crowd, their fingers quick as they relieve the distracted of their coin. A gang of rough-looking men in stained leather vests watches from the sidelines, their presence a silent reminder of the unspoken rules that govern Old Town’s streets.
A commotion erupts near the far end—a human vendor accuses a dwarf of short-changing him. The dwarf, beard bristling, fires back in thickly accented Common, his voice carrying above the din. The argument draws spectators, eager to place bets on whether the fight will remain verbal or turn physical.
The Lantern-Lit Lanes
Beyond the market, the streets grow darker once more. Old Town’s winding paths twist unpredictably, forming a maze where the unprepared can easily become lost. Flickering lanterns cast long shadows on the walls, their feeble glow barely cutting through the gloom.
An old temple stands here, its once-proud facade cracked and weathered. Though dedicated to a forgotten god, it remains a place of refuge for the desperate. Inside, a cleric tends to the wounded, her expression weary but determined.
Nearby, a group of children plays a game of dice with stones, their laughter momentarily dispelling the weight of the district. A storyteller, wrapped in layers of patchwork cloth, enthralls a small crowd with tales of lost kings and buried treasures. His voice is rich, drawing in those who pause long enough to listen.
Yet, danger lurks. An unlucky traveler who takes a wrong turn might find themselves in a dead-end alley, where waiting hands emerge from the darkness, seeking purses—or worse.
The Elven Enclave, Where Magic and Mystery Coincide
The Emerald Archway: The Enclave’s Living Gateway
Ascending the gently sloping path from the docks, the atmosphere shifts. The salt-laden air of Old Town gives way to the crisp scent of pine, elderwood, and flowering moonblossoms. The Emerald Archway rises before travelers—a living gateway formed from intertwining tree trunks, their bark inscribed with ancient elven script glowing softly with verdant energy. The arch pulses with a slow, steady rhythm, like the quiet heartbeat of the Enclave itself. This passage cuts through the first tier of walls as we walk uphill from the docks; a living testament to the time when elves and men began to commune.
Two sentinels clad in leaf-woven armor stand beneath the arch. Their silver-threaded cloaks shimmer in the dappled sunlight filtering through the forest canopy above. With fluid grace, they offer a nod of acknowledgment, their luminous eyes assessing each entrant. Only those with peaceful intent are permitted beyond the threshold. Others find the trees whispering against them, roots shifting underfoot to turn them away.
Beyond the arch, a wooden bridge spans a shallow creek. The water is impossibly clear, revealing silver-scaled fish that dart beneath the surface. Lush greenery clings to the banks, where elven children splash playfully, their laughter mingling with the lilting melody of a harp played by a bard lounging on the bridge’s railing. The song is both welcoming and bittersweet, as if it remembers something long lost.
The Heart of Harmony: A Symphony of Light and Sound
The pathway leads into the heart of the Enclave, where the settlement breathes in harmony with nature. Towering trees, their trunks smooth as polished marble, form a network of interconnected platforms and walkways. Suspended bridges sway gently, lined with glowing lanterns infused with soft blue and green magical light. The gentle hum of enchantments keeps the structures secure, allowing elves and halfling visitors to move effortlessly between levels.
Music is ever-present. Ethereal voices drift from unseen singers, harmonizing in an ancient ballad that seems to swirl through the branches. Flutes and lutes accompany the melody, played by musicians seated on wide boughs or in woven hammocks. The song isn’t just entertainment—it is woven into the very essence of the Enclave, a living magic that sustains the peace of this place.
Among the dwellings—built seamlessly into the trees with spiraling staircases and arching windows—a central gathering hall stands, its doors open to all. Inside, elves share stories of distant lands over goblets of golden mead, their voices lilting in rhythmic cadence. Strangers are welcomed with warm smiles, though some elders watch newcomers with quiet, appraising gazes.
The Twilight Glade: Shadows Beneath the Canopy
Not all of the Enclave basks in sunlight and song. Beyond the well-lit walkways, the trees grow taller, their branches intertwining so densely that little light filters through. The Twilight Glade is a place of solemnity, its air thick with an ancient, unspoken presence. Here, paths wind unpredictably, leading to places not meant for idle wanderers.
Dark-cloaked figures move between the trees, their faces obscured beneath their hoods. The glade is home to the Shadow Guardians—silent watchers who enforce the Enclave’s unseen laws. Their existence is rarely acknowledged, but their presence is felt. They keep intruders away from the off-limits sanctuaries deeper within the wood.
At the heart of the glade, a great willow tree looms over a silvered pool, its roots coiling in unnatural patterns. The water is said to reflect not just one’s image but also one’s past mistakes. Few dare to look for too long. Near the base of the tree, a barely visible path leads deeper still, winding toward places only the eldest elves speak of in hushed tones.
The Veil of Whispers: Forbidden Paths and Hidden Rites
A woven sign, engraved with delicate elven script, marks the entrance to an arched tunnel of ancient oaks: Only the Called May Pass. The Veil of Whispers lies beyond, a series of secluded paths that wind through sacred groves. These areas are shrouded in perpetual twilight, lit only by the faint glow of enchanted glyphs carved into the trees.
Few speak of what lies within, and fewer still venture there without permission. It is said that the air carries the voices of ancestors, whispering secrets to those who dare listen. Some who enter find enlightenment, while others emerge pale and shaken, unwilling to share what they’ve seen.
Near the entrance, a solitary elven priestess kneels in silent meditation. Clad in robes of silver and green, she chants in a language older than any known kingdom. Her presence serves as both guardian and warning—only those with pure intent may proceed, and even then, the path is not theirs to choose.
The Silverwood Market: Twilight Treasures
Stepping away from the solemnity of the hidden paths, the scent of elderberry wine and roasted nuts signals the entrance to the Silverwood Market. Unlike the chaotic Grand Bazaar of Old Town, this market is an elegant sprawl of open-air pavilions strung with enchanted lanterns that change color with the shifting moon.
Elven artisans display wares crafted with unparalleled skill—glassblown flutes that play melodies on their own, silk cloaks woven with protective enchantments, and carved wooden figurines that dance when music plays nearby. Halfling traders have secured a small section of the market, their stalls offering honeyed pastries and pipeweed from distant hills.
A gentle harp tune drifts from a nearby balcony, where an elderly elf strums absentmindedly, his gaze distant. Merchants conduct business with the grace of a well-rehearsed dance, every transaction an exchange of not just goods, but of stories and well-wishes. Gold is accepted, but barter is often preferred—an old book for a vial of enchanted ink, a promise for a favor yet to be named.
Despite the warmth of the market, a hush falls when a figure clad in a dark cloak strides through the stalls. The shopkeepers lower their voices, their gazes subtly averted. The figure moves with purpose, disappearing down a shaded path leading back toward the Veil of Whispers.
The Moonlit Boughs: A Farewell to the Enclave
As the evening deepens, the Enclave transforms. The lanterns overhead shift to a soft silver glow, mimicking the moon above. The music, once vibrant and festive, slows into a lullaby, a melody that soothes both visitor and resident alike.
Along the outskirts of the district, where the trees part to reveal glimpses of the city beyond, a final resting spot awaits travelers preparing to leave. A wide platform, encircled by a railing of intertwined vines, offers a breathtaking view of the Bay of Shalannan. The water shimmers like liquid sapphire, the lights of ships twinkling in the distance.
A lone minstrel sits upon the railing, plucking at the strings of a silver lute. Her voice, barely above a whisper, carries a song of parting—a tune that lingers in the mind long after the last note fades. Some travelers linger, reluctant to leave the tranquility of the Enclave, while others cast one final glance toward the deeper woods, where mysteries remain unsolved.
Excerpt from the Journal of Janse Sarasti, Patrolman of the Guard of Shalannan
It is my duty. It is my task. I shall claim it as my own and I shall do it with pride, honor, and integrity.
Normally I am assigned to a guard post between the Local District and the Guild District. Today,however, I have been drawn on patrol. My patrol will start near the docks of Old Town at day break. I will walk the streets of the districts, tier by tier, until I tender my report at The Summit.
The streets in this district are narrower than other districts, as this district was a part of the original port. All of the streets of the city are either paved or pressed stone. The hardened surfaces make easy cart paths, but the unevenness can cause those unaccustomed to such a path issues while walking.
Old Town is the only district that spans the city walls. It alone carries on up the hill away from the shoreline. It begins at the shipping docks outside of the wall that defines tier one then proceeds up through tiers one and two. The original buildings here are still mostly wood, with wooden shake shingles. The exceptions being the warehouses and the The Leafy Seadragon Inn. These have been upgraded to stone on the first floor.
Most of the buildings in this outer area of Old Town are only single story. The Leafy Seadragon Inn being a notable exception as a multistory structure. The low roof profiles allow for good light distribution during the day. Being that the buildings are mostly wooden, lanterns rather than torches provide illumination at night.
I can hear the noise of the dockworkers, the rhythmic squeak and sunder of the ships moored at the docks. As I trace a weaving wander through the narrow streets between the warehouses I arrive at the first tier wall to greet my comrades at the gatehouse. I turn about and check down the dead-ends where ruffians will sometimes hole up.These ends are also where an illicit trade may be taking place. As I march back towards the shore, moving along the shoreline, I come upon a square.Here some of the local fishermen have set up the morning’s catch. The fish smell fresh and of salt water.
I stop for a few moments and talk to Johannse Walker, one of the well-known fishers. He tells me that the southern pirates are still patrolling the waters beyond the first straights. It would be best to continue the postings warning travelers to avoid those isles. I take note in the patrol log and, bidding him safe sails, continue onward.
The outer region of Old Town is situated outside of the city walls. As my patrol of this region concludes, I backtrack to the central gate and ascend to the first tier of the city. I continue my patrol in this second tier of Old Town. Here are shops and homes for those who work at sea or make their trade in supplying the voyages.
After catching more of the windward and leeward tales, I follow the shoreline around and find myself in the Local District. Here the streets are slightly wider; two men could easily pass each other shoulder-to-shoulder. Within the core of this district is a known haven of the aberrant; the Thief’s Quarters. Being an upstanding citizen and member of the brigade, I cannot directly attest to any of what goes on. I must be vigilant to ensure that no ill befalls the local residents.
The buildings in the Local District are larger than those in Old Town, being planned better. This allows for a denser population and almost every local inhabitant of this district is some form of merchant or shopkeeper. In order to better accommodate this lifestyle, the buildings here are almost all multistory. The first floors are stone throughout, the second stories wooden, with similar wooden shake roofs as found in Old Town.
As I wave to a local weaver, she puts down her craft and approaches me. I know her as Gwen O’hanery and she is the youngest daughter of one of the newer families to Shalannan. Her eyes seem to sparkle as she smiles warmly at me and I realize that I am most likely flushing slightly, as is she. I bid her what must have been a clumsy good day as I know I mustn’t tarry here or rumors will quickly start. Shalannan may be a large city but inside the walls it seems everyone knows everyone else and I am not yet solid enough in the Guard to have a place or station to warrant such rumors.
As I approach the Grand Bazaar of Shalannan the buildings become larger and the shops become larger, more wealth is found the farther you get from the docks and the closer you get to the Grand Bazaar.
The Grand Bazaar is the largest district in the entire city, and where most of the coin is made; and where most of the coin is lost. The thieves tend to haunt the alleys around the Grand Bazaar, which is itself a large open are where vendors of all trades ply their wares for the travelers who visit our city. I peruse the merchandise of one Filyen Hammersmith, a dwarven merchant, and one of the recent immigrants to our land. His kin set off north to Otian, yet he remained here in the city and is quickly making a name for himself as a smith of fine craftsmanship.
Filyen is engaged in a heated argument with Hans Mulehil, one of the prominent nobles of the city, over how much is ‘fair’ to charge for an item made by one such as himself. I must intervene when the dwarf takes exception to the remark from Sr Mulehil. I garner cold stares from both. I take down a notation of this encounter but am sure that the entry will be purged when I submit today’s log.
Across the Grand Bazaar is the guardhouse, which is a two story stone building with a large watch running around three sides overlooking the Grand Bazaar. I check in with the guard, and grab a warm drink, before heading out through the rest of this district.
Just a stone’s throw from the Grand Bazaar is the Hospital of Shalannan. Here clerics of Fharlanghn sent from the cathedral on The Summit work their arts for the masses. The Hospital has a peaceful inner courtyard for meditation. Since it is surrounded by the Hospital itself is a place where even the most infirm can find safety and security.
I find Sister Mary Claire seated at the western entrance to the Hospital. She greets me with a hearty hail and a shortened comment that I look as though I could use a rest. I will admit the past few weeks have been hard, as many of the guard have been sent to Otian to bolster the patrols there. I have pulled a few more patrols than I normally would, but it’s all for the common good.
She tells me that a few more from Greyn and Volland have arrived at the Hospital and are being kept apart from the others; their affliction is unknown to any yet they are truly very ill. Some who arrived a week past have already died from this illness, and Sister Mary Claire seems almost despondent at the inability to aid them. I comfort her, as best I can, and take a note of the count of lives lost today in the patrol log.
Beyond the Hospital the buildings are massive and are split by internal walls into individual shops with homes above. Here, the streets are more regular. These buildings mostly cater to the arriving travelers, with the buildings towards the inner wall serving more for the traveling clientele and the buildings toward the outer wall serving the staff of the visiting ships.
There is no gate into the upper tiers of the city to be found in this district, to contain and control the immigrant traffic. At the very end of the Grand Bazaar is the northern entrance to the city where the lumber and logging goods from Greyn and Volland are imported through via a pathway from the river. This gate is always kept under lock and guard and is opened only when a delivery is to be brought in.
I check the shops, and some of the innkeepers grateful for my visit provide me with a quick bite to eat; one that I can take with me. Terrance Yorgen, keeper of the Wiley Wyvern Inn, asks me how things have been in the bazaar. “Busy” I tell him and that puts a smile on his face, as he is sure that it will also put coin in his purse.
I pace back and forth down the travel ways until I find myself in the Merchant District. This district has very wide streets and is a collection of just a few massive buildings. Each building is subdivided into large workrooms and spaces for artisan trades. Foot traffic is mixed with cart traffic in this district, and the hammering, chipping, and singing of the artisans can be heard. I find myself peering in through the window of one of the carpenters, one Marcus Goodfield, who is working with a massive log turning it into some fine piece of furniture.
Merchants in this district do not directly report the Guild Chairs in the Guild District, which I will come to later in my day, but must still pay a tithe to the local overseers to stay in good standing. The nature of this tithe and the schedule of payment are unknown to me; I do not collect these levied taxes. I am, however, sometimes asked by an accountant to escort them from a visit as far as the toll entrance at the far end of the district, from which point onward they can be safe.
As a matter of fact, I find myself now passing through the tolling tunnel. All travelers from abroad who arrive by land, and those bringing goods and grain from the farming communities use this tunnel. It is constantly guarded, and the eastern wing of the tunnel is a barracks for many of the guard. The tunnel is made, as the building housing it is made, from blocks of solid stone. The tolling tunnel is pitch dark even at midday, so lanterns are installed at regular intervals and always lit.
Exiting the tolling tunnel I find myself entering the Military Ward, where I am housed; for now. I hope, one day, to find a lovely woman (I smirk to myself realizing I already have) and settle down into the Merchants District where I can whittle and work wood…
Snapped back to reality by the clang and clash of metal on metal I realize I am in the sparring square. This large square is the entry point for both of the eastern entrances. The left entrance is used by the incoming traffic and as such is directed to the tolling tunnel; the right entrance is used by outbound traffic including the patrols that go out locally to patrol the outer walls.
At the far end of this district, where the mountain cliffs border the district itself is the local constabulary and jail, which often sits empty as the populace of the city is generally well behaved. The other buildings here are the armory, located immediately next to the outbound gate, the barracks a huge central building, and the officers quarters between the barracks and the tollhouse.
Through the upper gate I shall make my ascent into the second tier, after stopping for lunch in the barracks.
The first district when traversing the cities second tier from the west is the Nobles District. Here, the buildings are smaller, each one owned by a prominent house of a family of the city. Most of these families are the founding families from the founding of the original port. The streets here are wide, and very well lit. The buildings are all multiple floors, the entire home being stone, with a slated roof.
Many of these homes have glass in the windows, and there is very little noise in this district. At night, lights from the lanterns on the streets and the lanterns and candles of the homes light this district very well, and there is a regular patrol from the Military District through the Nobles District at least once an hour every hour of every day.
I notice Hans Mulehil, whom I have seen earlier in the bazaar, and a younger man who looks very out place in this district speaking animatedly and gesturing wildly. Thinking that he may be in trouble, I approach the pair; when my footsteps are heard the unkempt man flees and Sr Mulehil intercepts me. After he assures me that he is not in any distress, I bid myself pardon and continue on. After rounding the corner and being out of site I make the best notation that I can of this second encounter with Sr Mulehil, perhaps the captain will give me more credit, I muse.
As many of the nobility work on The Summit, there is a gate from this district to The Summit. At the far end of the district, where this district merges into the Guild District is an oddly shaped building with a long pier-like projection into a large square. This building is a “lighter” constabulary, and merchants who do not belong to the Guilds or tithe when required will be found suffering their penance in the stockades along the pier.
Passing the stockades I find myself in the Guild District. This district has the homes for the Guild Chairs and four massive Guild Halls for each of the primary Guilds of the city. As I wander northwards through the district there are many assessors and auditors checking in on the Guilds. At the far northern end of the district is a gate to the Merchants District to facilitate the movement of goods between those districts.
Wandering westward from that gate I enter into the Mages District. This district is the most ornate of all the districts, and the buildings are all highly irregular shapes. There are a few that I would describe as towers, reaching up to where the upper floors can surely look out over the walls to The Summit. On the first floors of many of these residences are small shops where standard arcane goods can be acquired. Most of the truly magnificent creations are sold at the Grand Bazaar, or gifted to the City Government or the Guild Chairs as a token for practical worth when some repair or substance is required.
I stand for a while as a young apprentice is learning from his master, Hyven Torsyoled. I marvel as Sr Torsyoled creates glittering lights from only movements of his hands and few incantations.
Shaking my head to clear it, I notice Sr Torsyoled smiling genially at me. I wander back southwards along the wall, back into the Guild District and then on into the upper tier of Old Town. There are only two major buildings in this tier of Old Town. One is The Cranky Badger, the second inn of the original city that was up the hill away from the shore where original travelers stayed.
This inn is bordered by the inner wall of the second tier and is long rumored to have been a smuggler’s den but none remember how or when. The Innkeeper, Marchal Evenchair, hails me as I pass the door to the inn and asks me if I have any news from the north. Shaking my head, I sadly state to him that I haven’t left the city walls in the past month or more, and that report from the garrison at Otian are few and far between. He bids me bring him any news I hear from Beadale or Otian, as he has kin in that region and would like to know how their fare goes.
The other large building here is a twisted building that winds around a smaller building and creates an interlocked arrangement. There are often shady types milling about here hoping to be ignored on this backside of the second tier. I am wise to that, and as such walk slightly more softly in an attempt to sneak up on someone who should be dealt with. Today isn’t a lucky day for me as this net pulls in no catch. I do hear footsteps, I think, as I round one corner, but surely my greaves upon the stone offer ample time to disband to any not wishing to be seen.
The next district on the second tier, the backside of this tier, bordered by the mountains and formed in the trees of the bordering forest is the Elven Enclave. Here, in this tiny district set high on wooden columns that spiral up into the trees above, a contingent of Elves from Y’hserin keeps a constant presence. I know that they are here to keep an eye on us, much more so than I should keep an eye on them.
As the gate guarda peer uninterestedly down at me from the ramp that leads up to the platforms built into and around the trees themselves, I shudder slightly, salute them, and take my leave of the Enclave. Backtracking, I take a sharp left through the gate and on upwards to The Summit.
The Summit is a beautiful place, crowned by the Cathedral in the center, with the government offices situated along the walls. Far to the back of The Summit, nestled into the mountain face, is the Old Chapel which was founded with the original port but has fallen into disrepair since the creation of the Chapel. It was deemed unsatisfactory to raze the Old Chapel as it is a holy space, but the doors and windows have been boarded over, and for ages none have been allowed entry. There is an iron fence, about six feet high with spiked pinnacles, that effectively borders off the Old Chapel with a margin of about 100 feet.
I do not patrol The Summit, my station is not high enough for a post of that endeavor, but my brothers that do often say that they hear groans from the chapel tower at night, and a wandering light has been reported. No one has been interested in investigating and the High Elders of the Chapel have forbidden entrance to the locals. I note a few pairings of Elder and Acolyte going about their lessons in the gardens around the Cathedral, and note a few young men collected, and looking at but not approaching the Old Chapel.
I can here one of the young men shout ‘There! See! In the window there of the tower, I saw it, I know I did!’ but take no written note; Summit business is not MY business.
Finally, I turn in my report to the captain. I relate to him the group I saw near the Chapel and he quickly sends a squad of three to check it out. Thanking me, he provides me my days wages; not enough for anything from the Mages, but perhaps enough for a small something for my dear Gwen.
I meander my way back down towards the barracks and prepare myself for a long, boring night ahead where I have nothing better to do that write the accounts of my day and dream of my future.
The mining town of Otian, in the northern region of the southern plains of Shalannan, is home to dwarves, gnomes, a militia garrison, inns and taverns for weary travelers, merchants of goods produced, and the unsavory elements that one would normally associate with a working community.
The hills to the north are known to be rich with ore and there are rumors of gems from the miners. But from these same hills come raiding parties of orcs, goblins, and other dangers.
