BOWSHOT
A winding wagon road through the heart of the land of Owlhold, the Bowshot has a well-deserved “fell and dangerous” reputation, thanks to brigands, monsters, and breakneck ravines and bogs that claim a toll of travelers every season. Far more travelers survive but lose their way, wandering for days on the various backland trails of Owlhold before either finding a way out, or succumbing to bogs or repeated brigand attacks.
For all its windings, the Bowshot can be said to run north-south, linking The Four Stags inn at the midpoint of the Green Road (a larger, better-traveled trade road between Oeble and Bloutar that largely skirts the land of Owlhold) with The Griffon Aflame inn on Longcrag Ride (a newly-rebuilt road that runs between Talduth Vale and Beldargan), in Owlhold's interior.
Traversing the road from south to north, the traveler will find the following features.
The Griffon Aflame. This inn is a (Good/Moderate) rustic, timberbuilding standing in a wooded hollow. Always damp and dimly-lit (like the misty dell around it), it has a certain gloomy charm. Mushrooms sprout unbidden in the wet, rotting wood of this cozy house that throws rambling wings out into the forest in all directions. It's home to many permanent residents (some of them interesting folk indeed, with surprising skills and secrets) as well as way-guests. The Griffon boasts comfortable beds (many slung from the rafters on thick ropes), formidable beer and wine cellars, and generous, tasty stews. It's named for a long-ago aerial battle wherein a dragon rider downed a flight of griffon-back foes. A good way to start an argument at the Griffon is to ask the identities of those warring parties or why they clashed.
Falienfaicon. Traveling the Bowshot north from the Griffon, the wayfarer will first find Fallenfalcon, a camping pavilion beside a drinkable stream and pool faced by four cottages inhabited by half-elven families, who serve hot or cold bread and soups to travelers on short notice and can manage substantial meals by prearrangement. Plentiful herbs and edible berries grow wild for the picking along the trailside north of Fallenfalcon.
Troiihead Bridge. The next site (continuing north along the road) is Trollhead Bridge, a wide, rail-less span across a bog. A message-stone at its south end is carved in the likeness of a long-nosed troll head as tall as a large warrior. (A message stone is rock in whose crevices written missives are left by prearrangement. Anyone who removes or alters a message not meant for them receives an arrow through one hand if any Owlen sees or hears of the deed.) At the Bridge is a sleeping pavilion with firepit and a pump. Travelers are warned that dry firewood is rare in the vicinity, but stinging swamp insects are not.
Hathiock House. The farer north from the Bridge will traverse the road up out of bogs to arrive at Hathlock's Rest, a former foresters' settlement now abandoned except for Hathlock House (Fair/Moderate), a rustic way-inn that offers uninspired food and clean but spartan sleeping and stabling. Luxuries and amenities can't be had no matter how many coins a traveler offers. The House is primarily the common residence of seven hunters and fur-trappers, not a well-supplied inn.
The Wolf Beit. Two days of hard travel through deep, wolf-roamed woods north of the Rest stands the Wolf Belt (Fair/Expensive), a tavern of sorts. It's a large, open campground with privies at one end and a serving-shack at the other. The serving shack
is no more than a rough, wooden shed built over a keg cellar, wherein staff serve drinks across a counter to patrons standing on a covered porch. The drink is strong and rough rather than refined, famous, or imported from afar, but the supply is seemingly endless, and in winter the fare is usually supplemented by a hot mushroom-and-herb rabbit broth. The Belt is open at all hours. At night or in severe weather, the porch shutters are fastened down to leave only a single serving-opening.
The twenty-odd staff of the Belt dwell under the serving-shack in cellars arranged in a series of defensible points, with the keg-cellars outermost, a firewood cellar next, then living quarters (with beast-screened airshafts that come to the surface halfway down the side of a wooded hill behind the Belt, under the concealing greenery of many broadleaf shrubs), and a pantry innermost. Much of the drink sold at the Belt is brewed or distilled in the woods behind the serving-shack. There are rumors that an altar to a dark god (tales vary as to just which one) stands back there, too, and that the staff of the Belt worships this dark power. Such tales, it should be noted, do little to discourage clientele or consumption. The truth is that two local trappers worship Shar at an old altar, and the staff of the Belt (who dwell together in one large, multispouse family) avoid it.
Sabroar's Hold. Sabroar was a locally famous priest of Silvanus who consecrated many groves to the Green Father but here established herb gardens for the use of his followers. They continued to tend them after his death. So many buyers came here, needing a place to stay overnight, that the two-story inn of Sabroar's Hold (Excellent/Moderate) was built. In turn, its presence spurred artisans (weavers, glassblowers, and sellers-of-seeds) to take rooms here from time to time to sell their wares and then melt back into the forest until next they have enough to sell to make the trip. Priests of Silvanus police the inn against thefts, swindlers, and to settle trade disputes, acting as moneychangers and bankers (keeping the funds of the nervous hidden safe in exchange for trade-tokens). The inn kitchens turn out wonderful breads, cakes, and pastries. In addition, there are satisfying stews and roasts garnished only with forest fowl, which owe most of their hearty taste to forest vegetables and sauces seasoned by fare found in the woods around the Hold (mushrooms, mosses, roots, and berries). This would come as a surprise to many of the travelers who delight in the hearty “boar” and “stag” roasts that seldom have anything to do with either beast.
Jester’s Hollow. This broad, wooded stream valley is hung with lanterns and is often adrift with pleasing cooking-smokes. It holds the inn that bears its name and a dozen charming cottages. Six are the
clearly-signed homes of folk who welcome customers. A rock-studded brook meanders through the hollow. Laughing Lady Stream is named for a long-dead sorceress who once dwelt in the hollow (the inn stands on the foundations of her tiny tower) and whose proper name, Jestra, became corrupted into “Jester” to give the hollow its present name. Jestra Illowhand liked to preserve music to hear over and over in the privacy of her tower without musicians. She devised a spell that captured short snatches of sound in rock crystals and gemstones. Any human touch on a stone caused it to 'play' the captured sounds. Somewhere in the woods near the hollow is the buried entrance to the cavern where Jestra stored the gems she'd thus treated, now a priceless collection of not just music but of long- dead kings, wizards, bards, and sages speaking on everything from the whereabouts of buried treasure to philosophical musings on the purposes of life and ruling and wars. Its finder can literally name his price for most of the gems. Descending into the hollow from the south, the traveler comes first to the home and shop of “Belomeier Tathchant, Dealer in Locks, Keys, Chains, Hinges, Coffers, and Lanterns.” Belomeier is long dead, but his descendants carry on his business, making and repairing small and dainty specimens of all the items the sign proclaims. They also sell tiny, razor-sharp daggers with sheaths for strapping onto forearms, into boots, and onto belts, at prices are just slightly above average (but the wares are of the best quality). Would-be thieves or “aptrons” desiring to take wares by threat and force will find out the hard way that no fewer than fourteen Tathchants are semi-retired adventurers (of formidable skills), wizards and rangers among them.
Next to Belomeier stands the stone cottage of “Jarvathra Ploorst, Talismans and Fortunes.” In her spicy-scented, cluttered home, Jarvathra—a dreamy- eyed, gushing woman who never seems to sleep or close her business—dispenses all manner of talismans which may or may not have any real power to ward anything. Some of them are unique mixtures of feathers, carved glass, stones, and smoked leather bindings. She tells fortunes, specializing in the reading of candles lit by a client and in the interpretation of card games played between her and the client. Jarvathra has many male patrons who delight in her affectionate, comforting ways, but her oft-used bed is not for sale, and reacts with cold anger when considered an escort-for-hire. Those she entertains might be alarmed to learn that Jarvathra is apparently about a hundred and sixty summers old, and so can't possibly be the graceful, not-yet-aging woman she appears to be. (The real Jarvathra died almost a century ago; the “Jarvathra” of today is a doppelganger who deftly learns all she
can of the doings and aims of her guests, and sells this information to anyone willing to pay—which includes roving spies of the Zhentarim, the Lords' Alliance, the Red Wizards, and several brigand and thieving organizations and shady merchant cabals.)
Beyond Jarvathra's home are the overgrown foundations of two now-gone cottages, and beyond them stands the inn: the handsome fieldstone Jester's Hollow (Excellent/Moderate) crowns a little knoll at the bottom of the hollow where a simple bridge crosses Laughing Lady Stream. This wayhouse makes its coins as a resting-place for those who come to trade with the artisans of the hollow. Apt to be damp (and clammy in winter), it's breezy year-round, bright and welcoming within (all rooms having pleasant window views and solid, comfortable furnishings). It features a common, heated herbal bathing tub just off the taproom, where tired travelers can relax and banish the aches of weary feet.
The mint wine is excellent and clears the palate for buttery biscuits, served to all guests. Warm robes are also provided for all, and the staff wear them to encourage such casual dress everywhere indoors. The dining room has a wall of windows that opens onto a little dancing green where harpists, singers, and horn players often entertain. Guests are encouraged to dance for fun, not worrying about skill. Those who like the Jester tend to really like it and return to stay year after year, whenever they can, lingering as long as possible. It's said that a disguised Azoun IV of Cormyr was among their ranks more than once, accompanied by a certain grumbling Royal Magician of Cormyr.
The woods hide several other ruins, including the former home of the Jester himself, who went mad when the Spellplague hit, and died soon after—for he was a wealthy, powerful, and reclusive archmage. Whose spellbooks and magic items (he was known to wear several enchanted rings, and carry multiple wands when expecting trouble) were never found. So, find the right ruin, and uncover its hiding- places . . .
The Four Stags. This (Good/Expensive) log building is large and handsome with cedar-shingles and flagstone floors. It sits on a hillock surrounded by a circular earthen wall thickly planted with tall pines. It's a bustling place that has three wings of sleeping-chambers opening off a long, lofty, crosswise common hall dominated by two spit- sizzling cooking hearths at either end (each having an adjacent kitchen). “Below” the inn, on the slopes of the knoll, are sheds where one can rent a secure “long stall” for one's intact team and wagon to be driven into, settled (and locked in) for the night, and then driven out the other end come morning.
“The Stags” is where many Owlen come to trade goods with passing merchants, hire companionship, and see all they desire of the wider world. Fresh news from afar is eagerly devoured while maps and curios from 'the outlands' fascinate the visiting Owlen. Ruffians and brigands beware: the live-on owners and staff of this inn are a retired band of adventurers, who've lost none of their magic items, weaponry, or skill at arms.
BURNTBRIDGES
Burntbridges is a series of seven fords across the River Scelptar linking five almost-submerged islets to each other in a bending, doubling-back route across the fast-flowing river. The fords are named for the bridges that once carried traffic dryshod over the Scelptar at this spot -- and their fate. A sequence of islet-hopping bridges called “The Sevenspans” once carried The Scelptar Road across the River Scelptar, linking the town of Blackbarn (to the east and south) with lands north and west across the river. Most of the wagon trade crossing the bridges was between Blackbarn and the land of Suldamma to the west and south. The bridges were of wood and massive enough to withstand more than fourscore years of wind and weather before the summer of 1317 DR, when they were destroyed by fire in a fierce spell-battle.
No one quite remembers who was fighting whom, but most tales agree that one armed force of knights with a sorcerer was trying to stop another warband of knights (who'd hired three lesser wizards to ride with them) from crossing the river. The struggle cost the lives of all but a few—the survivors fled, spreading wild tales of fire raging across the river and armored men screaming as they were transformed into strange, ever-shifting beasts that foundered, drowned, and were carried away by the Scelptar as they struggled to learn how to control their new, unfamiliar shapes.
The fords are passable only when the water is low at high summer (at the end of Flamerule and the hot early days of Eleasias) or in harshest winter, when river ice is thick. Otherwise, barges must be built and used unless travelers are strong swimmers and can mount multiple ropes from bank to bank or islet to islet. The rotting wrecks of dozens of riven barges litter the islets, and anything useful was salvaged from them long ago.
Although this would seem a logical place to establish a ferry, attempts to do so have been ill- fated. One group of ferrymen were revealed to have been “replaced” by shapeshifters, most of whom perished in a battle against three adventuring bands, but a few escaped and fled into the Borders in all directions. Later, an adventuring band decided to
“retire” to Burntbridges and become ferrymen, but dwindled one by one, falling victim to mimics that crept onto their barges and hid as part of the barges or cargo until tired ferrymen slept on the barges. A third group was eaten away to toppling, blood- drenched bones with frightening speed by a fell magic unleashed by a passenger they'd displeased (unleashed from a casket, most tales insist, not cast as a spell).
Many and fell are the tales told about Burntbridges, over tavern tables and by firesides late at night all across the Borders. Stories of hauntings, of strange undead or monstrous guardians standing on phantom bridges of moonlit nights, bringing death to all who seek to cross. Stories of whispering, formless, chilling-fingered things encountered while crossing the fords that cling to the living for days or weeks afterward, weakening and draining them. Of treasures hidden under the islets, or in clefts in their streamweed- slick, submerged, rocky flanks (treasures never found by persistent searches, old Borderers will remind the tale-tellers). Of creatures that rise, dripping, from the Scelptar to drag down travelers crossing the fords by night. And of a “doorway of cold fire” that appears, on rare nights, on one of the islets, a portal through which strange beasts step— or slither.
At least two efforts have been made to rebuild the burned bridges, and both have ended badly. One was a sudden, silent slaughter of forty men and oxen, all found slumped in the midst of their ropes and timbers, with no mark on them but the buzzing flies, as if they'd all just fallen dead at once in the midst of bridge-building. The other was an emptying of riverbank camps by night with fires still burning and tools, weapons, and wealth all dropped as if laid peacefully aside for slumber. The tents and wagons were simply empty of men.
Borderers tell and retell the tales, and no one tries to rebuild the Burntbridges now, though nothing at all ill seems to befall travelers who bring their own spars, build rafts, lash their wagons to them, and struggle across the Scelptar. Outlanders who seek treasures or the legendary portal depart empty- handed, and nothing seems to tarry around the islets -- not even the birds (squawkwings, drey, and dundippers) that nest in profusion up and down the Scelptar-banks above and below the old bridge sites.
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