Introduction
With a fat, round, and happy ten (count them! ten!) guides under my belt, I—as a weathered travel writer and (not to over-credit myself)
Adventurer extraordinaire—have been pondering the trajectory of my life's work. Shall I toil away endlessly, hopping from city to city, continuing to pen municipal guides to churn out an urban fervor among the travel-hungry masses? Shall I strike out away from civilization, risking life and limb to write about the wilds from which few hardy souls would return? Or shall I traverse some other trail entirely?
Never fear, dear readers—I do not intend to cease these publications! Rather, quite the opposite; your humble Homesick
Halfling has embarked on a journey of over a year's time to bring you an expansive overview of the entire Northern Duchy of the fair Kingdom of Dreibach: its cities and towns, its villages and wildernesses, its kind and brave inhabitants and its dangerous and deplorable monsters. The crafting of this guide has been a labor worthy of
The Knights of Val-Nurem, but nonetheless a labor of love. I adore you, faithful readers, and I implore you to read on and discover all that this spectacular region has to offer.
Area Overview
Imagine, if you will, a glorious summer day, balmy weather toying with the idea of heat but staying deliciously just this side of pleasant. You are standing on a ridge of the Ossir Hills surveying the world around you. Coneflowers and bells-o'-the-dells paint the hillsides in dreamy color. The gentle buzzing music of crickets fills your ears, with the Lorem River gently murmuring in the distance. Butterflies dance and float on the pleasant breeze. North beyond the crests of hills, the
August Spire of
Ettelane rises above its shimmering lake; in the other direction, the homey (and gnomey) sprawls of Klïppington and Klöppington bookend the Red Bridge of the Lorem. And above you, always, is the vast and boundless sky, seamless as Scaladosian silk—so intensely, impossibly blue that your heart aches to look at it. There are castles less grandiose, monuments less magnificent, cathedrals less holy than that endless, perfect sky.
Of course, the touch of
Isis's favor on the land her husband blessed does not always rest on the hills with such gentle grace. Late spring crests into sticky, sweltering summer, hot sun punctuated by dark butts and rolling thunder. Fall bursts briefly into handsome reds and browns, before winter comes early and does its level best impression of
Levistus's wrath. The ice clings to the roads with fervor. The blizzards hang so thick you cannot see your horse's tail from your seat inside the wagon. And the winds—oh, the terrible winds! It is as if
Boréas himself races across the plains and winds through the valleys, trying to surpass his previous land speed record as the dreary, dark months wind on.
Ah, but here I go, babbling about gods and devils, when the mortals of the Duchy showed me such kindness! Even in the worst of what the four seasons have to offer, there is comfort and respite in the various settlements of the Northern Duchy. Of course, the capital—Ettelane—offers the most of these comforts, understandably so for a town of quite decent size. But the twin townships of Klïppington and Klöppington, sister cities and
gnomish capitals of the
Dovrian Plains, are nothing to be overlooked. And for those well lost within the hills, the gracious riders of the
Beacon of the Skylands serve as kind hosts and guides. These are orcs you need not fear—hospitable as any halfling clan when hosting guests within
The Beaconhold that stands atop the northern steppe.
Landmarks
I suppose I should begin with the township of Ettelane, what with it being the largest of the settlements of the area. It's a handsome town, mixing human architecture with dwarven engineering—no doubt under the influence of
Erdelan sitting so near its borders. The
ducal palace is sufficiently impressive, if somewhat blockish and pedestrian, though the fiendishly tricky tree-and-hedge maze nestled within the grounds is a clever touch.
Fans of architecture pass the palace by, of course, in favor of the awe-inspiring August Spire. A monument to mortal knowledge (or perhaps to mages' hubris), it punctures the sky like a great lance, pointing far up towards the Astral Plane, a titan cast in ruddy, ivy-covered stone. Inquisitive minds will be pleased to know that one can wander quite far up the intricate spiral staircases before magic wards begin to thwart your progress.
Outside the Spire, the magic of two overlapping ley lines swirls in the August Prism, an impressively-sized chunk of rose quarts that stands on a tall bronze plinth in the middle of the Tenserian Square. Or so the local guide told me—I saw no particular magic beyond a moderate, pleasant glow. I suppose melting off the winter sleet counts as magic enough. Still, I'm rather fond of the Tenserian Square—named, of course, for
Ettelane's most famous child.
Traverse the
Vía Anubia south towards the capital, and you will pass through the delightful sister cities of Klïppington and Klöppington. The two sit on opposite sides of the Red Bridge, where the
Lorem meets the
Lüdda, and both share a quirky gnomish charm. There is a joking rivalry between the two—best not to tell a Klïppingtonian how you enjoyed your stay in Klöppington, or vice versa! Still, I find the arboretum of Klïppington just as serene as the rose gardens of Klöppington, the famed sunrises of Klöppington just as enchanting as the beloved sunsets of Klïppington, and the two towns equally pleasant and picturesque on the whole.
Pass the other way along the well-traveled road, and you will find yourself at
The Beaconhold, home base of the Beacon of the Skylands. Fear not its imposing, defensive presence, perched as it is atop the highest hill—it is a happy haven for all peaceful travelers when the beacon is lit. On the subject of the Beacon, this is not so much a landmark as a traveling institution, though the strictures of my format leave little room for such a thing if I do not shoehorn it in somewhere. Should you come across a caravan of traders from the Beacon of the Skylands, you simply must—and I mean
must—use any coin you have to purchase the woven treasures they sell. The wool of their goats and alpacas is of the finest quality, spun and woven by expert hands into wearable works of art. I bought myself a sweater in the most dazzling shade of blue, softer than an angel's bosom and just as miraculous to behold. It was worth quite a pretty penny, but any price would be reasonable for the labor of the truly gifted artists who made it. I, of course, expensed it to the generous coffers of Birchbark Books, who have my endless thanks.
(Editor's note: for the last time, Merriweather, your expense request for a luxury sweater was denied. Please see Sheryl in accounting. I am leaving this in the final copy if you do not settle your account by Friday.)
Special Events
The dawn of the New Year is a special time in Ettelane. By this time, Lake Artemis has a layer of ice thick enough for skating, which your humble guide tried his level best at and quite nearly succeeded. If you prefer your feet stay on solid ground, the vendors on the Tenserian Square sell a shockingly delicious clove-infused hot mead, as well as strong Gnomish
Coffee enhanced with
Elvish whiskey and cream.
Late spring, it is worth reiterating, is nothing short of extraordinary in the idyllic countryside. In lucky years, when the stars align, the gorgeous weather begins around
Saint Tenser's Day, though the denizens of Ettelane do their level best to make the celebration special even in years when the winter clings doggedly on. Strike out from the cities, and the prairie's multifarious wildflowers grow bolder as April trips merrily on, until they are in their fullest, proudest bloom beneath the benevolent sunshine of May and June.
The magic in the month of May extends beyond the ridges and dales of the wildlands, in quite a literal sense. The Convocation of Wands throws open their spire to the lesser wizards of the Five Lands at the Flower Moon, and robéd sages roam the streets, selling fantastical wares and exchanging magical secrets with anyone they deem worthy of the honor. One would, hypothetically, be astounded by the level of knowledge an archmage is willing to share with a friendly stranger in
Abjurer's attire, especially when warmed up with a few
gratís rounds of gin fizzes! Alas—the dissemination of this knowledge is outside the scope of this guide, and certainly outside the scope of my current contractual obligations with Birchbark Books.
(Editor's note: while we here at Birchbark Books strive to provide readers with an entertaining and educational experience, we do not condone the sharing of proprietary magical secrets. Mr. Jaunt has been reprimanded for his actions, and has not been reimbursed for his significant bar tab.) A second wizards' gathering, quite similar in purpose but much more subdued in spirit, takes place beneath the Beast Moon six months later. After experiencing all four deeply distinct seasons that Ettelane has to offer, I do not blame the majority of magi from steering clear of the gales of November.
Nearabouts to
Jarmas in more familiar traditions, Klïppington and Klöppington have developed a wonderfully inventive take on the harvest tradition: the Tomato Wars! Ripe tomatoes and other fruits of the late-summer vine sail with abandon across the Red Bridge, and the residents of both towns invade each other's squares and fight mercilessly with vegetable-based ammunition, each attempting to steal and spit-roast a pig kept in a makeshift pit at the other town's borders. Non-produce-based weaponry is strictly prohibited; with the ferocity of the fighting and the devious inventiveness of the trebuchets, catapults, and other instruments of chaos the townsfolk devise, this rule is most certainly for the best. It's all in good fun, though, and the feast of roast pork and zucchini bread at the end is well worth the mayhem and mess.
And rounding out the year comes
Ilgaslana, in the final dark days of December. Eschew the major towns (which do nothing of any note), brave the bitter winds, and head for the Beaconhold and its surrounding villages. On this high holy day of
Prometheus, they thank their patron god for his gift by releasing it back into the starry night: a thousand floating lanterns, loosed from the highest perch. They are fireflies dancing beneath the auroras; they are borrowed stars gliding back to their astral perch. I am made of quite stern stuff, but I admit: dear readers, I wept.
Food, Drink, and Lodging
The Blooming Truffle. What a lovely tavern this is, found sitting just on Klïppington's side of the Red Bridge! Though it's been renovated, rebuilt, and particularly repainted every so often (in lovely light shades that evoke the flowering hills), it's been in the Loopmottin family for generations—quite a time, in gnomes' years. The traditional
Djólla is a must-try, in as many fillings as you can eat before you're full to bursting. The classics are a smooth custard and a sweetish barbecued pork; the chefs do tend to experiment, however, and usually end up with unique-yet-successful concoctions that change by the week.
The Toadstool and Tulip. This is Klöppington's equivalent to the Blooming Truffle, equally storied—and in my estimation, equally fine. They serve quite a similar djólla, eschewing the filling for pure, fluffy, dreamy bread. Sauces and soups galore accompany it, as do the strong, gin-based drinks that the region so adores.
The Beaconhold. When one thinks of inns, one does not usually consider quasi-military strongholds. Most are not noted for their openness, nor their delicacies, nor their other comforts and sundry. But when the beacon of the Beaconhold is lit, it is a welcome sign: There is one major drawback: the Beaconhold expects you to work to earn your keep. After a wonderful weekend of strong vodka and massive beds, they handed me a bucket and rags. Scrubbing! Scouring! Me, with my delicate hands and wholly unsuited constitution! They accepted neither gold nor tales of derring-do as my community contribution instead. Though I hold a great respect for these orcs, I am far from understanding their customs—given an array of options, I'm not certain I would choose this hard-won hospitality again.
Safety
The obvious danger of the Northern Duchy is its most mundane: its fearsome winters. (bit more here) The warmer seasons are not bereft of their dangers, either. Thunderstorms bring lightning bolts that have fried more than a few unlucky travelers whose heads stick out above the flatter lands. And tornadoes—great gyrating funnels of wrath from the gods—rip across the plains like chariots late in the season. Legends say the most dangerous sprout legs and walk like men. Whether these are
storm giants,
conjurers' creations, the rantings of drunken poets, or the angels of some dark god—I know not for sure, and I thought it prudent not to ask.
The howling of the various winds are not the only eerie sounds of these prairies to be feared. If you should hear a wailing in the distance, the beating of drums, the thunder of powerful paws—take shelter amidst the most heavily armed caravan you can find. The tales that tell of the cruelty of the
Howling Horde, the most fearsome orc marauders this side of the Lüdda, do not exaggerate.
And ah, above all else, keep a weather eye to the skies! On one occasion in what would have been an otherwise lovely spring walkabout through the early-blossoming hills, I spied what I naïvely believed to be one of the handsome falcons of the Beacon's aeries, soaring through the wide expanse of blue. As the wingéd creature circled downward, it dawned on me that its wingspan was far wider than I anticipated. I quickly shimmied into a burrow in the cliffs before the great
Roc could dive—much to the consternation of the prairie dogs within. My apologies to the noble rodents, but I have a duty to you readers, and had I become its (no doubt delicious) appetizer that day, this guide would have never reached your hands.
Now, if the bards are to be believed, threats that would make even a roc quake in fear are not unknown to the northernmost reaches of the region. I am, of course, speaking of the
white dragons of southern Erdelan. Legends whisper in fearful tones of the frost-adapted beasts lurking within the blizzards to which they are so well-adapted, feasting on
orokh and alpaca sans regard for the difference. I personally posit that these tales are flights of fancy (if you'll pardon the pun), spun from whole cloth by bored bards in the long Ettelanian winters. Never believe a bard, my father always told me. Still—the rocs are danger enough from above.
Final Thoughts
I've adored my time roaming the Northern Duchy—truly, truly adored it. There are famous complaints about the brutal conditions of these lands, along the Via Anubia and well beyond it. In the difficult seasons, I cannot recommend straying too far from its well-worn path. But the warmth of the people of Ettelane, the jovial irascibility of the Klïppingtonians and Klöppingtonians, the steadfast kindness of the Beaconhold's orcs, and the many friendly faces of the settlements and caravans that wend their ways between... ah! They keep one warm within the harshest winters, cozy through the dreariest storms. I wish nothing but the most bountiful blessings upon the wonderful lands that lie beneath this boundless sky.
About the Author
Merriweather Jaunt, aka "The Homesick Halfling," is proud to be the staff travel writer for Birchbark Books. He is the author of the best-selling travel guide "(The Homesick Halfling's Guide to) Cantonova." Jaunt's interests include gastronomy, travel, and narrowly avoiding run-ins with very large monsters whenever he can help it.
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