Saltmarsh

Saltmarsh is a small fishing town on the coast of Keoland, about 30 miles to the west of Seaton. It has a population of roughly 2,000 residents and is presided over by a seven-person town council. Local laws are enforced by a sheriff and his deputies. Most of the inhabitants are fisherfolk, with a few farmers in the outlying areas. You have been drawn to Saltmarsh by the promise of adventure, as local lore tells of a haunted manor just outside of town. Rumor suggests that the town council would like to develop the property, but they cannot do so as long as the locals believe that it is haunted. They are seeking a sturdy group to investigate and if the place is haunted, to exorcise the spirits.

This chilly day finds you entering the town under grey skies that threaten rain. Asking about, you find the folk helpful and polite, if a bit standoffish. They direct you to The Sailor's Home from the Sea as a decent inn and The Briny Deep (next door) as a good tavern. They also inform you that the council is led by Hiram Faulkner, a prominent merchant in the town and that he is usually found at the council hall.

You may arrive as a group or as individuals, as you desire. The time of year is late fall, coming into winter (Ready'reat 16, 572 CY). The tavern is crowded with locals, but the fire is inviting and the food smells delicious.

"As it happens, we do have some rooms available. Cost is 2 sp per night for a private room, or you can sleep in the common room for 5 coppers. Private rooms can be locked. Haunting, eh? You must mean the old Selgore place. Rumor holds that the man was an eccentric who hid a great treasure somewhere in the house. Local folks claim the place is haunted, but a few brave souls have ventured up there looking for the treasure. I think the most recent individual to go up there was old Bedford the trapper. He's usually at the tavern next door, lost in his cups. If you want to investigate professional-like, you'll be wanting to speak to the council."

"Private rooms are 2 sp, or you are welcome to the common room for 5 cp per night. Stabling is at no charge," the innkeeper replies.

Damp and miserable Ulfgar trudged into Saltmarsh and paused in the shadow of the nearest building to the road. He looked around and grimaced, "Place stinks, it's wet and I was stupid enough to come here alone. I know I was told to wait for others, but I hate waiting." He notices the stares of the passersby and realizes he's been talking out loud again. Another grimace fills his face in their direction and he heads further into town.

His boots get even muddier as he leaves the more solid road into town and joins the softer roads of the town. The closer to the ocean he gets, his mind turns to hungering for the dry caverns of his youth. Then his mind turns towards actual hunger, he looks down the street he's blundered down and sees a tavern sign swaying in the light breeze. He walks up to the porch and sits on a rough bench running under the narrow awning over the porch. Sitting he removes one boot at a time shaking the mud onto the street, he examines his blistered feet knowing he'll pay for this day tomorrow. He digs his last apple out of his pack and chews on it, now lying on bench with his head on his pack. The apple now eaten he tosses the core lazily onto the road, his hunger temporarily quelled his eyes close and he begins to snooze.

Someone passes Ulfgar by and heads into the Tavern, he starts awake and looks around - but they're already inside. Looking at the shadows off the porch, he realizes he's taken more than a quick cat-nap. Embarrassed at having fallen fully asleep, he gathers up his gear and goes inside as well.

Ulfgar has slept too long, he now has to contend with a much more crowded room in which to eat his meal. He scans the room and takes the closest seat. It's next to an exotic looking women who is picking at her soup, he sticks his pack under the table and sits, trying to wave a barmaid over to order whatever swill passes for beer in this town.

Most of the inhabitants of the bar are farmers and fishermen, and the vast majority of them are male. There are a few female faces among the lot, but by and large, they are men. Most have weathered features and tanned faces and arms. The meals are simple, pan-seared fish with a side of vegetables with a choice of ale, beer, honey mead, or Keolandish wine (for an upcharge). A man sits spinning tales by the fire, entertaining a handful of local children. The atmosphere is very cozy, but the attitude of the crowd is very standoffish towards strangers.

At a nearby table, there is a commotion. A middle-aged man, drunk, from the looks of him, approaches a group of locals and speaks to them. There is some terse discussion, then one of the men stands erect. "You heard me, Bedford! Go tell your ghost stories elsewhere! You'll get no more ale from us!"