Aug 17, 2021 2:10 am
Pyriel-day, 77th of Alphos, 102 RC.
Night's fall on Quainbluff was a rowdy affair.
The sun set like a watercolour landscape being plunged into increasingly black ink, the colours and brightness of the world washing away. In a sky as dark as a raven's oath and concealing as a velvet cloak, Rielah-Who-Is-The-Moon ascended like a king in raiments of silver to His nocturnal throne. His bright, unblemished face shone down on the world and gave the free folk of Alpharas a sense of security that had been sorely lacking for centuries.
In a final crook and swoop of the Trollfen river where it met the cold, deep Black Bear lake the ground rose in a steep tumult to overlook the water. Quainbluff draped across that rise to the cliff in a prosperous discord of architectural fashions – the carved wood of elven villas, the stern and intricate masonry of dwarven workshops, the cheerful, teeming terraces of halfling houses and precarious overhangs of gnomish towers. Tall walls of tumbledown stone that had held off the perils of the night for hundreds of years in the Starless Age were built and rebuilt from their own rubble and new mortar, holding the centre of the town safe while a hundred-odd years of relative safety had let it grow out along the river's bow like a middle-aged man's belly exceeding his belt.
As the darkness of the starless night enveloped the world, flames rose up to challenge it. All along those ramshackle walls great braziers burst into flame, casting a warm orange glow over the rooftops and into the streets below. Dolorous, leaden bells rang out from the castle's turrets, warning citizens that the town gates would soon be sealed for the night, and to be tucked away within the walls or at home outside them. Houses lit their own lanterns outside their doors and battened down their shutters, better to light a candle than curse the darkness. The guardian riders of the Lamplighter's Guild set out with torches in hand and swords at their hip to light the beacons along the Tower Road, ready to guide and usher tarrying travellers to the security of the town.
But the folk of Quainbluff paid only routine heed to these dire warnings. Reed cutters gathered their work form the river's edge and strolled back up to the banks, shaking mud off their boots. On the water log-herds rode their wooden steeds with the current using hooks and their own shifting weight to guide them, laughing and calling to each other as they raced to make it to the lumber mills before the gates closed. In the Helm marketplace and dozens of shops along the crowded streets of the Trade District customers heard the bells and bartered all the harder, hoping the end of the day would make merchants eager to sell up and get home. Little changed in the alleys and shambles of Forlorn Row; the day shift of prostitutes, dealers, pickpockets and quick-handed knifers simply exchanged places with the night shift. In well-off Windlane the proud homeowners touched up the paint on their houses, stood on the front steps puffing on pipes and sneering at passers-by or debated which upscale inn it would be most fashionable to dine at that evening.
Across the Trollfen from Windlane lay Applebank. Two roads and three bridges gave little shape to the sprawling assortment of houses, stables, wheelwrights, costermongers, foreign shrines and caravanserais that dotted the low, marshy hillside. Deep cart-ruts full of muddy water made the streets precarious to navigate, and the lanterns outside the homes were paned with coloured glass that cast red, green, blue or yellow shadows across them. Applebank was the first stop for overland travellers arriving at Quainbluff and it showed in the diversity of faces – dwarves, halflings and humans made up the majority of the town's population, but here you could see the occasional scaled dragonborn, their snouts covered with chainmail veils; lash-tailed tabaxi from the Spicewood Jungles; horned folk wrapped in cloaks that might be fiendish- or fey-blooded, and stranger peoples besides.
In the heart of Applebank was the Battered Shield inn and tavern. Its sign was strikingly similar to that of the Goddess of Victory, Elwindis – a sword plunged through a broken shield. Visitors often asked the proprietor, Iminyel about the sign and whether she was a devotee of the warrior goddess, but Iminyel would just smile, demur that she respected all the gods, and launch into one of a dozen contradictory tales about the sign's origins.
The Battered Shield was a single-storey building, at least above ground – its foundations were unusually deep and sturdy in the muddy soil. Red brick and polished timber gave it an elegant appearance, and its broad roof was tiled in white slate that shone brilliantly under the moon's light. Three tall chimneys rose from it, their structure leaning and twining together and trailing blue smoke knots into the black sky. Warm light shone from thick, smokey glass windows and the sounds of good cheer could be heard within, a beacon every bit as inviting to travellers as the flaming watchposts of the Tower Road. Next to the door stood an array of dull brass implements and brushes, with a stern sign reading SCRAPE YOUR BOOTS – Iminyel.
Beyond the door comfort and clutter were the watchwords. The tavern was dominated by a single large taproom, three of its walls sporting wide fireplaces and mantles crowded with curios while the fourth was a long bar. Chairs and couches were scattered about the room, weighed down with furs and blankets to make them cosy against the end of autumn's chill, forming little clusters for conversation, while there were nooks and alcoves for those that preferred privacy. The three crackling fires and soft furnishings made the taproom warm and inviting, and a score or so of travellers and residents of Applebank were enjoying the atmosphere, the well-regarded selection of beers and meads or a dish of pickled pheasant or beetroot stew.
Night's fall on Quainbluff was a rowdy affair.
The sun set like a watercolour landscape being plunged into increasingly black ink, the colours and brightness of the world washing away. In a sky as dark as a raven's oath and concealing as a velvet cloak, Rielah-Who-Is-The-Moon ascended like a king in raiments of silver to His nocturnal throne. His bright, unblemished face shone down on the world and gave the free folk of Alpharas a sense of security that had been sorely lacking for centuries.
In a final crook and swoop of the Trollfen river where it met the cold, deep Black Bear lake the ground rose in a steep tumult to overlook the water. Quainbluff draped across that rise to the cliff in a prosperous discord of architectural fashions – the carved wood of elven villas, the stern and intricate masonry of dwarven workshops, the cheerful, teeming terraces of halfling houses and precarious overhangs of gnomish towers. Tall walls of tumbledown stone that had held off the perils of the night for hundreds of years in the Starless Age were built and rebuilt from their own rubble and new mortar, holding the centre of the town safe while a hundred-odd years of relative safety had let it grow out along the river's bow like a middle-aged man's belly exceeding his belt.
As the darkness of the starless night enveloped the world, flames rose up to challenge it. All along those ramshackle walls great braziers burst into flame, casting a warm orange glow over the rooftops and into the streets below. Dolorous, leaden bells rang out from the castle's turrets, warning citizens that the town gates would soon be sealed for the night, and to be tucked away within the walls or at home outside them. Houses lit their own lanterns outside their doors and battened down their shutters, better to light a candle than curse the darkness. The guardian riders of the Lamplighter's Guild set out with torches in hand and swords at their hip to light the beacons along the Tower Road, ready to guide and usher tarrying travellers to the security of the town.
But the folk of Quainbluff paid only routine heed to these dire warnings. Reed cutters gathered their work form the river's edge and strolled back up to the banks, shaking mud off their boots. On the water log-herds rode their wooden steeds with the current using hooks and their own shifting weight to guide them, laughing and calling to each other as they raced to make it to the lumber mills before the gates closed. In the Helm marketplace and dozens of shops along the crowded streets of the Trade District customers heard the bells and bartered all the harder, hoping the end of the day would make merchants eager to sell up and get home. Little changed in the alleys and shambles of Forlorn Row; the day shift of prostitutes, dealers, pickpockets and quick-handed knifers simply exchanged places with the night shift. In well-off Windlane the proud homeowners touched up the paint on their houses, stood on the front steps puffing on pipes and sneering at passers-by or debated which upscale inn it would be most fashionable to dine at that evening.
Across the Trollfen from Windlane lay Applebank. Two roads and three bridges gave little shape to the sprawling assortment of houses, stables, wheelwrights, costermongers, foreign shrines and caravanserais that dotted the low, marshy hillside. Deep cart-ruts full of muddy water made the streets precarious to navigate, and the lanterns outside the homes were paned with coloured glass that cast red, green, blue or yellow shadows across them. Applebank was the first stop for overland travellers arriving at Quainbluff and it showed in the diversity of faces – dwarves, halflings and humans made up the majority of the town's population, but here you could see the occasional scaled dragonborn, their snouts covered with chainmail veils; lash-tailed tabaxi from the Spicewood Jungles; horned folk wrapped in cloaks that might be fiendish- or fey-blooded, and stranger peoples besides.
In the heart of Applebank was the Battered Shield inn and tavern. Its sign was strikingly similar to that of the Goddess of Victory, Elwindis – a sword plunged through a broken shield. Visitors often asked the proprietor, Iminyel about the sign and whether she was a devotee of the warrior goddess, but Iminyel would just smile, demur that she respected all the gods, and launch into one of a dozen contradictory tales about the sign's origins.
The Battered Shield was a single-storey building, at least above ground – its foundations were unusually deep and sturdy in the muddy soil. Red brick and polished timber gave it an elegant appearance, and its broad roof was tiled in white slate that shone brilliantly under the moon's light. Three tall chimneys rose from it, their structure leaning and twining together and trailing blue smoke knots into the black sky. Warm light shone from thick, smokey glass windows and the sounds of good cheer could be heard within, a beacon every bit as inviting to travellers as the flaming watchposts of the Tower Road. Next to the door stood an array of dull brass implements and brushes, with a stern sign reading SCRAPE YOUR BOOTS – Iminyel.
Beyond the door comfort and clutter were the watchwords. The tavern was dominated by a single large taproom, three of its walls sporting wide fireplaces and mantles crowded with curios while the fourth was a long bar. Chairs and couches were scattered about the room, weighed down with furs and blankets to make them cosy against the end of autumn's chill, forming little clusters for conversation, while there were nooks and alcoves for those that preferred privacy. The three crackling fires and soft furnishings made the taproom warm and inviting, and a score or so of travellers and residents of Applebank were enjoying the atmosphere, the well-regarded selection of beers and meads or a dish of pickled pheasant or beetroot stew.
