An extract from Urgon Wenth’s unfinished memoirs, collected and edited by Elro Aldataur. Working title for future publication ‘An Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount’.
… After evading these horrors for several days, it is always a relief to finally clear the treeline and see the Flotket Alps rising in the distance. However, a cautious traveller should remember that the Savalirwood does not give up prey so easily. The bones of those who let their guard down at this point litter the borders of the forest. Regardless of the time of day or weather conditions I have a firm rule to never strike camp within four hours march of the woods.
Other accounts the reader may have read will skip ahead at this point to the peaks of the Flotket Alps, the Rime Plains or the Crystalsands Tundra. This is because most accounts are written by chinless scholars tucked up safe indoors with a map and a bottle of wine. From this cozy position the area between the Savalirwood and the mountains is an empty space between more interesting destinations. I do not consider myself a soft man, but after battling through the Savalirwood or trekking across the vast tundra I rarely feel the urge to race straight up the mountain paths. I would encourage a sensible campaigner to consider the benefits of recuperating for a few days in less challenging terrain.
Northeast of the Savalirwood the mountain streams and meltwater form a small inland lake known locally as the Wash. The Wash spills west past the ruins of Molaesmyr into the Frigid Depths and east past the ruins of Uraliss into the Emerald Gulch. Neither route is particularly safe or advisable (you will note I write “ruins”, not “happy and thriving town”) but a fast river boat or two is a fair means to approach either location if you plan to pick through the rubble.
Between the Wash and the mountains lie a few small farming communities, mostly composed of those unwilling to live in the dwarven cities to the north. To be perfectly frank none of these is worth much ink and most consistent of just three or four extended farmsteads. In the summer months the farmers move their flocke north to graze on the mountain pastures, in the winter they shelter from the storms on the lowlands. This also means that they are furthest from the Savalirwood at the height of midsummer and only draw near again when winter lulls the wood into slumber.
Technically these farmers are part of Uthodorn but they have a saying which just about sums that up: “Dust from the west, orcs from the east, trouble from the south, tax collectors from the north”. I am told that by law criminals are to be held and turned over to the Glassblades when they make their scheduled patrols. In practice the punishment for outsiders who cause trouble is a shovel to the back of the head and an unmarked grave in a turnip field.
Barter is the main form of trade here, with copper and silver a distant second. You’ll be hard pressed to break a gold piece and most people will assume you came by it looting one of the old elven tombs. (Before you get your hopes up I will say again that the elves do not bury their dead with gold. Grave robbing is rarely a profitable enterprise). If you want food or clothing then your best best is to trade goods. Decent tools, ironmongery, salt, spices, tobacco, alcohol, medicine or herbs will usually buy a warm meal and a night in the hayloft. A good song or a fresh story won’t hurt either.
Unfortunately for those who like their comforts there isn’t an inn between Shadycreek and Uthodorn. If you’re looking for a bed then your best option is the temple of Ilmater which lies on the main trail to Uthodorn. The preachers will give a bed and a meal to anyone who needs it, although they expect those who can to earn it with work or donations. Again, goods are preferred over coin, especially medicinal herbs not available locally.
The temple hosts a small market every five days and a larger fair on the first of every month. The monthly fair draws richer merchants and officials from Uthodorn, so its the spot to head for if you want to buy a mule or join a wagon train headed north. A journey in any other direction is best organised from Uthodorn.
Pirates Never Cry
Captain Al’Ocean Pokrock-Sea stood in the early morning sunlight of Pier 6 and gazed up in wonder at the galley. Overhead a pair of Dwarves were standing on the scaffold finishing the lustrous final coat of Buccaneer Black. Another worker was finishing the fine detail one the lettering of THE HELLHEISTER. Seeing this beauty, it’s sails furled, ropes coiled, the very definition of ship-shape, the little Kenku felt a small tear forming in his eye. He pulled himself together quickly. Pirates never cry.
‘You Old Poo-head! What’s this pile of poo?’ The captain whirled around, recognizing the mocking voice of his first and best mate. ‘Tabby, you poo-eater, glad you could finally make it. It’s a long way from Felderwin but being late on your first day? You poo’.
The tabaxi laughed and slapped his old friend on the back. He looked up at their brand new ship with a smile.
‘Look at us. Hey, look at us’
‘Look at us. Who would have thought’.
‘Not me’.
They had been through a lot together over the past few years. Hard times in the off-season when the ferries were empty, cold nights when the rum ran out and the huddled together on their little keel boat. There were times when Captain Pockrock-Sea wondered if it was worth it. The years at Darktow Pirate Institute, the jibes and insults. The voices haunted his dreams sometimes, ‘A little bird told me you want to be a pirate’, ‘Hey Seagull, eat poo!’ ‘No pirate is going to take orders from a Kenku’.
Tabby Mul-Lamphrey looked at his captain and saw the quiet contemplation.
‘You earned this, captain’.
The Dwarves were finished now, one gave a long, high undulating whistle and the scaffold descended to the deck. The captain looked down along the pier and spotted a large Orc, Oarnoc Yevlaf kissing his mum on the cheek and slinging his axe over his shoulder. A Tortle he recognised as Whalin’ Tony was kneeling beside him, giving a giant hug to his two kids. One-eyed Euain was cheerily signing goodbye to his fella, a burly Were-bear who owned an artisanal bakery in Ice-haven. His crew assembled and walked down the pier, their smiling faces causing Al’Ocean to once again choke back a tear.
He thought about all their hard work and the support of all his funders, he knew he wouldn’t let them down. He thought about their past adventures and all the adventures to come. He looked back at Tabby.
‘We earned this, old friend. We earned this together’
He hoisted his knapsack over his back and for the first time, started up the gangplank as the snow started to fall.
The Sergent
Tarak Whiskeyjack looked every year of his age. At 56 the old city watchman should have retired or promoted years ago but he never quiet got around to it. His left wrist ached as he pushed open the heavy door to the changing room of the City Watch. The familiar smell of polished leather and old sweat greated him. Looking around the cluttered changing room he saw two of the younger watchmen. They glanced up briefly as the door opened but gave him no heed and went back to changing for their shift. Most of the other watchmen tended to steer clear of Whiskeyjack, supersticious as they were.
Whiskeyjack made his way to his locker in the back left corner. He’d been using this locker for over 30 years now, each item inside in its rightful place. Folded, stacked or tucked away in perfect handmade, well-worn compartments of his own design. He was always proud of his locker. He reached for his Sgt’s badge, he never could be bothered to try for the captain’s exams – too much hassle about legislation and not enough about the subtilties of the job. Besides, it took you off the street too much anyway. Molly had given up trying to press him years ago, the money was hardly worth the extra headaches and besdides the boys were grown and married themselves so it was just those two in their small half-acre plot by the river.
Whiskeyjack stood before the large noticeboard looking at the details of the shift. As always he was on his own for this rota – he preferred it that way and the watch captains knew better than to mess with 30 years of tried and tested. Partners tended to get in the way anyway, more of a burder than a boon. They say the wrong thign or they didn’t know the right people or too keen for advancement. There was a breed of new watchmen that wanted to take shortcuts and seemed to think they were better than the people they interacted with. Whiskeyjack ran his finger over the parchment nailed to the board to check the routes of the others this evening – his was blank as always, he crafted his own way through the city and tended to know where the trouble would be before it happened. He did this to make sure none of the younger ones would fail to do their proper round and instead languish in the nicer parts of town. Whiskeyjack grinned as his finger found the name he was looking for, Beryll’s young lad was on the Widdershin’s beat today. Not the roughest onee but definitley would need your wits about you. Whiskeyjack nodded to himself, he had promised Beryll he’d look out for the boy. He always had a habit of collecting strays and waistrals but given enough time he could set him up right. Most of the watch had been under his wing at one stage or another.
Whiskeyjack put on his cap and walked out of the guardroom. The chill night air whistled soflty through his armour. ‘Another night on the toon’ he thought. He always pulld the odd hours, the holidays. ‘Spending your retirement in the cold!’ was Molly’s oft recited refrain, he always corrected her ‘semi-retirement’. A bit less time on the beat but still active. Her business was booming these days, everyone needs a lawyer for something but he could never get his head around the intricacies of the law and, more importantly, the politics surroundind it all. He preferred the odd hours, the holidays – give the lads a bit of time with their young famalies, plus, it was the odd hours that people most had need of someone. Mostly just to listen, sometimes to help a wayward drunk home, now and then a purse to recover or a fight to break up.
Whiskeyjack tested his joints with a half squat, only moderate creaking. Warm up completed he hit the road through the old lanes and alleys making his way down from the watch keep into the heart of the city. He didn’t even have to open his eyes to navigate he knew them so well. Every stone, cobble and brick but more importantly the people between them. The joke was the streets here were paved in Whiskeyjack’s booth leather as hrough his wanderings of the city managed tto know all the twists and turns of the streets and the people in them. They joked that the streets here were paved with old whiskeyjack’s boot leather.
At the bottom of Widdershins street Whiskeyjack propped himself up against the wall of the Salt and Steele. Most of the punters would be in their beds by now but there’d be a few stragglers left behind, either drooling into their cups or fixing to cause trouble of some sort. If Beryll’s boy had left on time he’d be swinging by here in the next 30-45 minutes or so. Might as well nip inside and give a nod to Lottie and check up on her and her bairns, the blighting cough had taken them down hard and besides, on a cold night like this maybe a dram would help stave off the chills – up until now it was looking like a fairly slow night anyway.