Elminster Speaks

The Sage of Shadowdale has something to say about pretty much everything. Despite
having pages in DRAGON Magazine, DUNGEON Adventures, and POLYHEDRON Newszine,
the Old Mage still has more to speak of the Realms. Not wanting to anger an archmage,
we decided it would be best to give him a weekly column from which to discuss the finer
points.
Listen well, young one...

Voonlar
This is a quiet, law-abiding trading and farm-market town of almost 2,000 citizens in the
southern Moonsea lands. It’s situated on the northern edge of “Greentree,” the local
name for the northwestern arm of the great forest of Cormanthor, which separates
Voonlar and the southern Moonsea from the Dales. Shadowdale, Voonlar’s main trading
rival and closest village, lies to the west and south and is seen by most Voonlarrans as
“a small, pig-stinking village of rustic, untrustworthy simpletons.”
The Northride (linking Shadowdale with Teshwave) and Shind Road (linking the west with
Yulash and the Moonsea) meet in Voonlar, forming an intersection known as “the Throat.”
This intersection was so named after a long-vanished, raucous and ramshackle wooden
tavern, the Dusty Throat. The Dusty Throat stood at the intersection for many years before
burning down or, as local lore insists, being burnt down by mysterious persons to murder
drunken guests sleeping inside. The intersection is now a popular, though muddy or dusty,
meeting-place and the center of local open-air public commerce (through stalls, wagonload
tailboard selling, and a farmers’ market held once a tenday) and gossip mongering.
This road is the reason for Voonlar’s six-centuries-old existence, though it was very
different in its early days than the old stone-and-slate human town of today. Prosperous,
stable, and strategically important, Voonlar has always served as a military base of sorts.
It has survived the worst fires and raids from brigands and goblinkin (small bands of
bugbears and orcs are the chief goblinkin problem surrounding Voonlar).
Nominally independent, Voonlar (as all in the Dales and southern Moonsea know) has
in fact been under Zhentarim dominance for most of the last two decades. The Bron (the
sheriff) is elected annually in a counting so openly corrupt that few dare to challenge the
incumbent. The Bron is currently a former mercenary by the name of Buorstag
Hlammythyl, widely believed to be a Zhent agent.

The True Rulers Of The Town

Voonlarrans all know their real masters are the Zhentarim, but no one dares speak out
against such deadly folk. Spies are everywhere, and things in Voonlar aren’t all that bad.
Zhentarim agents known to watch over Voonlar include the merchants Thardregh
Droon, a fat, goateed dealer in gems, chains, and finework metal goods (such as ornate,
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silver-plated coffers, plates, cutlery, lockets, bolts, hasps, and hinges). Mortuth Baldreth
is a dealer of picks and other tools, wagons, cartwheels, and lanterns. The envoy Olmaer
Naxrin is soft-spoken and catlike, normally arriving to watch over Zhentarim investments
and trading in the cities of Sembia. He is known to slay without hesitation or mercy when
the need arises, sometimes using poisoned weapons and small hand crossbow dart
guns.
Besides these three, at least a dozen other agents are known to Buorstag; all of whom
command his instant, obsequious obedience. Buorstag knows that he can be readily
replaced at any moment, but he’s still loyal to the Zhentarim, dreaming of bigger and
better things.
The Bron, Buorstag Hlammythyl: 4th-level human fighter; AL NE, AC 4 (chain mail +1 &
shield); hp 35; THAC0 15 (+1 Strength, magical weapon, specialization); #AT 3/2; Dmg
1d8+4 (long sword +1, Strength, specialization); S 17, D 13, C 16, I 11, W 12, Ch 13.
Thardregh Droon: 5th-level human thief; AL NE; AC 5 (leather armor +2); hp 22; THAC0
18; #AT 1; Dmg 1d8 (long sword), S 12, D 15, C 15, I 13, W 14, Ch 11.
Mortuth Baldreth: 3rd-level human fighter; AL CE, AC 3 (splint mail & shield); hp 35;
THAC0 16; #AT 3/2, Dmg 1d8+5 (long sword, Strength, specialization), S 18/65 (+2/+3), D
9, C 17; I 12, W 10, Ch 13.
Olmaer Naxrin: 7th-level human fighter; AL LE, AC -2 (bracers of defense AC 4, ring of
protection +2, Dexterity); hp 58; #AT 2, Dmg 1d8+5 (long sword +2, Strength,
specialization), S 17, D 16, C 15, I 13, W 11, Ch 12.

The Bron of Voonlar

The Bron keeps law in Voonlar, acting as both judge and enforcer, with the aid of six
deputies and a militia in cases of emergency. A worshiper of Bane who smoothly
embraced the faith of Cyric after the Time of Troubles, Buorstag Hlammythyl was born on
a now-vanished farm not far north of Voonlar. He took to the life of the sword at an early
age, after many pitched battles against his surly father.
He spent almost two decades fighting in the Vast, the Vilhon, the northern Moonsea,
and briefly in the service of certain families of Westgate and of Sembia. He acquired
many scars but little gold before retiring to the town he often ran away to in his youth,
Voonlar.
Buorstag is a burly, fat, pimpled man of many scars, sporting an untidy moustache and
an aggressive nature that has led to his being called the Boar behind his back. He has a
loud, hoarse voice, a swaggering nature, a certain low cunning, and absolute obedience
to suggestions made by visiting Zhentarim. It’s often suspected that visiting Zhents take
turns idly voicing contrary opinions just to watch the Bron of Voonlar change his ways of
doing things completely, only to change them right back again at the whispered
command of the next passing agent.

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 Thanks to his swindling and brutality, Buorstag has made many enemies during his
mercenary days. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t manage to kill all of them. He’d like to be free
of the fear that they’ll one day hunt him down and slay him for his past transgressions, and
the Bron will jump at any chance to magically change his looks, preferably to something more
handsome. He’d like to again enjoy feminine companionship that doesn’t come to him through
fear, payment, or outright coercion. Like many brutes, he looks forward to the day when he’ll
have money enough to retire to some secure backwater town elsewhere in the Realms
(Secomber, he thinks, or perhaps an upland Sembian villa) to live out his days in luxury.
Buorstag secretly loves music, dancing, and hearing good tales told well. He never
misses a minstrel or bardic performance in Voonlar, though he often sneaks in behind
curtains, in shadows, or in nearby rooms, not wanting to be seen enthralled by the
townsfolk. He loves the pepper cheese of Tethyr, roast boar, and warm, sugared milk, but
he cultivates the image of the prodigious drinker because he thinks it makes Voonlarrans
look up to him as manly.
Despite having to make frequent ‘say nothing about this misdeed, please’ payments to
various Zhent agents, the Bron is slowly building his personal wealth, keeping an old
cauldron full of gold coins hidden up an unused fireplace chimney in his bedroom in the
Locktower. He also has a smaller sack of mixed coins buried in the woods at the foot of
a certain dead tree in the woods just south of the town dump. Strapped to the underside
of his bed is a belt into which he’s laboriously sewn emeralds, sapphires, and rubies
acquired by theft or purchase.
The Bron, Buorstag Hlammythyl: 4th-level human fighter; AL NE, AC 4 (chain mail +1
& shield); hp 35; THAC0 15 (+1 Strength, magical weapon, specialization); #AT 3/2; Dmg
1d8+4 (long sword +1, Strength, specialization); S 17, D 13, C 16, I 11, W 12, Ch 13.

The Bron’s Deputies

Buorstag’s six deputies are all Zhentilar-trained warriors, chosen for brawn and
obedience rather than ambition, and are apt to be careful first and valorous later. All are
large, strong men; stolid, silent types given to iron self-control and brutality when
unleashed. They’re known by sight and feared by most Voonlarrans.
On duty or off, the deputies are usually armed and armored, clad in helms, gauntlets,
chain mail, and deep green jerkins that bear the five white coins in a circle badge of
Voonlar on their backs and breasts. They usually wield clubs, short swords, and daggers,
but have access to a small arsenal of weapons and plate armor in tiny stone gatehouses
at the Throat, the Stagfoot (the intersection where the White Stag stands), and in the
Locktower, which serves as a town jail, barracks, and armory. This is a squat stone keep
of surpassing ugliness and poor, already-crumbling construction, which stands on the
west side of the Northride where it meets with Runstal’s Ride.
There are stalls for a dozen horses in the Locktower, and the floor drain serves as a
partial ceiling for the jail cells below. There are six three-person cells beneath the stalls,
each normally containing prisoners that are held at Buorstag’s pleasure (usually until
they or someone else offers to pay for their release). Prisoners are customarily stripped
and fed only water and stale bread.

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The Militia of Voonlar
The Bron has the authority to raise a militia by a simple decree known as the Whelming.
These men and women assemble at the Locktower and are issued pikes and distinctive
orange helms; some also purchase padded jerkins from Buorstag. All train with crossbows
and pikes, but no Voonlarran, except farmers on the outermost edges of the patrolled
Voonlarran territory, are allowed to possess bows of any kind. The farmers receive special
dispensation for vermin and brigand control, as such weapons are normally issued for
training and at active duty musters, and collected again afterward. This practice has led most
Voonlarrans to keep dogs and cats to hunt and devour moles, rats, mice, foxes, and other
vermin.
Seventy-odd militiamen have been trained; all are considered at least competent to
point a pike in the right direction. As there are only 20 crossbows, archery practice is
infrequent, and no more than 20 bowmen can take the field at a muster. Perhaps 16
Voonlarrans are competent bowmen. Luckily for fleeing fugitives, neither the Bron nor his
deputies are among them.

The Deputies of Voonlar

Andrus Kriivor; 5th-level human male fighter: AL NE; AC 5 (chain mail & shield) or 2
(plate mail & shield), hp 44; THAC0 15 (specialization); #AT 3/2, Dmg 1d8+2 (long sword,
specialization); S 15, D 10, C 15, I 12, W 9, Ch 10. Andrus is the closest thing among the
deputies to a natural battle-leader, and he’s respected for his skill with a sword as well as
his ability to think tactically during moments of crisis.
Barimus Whitehand; 4th-level human male fighter: AL LN; AC 6 (chain mail) or 3 (plate
mail); hp 25; THAC0 16 (Strength); #AT 1; Dmg 1d10+1 (two-handed sword, Strength); S
17, D 11, C 10, I 10, W 11, Cha 13. Barimus more or less stumbled his way into the
position of deputy, helping the Bron fend off an attack one night. He’s not a violent man
by nature, but he’s found that things stay much more calm through judicious use of force.
Caldor Fuldren; 3rd-level human male fighter: AL NE; AC 4 (chain mail & shield,
Dexterity) or 1 (plate mail & shield, Dexterity); hp 20; THAC0 17; #AT 3/2, Dmg 1d6+2
(short sword, specialization); S 12, D 15, C 11, I 12, W 8, Ch 11. Caldor is the most cruel
of the deputies, and apt to lash out without warning against anyone who seems to
oppose the Bron. He’s highly unpredictable in battle situations, but generally follows the
orders of Andrus.
Holman Frostfeather; 5th-level human male fighter: AL LN; AC 2 (chain mail & shield,
Dexterity) or 0 (plate mail & shield, Dexterity); hp 39; THAC0 16; #AT 1; Dmg 1d8+1 (long
sword +1), S 14; D 16; C 12; I 11, W 10, Ch 9. A renegade from a distant thieves guild,
Holman quickly joined up with the Bron when he saw the opportunity to live out his life in
safety. Of all the deputies, he’s the most kind-hearted and humorous, always quick to
crack a joke or make light of any given situation.
Jalarkh Ohngate; 4th-level human male fighter: AL NE; AC 5 (chain mail & shield) or 2
(plate mail & shield); hp 40; THAC0 14 (specialization, Strength); #AT 3/2 (specialized
with scimitar); Dmg 1d8+7 (specialization, Strength, scimitar +1); S 18/80 (+2/+4), D 10,

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C 15, I 12, W 9, Ch 12. Jalarkh is the undisputed ‘muscle’ behind the Bron’s deputies.
Mute his entire life, he spent his life perfecting his weapons skills and getting used to
taking orders.
Marsara Storntil; 3rd-level human female fighter: AL NE; AC 4 (chain mail & shield,
Dexterity) or 1 (plate mail & shield, Dexterity); hp 22; THAC0 17 (specialization); #AT 3/2,
Dmg 1d8+3 (specialization, battle axe +1); S 12; D 15; C 12; I 15, W 13, Ch 15. A devout
follower of Cyric, Marsara used to live in Zhentil Keep until shortly before the events that
led up to its destruction. While traveling through Voonlar, she saw a sign that led her to
believe she should remain here, though she won’t discuss the specifics of the portent
with anyone.

Justice and the Law

Once openly hated for his heavy-handed extortion of property and money from
both locals and any passing caravans he judged lightly defended, Buorstag
(through Zhent suggestion) has recently become far fairer and subtler. He no
longer openly seizes goods or demands protection money, though he does levy a
fee for armed escorts requested by anyone, and holds to a far more consistent
interpretation of justice. Elminster believes this good behavior is rooted in Zhent
desires (particularly in their time of weakness, following the destruction of Zhentil
Keep) to give Maalthiir of Hillsfar no acceptable-to-Sembia pretext for seizing
Voonlar. High taxes yield higher prices, as much as 30% higher than the norm
elsewhere, which have replaced random acts of extortion. This higher take has
made Buorstag see the wisdom of ‘the gentle gauntlet’ approach.
The law in Voonlar is whatever the Bron says it is, but visitors and citizens alike can
take comfort in the fact that the underlying principle of Voonlarran justice is now based
on profits. In practice, the clergy of Cyric, Zhentarim, the Bron and his deputies are above
the law and can act as they like in Voonlarran territory with complete impunity. All others
are safe as long as they are careful and avoid being seen as public enemies.
Buorstag levies high taxes on both citizens and visitors, but in return keeps Voonlar
safe. He dispenses harsh but fair justice to citizens and travelers alike so as not to harm
the flow of trade. Red Plumes in uniform and anyone suspected of being a Harper or
agent of Hillsfar are deemed a public enemy and can expect to be attacked on sight. The
guards work to take such enemies alive, though many might wind up seriously injured or
disabled during an attempt to resist. Once captured and sent through “attentive
questioning” (torture), many public enemies are executed. In cases of mistaken identity,
only Zhentarim able to call on immediate magical aid are released; all others are slain,
with the bodies hidden to prevent repercussions.
Executions are performed at the Throat, usually by slow dismemberment; a limb an
hour. The miscreant is strapped to an X-shaped frame of logs that spreads the arms and
legs, and left to bleed to death with the torso and head intact and facing Shadowdale, as
a warning to travelers on the road.
Only wizards are beheaded, and this is done for public safety. Buorstag maintains
several scrolls of impressive false charges that he can read aloud to justify any slayings

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he pleases. Adventurers who do battle with a deputy can expect to be deemed Harpers
and slaughtered forthwith.
All goods and property of an executed criminal are forfeit to the Bron, who maintains
the public purse. He claims to spend such monies for patrols, road repairs, and the
cleansing of public wells. An honest Voonlarran, speaking in private, admits that not much
in the way of repairs or well-tending gets done.

Recent Lawbreakers
The Adventure of a Lifetime: A group of adventurers arrived from Shadowdale and were
arrested for spying for Hillsfar. The mage was beheaded for casting a sleep spell during a bar
fight, since she was obviously a Harper spy.The priest of the group, a devout servant of Tymora,
was executed by slow dismemberment. The remaining party members are being held in the
Locktower, and it’s unsure what the Bron plans to do with them.
Enter the Zhentarim: A Zhentarim agent visited town a few weeks ago, taking great
delight in having the Bron jump at his every utterance. After a particularly wild night of
wine, women, and song, the Zhentling disappeared. While the official story is that he left
town, many of the citizens believe that the Bron and his deputies visited him. The popular
tale is that the Bron had him tied, gagged, and buried alive somewhere outside the city.
Love Strikes: The dating habits of Marsara Storntil, one of the Bron’s deputies, have
been the hushed speculation of many of the town gossipers. Every few weeks, a Zhent
wizard by the name of Tamelia (NE hf W7) visits Voonlar and spends a great deal of time
with Marsara. A drunken suitor once accosted the deputy when the issue arose, and
Marsara so soundly trounced the farmhand that no one has ever broached the issue in
public again.

The Moods of Voonlar

Zhentarim desire to encourage trade—rather than losing caravans to Hillsfar, Sembia,
and more southerly Dale routes—has led them to pressure Buorstag to curb traditional
open local hostility to nonhumans. Simply put, Voonlarrans hate and fear anyone who
doesn’t look human.
Elves, half-elves, dwarves, halflings, gnomes, and even half-orcs (if openly armed) can
expect to be tolerated, so long as they keep to inns, taverns, holy areas, and major
shops. Hard stares, shouted jests and slurs, and thrown stones will constantly remind
them of the underlying local hatred of anyone not outwardly human, however. The Bron’s
silent, impassive deputies stop public beatings of, and thefts from, such ‘dogheads,’ but
do little more unless offered ready coin.
Voonlarrans tolerate Buorstag’s brutal rule because the Bron keeps the peace,
encourages trade, taxes equally, and hires mercenaries to diligently patrol the streets
and outlying farms. The Bron is respected for scouring the land for thieves, outlaws, and
troublemakers, like Harpers and poachers from the Dales. Most Voonlarrans regard
Dalesmen as sly, thieving rogues—dishonest by nature—given to night raids and
highway robbery unless firmly curbed by strong and ready blades. Voonlarran

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mercenaries often skirmish with Shadowdale patrols, and Voonlarrans remember well
the “burning and butchery” done by the Knights of Myth Drannor to Banite clergy and
temple guards.
Gormstadd, head of the local temple of Cyric, offers a standing reward of 10,000 gp for
the capture of Mourngrym Amcathra, dead or alive. Considered the leading terrorist and
thug of the lawless Dales, the elf-lover and self-styled ‘Lord of Shadowdale,’ Gormstadd
lets everyone know that Mourngrym is a fugitive from justice in distant Waterdeep.
Voonlarrans fear and respect Zhents, despise Dalesfolk, hate people from Hillsfar and
Cormyr (regarded as a kingdom of shining-armored idiots), and envy the rich folk of
Sembia. To a Voonlarran, there’s no such thing as a poor Sembian.

Dark Schemes In A Dark Tower

After the Bron, Dark Patriarch Gormstadd is the most influential man dwelling in Voonlar. He
and Buorstag are firm friends, and they dine together at least two evenings a week, playing
chess and scheming to enrich themselves and govern Voonlar the best way they see fit.
They both hate Lady Shrae, matriarch of the local temple of Chauntea, and constantly
try to find some pretext to attack her or her temple without arousing the ire of the locals,
who see Shrae as a friend who eagerly tends them without asking for payment when
they’re sick.
Several past attempts to openly strike at the temple were disrupted by rifts opening in
the earth, blinding spontaneous showers of fruit and tree boughs, and other
manifestations of Chauntea’s wrath. It’s now clear to both men that the Great Mother
watches over Lady Shrae. They’ve reluctantly concluded that they must wait for Shrae to
stray from her calling and lose Chauntea’s favor, or that of the townsfolk. Thus far, she’s
shown no sign of doing either.
So the two men growl darkly in her direction, and occupy themselves in the meantime
with plots against the spies, poachers, and raiders who skulk from Hillsfar and
Shadowdale to assail fair Voonlar.
Gormstadd, Strifeleader of Voonlar; 10th-level human male specialty priest of Cyric:
AC –2 (plate mail of blending +3, shield +2); hp 64; THAC0 12 (magical weapon); #AT 1;
Dmg 1d8+2 (long sword +2, nine lives stealer [7]); S 14; D 11; C 15; I 14; W 18; Ch 13.
SA: +1 on saves vs. illusion or phantasm, can cast black talon once/day, can summon an
aerial servant that will fight for him, can create a dark aura or skull of secrets once/day,
can cast phantasmal killer once/tenday. Spells: 6/6/4/4/2: 1st—curse, command, cure
light wounds, darkness, detect good, faerie fire; 2nd—aid, chant, hold person (×2), flame
blade, spiritual hammer; 3rd—dispel magic, prayer, pyrotechnics, speak with dead; 4th—
abjure, cure serious wounds, dark aura, free action; 5th—flame strike, insect plague.

Local Faith
Voonlar is a farming community first and foremost; its primary faith is the devotion of
Chauntea. Not far behind in local influence is the faith of Cyric, which recently supplanted
Zhent-encouraged veneration of Bane.
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 The worship of Chauntea is practiced privately in many farmhouses and fields, as well
as in temple services. The authorities may be outraged by offenses against the Black
Sun, but common Voonlarrans will rise up in murderous wrath for affronts against the
Great Mother—such as burning crops, wasting food, poisoning water, and sewing the
land with salt or despoiling it with magic.
The town is home to two temples: The Dark God Reformed, a temple of Cyric, is the
one that has more official recognition. It was formerly The Dark Lord’s Hand, a House of
Bane, though it held a number of similar names under various high priests. The Bounty
of the Goddess, a temple of Chauntea, is the larger of the two churches.
Shrines to Lathander and Tempus stand on the verges of Voonlar, and the older,
northwestward Common Gardens contain a stone-and-shingle pavilion where travelers
of other faiths can pray. The Common Gardens is equipped with a bare block altar and
braziers, but lacking walls or any place to sleep, camping overnight is expressly
forbidden. Locals call this the Holy House. It has a simple privy, and a deep well that
yields cool, clear drinking water that anyone can draw freely.

The House of the Holy Light

The shrine to Lathander resembles the Holy House all-faiths pavilion, except that its
ceiling is set with sheets of mica affixed to angled stones, placed to capture the rosy rays
of the rising sun and flash them out in all directions. It stands on the west side of the
Dump Road, just south of the Three Elves inn. The House of Holy Light is tended by
Gentle Father Erngar Narrowlea (NG hm P3) and several lay followers. Narrowlea is
kindly but shrewd, seeing future implications of the smallest acts. He works covertly to
confound the schemes of the Bron and the Cyricists, lends small amounts of money to
Lathanderites for business ventures, and sells holy water and potions of healing to
anyone to raise funds for the faith.
Narrowlea typically has six healing drafts (potions of extra-healing) in wax-sealed
glass vials available and sells them for 1,100 gold pieces each. Holy water comes in
larger glass jars, at 25 gp each, and the Gentle Father tries to keep over 20 on hand.
The shrine attracts a steady congregation of travelers (except in winter) and more than
40 Voonlarrans. Narrowlea is visited about once a tenday by higher-ranking priests of the
Morninglord, who bring him fresh supplies of the coin-earning holies. A tiny bed of herbs
and spices, which can be freely harvested by all, surrounds the shrine. The only rule
regarding taking herbs and spices from the shrine is that no one may take the last shoot,
sprig, berry, or leaf. It’s written that anyone who does so shall incur the wrath of
Lathander.

The House of the Helm

The Voonlarren shrine to Tempus is an open pavilion standing on the west side of the
Northride, just south of the Swampsbeg. It opens into grazing lands and a cart track that
leads some miles through rolling pasture to a dell of bare rock on the edge of the
Greentree, where charcoal burners keep their huts. No resident priest attends this altar,

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but it’s visited often by traveling clergy, who watch over it closely because of fears the
Cyricists will profane and despoil it.
Perhaps the most attentive of these is Hammer of the God Beldryn Klynrin (CN hm
P7), who travels with at least two veteran warriors and one or more underpriests from a
base in northern Sembia. Beldryn the Bold is a blunt, fearless man who is well aware of
the plots of the Bron, the Zhents, and the local Cyricists—and is not above openly
confronting them and promising the disfavor of Tempus if he finds evidence of theft from
offerings left at the temple. Of course, Beldryn holds the Bron responsible no matter who
did the taking.
Built of massive stone slabs, the shrine consists of a raised floor bearing a central
bloodstained stone block altar. The roof is made of a single stone slab supported on four
massive stone pillars that splay outwards like the legs of an upturned milking stool.
Smaller spindle pillars rise from the floor just inside of, and parallel to, the roof support
columns, but end about five feet off the ground; these are used for the display of helms
and other battle relics left as offerings to the God of War. Many raiders who strike at the
Voonlarrans leave bloodied gauntlets or other battle trophies here as they retreat—a
practice that infuriates the Bron, though he dares do nothing about it for fear of earning
the wrath of the Lord of Battles.

The Bounty of the Goddess

Voonlar’s temple of Chauntea is known as an oasis of lush flowers, floral shrubs, and
tangled gardens crisscrossed by winding flagstone paths and studded with small
benchbowers (lighted at night, when desired, by conjured dancing lights) and pools. The
Bounty sells persimmons, quince, spices, herbs and healing herbal draughts, and seeds
to both local citizens and passing travelers. They also have a few potions of healing,
though these are sold discreetly rather than openly, and are in sparing supply.
A beautiful temple of slender belltowers and extensive gardens, the Bounty maintains
three guesthouses for Chauntean pilgrims and has been known to shelter adventurers
on the run from Cyricists and the Bron’s justice. The guesthouses are linked by
underground tunnels that are used to heat and pump water to several greenhouses
within the walled temple compound.
Visitors can readily identify the gates of the Bounty Gardens by their circular shape, the
mosses and flowers growing on the double doors themselves, and the wheat sheaf designs
surmounting the doors atop the circular door surrounds or frames. These are made of living
wood underlain with stout iron bars rumored to be of ancient dwarven make.

To Venerate The Great Mother

The walls of the Voonlarran temple of Chauntea were completed only a few years ago.
There was fierce opposition by the Bron to the great wall project, but the Bron suddenly
began supporting the project due, it is rumored, to an order issued to Buorstag from
someone higher in the Zhentarim hierarchy who believes confinement and surveillance
are easier where foes are enclosed within walls. Although the walls now encompass

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almost a third of the built-up area of town, local opposition among the common citizenry
was almost non-existent. The temple donated their gardens north of Daerndrean Street
to the town, in effect trebling the size of the Common Gardens that adjoin them. The
Bounty also sold its outlying Northride guesthouse to a wealthy Sembian gold-merchant,
Ornar Harlathar of Yhaunn, for use as a hunting lodge. This sale has delighted the Bron,
who hopes that Harlathar’s hunting parties will put arrows through any “dangerous
lurking brigands,” such as approaching Harpers or raiders from Shadowdale.
The Bounty is led and governed by its Mother of the Harvest, Lady Immithra Shrae (CG
hf P12), a tall, slender, raven-haired woman of soft voice and great beauty. Immithra prefers
to be addressed as Lady Matriarch by nonclergy, and Young Matriarch by ordained
Chaunteans, but she is otherwise a pleasure to deal with. She is assisted by two Trueseeds,
the first of whom is the prim, quiet, watchful, rather plain brunette Lauratha Delrym (NG hf
P5), who knows everyone in Voonlar and their every little doing, too. The second is Rolivar
Brimbruir (CG hm P5), a loud, burly, and jovial friend-of-all and brewmaster popular with
even the most ardent Cyricist clergy for his jokes and good barley beer. Rolivar possesses
bushy brown sidewhiskers and a moustache that appears and disappears with the passing
months, even as the hair on the top of his head slowly but steadily recedes.
Together, these three faithful lead a clergy of four Watchfuls. Watchful Brothers Erlan
Faerlnar (NG hm P3) is an expert in matters of soil, compost, and tillage, and Lothan
Maergh (LN hm P3) is a master of storage and tending of bulbs, seeds, and graftings.
Watchful Sisters Ardethra Murmarand (NG hf P3) and Jhalanessa Brithlar (CG hf P3),
the latter of which is known for her wild impishness and ardent nature, are the Bounty’s
herbalists for both humans and livestock. There are also eight Close Ones (NG and CG
P2s: three human males and five human females), of whom the best known is the temple
carter and seed-seller, old and crag-faced Haronstin Leatherjaws Garulth known for his
easygoing ways and prodigious capacity for drink.
The temple also has eleven lay servants, mainly mothers of active clergy, and 20
Harvestrods: farmers and drovers who are also trained and equipped as temple guards
(LN hm F2s armed with broad swords, daggers, and maces, and equipped with both
leather armor and chain mail), the latter retained primarily as a protection against Cyricist
harassment, thefts, arson, and vandalism.

Voonlarran Religious Politics

Lady Shrae works closely with her friend High Harvestmistress Glamerie Windbough
(NG hf P9), a calm, longsighted woman who heads the House of Plenty temple of
Chauntea in Shadowdale. Glamerie often warns Shrae of impending Dale raids, so the
Bounty is ready to shelter adventurers fleeing the Bron’s forces or the Cyricists.
Their messengers are Trueseed Rolivar of Voonlar and Trueseed Anassra Velomyr of
Shadowdale (a witty, sharp-tongued, and attractive NG hf P6, known for her skill at
painting portraits and in identifying seeds). On journeys between the two temples, these
and other holy agents seldom have fewer than eight temple guards; such clerical parties
are mounted, heavily cloaked, and travel only after receiving the Bron’s (grudging)
acknowledgement of their right to passage.

10
 For his part, Gormstadd of Cyric devotes his time to concocting and advancing
schemes to hamper and harm all of his foes—and he’s a man governed by his hatred of
all other faiths (the Chauntean clergy in particular), Harpers, Shadowdale, and skulking
profanities, by which he means all folk not under his command who work in or near
Voonlar to advance their little schemes and plots.
Beldryn the Bold of Tempus can call on several adventuring bands of a dozen or so
warrior priests of Tempus each who patrol the Moonsea lands striking at bugbear and orc
raiding bands. These groups can be hurled against Cyricists or Zhents who grow too
brutal in Voonlar. Many raids the Bron blames on Shadowdale (which is, after all, a
farming community) have in truth been chastisements of Tempus upon his hired
mercenary troops. Whenever Buorstag moves to eradicate or terrorize Voonlarrans of
other faiths, or dares to reach out at Yulash or Shadowdale with whelmed military might,
“the angry hand of watchful Tempus will fall.” This is typical of the Wargod’s rough justice
in many frontier lands—but followers of Tempus are just too few and too busy to
themselves become tyrants.
Finally, the small, wounded (missing a few eyestalks) beholder Xathcrism lurks in the
woods near Voonlar, moving about often. For its own entertainment and hunger for power
over others, Xathcrism has duped several brigand bands into worshiping it, calling itself
“Bane’s Eyes” and claiming to be the manifestation of Bane.
Now lesser in my divinity, I am more attentive to you, my faithful. Obey me, and you
shall know great wealth and power as my favored. Work in the dark and in hiding against
the false ones who turned from me to the ridiculous rituals of Cyric. Smash them here,
and so begin holy work that shall not end until all of you have known what it is to rule a
town, a city, a realm! As you grow, so too shall my dark strength, until we rise together
to make all the Realms tremble!
This trembling begins, it seems, with raids on travelers and adventurers in the woods,
not directly against Cyricists. Xathcrism has twice drifted out of hiding to fight with its
faithful, and has even spit out weapons, coins, and potions of healing in steel vials to aid
stricken servants. Beyond plunder and killings, its aims remain mysterious.

11
 The Dark God Reformed
The dark spire of this black stone
temple of Cyric is by the far the tallest
structure in Voonlar, and it towers over
the populace in more ways than one.
Reached by lanes converging from both
the Northride and Runstal’s Ride, the
temple stands northeast of the meeting
of those two roads, within its own walled
grounds.
Those grounds are oval, and
enclosed by two concentric stone walls
topped with irregularly tilted black metal
spikes (to discourage climbing) and
spaced only about six feet apart; the
space between is prowled by four
hungry war dogs, each kept to its own
arc of the wall by internal doors of close-
spaced metal bars that can be raised
(via levers, from inside the walls) to
allow all the dogs into one section if intruders are detected. Tales abound in Voonlar of
so-and-so who was devoured by one of these dogs while trying to play a prank involving
entering or leaving the temple—and of folk who just disappeared, and are widely
believed to have been fed to the “Mad Black Hounds."
Two gates pierce the walls: a sally-port opening north onto the Blackrukth, a long and
narrow southeast-northwest-aligned field tilled by temple servants and the larger,
grander main gate (made of black basalt, shaped into the likeness of a gigantic fanged
mouth that one must pass through, and customarily blocked by black metal gates that
bristle with spikes and cross-chains, and that have spear ports to allow defenders within
to slide open small metal plates and thrust out spears at peddlers, warriors of rival faiths,
and other unwanted visitors) that faces to the southwest, opening into the temple lane.
The holy temple ground within the walls is cobbled, with nary a bush, weed, or blade
of grass to be seen—disgraced priests or lay temple staff are kept busy on their knees,
or even crawling on their stomachs, plucking out anything that dares to grow—and is
almost entirely filled with the temple itself.
The Dark God Reformed is a large, poorly built building whose leaning and bulging
walls have had to be reinforced by many buttresses (angled stone props) to prevent their
collapse. It takes the shape of a stoutly built entry tower, which rises straight up for three
levels like a keep turret and only then begins to narrow (for another eighty feet) to the
needle-sharp, oft-lightning-struck spire. This opens into the Hallowed Hall, a drafty,
echoing, always cold central hall of worship, which has a leaky ceiling some seventy feet
up (spouts of rain fall here and there within it, during storms), a tilting and uneven
flagstone floor more appropriate to a ruin than to an occupied structure, and balcony

12
galleries down both sides that bristle with doors opening into priests’ rooms, shared
robing rooms, retirements (bathing and privy chambers), guest apartments, stairs down
to storage cellars and dungeons beneath, waiting and audience chambers, side-chapels
for visiting faithful, and offices.
Supplicants entering the Hallowed Hall will see rows of plain benches flanking a wide
central aisle that leads up between support pillars (added after the roof twice collapsed
under heavy snows, and graven with prayers to Cyric) to a raised rear sanctum
dominated by an altar and a carved Dark Sun hanging rather precariously over it by
means of several massive chains depending from a roof-beam.

Monster
Mad Black Hounds
Medium-sized animal
Hit Dice: 2d8+4
Initiative: +2 (Dex)
Speed: 40 ft.
AC: 16 (+2 Dex, +4 natural)
Attacks: Bite +3 melee
Damage: Bite 1d8+3
Face/ Reach: 5 ft. by 5 ft./5 ft.
Special Qualities: Scent
Saves: Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +1
Abilities: Str 15, Dex 15, Con 15, Int 2, Wis 12, Cha 6
Skills: Listen +5, Spot +5, Swim +5
Treasure: None
Alignment: Always neutral

Into the Dark Sun’s Embrace

Formally known as “the Hand of the Dark One” (a title unchanged from its days as a
stone personally consecrated by Bane himself), the altar is a smooth-surfaced,
rectangular block of black stone as large as a wagon. It is laid crosswise to the long
approach aisle, right at the front of the sanctum (at the head of the seven steps that
ascend from the benches of the faithful). During services, this altar is customarily flanked
by two man-high lit metal tripod braziers and covered with items used during rituals, and
sometimes by sacrifices.
At other times, offerings are placed upon the altar by worshippers who are allowed to
approach it only within a girdle of chains held by watchful priests. This ritual denotes the
pious humility of the supplicant submitting to the control of the god, but the priests will
haul on the chains without hesitation to snatch a supplicant away from the altar to prevent
defiling the altar or pilfering of the other offerings from it. (Defilement is usually by spitting
on the altar, but can also be by suffering it to be touched by something consecrated to
another god. Most often this is a weapon used to strike the altar, but it can be deliberately
spilled holy water—which often causes strange, shrieking fires to arise where it
touches—or even an unwittingly placed item of offering.)

13
 Voonlarrans believe that the massive altar can be shoved aside to reveal a treasure pit
heaped with the bones of all temple priests who’ve died in town, who are customarily
interred therein to yield undead guardians for the temple. Moving the altar would take
many strong people, straining together. However, lay servants have confirmed that yokes
and pry-beams are kept ready at the back of the temple, providing substance to the rumor.
Adventuring bands have twice reported that the carved Sun can emit rays of ravening
magical power from its eyes and the tips of its rays. These effects demonstrably occur under
the direct control of priests standing in the sanctum. One of these witnesses, the mage
Hastaltun of Athkatla from Kalamdaer’s Hands (once of Athkatla and more recently of Ormath)
believes that these defenses derive from the unleashed powers of a number of wands
mounted in the carving; the wands are enchanted to allow them to be aimed and triggered from
below, probably by any beings wearing one of several control devices (enspelled armbands
seem most likely). On the other hand, the warrior Halver Durstread, of the same band, swears
that a death tyrant or other magically controlled beholder must be imprisoned within the
carving, and magically compelled to unleash its powers under priestly commands.
Whatever the truth of the matter, it’s clear that “the Dark Blessed” (as the clergy of the
temple are collectively called) can call on accurate beams of magical force, no larger
across than a man’s hand, to stab out all over the Hallowed Hall from either the Sun, the
altar, or somewhere else in or over the sanctum, at their direction, against any being they
deem dangerous—and that on occasions one priest of the temple has used these
powers against one of his fellow priests, though this has demonstrably involved some
sort of intense mental struggle for control of the temple magics.

In The House of Darkness

Some Harpers warn that the temple itself has other powers to reveal intruders and
lessen their magics, and to augment the power, duration, and precision of spells of the
Dark Blessed while they’re within its walls. Although this seems likely (given that it’s a
known feature of other Cyricist temples that began as holy houses of Bane), it’s not yet
been investigated and described in any detail by any outside observer.
Behind the sanctum are tall tapestries, through which the Exalted (the patriarch and
his two “Hands") can appear; they conceal a wall opening into a rear gallery that in turn
descends to the newest part of the temple: a long, low, ugly wing of kitchens and pantries
stretching away to the east and joined to the Hallowed Hall by a dining hall.
Helmed horrors are known to stand as silent, motionless guardians at various points around
the temple—to be activated either when their conditions are met (usually such commands
involve intruders. but the specific commands of these “Silent Watchers” are temple secrets) or
when they’re touched and commanded by any priest of Bane resident in this temple.
In recent years, various coerced workers (often faithful seeking to earn their freedom
from temple disgrace, or persons owing a debt to the temple) have been impressed into
work on a ragged, ongoing series of battlements that are gradually enclosing the temple
proper—that is, a stone walkway that winds from buttress to the main wall and so onto the
next buttress, around it, and back to the wall again. Thus far, this “lofty walk” traverses the
north and east walls of the temple (though sections along the north wall have twice fallen

14
under the weight of winter ice). It is joined to the ground by many rickety support-pillars
and stairs, and sports crenellated battlements whose merlons are crowned with the same
irregularly-angled dark metal spikes as the outer temple walls. It is a favorite place for the
Exalted to bully lay worshippers into undertaking dangerous or demeaning tasks, affording
as it does the peril of being hurled off it, and semiprivacy for converse taking place on its
heights. When complete, it will be added to the guards’ patrol routes (oh yes, the temple
does have temple guards, of whom more later), and will give the priests a means of more
easily and often inspecting the roof, and sending workers up to repair leaks.
It should be noted that on no less than four occasions in the last two years, workers
have fallen through the roof to their deaths in the Hallowed Hall below—and that a
Voonlarren lass (widely thought to have consorted with, and somehow displeased, the
Exalted) was recently chained spread-eagled on the roof to die in the sun, her eyes
pecked out by vultures—only to fall onto the heads of visiting clergy during a ritual when
the birds arriving to feast on her proved too heavy for the decaying roof where she lay.
The lowest part of the holy temple ground is the easternmost end of the new north
wing, where the “End Pantry” spends much of its time flooded with ankle-deep water.
Molds and mildew grow thickly here, and servants or faithful supplicants who’ve
displeased the Exalted have been known to be shut up here to shiver in the water—often
held down with stones to keep them half-submerged—for days. In warmer months, live
eels are released into this noisome pool for ongoing husbandry by the cooks—and when
they’re swimming hungrily about, imprisonment in the wet can get really unpleasant.

Monster
Helmed Horrors
Large Construct
Hit Dice: 18d10 (99 hp)
Initiative: -1 (Dex)
Speed: 20 ft. (can’t run)
AC: 30 (-1 size, -1 Dex, +22 natural)
Attacks: 2 slams +23 melee
Damage: Slam 2d10+11
Face/ Reach: 5 ft. by 5 ft./10 ft.
Special Attacks: Breath Weapon
Saves: Fort +6, Ref +5, Will +6
Abilities: Str 33, Dex 9, Con —, Int —, Wis 11, Cha 1
Skills: Listen +5, Spot +5, Swim +5
Treasure: None
Alignment: Always neutral
Notes: Immune to mind-influencing effects, poison, disease, and similar effects. Not
subject to critical hits, subdual damage, ability damage, energy drain, or death from
massive damage. Immune to all spells, spell-like abilities, and supernatural effects,
except as follows. Electricity effects slow it (as the slow spell) for 3 rounds, with no saving
throw. Fire effects break any slow effect on the golem and cure 1 point of damage for
each 3 points of damage they would otherwise deal.

15
Breath Weapon: First or second round of combat—cloud of poisonous gas, 10-foot cube
directly in front of the golem lasting 1 round, free action every 1d4+1 rounds; Fortitude
save (DC 17), initial damage 1d4 temporary Constitution, secondary damage death.

A Dark Heart to Lead Voonlar

Most Voonlarrans fear and obey the clergy of Cyric, and some even regard worship of the
Dark Sun as a road to power. Nevertheless, they have the infuriating habit of referring to
the Lord of Three Crowns as “Lord Bane.” Gossip (which travels swiftly to Cyricist ears)
includes reminiscences about the “good old dark days” when the Banites up at The Dark
Lord’s Hand, as the temple was then known, “really knew how to be proper tyrants . . . not
clumsy brutes, like this lot. Silken menace, and not shouting and the clumsy bludgeon."
Such talk is both infuriatingly accurate and almost inevitable, given the arrogance of
the master of The Dark God Reformed, who’s openly disdainful of folk of Voonlar, whom
he refers to simply as “the common rabble” or, to distinguish them from rabble elsewhere,
“the local filth.” At the same time as he delivers himself of such unflattering forms of
address for others, Dark Patriarch Gormstadd the Rerisen likes to be himself addressed
as “Most Dread Holy."
A lawful evil human cleric who rose to be the head of The Dark Lord’s Hand over the
bodies of his betrayed superiors, Gormstadd is a brawny man with a small, narrow face
and two flint-hard eyes. He has thick brown hair all over his body, brown eyes so dark as
to appear almost black, and thick eyebrows that meet in a severe bar across his face
when drawn down in anger.
No stranger to rough-and-tumble fighting, the tripwire and “accidental” fall down long
stairs for rivals, and even the false rumor or fake incriminating-of-rivals letter, Gormstadd
enjoys several interests. He likes his wines (the ambitious are warned that he can
recognize many poisons by taste, and has built up a resistance to most of them by
selectively poisoning himself with very small doses). He also enjoys the policies of his
new faith involving dealing heavily and enthusiastically, in falsehoods, and the feeling of
power he gets when he walks among folk who fear him too greatly to ever lift a hand
against him, even when goaded.
Gormstadd has a very good memory for tastes, smells, and faces, but is terrible at names,
dates, amounts, and the wordings of specific agreements—about all of which he keeps
copious notes, trusting in no scribe or assistant. He also has an eye for muscular women, and
dreams of siring a family of warrior-maids who will glory in the service of the Dark Sun, and
win him such favor in the eyes of Cyric as to be granted immortality and special powers as a
trusted servant. Thus far, however, Gormstadd hasn’t found a worthy mate who’ll consent to
his advances . . . and he doubts an unwilling consort will be acceptable to the Dark Sun.
In the meantime, until his eye should fall on the right woman, Gormstadd fills his days with
indulging his cruelties on those unable to defend themselves, enjoying wine and seized
riches, spreading fear and the dark influence of the temple, and spying on neighboring rulers
and rival Cyricists. He’ll steal any wealth and valuable nonperishable goods he thinks he can
get away with (entire wagons have disappeared from encampments within reach of the
temple), and try any dastardly deed that he can blame on someone else.

16
NPC
Gormstadd, Strifeleader of Voonlar
Male human, 10th-level Cleric of Cyric
Str 14, Dex 11, Con 15, Int 14, Wis 18, Cha 13
Fort +9, Ref +3, Will +11
AC: 26 (+3 full plate of blending, +3 large, steel shield)
HP: 64
Melee Attack: +11/+6 (+2 longsword, nine lives stealer)
Damage: 1d8+2
Special Abilities: +1 on saves vs. illusion or phantasm, can cast black talon once/day,
can summon an aerial servant that will fight for him, can create a dark aura or skull of
secrets once/day, can cast phantasmal killer once/tenday.
Skills: Concentration +13, Diplomacy +13, Knowledge (arcana) +13, Knowledge
(religion) +13, Spellcraft +13
Feats: Brew Potion, Craft Wand, Craft Wondrous Item, Silent Spell, Spell Penetration
Spells: 6/5+1/5+1/4+1/4+1/2+1 (spells listed after the + cannot be swapped out for healing
spells): 0-level: cure minor wounds, detect magic, guidance, inflict minor wounds,
resistance, 1st-level: bane, cause fear, command, cure light wounds, detect good, doom, +
protection from good, 2nd-level: aid, bull’s strength, hold person (×2), spiritual weapon, +
desecrate; 3rd-level: dispel magic, prayer, protection searing light, speak with dead, +magic
circle against good; 4th-level: cure critical wounds, divine power, freedom of movement,
spell immunity, +unholy blight; 5th-level: flame strike, insect plague, +dispel good.

Dark Temple Deeds, Darker Doers

Gormstadd of Voonlar has no less than three dozen hired “whisperers” (mainly traveling
Sembian merchants and Moonsea peddlers) who do only one service for him: spreading
false rumors as he directs, in return for handsome payments (typically 30 to 50
gp/month). A select few are paid more to be his ‘eyes’ elsewhere, usually (so as to keep
suspicions to a minimum) reporting only on specific things upon request, rather than
snooping continuously.
Among his Dark Blessed, Gormstadd professes to be actively committed to rebuilding
the decaying temple, but this is becoming a source of increasing embarrassment for him
as repairs take longer and longer—and it’s clear that Gormstadd is keeping coins in
reserve for something else.
None of the Blessed are privy to what that other purpose is, however. Gormstadd’s great
secret is that he wants to build himself a fortified villa somewhere secluded in northwestern
Sembia, among the hunting lodges of wealthy Sembian families, where he can run to if
events go against him in Voonlar, or if he falls out of favor in the faith of True Darkness (and
he believes that another sacking of the temple in Voonlar by adventurers or anything less
than a whelmed army would bring him disfavor in the eyes of high-ranking Cyricists).
Unbeknownst to anyone else in Voonlar, three of Gormstadd’s “answering holy
summons” to moots in various luxury country inns outside Ordulin (which serve many

17
merchants and trading cabals as regular meeting-places) were false—no such moot had
been called, and the Dark Patriarch of Voonlar was actually on land-buying forays.
In recent years he’s purchased two parcels of land: Twilight Gate Farm, a run-down
turnip farm reclaimed by the surrounding woods and now sporting only a hunting lodge
and a well-stocked fishpond; and Owlsklar Wood, a wild and deep staghunting forest that
once belonged to the prominent but now nearly extinct Sembian family of Blacklock.
Gormstadd has done nothing to these lands except to hire (in Yhaunn) and install a
steward, Aldamair Galashar (an oily and obsequious man possessed of the remains of
good looks and the enmity of many cuckolded husbands), at Twilight Gate.
Galashar has been happily using the lodge as a storehouse for stolen goods (he’s long
been part of a cabal active in many Inner Sea ports, that steals material from
warehouses, replaces what they’ve looted with garbage, and then burns down the
buildings), and Gormstadd’s been happily ignoring these activities. Soon he hopes to
begin the huge expense of building a fortified manor in the very heart of Owlsklar—and
has engaged the Landlook, three half-elven brothers who from a base in Ordulin survey
lands for fees, reporting back on beast lairs, water sources, caverns, valuable timber, and
the like, to examine Owlsklar.
Gormstadd has also spent time tracing who actually owns what in and around Voonlar,
with an eye to selecting a loner who happens to own valuable land who could be
magically coerced into donating such holdings to the temple just before an unfortunate
and fatal accident happens to them—but as he feels this stratagem had best be used
only once, and he wants to keep his machinations secret even from his two Dark Hands,
he wants to select just the right victim. No one is yet in his mind as a good candidate.

NPC
Aldamair Galashar
Male human, 10-level rouge
Str 16, Dex 18, Con 15, Int 14, Wis 11, Cha 12
Fort +5, Ref +11, Will +3
AC: 16
HP: 62
Melee Attack: +10/+5
Ranged Attack: +11, +6
Special: Sneak attack +5d6, uncanny dodge, crippling strike, proficient with club,
crossbow, dagger, dart, mace, quarterstaff, sap, shortbow, short sword, and light armor
Skills: Bluff +14, Climb +7, Disable Device +9, Disguise +10, Escape Artist +10, Forgery
+7, Gather Information +15, Hide +16, Innuendo +11, Intimidate +5, Listen +5, Move
Silently +13, Open Locks +9, Pick Pockets +10, Search +8, Sense Motive +9, Spot +6,
Use Rope +8
Feats: Ambidexterity, Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Improved Initiative, Mobility

18
Serving the Dark Sun
Gormstadd justifies the delays in repairing and renewing the temple in two ways. He
keeps a committee formed from his Exalted busy debating whether or not the holy
grounds should be expanded north, involving the expense of a new wall and a loss of
some of the Blackrukth, or expanded into land occupied by private dwellings, which will
involve the cost of purchasing such holdings and—to gain local support—relocating the
inhabitants to new dwellings at temple expense. The only empty ground near the temple
lies due east, and is swampy land beyond the often-flooded East Pantry; its soggy
condition has already caused that area of the wall to sink alarmingly.
The second route to ongoing delay is through his own loudly lamented (and trumped-
up) difficulties in finding workers he can trust. He insists that anyone setting foot inside
the temple proper must be an avowed and demonstrably enthusiastic (through services
or generous offerings) worshipper of the Dark Sun—and claims that his attempts to lure
Cyricists who are masons or roofers or timberers from other places have thus far failed—
the faith of True Darkness is flourishing so that all such crafters have long lists of tasks
not yet begun, and Voonlar would only take its place very far down on them.
The busily scheming Dark Patriarch of Voonlar governs a Dark Blessed consisting of
thirty human males: two Dark Hands (6th-level fighters); four Blacksun Scourges (3rd-
level fighters); eight Sunshadows (2nd-level fighters); and sixteen Fingers of Cyric (4th-
level fighters).
The Fingers are the well-trained (and locally deeply hated, as the brutes who with club
and blade and dog fangs carry out temple policy—and are not above “accidentally”
torching the carts, produce stores, and even homes of those they don’t like the looks of)
temple guards. Hailing from larger Cyricist temples and sent to Voonlar to replace
warriors lost to adventurer raids, they are expert sentinels. Practiced in the use of
longswords and short bows, they wear plate armor and use shields (unlike their
chainmailed predecessors), employing six war dogs whenever they are sent outside the
holy temple grounds (kenneled next to, but kept apart from, the Mad Black Hounds, in
stone cells set into the walls on either side of the north gate). Gormstadd quite rightly
regards most of them as spies set upon him by Cyricists elsewhere, and is careful to act
every inch the loyal and even fanatical priest of the Dark Sun at all times when he might
be under their observation.
He’s also well aware that although the most recklessly ambitious of his clergy are
among the youngest Sunshadows, the real danger to him comes from possible treachery
on the part of his two Dark Hands, Meirgin “Daggers” Windtalon and Bastabar Yulgont.
Gormstadd has been careful to foster a feud between them, playing one off against
another until their hatred—masked by silken politeness that fools no one—is so deep and
savage that they can never hope to work together against the Dark Patriarch.
Gormstadd has been heard to call the two “my true vipers,” undoubtedly a reference to
the old maxim, “Temples of dark gods are truly nests of vipers; the power of such deities
is most clear when one considers how seldom the snakes fang each other."

19
The Dark Blessed
The Dark Hands of the temple are widely—and justly—feared both within the temple and
in surrounding Voonlar. Villagers long ago dubbed them “the Bloody Hands,” but as use
of that phrase was quickly shown to be highly dangerous, it was swiftly shortened to “the
Blood.” If Voonlarrens could find a way—any way—to rid themselves of the Blood, they’d
fall over themselves to do it. Failing that, they’ll abet any means of exacerbating the feud
between them, for the pure joy of seeing them at each other’s throats.
One of the Dark Hands, Meirgin Windtalon, is slender, tall, darkly handsome, and well
spoken. The other, Bastabar Yulgont, is broad-shouldered and fat, with the battered face
and hands of a longtime warrior, and a growling voice that delivers a few menacing and
well-chosen words rather than swift and smooth phrases.
Windtalon’s nickname comes from the venomous sidelong glances he delivers to
those who displease him. A glib and cheerfully toadying “born courtier” from Selgaunt
(where he was one of the countless penniless younger sons of would-be noble families,
strongly encouraged to go out and make their own ways in the world), Daggers is a
master of temple courtesy, ritual, and the written word, an organizer and record-keeper
whose every written line contains coded nuances for his own benefit. He has a long
memory and even longer patience—and woe betide those who’ve displeased him if he
ever rises to become Patriarch, or sees a way of manipulating visiting adventurers or
passing merchants into doing harm to his foes. He’s found dozens of such ways in the
past, specializing in goading drunkards into lashing out at targets of his choosing until
Gormstadd bluntly told him to stop such “unsubtleties."
Although all regard him as dangerous, he’s universally seen among all Voonlarran
Cyricists as essential to the running of the Dark God Reformed. The Fingers see him as
already being the true master of the temple. Gormstadd entrusts him with all written holy
communications—but watches him like the proverbial hungry falcon.
Bastabar Yulgont is a gruff former warrior gone to fat and bitterness, an aging man who
knows his best years are behind him and senses that younger men like Windtalon are
going to continually claw their ways up and over him to higher ranks in the faith if he
doesn’t do something bold and dramatic soon. Unfortunately, priests in the faith of the
True Darkness who try things bold and dramatic tend to come to swift and bloodily brutal
ends. So Yulgont is watchful for rifts within the temple, deeds and schemes of both
Gormstadd and Windtalon that he can report to others or somehow use to discredit or
weaken them, and opportunities that chance may toss into his lap—such as adventurers’
visits. If he can get someone else to destroy one or both of his two temple foes, and then
lead the Fingers storming to avenge them, it would be the greatest gift from Cyric that he
could hope for.
In the meantime, he insists that he, and he alone, be the tutor of all lay worshippers
and novices aspiring to the priesthood. To them he’s almost kindly—hoping that some of
them will support him at some time in the future, when he’ll finally move openly against
his rivals.
Although weak in magical accomplishments, Yulgont stole the secrets of enchanting
wands to fire from afar (the source of the hanging sun’s powers in the sanctum) from a
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dying Banite priest before he entered the faith, and retains firm control over such things,
exaggerating the importance of his accomplishments and himself by shrouding his
powers in as much mystery as possible.
With every day, however, he feels older. Sometimes, now, he awakens suddenly at
night, his deep laughter rolling wildly out of his locked and bolted room, from vivid
dreams of Windtalon shrieking on the altar under his hands, as he feeds his rival Dark
Hand’s innards sizzling into the braziers for the glory of Cyric. . . .

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 A Place to Stay
The Flying Stag
(Good/Expensive)
Despite the shadow of the Dark Sun lying over much of Voonlar, it has grown greatly in
population and prosperity in recent years—due to folk fleeing both the troubles in Zhentil
Keep and the harsh rule that has arisen in Hillsfar. A lot of trade to and from the mines
north of the Moonsea relocated from small holds in and around Zhentil Keep to various
places a little farther from raiding orc bands and marauding monsters—and Voonlar was
one of them. The temporary collapse of Zhent road patrols and the cessation of habitual
local skirmishes with the forces of Hillsfar encouraged even more overland trade, as
merchants were emboldened to send their goods in smaller, more frequent caravans.
This in turn has led to an increased in the size, number, and services of Voonlar’s inns,
which were already, for the most part, “of the best that can be expected upcountry,” as
the notorious traveler Volothamp Geddarm put it.
In addition to houses offered for rent and boardinghouses (Rhingallo’s and Mother
Tarset’s, both ramshackle old mansions long used seasonally by traveling harvesters and
farm laborers, and now within a decade of falling down if not rebuilt), Voonlar can offer
the traveler no less than five inns.
The newest of Voonlar’s inns, this two-story, barnlike structure (of fieldstone and
firequench-enspelled-wood) stands on Blarun’s Lane, north off Runstal’s Ride not far
west of the bakery.
Owned and operated by Hlarvo Dluthree, the Flying Stag can readily be found by
travelers because of its huge ‘stag with wings, swooping’ carved and painted signboard,
that hangs amid three storm-lanterns over the inn foreyard and circular front door. Its name
comes from a long-ago waspish observation by Hlarvo’s tiny and bustling wife Valladonra,
who told her husband that she expected to see him give up carpentry and actually follow
his dreams as far as opening an inn at about the same time as stags learned to fly.
The Stag caters to wealthy travelers who desire privacy and quiet. It offers no taproom
or common dining area, but rather suites of several joined rooms, each separated from
other suites by linen cupboards or serving stairs. A small menu of excellent hot dinners
is served to each guest in their rooms by arrangement, and the Stag has both a high-
walled compound with stabling of the finest quality and covered, guarded storage for
wagons, but two secluded “bowers” in the back corners of its walled yard (vine-cloaked
and tiled areas fitted with benches, tables, and couches) for the use of guests. It’s said
in town that Valladonra, a great beauty and hopeless romantic, hoped that many couples
would enjoy the romantic solitude of the bowers, and early on arranged a booking and
rental sytem to ensure their privacy—but instead, the bowers have largely become short-
term offices for travelers desiring to transact their business unseen.
The Sembian merchant Taglinder of Selgaunt judged the Stag “simple but clean, with
caring, attentive staff.” Furniture and amenities are thoughtful and plentiful rather than
adorned or luxurious, and every suite has its own tub and scented-water flushbucket
jakes. Suites range from 3 gp to 5 gp a night, depending on size and view (most have
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balconies), with meals included. Stabling is an extra 5 sp/beast/night, and use of a bower
costs an extra 1 gp/half-day, or 4 sp/quarter-day.
Typical meals at the Stag consist of a soup, two main dishes (hot or cold depending
on the season), hot rolls served with herbed butter and a dish of fiery pickle-spread, and
a guest’s choice of four or five ales and six or seven wines.
The main dishes might be roast boar and fresh greens; a potato mash of fried and
diced lamb, onions, garlic, and parsnips; smoked turkey and bulls’-tongues savander
(steamed and hot-spiced horseflesh and quail baked into a pie) served with a selection
of lime chutneys and pickled eels, mussels and smallfish; a many-spice stew of barley,
peppers, and beef; or something seasonal and special (such as butter-fried Moonsea
silverfin, when a fishmonger’s wagon rolls into town).
Soups tend to be creamed leek and potato; mushrooms and almond; breek (wild
onions, radishes, hot spices, and boiled beef—which is to say hooves, tripes, and all,
strained out before serving); forest leaf (berries and a tisane of certain flavorful roots and
leaves); and wildfowl stew (barley-based and pleasant, but widely suspected to be a way
of using up old chickens and captured mice). When the second cook, the fat and jovial
Mareeka, is at work in the kitchens, soups are always served in hollowed-out round
loaves of bread, sealed against leakage by spreading a thick layer of melted cheese into
the inside surfaces to harden into a crust.
Meals are served on wooden trays covered with metal domes; guests may ring for
them to be removed at any time. Portions are small, but guests are encouraged to ring
for more, so that everything may be fresh.

The Finest Beds in Town

The Sign of the Shield
(Excellent/Expensive)
Travelers desirous of luxury (and stiff prices) are directed to the Shield, Voonlar’s best
inn. It stands on the south side of Shind Road, just northeast of its meeting with
Daerndrean Street, directly across from the headquarters of the Shield Trading
Company, and is the largest building in all Voonlar.
To the road, the Shield presents a stone facade as grand as any temple. In fact, it’s
often been mistaken for a holy building. Its large balcony on the third floor overhangs the
front entrance and is supported by an imposing row of four stone pillars, which are
cloaked in ivy and clinging floral vines to hide the cracks that crisscross their surfaces.
The pillars are so tall that the second floor hides unseen behind them.
The Sign of the Shield does indeed have a blank ivory-hued shield (surrounded by
carvings that are either flames or garlands) overhanging the door. The inn is owned by
the Shield Trading Company, which despite persistent rumors to the contrary, claims
independence from the Bron and all Zhent investors and influence and is run by a
seldom-seen elderly Voonlarren cloth trader by the name of Zaravron Rarthree.
There’s a fourth floor crowning all of this that contains servants’ apartments, and an
attic atop it inside the hipped slate roof. Neither attic nor fourth floor extend all the way
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back down the long, rectangular inn. They end halfway, giving the rest of the roof over to
a rooftop sun area and herb garden, both for the use of the staff.
The presence of this garden makes the rooms directly beneath it (the south upper
floor) prone to ceiling leaks, and hence these are the cheapest rooms in the Shield. One
can have large and usually quiet accommodations here for as little as 2 gp a night, with
stabling 5 sp/beast extra and all meals on top of that. This room rate buys a guest an
ewer of drinking water, a bath with the attentions of an attendant, and the space.
The Shield boasts Voonlar’s only dumbwaiter (an elevator for furniture and food), from
which hot food on platters covered in silvery metal domes is wheeled. The dumbwaiter is
large enough for persons to ride in if they crouch over, but this is strictly forbidden (and
riders couldn’t raise or lower the box they’re in themselves in any case). The dumbwaiter
runs from the cellar to the fourth floor, creaking along on ropes, and has only fallen
once—when it had a bit of encouragement in doing so from a wizard guest’s spell. He
would have been asked firmly to leave if he hadn’t perished moments later at the hands
of the foe attacking him at the time.
The folk of the Shield (the trading company, that is) police the grounds of the Shield
inn at all hours, and the inn boasts an unusually clean and well-appointed stable, which
also houses sheds to shelter wagons from rain and snow. These sheds are guarded at
night by a dozen veteran warriors of the Trading Company The stable building flanks the
inn to the west, and on the east stretches a lawn with a tall cedar boundary hedge and
a row of apple trees.

The Shield Staff

The Shield is run by Mester Rauvaraudo, a mild-mannered, bustling man with delicate
hands and features, deep, mournful brown eyes, and a washed-out, brown moustache
and beard. He is a sorcerer (LN male human Sor4), but he keeps his meager sorcery a
secret from all but the oldest Voonlarrens, openly using magic only in the direst of
emergencies. He does, however, have a wand of hold person and a ring of the ram with
which to subdue the very rare brawls or raging guests.
Master Mester (as he’s known to all) commands an inside staff of almost forty cooks,
footmen, chambermaids, and two chatelaines (one working a day and the other a night
shift greeting guests and managing the staff). He has an outside staff of ten ostlers and
four groundskeepers. The groundskeepers do all the gardening and mud-raking
necessary to keep the inn grounds looking sharp.
The two chatelaines, Amratha Shuldeiroun (CG female human Ftr1) and Maeragra
Duskwinter (CG female human Rog2) are legendary in Voonlar for the cutting yet never
crude facility of speech they have in governing staff, passersby, and even guests with a
velvet-edged, iron-firm demeanor. They are like twin red-haired, petite whirlwinds, and
seem like sisters with their similar sharp voices and chiseled, beautiful features, though
they’re actually unrelated. Amratha is the senior chatelaine and has the day shift. It’s said
(by no less than Volothamp Geddarm) that “Her wit is like a whip, and her sarcasm can
etch glass and blister up blushes."

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 Maeragra is quieter. She is a retired gem thief who once plundered fine houses in
Sembia in during heart of feasts before a divine manifestation changed her views of life.
She is still capable of making long leaps and landing deftly on crossbeams, balcony rails,
or window sills. More than once she’s shocked guests who locked their doors on
chambermaids and refused to emerge when it was time to check out by entering their
chambers via windows they thought were far out of reach of anyone.
The Bron’s deputies go nowhere near the Shield of evenings unless forced to.
Maeragra once broke the jaw of one and the arm of another in the space of a few
breaths, when they tried to force their way into the inn to search a guest’s rooms, and
made the mistake of trying to threaten and cuff their way past her.
The head ostler in the stables of the Shield is well known among carters and riders
who travel the Shind Road as a good judge and nurse of ailing oxen and horses. Called
“Smokethroat” for his raw voice, his proper name is Lanther Maerown (LN male human
War6). Smokethroat is a short, stout man with a gray moustache, thinning gray hair, and
an impressive collection of ridged white scars crossing his brown and hairy forearms. A
retired warrior who fought for hire in the Vilhon, Sembia, and the Stonelands of Cormyr,
he has no love for those who bluster and threaten, and once threw a Zhent sword lord—
full armor, drawn sword, and all—bodily out of his stables to bounce in the mud in front
of his astonished (and delighted) troops.

Staying at the Shield

With so many people, the Shield can envelop guests in luxury so thoughtful and attentive
that some guests grumble that they’re always being watched. Guests whose slippers fall
from their feet as they recline in chairs with their feet up on plush stools have those
slippers deftly replaced. Those desiring a bath are always scrubbed, toweled, and have
their hair washed, combed, and styled by skillful chambermaids. And guests who enjoy
backrubs or being assisted in dressing receive cheerful and skillful attention to these
needs, though attempts at greater intimacy are be met by brisk directions to try
elsewhere in Voonlar.
Rooms are furnished lushly, kept toasty warm in winter and as shaded and cool as
possible in summer, and equipped with writing parchment, ink, and quills, plentiful seating,
cushions galore, and even plants and flowers. All rooms or suites have at least a large high-
backed armchair with footstool, a canopied bed large enough for three tall adults to sleep
side by side in, a wardrobe, a writing desk and upright chair, and a bedside table, and a
stepstool for the use of short guests ascending or descending from bed. Many rooms have
far more, including those on the ground floor, which have baths set into the floor and plentiful
closets (to muffle the noise of the kitchens and guests arriving and departing in the lobby).
All of this costs 3 gp/night per person for a small private room and an evening meal
(with all drinks, stabling, and all other food costing extra). All meals are served in guests’
rooms, although they can request meals be brought to them in one of the three meeting
rooms opening off the lobby.
One of the three meeting rooms is as soundproof as possible and equipped both as a
bedchamber, on one side of a privacy curtain, and as a meeting room for merchants, with

25
eight chairs drawn up around a grand table, on the other. It must be rented by the hour.
The other two rooms are free for the use of all guests desiring to meet with other guests
or with passersby or Voonlarrens.
The Shield can offer guests a broad cellar of wines, ales, and sherries (fortified wines),
though the accent is on quantity and breadth of selection rather than specific vintages.
These are priced at 5 cp per tankard (tall and splendid silver affairs) for ales, and 7 sp
per tallglass of wine or sherry (fluted, ornate glass affairs that really deserve the
appellation “tall").
Food is prepared in the kitchens throughout the day rather than at specific times, so
the accent is on soups, sauces, and fare that can be cooked and then kept warm without
suffering overly much. Almost all guests agree that the Shield’s table fare is fine or even
superb, and it is kept so by using herbs from the roof and mushrooms from the inn’s own
cellars coupled with a menu that shifts with the seasons to always use provender at its
best. As one guest famously remarked darkly, “At 1 gp a meal, it’d better be the best!"
A recent survey of Shield fare yielded the following menu: juicy oven-roasted quail
drowned beneath an onslaught of lemon-and-garlic sauce or horseradish-scented lamb.
Both are served on a hash of duck, quail eggs, buttery diced leeks, and potato, and
accompanied by silky buttercream cakes and either a venison barley soup or apple-and-
bacon soup.

Where Zhents Feel At Home

The Swords Meet
(Excellent/Expensive)
Travelers who hail from Zhentil Keep, who belong to the Zhentarim or other organizations
affiliated with them, or who enjoy the company of the rather fierce inhabitants of the Pride
of the North feel most at home at the Meet, a fine if forbidding-looking, inn that stands
on the south side of Shind Road just east of the Stagfoot (across from the White Stag).
If the traveler considers the two converging roads that form the Stagfoot as making the
shape of an arrowhead, it points right at the Meet: the large, dark, square stone building
two tall stories in height that boasts spitting gargoyle downspouts at its corners and mock
crenellations around the edges of its steeply peaked (and always rusty) metal roof. That
roof makes the Meet a noisy place to stay when rain or hail is drumming down, but it’s
otherwise “a superior inn,” in the words of the veteran wool merchant Helauther
Windelgrym (NE male human War5), formerly of Zhentil Keep and now a resident of
Ordulin, who spends at least a third of every year on the roads.
The Swords Meet was named by its deceased first owner, a retired Zhentil warrior by
the name of Naskaler Ormith, for its intended use as a haven away from home for
Zhents, who are often treated coldly south of their home city. Though it looks like a
fortress on the outside, the Meet is warm and dry, not dank, on the inside thanks to three
wood furnaces in the cellar, which is where guests’ horses are stabled. The Meet claims
to offer the largest and best-appointed stables in Voonlar, and although a glance at the
Shield down the road shows that “largest” is certainly a falsehood, “best-appointed” is
probably true. There’s even a barn and paddock to the west of it for ailing beasts.

26
 To keep stable aromas from making a stay at the Meet overly memorable to the nose,
scented oils are burned in hanging lamps in every room. Other lighting is kept low, but
the furnishings are luxurious (and if truth be known, plundered from dozens of Sembian
hunting lodges and upland mansions in earlier, bloodier times), and the tapestried and
rug-strewn passages are very quiet.
The Meet is run by its present owner, Aerel Hassammar, a grim wolf of a man (LN male
human War4) who is brutal but fair to his staff of seemingly scores of hurrying
chamberservants who are encouraged to be as friendly as guests want them to be and
remain almost unseen by all others, flitting into rooms like silent shadows to see to
everything with lightning speed.
Hassammar’s inn offers guests double sets of lockable doors on all suites. These make
the suites private and give occupants warning before the staff—who all have passkeys—
enter. (The passkeys are things that, travelers should be warned, often go missing.
Ambitious guests down through the years have stolen dozens of them, and the locks are
never changed.) Inside each suite are at least two beds, a hip bath or better, scented
washing water, and a water-sluice jakes.

Night Ale at the Meet

Most suites at the Meet can comfortably sleep four (far more if they don’t need beds), but
they’re all priced for one or two at 3 gp/night, with an additional payment of 2 gp per night
demanded for each additional person. That 3 gp buys a suite and a meal washed down
with all the tankards of ale one desires, though Zhents of all sorts pay only 2 gp per night,
and as Helauther intended, have come to favor this establishment as their home away
from home.
Meals and drinks can be ordered served in a suite, but there’s a surcharge of 1 sp per
such request. Most guests dine in the common room, a dimly lit place of plush booths
with a decor of battered battle trophy shields and crossed swords. During most of the day
soft minstrel-playing provides entertainment designed to keep some diners from
overhearing the secrets of others.
The common room occupies the eastern front quarter of the Meet’s ground floor. The
lobby and stairs take up the western quarter, and the southern half is given over to the
kitchens and pantries.
Visitors not renting rooms at the Meet come into the common room to enjoy drinks of
ale at 1 sp a tankard, or 8 sp for a meal and all the tankards they desire to drain. Wines
are always extra (2 sp to 10 gp per flagon) to guests or visitors alike. The wine is plentiful
in quantity but sometimes limited in choice. When the cellar is thin, the choice is usually
narrowed to Arabellan dry, local clarry and mead, and Saerloonian glowfire, special vat,
and topaz.
Visitors also come to hire a few swordsfolk on furlough from the selection of Zhent
warriors drinking and dining here. Such folk are commonly employed for local guard duty
to keep valuables from going missing as they’re loaded or unloaded from waywagons or
for dirty work (usually beating up a rival or destroying specific property belonging to a

27
rival). The common room is almost always full and is the only such room in Voonlar that
Gormstadd of Cyric cares to be seen in. (He always visits with a strong escort of lesser
clergy to shield him from Zhents drunk enough to want to prove their personal superiority
over a “crow who kneels to the Lord of Lies.")
The Meet is known for its strong home-brewed ale (known as night Aale for its dark
hue). One can sometimes get small amounts of other brews here, but don’t count on it.
The Meet serves heavy, gut-filling fare, and does it well. Hot buttered rolls and skewers
of sausage and fried mushrooms can be had at all times, and every few hours the
common room serves forth a remove (main dish) to all desiring it. A favorite remove of
the Meet cooks is seared venison and mushrooms cooked in red wine served with side
plates of strong, crumbly, yellow Askata cheese from Impiltur, and followed by sugared
biscuits slathered with warm blackberry jelly. Another frequently-served remove is roast
goat—extraordinarily tender, its flavor enhanced rather than hidden by mint-and-hot-
pepper sauce—on a bed of fried medallions of parsnip, potato, and radish, with side
plates of baked goat cheese crusted with almonds, followed with a fruit mash. Regulars,
however, swear by a rarer delight: pheasant spit-roasted to crackling and served on a bed
of mushrooms and field apples, with a side of sweet, moist, dark applecake.

Cheap and Cheerful at the Three Elves

The Three Elves
(Good/Cheap)
Named for three retired elven warriors who founded it (though they left Voonlar soon
after, selling the inn to the first of a succession of human owners), the Elves is the oldest
of Voonlar’s inns. It stands at the eastern end of town on the north side of Shind Road at
its meeting with the Dump Road. (The Elves faces down the Dump Road.) It is a
rambling, many-dormered fieldstone building with its upper floor of wood and its roof of
thatch. Its two sagging side wings are tile-roofed, but they have an alarming habit of
shedding tiles in high winds. The tiles have been cracked under the boots of too many
rowdy guests jumping onto them from higher windows, late at night. A distinctive
signboard juts out from above the inn’s great oval front door: three silver arrows flying in
a row, points down diagonally to the sinister, on a field of oak trees whose foliage runs
together into an unbroken mass of green.
The Three Elves is by far the most rundown of Voonlarren inns, with creaking, uneven
floors (some spring up alarmingly when a foot descends in the wrong place), a large
resident population of cats, mice, rats, spiders, roaches, and the like, and old, battered
furnishings. However, it remains a longtime favorite of many travelers.
It’s known through the Moonsea for its friendly, “you’re at home” staff and its kitchens.
Guests are expected to sprawl around at ease with their boots up on furniture and devour
huge portions of good, filling food. The four fat cooks who jointly own and run the inn—
Jaylee Clammath, the unmarried sisters Ammatha and Baralea Braceryn , and the
growling giant Haundrae Duir—are its strength, and are locally revered. Jaylee is a jovial
mountain of a woman (NG female human Exp6); Ammatha and Baralea are flitting birds
of breathless flirtation, thoughtfulness, and whirlwind cookery (both CG female human

28
Exp3); and Haundrae is a slow, mighty former soldier who is still handy with a hurled axe
(NG male human War5; Str 17). Starving travelers should go nowhere else.
A meal at the Elves is 5 sp for all one can eat and drink. The cellar is deep, but consists
of whatever passing merchants sell, plus Haundrae’s nut ale (thick, dark, and almost
chewy) and a thinner berry beer (nice, but too sweet for some) brewed by the Braceryn
sisters. Don’t expect reliable supplies of particular vintages here.
A room is 8 sp (food and drink for the day included), with a 2-sp surcharge for those
desiring a private room (rather than one shared with other travelers). Stabling for one
beast is included, but additional animals are 5 sp each/night.
The Elves is a labyrinth of short flights of steps, odd-shaped rooms, and passages that
bend and twist, but guests soon find their ways down to the common room where at all
hours food is being prepared. Typical Elves fare is roast boar or old ox’(tough beef
marinated for days in a succulent secret sauce of wine and crushed nuts) or a “mess” of
partridge, rabbit, or wild turkey, accompanied by dumpling-and-greens or spiced cheese
soup, salt fish on melted butter buns, strong cheeses, and dried fruit tarts. (Haundrae is
wild about cheese and orders a huge variety from far afield.) Few dine elsewhere often,
once they’ve dined at the Elves.

An Inn For Adventurers

Perhaps the most intriguing inn in Voonlar is one avoided by many respectable travelers’
because of its shady, even dangerous reputation. It’s where those fools who go
adventuring stay—and all too often fight each other, blowing half the place to the skies!
The Whistling Wizard
(Fair/Cheap)
This secluded inn stands on the east side of the Northride against the edge of the forest.
It’s the first Voonlarren building seen by travelers approaching Voonlar from Shadowdale,
and it marks the true southern edge of town, whatever claims various townfolk might
make with a map in hand.
A room at the Wizard ranges from 1 gp to 2 gp 5 sp a night, depending on the size and
luxuriousness of the furnishings. A room consists of at minimum a bedchamber opening
into its own closet and jakes, with a bed, a couch or cot, a chair, a wall mirror, and a
table—all of which are old, mismatched pieces of furniture salvaged from elsewhere.
Rooms on the south side are all 2 gp, and those with balconies are an extra 2 sp per
night. These rates include all meals (and as many servings as desired) with unlimited
beer. Wine and zzar are extra, by the tallglass (5 cp to 5 sp) or the bottle (3 to 10 gp).
Stabling is an extra 5 sp per beast per night.
Cleanliness isn’t a priority at the Wizard, a problem addressed by keeping the lighting
sparse. Each guest is issued with a faerie fire baton (a baton with a continual version of
faerie fire worked upon it, similar to an everburning torch, but shedding only as much light
as a candle in one of an assortment of hues such as pale green or purple) for walking
about in relative safety. If guests fail to surrender their batons when they depart, they’re
charged an extra 90 gp per missing baton, and no beast can be claimed from the inn

29
stables without trading in a baton or displaying a bill settled note bearing the innkeeper’s
signet ring impression in the right color of wax.
The dimness, rather strange clientele, and local reputation keep the timid and the
respectable away from the Wizard. Yet for all that, the infamous traveler Volothamp
Geddarm considered it, “A fun house of wayrest that like a snatch-thief turning out his
cloak can boast pockets of hidden luxury.” Successful Sembian merchants like
Urkamond Thond of Saerloon (a LN male human Ari4 of keen wits and great wealth
made in the textile trade) judged it, “Far better than I’d been led to believe. If all one
demands is fair food and a place to sleep unmolested, it serves quite adequately.” Thalto
Bresmer of Teflamm (LN male human Exp9), who travels the Dragonreach tirelessly
selling fine furniture, hinges, handles, and locks of superior make and appearance, and
large pieces of low-value gemstone for use in furniture inlays and wall adornment, called
it “The most comfortable bad inn it has ever been my pleasure to stay in—quiet if shabby
comfort, privacy if one desires it, and much entertainment if one does not."
The Wizard is a place of old, creaking floors, dark wood paneling, and many-layered
firequench spells that keep all flames from igniting anywhere except the cookhouse
across the stableyard from the inn proper. These spells have led to certain amorous
guests (or those meeting for shady dealings of a more businesslike nature) using
spheres of fireflies as nightlights when the steady spellglow of a baton is deemed too
bright.

A Tour of the Wizard

The Whistling Wizard inn shows passersby on the Northride a lantern post (from which
hangs a whimsical signboard, consisting of a carved wooden whistling wizard’s head), a
few paces of muddy foreyard, and then a long, covered porch with a hitching rail. The
porch and hitching rail are overlooked by the owner’s rooms, with their narrow balcony
whose rail holds a rather rickety row of herb boxes.
From there the Wizard, an unlovely rectangle, stretches back—and back, sprawling as
long as some castles. It has two floors and a full cellar, and the windows and balconies
along its southern wall (the most expensive rooms) offer views of the deep woods, which
start a scant few paces from their casements.
The stableyard, several granaries and stable buildings, and the cookhouse all straggle
along the northern flank of the Wizard amid scrub underbrush. In the underbrush the
owner’s pet pigs—small, lazy, and stupid sows who all share the (usually shouted
angrily) name of “Little Latha"—root around constantly and noisily, though some Lathas
have been known to vanish at the same time as certain guests ready their wagons and
depart.
The Wizard has an air of quiet seediness, dust, and old secrets. It serves vile,
homebrewed, small beer (the Wizard’s Quaff), some passable Moonsea ales, and has a
fair to poor (depending on the time of year) wine cellar dominated by dry white vintages
from around the Inner Sea and zzar (as a nod to travelers from the west). Big wine
shipments from buyers in Sembia arrive at the Wizard in late Uktar if the summer season
has been good, and dregs that establishments in Hillsfar want to be rid of arrive in early

30
spring if the summer season was not overly profitable. Drinks are served to guests in
their rooms, in the common room that fills the ground floor front of the inn, and in the
upper parlor.
The upper parlor is a balconied, top-floor room on the forest side of the inn, at its
easternmost end. It is famous as a meeting place for less than savory business. Until
recently, slaves were openly examined and purchased there.
The common room is the usual dark, smoky, low-beamed labyrinth of stout but
mismatched round tables, chairs, and a serving bar. The room features no benches since
the owner hates them, having fallen over backward off one too many.
Entering by the front door, the bar is off to the left, with the jakes to the right, and an
archway straight ahead leading to the ground floor rooms, and the bottom of a stair
ascending over the bar to the upper floor where it runs along its own, more northerly
passage to a stair that descends again to meet the ground floor passage at the back
door. The ground floor rooms are located along a straight passage that turns sharply left
near the end of the inn to head for an exit door northward behind which are the stables
and cookhouse. The hallway also provides access to an eastward-looking suite of rooms
that have their own private exit and are much used by adventuring bands desiring their
comings and goings—especially in the wee hours—to be relatively private.
Upper floor rooms are long and narrow and are hung with half-curtains to make them
seem even longer. They tend to be quieter, so they’re the most expensive at the Wizard.
(Floor-creakings made in them are heard in rooms below them, but not vice-versa.)

Why Stay at the Wizard?

Meals at the Wizard vary in specifics and quality, but regardless of the hour they always
involve a soup (hot—and usually hoof-tongue-ox-tripes-and-diced vegetables—except in
the very warmest days of summer, when it will be cold leek-and-potato), a stew of thick
gravy and mixed fried meats, locally baked bread served with garlic butter, and fruit pies.
The fried meat is usually snared forest game or old mutton, beef, or horsemeat from local
animals past their prime that has been marinating in large vats in the rearmost
outbuilding—vats into which more than one person somehow fell, some with their wrists
and ankles bound, so that the vats now bear locked covers.
In short, it is plain farm country food, good and filling but neither dainty nor
distinguished. Patrons who visit the cookhouse with special requests are liable to be
chased out by the hurled cleavers of the sweating, near-naked staff, who work in
constant heat and smoke from boiling cauldrons and the open cooking hearths. The
kitchen staff consists of a pair of unlovely and aging dwarves and their young human
assistants. They all snap and shout at each other constantly and eat as they go,
terrorizing the four scurrying serving wenches. The kitchen staff, all male, are the bald,
bearded, and constantly cursing Bezoldur Thornhand (LN male dwarven War7), the
clean-shaven and less articulate Thaunder Gallowglaive (NG male dwarven War6), and
three stokers-and-fetchers, who keep the fires tended, draw and carry the water, and
wash and chop mountains of vegetables: Thamphrol Sarlar, Rauntil Balarr, and Nivlin
Goskull (all NG male human Com1s). Nivlin likes to play pranks, but he’s been literally

31
beaten out of his habit of leaving severed animal heads propped up on the pillows of
certain guests’ beds.
The current innkeeper and owner of the Wizard is Harauna Beltzund, a short and fiery-
tempered woman whose family seized the inn from the previous owner, a thin and sour
Zhent by the name of Anthalus Droon, for unpaid debts. Droon is widely believed to have
been a Zhentarim spy on both Voonlar and Northride trade, and to have “scuttled back
to the Keep to get his new orders.” Certainly he’s seen in Voonlar no more. Harauna’s
large hands, feet, nose, and burly build suggest dwarven blood in her lineage. Her warm
nature, flashing eyes, and gruff kindnesses leave most folk liking her—while at the same
time dreading her tongue and rages (for she’s deadly accurate with hurled pots,
tankards, and drinking jacks—wherefore there’s not a glass or ceramic drinking vessel to
be found in the Wizard today). Harauna frowns on guests bringing their own beasts with
them, and she insists that anything monstrous or in any way snakelike be locked up for
a guest’s stay in one of the secure undercells in the basement of the back pantry (the
easternmost of all the low, stone-and-slate outbuildings that dot the Wizard stableyard).
Named for the local belief that the wizard Mhzentul once kept bees on the site where the
inn stands and could often be seen thereon whistling as he worked among the hives (and
a magically warded away cloud of buzzing bees), the Whistling Wizard is famous locally as
a refuge for adventurers, wizards, and other dangerous sorts’—and a place where spell
battles between monsters and mages seem to often erupt. Any local inhabitant can relate
many fanciful struggles involving flames shooting across the forest for miles, the inn itself
being whirled up into the air, a striding colossus or two, dragons erupting out of flagons and
being sucked into chamberpots where they’re still imprisoned, and wizards being
transformed, limb by limb, into different beasts as they hurl spells at each other.

The Wizard’s Well, and Dove of the Seven

The Wizard also enjoys a certain fame among travelers and inhabitants of the wider
Moonsea region for its soothsaying Wizard Well. The Well may be consulted by all guests
and passersby for free so long as they venture into the basement Well chamber alone
and bar the door behind them. Those who arrive in groups will find only darkness and
placid silence, whereas those who come alone will see the waters glow with a faint blue-
green light after they’ve stood looking into the well for a minute or so, and a ghostly,
feminine voice will whisper, “Yes?"
The Well knows a lot about intrigues, politics, power groups, and adventurers active in
the Dragonreach, but shares more good advice than useful secrets, and often asks
questions as much as it gives answers. Those who lie to the Well can expect to receive
falsehoods in return, though such triflings with the truth will be subtle and rarely obvious
until much later. Many travelers use the Well as an old friend to confess things to and
discuss things with. The voice in the Well successfully resists all magical attempts to
compel or harm it, including priestly attempts to drive it forth or learn its true nature, and
seems to have infinite patience for discussing even trivia for hours at a time. The Well
refuses to give its name, if it has one, and never seems to lose its temper or play favorites
among its visitors. Those who talk overly long while others await by the closed door to
the Well chamber will discover that the Well will slowly grow dimmer and fainter, until it
32
ceases to answer altogether. After they depart, the voice in the Well returns with full vigor
to speak to its next guest. (More about the voice in the Well later.)
Items dropped into the well can’t be seen from above its water, but they can be readily
felt and retrieved by anyone venturing into the Well. (The surface of the Well somehow
renders them invisible, always showing clear water even if light sources are shone into
or submerged in the Well.) The Well’s cool waters have no special benefits to either
beings or items introduced into them. All that happens to something dropped into the
Well is that it gets wet.
Among the Harpers, the Wizard is also infamous as the place where a magically
chained Dove of the Seven Sisters worked in disguise for a time as a serving wench. She
was rescued from this drudgery by Florin Falconhand, who became her husband soon
after. To this day, Florin doesn’t know that Dove was staying willingly to spy on neogis and
manscorpions who seemed to come out of nowhere to stay at the inn. The monstrous
creatures used very poor disguises and often openly tormented or slaughtered human
travelers who had the misfortune to decide to stay at the Wizard overnight. Dove still
believes that there was at the time a gate, planar rift, or other connection to distant
planes or other worlds in the woods very near the inn—but scores of Harpers have
recently searched every rock, fern, old stump, and tree for miles south of the Wizard, left
behind many watch spells, and found . . . nothing.
Certain senior Harpers have noted that the neogi and manscorpion visits ceased
within days of Dove’s departure—and have advanced the bold theory that they may have
been coming to the inn to keep watch over her.

The Recent and Colorful History of the Wizard

One morning early in the winter after Dove’s departure, Ansilber Klauthaudra was found
dismembered in the common room. Ansilber was the sleepy-faced, lazy, and casually
cruel fat man who owned the Wizard at the time. He was a former tailor from Essembra.
Mourning was swift and investigations of the death even more so, and the staff ran the inn
unsupervised for less than a tenday before the unlamented Klauthaudra was replaced by a
young, haughty, and even more cruel, thin, and nasal-voiced snob of a Selgauntan wastrel
by the name of Ravvas Thurrpurtyn, who used money given him by his father (almost
certainly with the admonition never to show his face in Selgaunt again) to buy the inn.
Independent Harper reports insist that Ravvas was slain and impersonated (perhaps
even before his arrival in Voonlar) by a nameless undercover agent of the Red Wizards
of Thay. It seems likely that this agent was in turn killed and replaced by a Malaugrym
who posed both as Ravvas and as the Red Wizard agent.
Under the tenure of “Ravvas” (whoever he in truth was at any given time), the Wizard
was a haven and contact place for Dragon Cultists, Thayan agents, and informers-for-
hire who reported to Sembian cabals, agents of Hillsfar, and certain Zhent factions. At
times, guest arrivals were almost comical, as everyone in the common room (dining
room) looked up menacingly to see if the newcomer was here to see them . . . or
someone else in the place.

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 Things came to a head when “Gathkatra” (real name almost certainly something else),
an ogre mage polymorphed into a more human semblance, decided to take up residence
as chatelaine of the inn (by slaying the incumbent in an accident and then offering
“herself” as replacement), doppelgangers joined the cooking staff, and finally an uniquely
gifted illithid archmage (employing a spell-spun “tall human from afar” disguise, and using
the name “Klondras Imdree, late of Westgate") settled in at the Wizard for a long stay. All
of this caused the soothsaying Wizard Well in the basement, which then as now
whispered aloud to many travelers who dared to consult it in private, much consternation,
and it eventually decided to act.
The Well is in reality a female spectral harpist who in life was a dancer and Zhentil
Keep courtesan by the name of Zarracee Ambroanye. The Well is dedicated to
functioning as a message exchange for passing Harper agents. Zarracee attacks
persons she views as foes of the Harpers who venture into the Well waters and readily
avoids attacks upon the Well by simply passing out of its walls and moving elsewhere in
the inn. When guests really interest her (usually because they’re suspicious characters),
she’s been known to spy on them from the closets of their inn bedrooms—and even to
rouse some guests to deal with others when skullduggery is afoot late at night.
Calling (via a Harper messenger) on no less a personage than Elminster to cleanse
the inn, Zarracee caused a strike force consisting of Sharantyr, Illistyl, and Jhessail of the
Knights of Myth Drannor, assisted by no less than two dozen Harper agents, to descend
on the Wizard. Unfortunately, the Harper messenger was returning from a mission to
report to Storm Silverhand, and included mention of the Well’s consternation when
speaking with the Bard of Shadowdale. Storm mounted her own attack on the Wizard,
with the aid of her sister the Simbul and half a dozen of the Witch-Queen’s most
ambitious apprentices on the same afternoon.

The Battle at the Bar

The prevailing peace in the Whistling Wizard was bound to be shattered by two separate
Harper attacks—but by sheer happenstance (unless, of course, one believes in gods
having a savage collective sense of humor), the attacks coincided with a stopover at the
Wizard of the Tarntar, a highly secretive Sembian consortium of wizards and wealthy
merchants. This little-known trading alliance is a collection of dabblers in slaving
activities, particularly affairs involving the kidnappings of prominent Sembian youths.
Smuggling and warehouse thefts are also among their skills (but a better accounting of
the Tarntar is a matter for another time).
Suffice it to say that on the afternoon in question, the mages of the Tarntar staying at
the Wizard (not counting apprentices, bodyguards, and familiars) numbered three: “Five
Flames” Alro Randulkyn of Saerloon, Master-of-Moons Hastammer Orlim of Ordulin, and
Skulto Mreth of Yhaunn. Five Flames (NE male human Evo9) was a cruel, fun-loving, and
impulsive roisterer of a mage, who often and enthusiastically enjoyed good wine, good
clothes, and bad ladies, and was a rather careless in his spellcastings. Hastammer Orlim
(LE human male Wiz15) was an elderly and severe man who cultivated an awe-inspiring
reputation as a mage of power enough to talk to the deities—and have some of them
take his advice. Skulto Mreth (LE male human Ill13) was a close-mouthed, nondescript
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master of disguises and privacy, who had many covert investments in the Moonsea
cities, more enemies than most folks can count, and a collection of enchanted whips
matched only by the numbers of slaves he’d used them on. Cold and calm, he was
careful and always prepared for calamity.
Not counting various adherents of no account and smallware peddlers, the Tarntar
merchants staying over at the Wizard included Ghaurann Rhee of Ordulin (CE male
human Rog4/Wiz3, a handsome and silver-tongued seller of skin salves, cosmetics, and
face and figure temporary-adornment spells), and Tharath Shemmer of Selgaunt (a
dealer in furs and fine leather apparel).
All of these formidable characters were shocked when Elminster of Shadowdale
strolled into the common room, openly and alone, and called for a tankard of beer,
leaving his pipe to float by itself in midair, smoking gently. They sat frozen, doing nothing,
as Elminster teased Alro about his recent conquests, asked the Master-of-Moons how
the deities were doing, and warned Skulto that some of his underlings were fiddling
accounts for themselves, and he’d best check his slaving books right swiftly.
None dared attack the Old Mage of Shadowdale—and at length he smiled sweetly,
seated himself in Orlim’s lap, and changed his shape, becoming the Simbul (who this
false Elminster truly was).
At least two of the Tarntar mages didn’t recognize the Witch-Queen of Aglarond and
launched furious spell attacks on her. She laughed merrily—the signal for Storm and the
apprentices to charge into the room, whilst the Simbul devoted herself to making sure the
spells now flying around the common room didn’t destroy, transform, or set afire the inn.
The merchants ran to get their bodyguards, and their haste caused the Knights of Myth
Drannor, whose strike force was nearing the inn, to hasten to the attack.

Endgame at the Wizard

And so the Battle at the Bar began—and spread swiftly from end to end of the Whistling
Wizard, causing Zarracee to race from chamber to chamber shouting warnings to
Harpers, and the inn to come within a skin’s thickness of vanishing in one of the
explosions Voonlarrens are so eager to describe and attribute as every-other-day
occurrences at the Wizard. While spells shook and flashed in the common room,
reducing windows, doors, and furniture to splintered shards, warriors with drawn swords
hacked and shouted up and down the inn stairs and passages, spilling even into the
cookhouse—where the doppelgangers, thinking they’d been discovered, joined the fray,
posing as the most fearsome folk they could think of: Zhentarim wizards. The sight of
them caused the Knights to attack in earnest, and both the ogre mage and the illithid
archmage to plunge into battle, causing the unintentional gutting (and subsequent
renovation) of several upper rooms of the Wizard.
In the common room, several magic mouth spells that had been cast on the bar as
waiting messages by various Harpers reacted with the preservative and fire-retardant
spells also laid on it, and the wild combinations of overlapping battle spells that were
washing over it, by erupting in an explosion that killed Ravvas, Arlo Randulkyn, and

35
Tharath Shemmer. The explosion also removed the ceiling above the bar, causing the
room above to collapse down into the common room. In the fall, the ogre mage Gathkatra
tumbled down to death by impalement on the wreckage, and the illithid mage was caught
in midtransformation into another shape, its magical abilities ended forever by extensive
brain damage. Wailing, it fled into the forest.
The Master-of-Moons, who’d used a spell to grow several additional arms and used all
of them enthusiastically to stab the Simbul, now collapsed into weeping and pleaded with
her for mercy. When she reluctantly granted it (with half a dozen enchanted daggers still
buried hilt-deep in her breast), he triumphantly cast a spell that made all of the daggers
explode, rending the upper half of her body. Storm promptly beheaded him, and the
Harpers and the Simbul’s apprentices rushed to aid the stricken queen—as several of
the Bron’s deputies arrived with weapons at the ready, demanding to know what had
happened and accompanied by local citizens who’d come to gawk.
Contingent spells and spell effects snatched the magical aid the Queen of Aglarond
needed to her from elsewhere: a sphere of healing fluid that she dove into, and once
immersed, was healed in moments. The remaining Tarntar fled during the confusion.
One of the deputies made the mistake of trying to disarm and issue commands to one
of the Simbul’s apprentices. She used spells to send the man flying back down the road
to the Throat, bouncing painfully once or twice. That precipitated a general Harper attack
on the remaining Voonlarren authorities, who hastily withdrew from the Wizard—followed
shortly thereafter by the contrite Harper attackers. Before she left, Storm did present the
senior surviving inn staffer, a grizzled old tapster by the name of Avlar (who still tends
the bar to this day), with gold and gems enough to pay for repairs.

The Wizard Then to Now

The repairs Storm paid for were well underway at the Wizard when Anthalus Droon
showed up a tenday later, declared himself the new owner (flanked by the Bron and a
number of distinguished Zhent visitors casually displaying much ready weaponry), and
confiscated the funds Avlar hadn’t spent yet. (That’s why the common room furniture is
so old and mismatched. New replacements were never bought.)
Droon then spent a season mismanaging the Wizard into the ground—a tenure marked
by such brilliant decisions as to save on firewood in winter by letting the inn grow cold and
commanding the staff to dress warmly (though it was soon painfully clear that guests would
go to other inns and pay a little more for the privilege of freedom from chilblains) and taking
chambermaids from their cleaning duties to send them out hunting in the forest to provide
free food for the inn kitchen. The wolves got one maid, and the others caught nothing.
Eventually Droon was forced to hire foresters from Shadowdale to set traps, which the
hapless maids were set to making the rounds of. Needless to say, the few travelers who
braved the nigh-impassable winter roads from Sembia with sledges of valuables were less
than enamored of weasel stew and rabbit soup so thin it was hardly more than boiled water.
(When there’s a lot of snow, the prevailing winds often cause it to drift the Hillsfar road into
impassibility, so trade bound for the Moonsea goes west through Mistledale, and then up
the trail along the Ashaba to Shadowdale, and thence through Voonlar.)

36
 Droon openly hated the Wizard, Voonlar, and the cold, often cursing them all and
retiring to his rooms to drain flagons of mulled wine heated over his own fire. (His was
the only fire at the Wizard outside of the cookhouse that was kept alight all the time.) This
behavior is why most locals surmise he was under orders to remain at the inn.
When Sembian factors (family business agents) began to arrive in Voonlar in the
spring on their way north to the Moonsea cities to receive overwinter reports on
investments and to deliver the latest orders from their masters, Droon courted them.
Eventually he found one willing to take back an investment proposal, which is how
Harauna Beltzund came to be Droon’s major creditor and eventual owner of the Wizard.
(She never saw a copper piece out of Droon, who used the barest minimum of her
investment to keep the inn running and pocketed the rest.)
The chambermaids still have the traps, by the way, and they have used them to
discourage Zhent thieves and spies who’ve shown an interest in entering the Wizard
from time to time bent on dishonest purposes.
Despite Harper vigilance and such precautions, local rumor insists various guests
regularly hide messages or small packets of valuables in hiding places under the floors
or inside the walls of certain guest rooms at the Wizard. These packages are reputedly
collected by the Bron’s deputies, by Cyricist priests, or by lay temple staff late at night in
visits to the inn that don’t involve announcing themselves or paying for a night’s
accommodation. This has happened—to the alarm of paying guests who sleep lightly
and have come awake to find someone creeping around in their room—often enough to
keep such rumors current in Voonlar. For that reason, Harauna treats anyone she finds
skulking around the inn late at night very frostily.

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 Perendra’s Little Secret
Know ye that I began this series of little missives to demonstrate that every small
backwater of Faerûn has its history, its little mysteries, and its folk and features of
interest. Look not for adventure—for it lies at thy elbow, behind or beneath yon tree, or
through the nearest door. Seek it too aggressively, mind ye, and ye risk being deemed a
dangerous troublemaker, a mantle most adventurers become all too familiar with as their
careers unfold.
Voonlar, the settlement thus far under our exhaustive examination, was merely my
example, lying as it does next door to Shadowdale along the trade road. Ye could choose
any place and uncover as much of interest, or more. In fact, if ye had patience enough
to bear with me as I descended into years of gossip and family feuds and the like, we
could spend another year or three learning more of Voonlar and its adventuring
possibilities.
For instance, the various temples folk have founded in Voonlar have all been plundered
more than once, and many have suffered internal strife and long-lasting schism—and in
all of these affrays valuables have gone missing. Many such have of course been spirited
away, to be traded, lost, hidden, melted down, or exchanged elsewhere in Faerûn. Some,
however, undoubtedly lie shallowly buried beneath the roots of this or that tree in the
woods to the west or south of Voonlar, or even in a particular spot in the town dump or
hard by a handy fencepost in the surrounding fields. Smaller caches of valuables
undoubtedly inhabit hollows and hidden cavities in cottage walls or lie beneath specific
stall floors in stables.
Nay, we’ve by no means exhausted the secrets of Voonlar.
One more such I’ll share now—for it shall lead us away from Voonlar on into other
places, and more adventures.
It concerns the mage Perendra, with whom (before her unfortunate demise) I was wont
to share occasional afternoons. We spent them smoking pipes and draining handy
tankards as we talked over those dread secrets wizards discuss in private (such as how
prices are rising everywhere and things growing darker and grimmer over all Faerûn,
how the weather disappoints but is nothing compared to its legendary misbehaviors in
our youth, the rarity of good rulers everywhere compared to those same long-ago glory
days, and other matters that are, like those I’ve mentioned, only of interest to mages). I
miss the lass, I do . . . but then, at my age, I could fill several good-sized kingdoms with
departed friends whom I miss dearly.
Ah, but I was telling ye of Perendra’s little secret. Actually she had several choice
secrets, both large and small, but the one germane to our present discourse is a portal
she created (or modified after discovering it, I know not which). It still exists today and
may be freely used by anyone who avoids brigands and lurking Zhents. I don’t believe
either end of it lies under close observation or guard. Which means, of course, that it’s
practically a trumpet call to adventure . . .
My, is that the time? I must away and shatter a tower with spells right now, but I’ll
return, fear ye not (or fear ye, as the case may be), to unfold more of this matter!
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A Farewell to Voonlar
Now the mage Perendra dwelt on the western edge of Voonlar, in what she was pleased
to call her Stronghold, a fortified manor with extensive subterranean cellars and
passages beneath that was surrounded by the forest. The invisible (of course) portal
stands some way to its southwest, down a tiny footpath. The trail leads first to Perendra’s
root cellar, now sadly bereft of the tart apples I used to enjoy stealing and devouring
(though the lass took the fun out of it by observing my habit and pointedly delivering
baskets of the things to me each fall). Beyond that it comes up on her outhouse (disused
for years, as she developed the same dislike all aging bones do for freezing one’s
backside in the dark of a winter night blizzard), and thence to her refuse oven (where
bones were burned), and lastly her woodpile, with its clearing and chopping block. (Yes,
the lady cut her own firewood. She was an honest mage—and stay thy laughter, there
are such things—and not an idle noble.)
From this clearing, three paths wander off into the trees like reaching fingers. A little
way down the centermost, out of sight of the clearing and just past a large, flat-topped
boulder seemingly made by the gods for sitting on (or drying wet clothes in spring or fall
when the leaves are scarce), there’s a place where one passes between two old, rotting,
and very large stumps.
This few feet of the path between the stumps is of course the unseen portal. Only if
one utters the word “Felderenslor” (not likely to happen by accident, ye must admit) will
its magic take thee—in a single step—to somewhere far indeed from Voonlar.
Where? Ah, that will have to wait until I next speak with ye, so it will. Suffice it to say
that I’ve no idea why Perendra desired to swiftly reach this other place and return from
it, and that if one says “Orntharm Felderenslor,” the portal delivers a user instead to a
small safehold: an extradimensional, dimly lit chamber walled, floored, and roofed in
imprenetrable mists. It contains a cot, a wardrobe full of Perendra’s clothing (including
cloaks, boots, and some garments affording her disguises surprising for a woman—or a
mage of either gender, for that matter), and several healing potions. There were once
some magic rings and wands therein, too, but they disappeared shortly after her death,
suggesting that someone besides the lady and myself knew how to work the portal thus.
It also affords a user space enough to stride back and forth—space which allows
perhaps a dozen folk to stand crammed together or three or four room to sleep upon the
floor. (The cot can of course be shared, and someone else who’s thin and has a short
nose could sleep beneath it if one has rather too many friends.) Fresh air is never a
problem in this safehold. ’Tis possible to tarry there for days, studying or sleeping, but if
any spell is worked therein, its caster is immediately and forcibly ejected from the
safehold back to the rock.
Return to the rock can be accomplished more calmly by saying “Lathtroo.” So far as I
know, none of the portal-controlling words has any meaning—or dignity, for that matter.
If one instead says “Alnegust,” one arrives safely at the portal’s second destination.
(Direct travel from it to Perendra’s path, or to the safehold, are by the same words that
work from the Voonlar end.)

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 If one adds the word “Haloom” either before or after “Alnegust” or “Felderenslor,” arrival
at a portal terminus is achieved at the heart of an instantly appearing fog cloud, equal in
all respects to the spell of the same name. If not dispersed by wind, it lasts for 30 minutes
and is stationary.
If someone standing at one portal end utters the word for that same portal terminus,
nothing happens, and if they say “Haloom,” again, nothing occurs—but if they say
“Haloom” and the word for their own end of the portal, they won’t be taken anywhere, but
the fog cloud appears all around them.
As to why the portal was set up in this manner—well, that’s just one more little mystery.
I love a mystery, don’t you?

Malthuk’s Tower
Now that I’ve armed ye with particulars to spare regarding the operation of the portal
often used by Perendra to enter or leave Voonlar unseen by Zhents and other unfriendly
folk, ’tis time to tell ye what to expect at its far end.
Some Harpers have warned me that the same portal leads elsewhere—to various
Sword Coast locations, according to those who are muttering secrets my way—if
commanded by different words. However, those I know and have already given lead to a
locale surprising to some: the uppermost room of a ruined, leaning stone tower in the
heart of the southern city of Delzimmer. Specifically, they lead to a windowless, conical
stone chamber with a lofty vaulted ceiling that stands within the spire of Malthuk’s Tower.
The chamber is reputed locally to be haunted by the ghosts of two human mages who
slew each other therein. Malthuk, one of the mages who died in therein, is said to have
either built or inherited the tower some four centuries ago. He dwelt there for twoscore-
and-some years before being attacked by a former apprentice, the overly ambitious,
flame-red-bearded Halrith Esral. Some have seen their silent phantoms chasing each
other up and down the crumbling spiral stone stair at the heart of the Tower, hurling spells
at each other whose visual displays are vivid, but—like the battling mages themselves—
no more than harmless illusions.
The Tower itself exhibits a pronounced lean to the northeast, and its walls display
many long, interlinked cracks—but those walls are over a foot thick and have withstood
many, many attempts on the part of young mages to fell them with blasting spells. No
doubt some such fool will succeed in bringing it down, someday, but at my every visit it
has seemed sturdy enough.
The Tower stands within a modest ring of broken-down walls, the space within given
over to the stone rubble of collapsed outbuildings, crawling vines and shrubbery
(dominated, I must say, by an overabundance of thorns), occasional rats, and far more
than occasional snakes. Indeed, small dusty vipers seem to glide everywhere, most of
them possessing poison feeble enough not to slay outright but quite strong enough to
keep the ruins uninhabited despite their central location in Delzimmer.

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 It’s clear that many folk have scoured the ruins repeatedly for treasure, even to the
extent of hammering holes in the interior walls of the Tower rooms, and that they either
successfully plundered it long ago or left empty-handed.
There are three cellar rooms: the well cellar; another an apparent granary or pantry;
and the third a cell for confining slaves, beasts, or perhaps persons kidnapped for
ransom or perhaps to suffer magical experimentation. My own explorations have led me
to suspect that the well in the tower cellar still yields drinkable water and that its shaft
probably conceals a storage niche for some magical treasure or other (behind a loose
stone, probably). However, many strong spells lie in wait guarding whatever lies in the
well—and the guarded area is submerged beneath the water. Moreover, evidence
suggests that someone in Delzimmer maintains some sort of magical alarm that alerts
him or her to persons entering the well cellar, whom they soon attack.
Beings may wander the rest of the Tower environs freely without attracting such
attention. Such explorers are warned that the well within the compound walls but outside
the Tower proper (in the southwest corner, under three stunted bitterthorn trees) is
tainted, probably by carrion.
Beasts, outlaws, spies, and persons arranging clandestine meetings for various
lawless purposes frequent the Tower compound, but no one dwells there long, and there
is no easily found treasure of any sort left for intruders to glean.
The Tower itself boasts five levels of empty rooms opening off its stair (all but the
uppermost pierced by many tall, narrow, arch-topped windows, and thus given over to
birds and years upon years of their accumulated droppings), but it seems much less
interesting than bustling Delzimmer, beyond its ring walls, so in my next missive, we’ll
venture out into that city.

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 A First Glance at Delzimmer
Perendra’s specific interests in this hot, surprisingly damp trading city remain a mystery
to me—but ’tis the sort of lawless, everchanging, bustling center of commerce that
appeals to wanderers and merchants everywhere. Aside from the climate, dusky-skinned
elves that many might mistake for drow going about openly in the sunlight, and an
abundance of chattering halflings, one might well be in Scornubel, far to the north in the
Sword Coast lands. Delzimmer’s population rises and falls constantly, but I’d judge that
in most years, ’tis about eight to eleven thousand, perhaps falling to as little as six-and-
three-quarters of a thousand in winter.
In Delzimmer, winters tend to be two months of lashing cold rainstorms that
are hurried through the city in swift succession by fierce winds. Sometimes rain
falls hard enough to flood the streets for some hours at a time. That potential
for flooding and the snakes and dust the rest of the year combine to make
cellars rare, to make ground-floor rooms sparsely furnished (and often tile-,
flagstone-, or dirt-floored), and to restrict any opulence of furnishing and
storage of valuable items to upper floors.
Delzimmer has city walls, which are of stone and about twenty feet high, sloping from
a thickness of three feet or so at the top to thrice that at the base and lacking battlements
or a walltop walk for defenders. However, their condition is somewhat akin to those of the
ring walls of Malthuk’s Tower: crumbling and pierced by many breaks, which now carry
streets through them, and which long since allowed Delzimmer to expand beyond and in
the end ignore its walls. The cute little one-room, spire-topped towers that cap the wall
every so often now serve as rookeries for trained message doves and pigeons. (The
ranks of which are often thinned by hungry local urchins skilled at slinging stones and
desirous of pigeon pie.)
Delzimmer lacks a formal ruler or much authority. What it has instead are four well-
established human families who operate storage warehouse, moneylending/changing/
banking services, and caravan outfitting concerns. (These are not costers. They prefer to
let other individuals go to the discomfort and danger of actual caravan travel.) Their
private armies of liveried guards police the streets in a rough-and-ready manner—and
interestingly, although the four families are rivals, they seem to have long ago come to
some firm pacts to prevent their clashing interests (and the swords of their guards) from
ever erupting into open strife. In short, they share the wealth that flows to them by
maintaining Delzimmer as an open trading city.
These local satraps (I employ the collective southern term for petty rulers because these
de facto rulers of Delzimmer entirely lack any formal titles or authority) are the families:
• Belark, whose guards wear leather armor of crimson hue to which are affixed
painted metal bucklers displaying a black hawk in flight winging to the sinister on a
white sky device;
• Harlhaun, whose guards and retainers wear blue-green (deep blue dominating)
livery or armor adorned with bucklers emblazoned with a purple upright sword on a
white field;

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 • Jathlet, whose colors is a light lime green and whose badge is a blue-black panther
or hunting cat that is depicted leaping upward toward the sinister (on a white field);
and
• Olaundran, whose colors are gold trimmed with white (aye, cloth-of-gold or
shimmerweave, not yellow of any hue), and whose device is a circle of six gold
coins (each of which is decorated in black with a single staring eye, which has won
them the name “watchcoins") on a scarlet field.
We’ll explore these folk, and the Delzimmer they dominate, in subsequent missives.

The Satraps of Delzimmer

As aforementioned, four wealthy, well-established local families unofficially rule the
trading city of Delzimmer. They can be very dangerous if crossed (for instance, although
none of them officially keep slaves, they employ drugs to enslave certain individuals—
slayers, thieves, and personal bodyservants—to their wills). Wise visitors learn all they
can about these folk, and as with all self-styled nobles, their feuds and intrigues are long,
involved, and as ye might say, “Byzantine."
Here I provide a more cursory “know thy potential foes” guide, taking two families in
this missive, and the remaining pair in the next.

Belark
This traditionally haughty, aggressive, and thankfully small in number family runs to black
hair, hooked noses set in ugly (“strong,” as flattering bards say) faces, and fat, squat,
long-armed and bandy-legged physiques. However, ’tis the failing of far too many
“outlanders” (as Delzemaer call all visitors) to consider them stupid brutes. They tend to
shrewdly act such parts so as to learn more about strangers.
The Belarks dwell in Belarkhuruin (from an old local word “haroon” or “grand house"), a many-
spired dark stone mansion set in walled gardens between the Wide Way (Delzimmer’s main
street) and Gaunthan Street.They breed and sell many stout horses, collect sculptures, and own
companies of stonemasons based in several cities of the Tashalar. They also partake of the
banking, warehousing, and caravan outfitting trade shared by all four Delzemaer “satrap” families.
The Belarks like gold, have much ready coin on hand, and maintain a strong standing
army of well-armed and -trained guards armed with blades of all sorts and hand
crossbows equipped with poisoned darts. (Most of the poisons cause sleep or paralysis,
but some are more deadly.) Belark livery is crimson, so family members (save for funeral
and wedding robes) seldom wears the color. The Belark Hawk badge appears on all
family documents, contracts, gates, and servants.
The family is led by their grossly fat patriarch, Oldyle (NE male human Ftr8/Rog5). His
heir is Hlonsker (LE male human Ari3/Ftr6), who has two maliciously sadistic younger
brothers, Corauth (CE male human Rog6) and Aslyn (CE male human Rog5) who delight
in causing trouble for all in Delzimmer. There are also half a dozen wastrel uncles, but no
blood-offspring Belark females in the current generation.

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Harlhaun
This clan tends to be tall, thin, sophisticated and handsome, with large, dark eyes,
cheekbones that would not look out of place on a pureblood elf of elder heritage on
Evermeet—and a cold, calculating, “take the long view” manner. Unlike the brutish
Belark, they eschew aggression and proudly wear their family colors just as their
servants do.
More than any other wealthy Delzemaer family, the Harlhaun reward and train their
senior servants, giving them power to act as trade agents for the family, and paying them
well. Years of such treatment have resulted in a large, fiercely loyal, dedicated and
shrewd staff of servants who are proud to wear the Harlhaungreat sea green (the house
color) and the Harlhaun sword of honor badge. All of the servants are trained in arms,
although only somewhat under half customarily serve as guards.
The Harlhaun dwell in their walled mansion of High House, which stands amid wooden
gardens that feature a sequence of pools that drain into each other (the water being
endlessly pumped around in a cycle) in a long, narrow triangle on the western side of
Delzimmer that is bounded by Alonthan, Baerkezel, and Taloth Streets. They engage in
the commercial activities common to all the satrap families, and also trade in gems,
perfumes, and herbal and alchemical products. (Some folk whisper that poisons are also
important Harlhaun-made products.)
The family cloaks their true feelings behind elaborate manners, even in their private
dealings, and are adroitly steered by their patriarch Maraunt (LN male human
Ari16/Exp4), whose hobby is perfecting new scents and subtle drugs (often both in the
same draft). His daughter Arleithe (CN female human Ari4/Wiz2/Exp1) is a bitter, sensual
dark beauty who considers herself thrice as brilliant as her two louder younger brothers,
but sees herself being steadily relegated to the mother of the house role since the death
of her mother Maulauke, as her brothers try to assert their fitness to take up the family
reins soon. Her brothers are a scheming pair who devote much of their time to working
subtle evil on each other’s ambitions, family standing, and private pursuits: Lariond (LE
male human Ari3/Ftr9) and Narthel (LE male human Ari2/Ftr6).

Jathlet
The traits of this numerous, fecund family include mimicry and nondescript facial
features, which has allowed them to impersonate many folk in their travels. Only sixteen
Jathlets at most are to be found in Delzimmer at any time. The rest are scattered across
Faerûn pursuing trade and theft opportunities with all the skills and avid hunger of the
worst sort of Rat Hills merchant (the Sword Coast term for any outrageously dishonest
trader, the sort of merchant who’ll sell you someone else’s wagon when its owner has
just stepped into a tavern to sell a keg of ale).
Jathlets own any number of small trading companies working the Tashalar ports, and
there are persistent rumors that the family ranks include at least one necromancer skilled
in magic that can knit body parts together and alter human physiques and faces enough
to hide someone permanently. Enemies of the Jathlets claim these abilities are used to
forever trap important persons (kidnapped by the Jathlets) into slavery.
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 In Delzimmer, folk say “a Jathlet’s behind it” of almost any trade transaction or change
in the prices of goods, because the family dips their fingers into almost all local
mercantile doings.
Jathlets rule their staff by fear, not bothering to pay well or hire for long, and only
reward loyalty on the part of their numerous house guards (highly trained and superbly
equipped warriors). Jathlets care little for pomp, ritual, or showing off their wealth, and
customarily dress in anything comfortable. Their servants have overtunics of Jathlet
green emblazoned with the Jathlet at hunt badge. The family maintains no less than three
grand houses in Delzimmer, but the oldest and largest is Selkturrets on Alvandaer Street.
Since the recent death of longtime patriarch “Happy” Jolthur Jathlet in a rather
suspicious riding accident, the family is nominally led by his widow Elsraea (LE female
human Ari6/Rog4), but dominated by its independently operating “forest of uncles.” Some
two dozen in number and typified by the saturnine Feldaern (NE male human
Ari4/Ftr8/Rog6), these men are rarely in Delzimmer for long. There are a dozen younger,
more reckless Jathlet sons, such as Dolrur (CE male human Ari2/Ftr2/Rog1), who
swagger about Delzimmer trying to prove themselves—but behind all of these are the
mysterious elder mages of the family, of whom I’ve only met Malthorn (NE male human
Ari6/Nec14).

Olaundran
As the Delzemaer saying goes, “One can always tell an Olaundran—from as far as the
eye can see.” These are the sort of self-styled nobles familiar to any Faerûnian traveler:
nose-in-the-air, luxuriously garbed sticklers for etiquette who demand that all others defer
to them (except members of the other three satrap families, whom they prefer to ignore).
Cloth-of-gold (usually with cream silk trim) features prominently in most Olaundran
garb, but any expensive-looking fashion may be seen adorning their generally soft,
overfed, and overindulged bodies. Their many dozens of servants, however (a ring of
whom accompany every Olaundran, at all times), are always seen in uniforms of gold
fabric adorned with prominent breast, back, shoulder, and belt-buckle “circle of
watchcoins” family badges. It’s a popular belief in town that Olaundran servants sleep in
their uniforms, disrobing only when the family launderers come by (every few hours) to
“take the old and replace it with the new."
Olaundrans own interests in many ships plying the Sword Coast shipping lanes, and
so are wealthy enough to own substantial real estate in the centers of many cities of the
Tashalar, Calimshan, and Amn. In Delzimmer, they carry on lives of apparent idle luxury,
spending much time feasting, pursuing private hobbies, and shopping. (They buy without
care for price—after all, what Olaundran would ever care about money, given the
shiploads of coins the family possesses?) Trusted senior family servants (who have
recently, in a number of hastily hushed-up scandals, shown a tendency to work and
invest for themselves) handle Olaundran trade matters in Delzimmer.
All twelve current Olaundrans are personally well known throughout the city because
their dabbling in ever-changing rosters of hobbies brings them into contact with most
of the citizenry. The family is led by the frail “Old” Gauthklaun (CN male human

45
Ari8/Ftr4/Exp3), but in daily life his powers are largely usurped by his rotund and cruel
adult sons Yolaun (CE male human Ari 5/Ftr 3/Rog 4) and Bezrar (CE male human
Ari4/Ftr2/Rog5).
The darkly handsome Bezrar is childless (at least officially), but Yolaun has half a dozen
youthful wastrel offspring. This young brood is dominated by the seeker-of-culture eldest
daughter (music, poetry, dance, or whatever catches her fancy this month) Rassalice (CN
female human Ari2/Rog1/Exp2), and the two brothers born after her, the brawling
(hawking, hunting, and wagering-over-beastfights or slave mudwrestling) duo of Elvolaer
(CE male human Ari1/Ftr4/Rog4) and Sardrin (CE male human Ari1/Ftr3/Rog4).
Delzmaer warn that the most alert and dangerous-to-cross family member, however, is the
aging uncle Dendrand (NE male human Ari7/Wiz11/Rog3), because he always gets even.

Life in Delzimmer
I happen to be one of those folk who believe that the seeking of knowledge is its own
reward and justification, but there are others who challenge me when I impart news of
this or that deed, cabal, or locale of Faerûn with queries of: “That’s far away or long ago—
why should I care?"
In the instance of Delzimmer, my reply is that every region of Faerûn has its crossroad
places, its centers of trade vital to foreigners trying to acquire things or get things done,
and Delzimmer is one such. In its small, dusty-when-’tis-not-damp way, this city is every
bit as vital as Waterdeep. In Delzimmer, traders from Dambrath and Luiren meet the
wider world, eager to acquire things they can’t get or dare not be seen at home making
or buying.
Mercenaries, wagons and their drovers, and even small bands of thieves can be had
for hire, and almost every building in the city has a street-level shop and dwellings
above—shops usually crammed with a wild and crowded variety of goods new and old,
including cargo that came out of (or, as they say, “fell off of") wagons that passed through
in the past.
Oxen, draft horses, and riding mounts galore can be bought in plenty in Delzimmer,
and more than once their numbers have attracted wemic raids out of the north. (These
and bandits and goblins from the Toadsquat Mountains were the original justification for
the satrap families assembling private armies.)
Folk of all races rub shoulders in the city, trade is easy, swift, informal, and usually
bustling day and night. (Large iron lanterns are hung outside shops that are open for
business in the dark hours.) There’s always an air of excitement in town.
Competition keeps prices for nonrare goods quite low. Folk with few coins can eat quite
well if they dine on quace and other local fruit (pickled quace in winter), skewers of fried
snake and lizard, and handpies (known less politely as “rat pies” for the source of most
of the ground meat therein, but tasty enough when cooked with chopped wild onion and
the hot brown local sauces). Cheeses, jugged fruit jellies, and roast boar from nearby
Luiren are always plentiful.

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 Almost half of all Delzemaer are halflings from nearby Luiren, and they tend to swiftly
and cheerfully embrace one get-rich-quick scheme and then turn to the next, playing it
all as a big, cheerful game. Even heavy losses don’t seem to bother them much, so long
as they detect no skullduggery.
Hin love to gamble, in Delzimmer as much as in Luiren, and games of cards and dice
and strategy can be found everywhere in the city. For the last decade, new table games—
ye would call them board games—have swept the city every few months, as avid
Delzemaer gamers invent new ones. Some games travel with the caravans to become
pastimes o fthe idle rich of other cities, but most are known nowhere else in Faerûn.
Folk of Dambrath are apt to be far less open and cheerful than halfings, but those who
come to Delzimmer are generally civil, or even looking for what ye might call “a good time."
In short, Delzimmer is one of those colorful, often-wild places where the world comes
to scheme and trade and play. Worth a look, if ye’re in the area—or stumble across the
right portal in Voonlar.

Delzemaeran Delicacies
’tis a failing of my kind—the long-lived, poke-our-noses-in-everything know-it-alls some
refer to as sages, and many call by far less pleasant names—to blithely mention this or
that interesting observation and pass on, secure in our knowledge (or conversely, far less
than secure, but desiring others not to know it—hence the armored rush of our
confidence). Cloaked in my own serene wisdom, I sailed right through some mentions of
viands in my previous discourse that deserve further elucidation—and of course thinking
of them occasioned other culinary notes. Let us then tarry over that most important daily
detail for most humans: “What shall I eat? That? Well, what is it, and be it a safe reponse
to my raging hunger?"
Quace: I spoke of Delzmaer dining on “quace,” without precisely identifying what that
is. So picture a roundish, slightly segmented fruit the size of a large human male’s palm
or up to the size of his head. It looks rather like a trodden-on pumpkin: round, but seldom
more than six inches high or thick at most. A quace is rose-pink when immature and
veined with lime green, and as it ripens becomes entirely green (like unto what some of
ye call a “honeydew melon"), but with its veins darkening just enough to remain distinct
from the rest of the rind.
Quace grow plentifully on ground-clinging, crawling vines that like to shroud and bury
everything within reach (though they’re easily snapped off by humans), and are shaded
by numerous clusters of broad, ragged-shaped sprouting leaves. In the full heat of the
day, these growths shade the fruit. If water fails, they curl up and turn yellow, and the fruit
shrivels to a plum or brown hue. If water returns, they revive swiftly, where most other
parched fruit remain ruined.
Quace have a tough, waxy, thick rind enclosing a soft, jellylike green flesh that resists
bruising. This flesh can be fried on a piece of rind (the rind then being discarded), eaten
raw, or pickled to keep it from spoilage. It has a curiously sharp, cheesy flavor with a
sweet aftertaste and quenches the thirst. When crushed, quace usually yields abundant

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syrup (sugary water). Fried quace takes on the flavor of whatever spiced oils it’s fried in
and can thus be made very savory.
In a similar manner, pickled quace can be made to taste like almost anything, from
smoked eels to a minty sweet dessert. Every third or fourth elderly Delzmaer of either
gender takes pride in concocting their own specialties or secret seasonings and selling
the result from their awning-shaded, shuttered windows or to street vendors.
Quace grows wherever there’s sun, water, and slopes (including in ruins and wild over
the roofs of some buildings in Delzimmer), but it is plentiful in the nearby hills—so much
so that children and poor folk take handcarts out of the city at dawn and bring them back
in an hour or so laden with fresh-picked quace for citizens to buy. (A copper coin typically
buys a “qrey,” which is the Delzmaer name for a group of sixteen; a “qro” is eight.)
A few more notes, before we travel on, about what fills platters (ornate, oval, punched-
metal affairs or smooth-carved, wooden ones that are cleaned by tong-held plunges into
flaming oil and then into quenching water) and bellies in Delzimmer.
Fruit Jellies: The hot, damp climate of this corner of Faerûn (aided by stinging flies
and midges) causes rapid rotting of food that’s not guarded against spoilage. One of the
popular local ways of preserving grapes, dewblood berries (ye might call them “currants,”
which they much resemble), and other small fruit is to boil them and then strain them out
of the hot water straightaway into molds of just-beginning-to-cool jelly. Many local
creatures have fatty flesh that can yield the necessary “squirmhard” (the substance used
to gel the jellies), but unless ye happen to like a warring taste of sweet fruit and savory
beast, fruit jellies are best made with the squirmhard of the glael, a repulsive-looking
green-to-brown ground slug. Glael can get as long as a human forearm, but are usually
half that length, and the halflings of Luiren have harvested them almost to extinction in
some parts of that land. (Ghey are still plentiful in the hills near Delzimmer.)
Glael flesh tastes horrible and has the consistency of glue, but when just the right-
hued flesh is harvested and simmered to separate out the fibrous innards, the result is a
bland, almost clear (translucent and tinged with air bubbles and a faint greenish hue) jelly
that readily takes on the taste of any fruit stirred into it. Glael jelly hardens swiftly when
allowed to cool, suspending fruit therein. (Hin often cool the stuff by pouring it into
covered jars in their cellars.) When sold in rough earthenware jugs, such concoctions are
inevitably known as jugged fruit jellies, and a good-sized jug of the stuff can be had for
5 copper coins.
Scaletail: Skewers of fried snake and lizard are a local dietary staple. These are fried
in hot spiced oils for immediate dining or smoked and sold as kitchen crock snacks or
trail food. In either case, heads, limbs, and innards are removed, and the remainder is
cut into long, thin lengthwise strips (rather as ye might expect a butcher to render pork
into strips of bacon).
Two harmless, edible, insect-eating local rock lizards are plentiful: the hand-sized,
dusty brown and slow-moving klonthaer and the reddish, dartingly swift, smaller
bharang. Most scaletail is scraps of these two sorts of lizards that are augmented by the
large, dark brown, beetle-devouring mushroom snake (named for the fungi it most often
hides among, perfectly disguised by the matching hue of its mottled body).

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 Occasionally more exotic snakes and other reptiles are slain and made into special
scaletail that may be sold for thrice the price of the daily, ordinary sort. Usually scaletail
goes for a silver coin per well-laden platter, or three coppers for a heavy (loaded) skewer.
Scaletail has its local variants and equivalents all along the Great Sea coast, but it
doesn’t travel well. I seldom find folk who like it farther north than, say, the Calim Desert.
Fruit jellies from Delzimmer and Luiren, on the other hand, have made their way onto
glittering tables in Sembia and even Waterdeep and are increasingly plentiful in
Calimshan, Tethyr, and Amn.
A last look at foodstuffs before we glance around at some recent news and local
intrigues and then take our leave of Delzimmer. Indulge me, an old man who likes his
tarryings at tables—but indulge yourselves far more, readers! What I write of is, as they
say, “fair on the tongue."
Sakra and Mlael: I made mention in an earlier discourse of the local hot brown
sauces. Specifically, these are of two sorts: sacra and mlael. Sakra is a fiery, brown gravy
made with beast blood and boiled-down organs that are mixed with mushrooms and
quace root to color and thicken it. Mlael is a boiled mixture of herbs, spices, and edible
roots that holds no remnant of any creature. Both tend to be lumpy, thick brown liquids
that taste filling and even sensational (depending on the cook and available ingredients).
Sakra tends to be hotter, less gluelike, and more variable in taste, and is the more often
slaked (laced with strong drink, sometimes covertly but more often as a selling point or
deed of pride). Mlael is a subtler blend of herbs and spices and can be simmered for
days, during which it is augmented by additional ingredients as they become available.
The base of a good mlael is almost always chopped surt and diced chasstil. Surt is a
bulbous root that ye might consider a strong-flavored, oversized cousin of what’s often
called Jerusalem artichoke. Chasstil is a durable, coil-shaped, green, spear-bodied plant
fairly close in flavor to thy asparagus.
At any time, most Delzmaer households have mlael on the simmer or about to be
made for ladling over almost every meal. Sakra appears on platters handed to guests or
at the main evening meal. Visitors are warned that Delzmaer who sip much wine whilst
they eat skewers of fried meats under the stars on summer evenings are taking in as
much drink in the sakra gravy as in their goblets.
Some Delzmaer dishes even use both mlael and sakra, usually with mlael covering
everything first and then a thin overwash of sakra over a central dish.
Braskh: One of the things that makes sakra hot is this crimson-skinned, white-fleshed
root akin to your horseradish. ’tis a brave person who can eat it raw or even in large
chunks after boiling. Most folk taste it only in sakr, or as a few grated flakes added to the
water that will boil vegetables in a Delzmaeran solaut (many-legged hearth cauldron).
Carved stars of braskh are sometimes floated in drinkables served at Delzmaer feasts or
by healers. Those who chew such stars invariably burst into tears, sweat profusely, and
run out at the nose and mouth, as the violent heat of the root purges them. (If chewed
and swallowed, it warms the body. If swallowed whole, it has a strong laxative effect.)

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Braskh roots grow wild in areas of thorny bushes and rocks and are usually gathered by
Delzmaer youths digging with hand tocks (short-handled mattocks), who sell them in the
city at a copper per goodly root (or two small ones).
Now, having fed, ’tis high time to listen to local gossip, before we move on. ’tis how I
acquired most of my vaunted wisdom, look ye!

Doings in Delzimmer
So now we know what Delzmaer eat, the general character of the hot and either dusty
or damp (usually the latter) trade center, and who lords it over the place. Were I inclined
to pedantry, I’d now take ye on a tour of the clingvine pits outside the city, where offal,
nightsoil, and refuse—not to mention the more-than-occasional hastily and somewhat
discreetly disposed-of corpse—are devoured by hungry plants that turn such noisome
leavings back into earth. From then ’twould be but a logical turn to survey the local
groundflowers and most plentiful trees and bushes, saying which was edible and which
shaped and determined the look and life of Delzimmer and its environs.
Yet I see thee a-yawning already. Patience, as the famed seer Alaundo observed, is
the armor that shields many a throne—but ne’er mind. Ye want to hear news and rumors,
scandals and tales of adventure—and I can give ye those, too. Hearken, then.
The dabblings and everchanging enthusiasms of the satraps I described earlier serve
as a sort of spotlight on unfolding events in Delzimmer. Where those four families turn
their attention, so follows the general public regard and interest.Yet beneath what they’ve
yet noticed, in the bustle of trade that makes Delzimmer what it is, other happenings
befall. I’ll deal later with the latest passing fads and matters of gossip, but first ’tis best to
understand underlying local themes—“ethrael,” for instance.
In the past shoddy workmanship (usually related to building structures too high without
adequate footings—or with none at all) caused many building collapses in the city. More
than a few folk were killed, and public anger grew. When such collapses became fewer
but specific (that is, occurring only to personal foes, creditors, and trade-rivals of certain
builders or satraps, at inconvenient times), fury reached a height. Certain citizens took to
paying children to watch by night in the darkness, with lamps and horns at hand.
Eventually a crew was caught—in the light of many lamps, with horns blowing to rouse
neighbors and bring witnesses running—covertly removing key support stones to cause
a collapse. They were slain on the spot by enraged citizens, and the city erupted into
angry debate. Building collapses swiftly became much rarer, but it wasn’t long before the
now-wary citizens noticed two things: night fires within bedchambers of citizens who
never awakened to escape the flames had drifted from something unheard-of in
Delzimmer to a once every two tendays or even more frequent occurrence; and often
after either a collapse or such a fatal fire, an important builder or a satrap would
somehow acquire the site and erect a new and grander structure.
Dozens of merchants descended upon a high-ranking cleric of Tyr when that priest’s
travels brought him through the city, and prevailed upon him to convene a Council of
Delzimmer. At that long and often heated meeting (which lasted the better part of three

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days and was marked by public fights, several knifings, and “disappearances” during the
nights between session), the participating citizenry hammered out two things: the
“kauladd,” a rough code of conduct with enforcement and justice, and the system of
“ethrael” (deeds to properties). I’ll say more about both of these things in later ramblings.
To understand—and therefore survive in—Delzimmer, ’tis best to understand the
kauladd, their system of justice. Travelers should take heed, because the Delzmaer
handling of matters legal is typical of what prevails in many trade route settlements
across Faerûn, particularly where strong law enforcement is lacking. Hearken, then.
The Kauladd: This term actually refers to the code of laws, but in general practice also
refers to courts, judges, police, and jailers. The code is staggeringly simple. My
comments in parentheses aren’t part of it.
1. These rules shall apply to all who dwell in or are present in Delzimmer and within
clear sight of its walls. (In other words, the kauladd binds everyone in cellars, in
buildings, and on the ground both inside the walls and for about a hundred yards
outside them, in all directions—but not absentee landlords, owners, and investors
situated elsewhere.)
2. Kill not what is not thine. (An owned beast, slave, or one’s own child before
puberty can be slain without penalty, and suicide is legal.) Penalty: Striking off of
a hand, exile, and forfeiture of property. (Portable goods can be sold or carried
away by the guilty.)
3. Steal, damage, or destroy not what is not thine. (Theft, arson, vandalism, and
permanent wounding or maiming are all illegal.) Penalty: Replacement of what
has been taken, damaged, or destroyed, plus payment of matching fines to the
city and to the injured, of up to double the worth of the lost item or harm done.
4. Compel not. (Don’t force anyone to do something by physical force, armed threat,
or menace, including frauds and misrepresentations.) Penalty: Payment of
matching fines to the city and to the injured, and/or floggings and jail time.
5. Throw not. (Missiles of any sort intended to harm or damage goods or cause
threats or accidents. It’s understood that pickers of foodstuffs, loaders, and
builders or vendors moving supplies often toss wares to their fellows.) Penalty:
On-the-spot floggings, plus arrest under the Third Law, above, if applicable.
The courts are held by day in roped-off rings in the squares and larger street moots of
the city in clear public view. Judgments are made by “kala,” visiting priests of various
lawful faiths who are hired by the “nagra” (police) for tours of one to three months. Their
wages and those of the nagra are paid out of fines and property seizures. (The nagra sell
or rent out seized properties and presently own dozens of such, plus a deep-vaulted
moneychanging bank beneath the largest nagra house, that was founded with fine
payments.)
Kala have the power to call in other kala for aid in judgments, to consult (publicly) with
anyone before rendering judgments, and to decree jail time for anyone at threat from
citizens or deemed dangerous to any citizen or to the public peace and trade (such as
diseased or mad persons). They do not have the right to seize or cause loss (by restraint

51
of freedom) of property for anyone except those found guilty. There are usually six to
eight kala under hire at any time. The nagra can’t dismiss them early, and if they flee or
try to resign early, they lose all pay for the month in which they do so. The nagra are free
to hire and fire at the end of any kala’s tour. (They tend to get rid of judges whose rulings
they dislike.)
Any nagra found guilty of a crime loses his standing as a nagra for half a year, but
covert slayings or poisonings seem to be the only way to get rid of bad nagra who keep
getting hired back by their fellows. At any time, Delzimmer usually has 22 to 28 nagra,
who serve as jailers (employing cellars, shackles, and cages); arresting officers; court
order-keepers; floggers; seizers of property; fine collectors; and watchers. Court order-
keepers restrain accused persons and “sword the circle” to keep citizens from charging
through the rope barriers. Watchers patrol in a desultory way with signal horns. They
move about in threesomes or larger armed groups and try to be near any citizen who
desires to summon or “cry” them.
Most nagra are retired warriors or adventurers who have been injured or discovered a
love of (relative) safety and laziness. They wear an orange sash marked with a row of
three daggers as their only badge of office over their own clothes (which are usually
leather armor with gauntlets and helms). Use of this sash by nonnagra is subject to the
Fourth Law.
Once armed with knowledge of the Kauladd and Delzimmer’s troubled past, ye can
properly appreciate how the Delzmaer handle property.
Ethrael: The Delzmaer system of property registration is handled by the nagra at the
Pholruth, or largest nagra house. The Pholruth is a large, many-winged three-story stone
structure near the center of the city. Its uppermost floor functions as the cleanest, safest
inn in Delzimmer (much favored by outlanders able to pay its steep rates of 3 gp/night
without meals, stabling 5 sp/mount/night extra). The middle floor is given over to the living
quarters and offices of nagra and kala, the ground floor functions as the nagra station
house and ethrael offices, and the cellars are either jail cells, used for seized goods
storage, or are the vaults of the Shrimmer (the bank service run by the nagra). The three
sorts of cellars aren’t connected.
The Shrimmer handles banking and moneychanging and all ethrael services,
operating during daylight hours with a staff of three nagra under the constant scrutiny of
two kala.
Perishable (foodstuffs and livestock) and mass portable goods (such as nails, chain,
rope, and the like) can’t be registered, but they can be insured. The owner of the goods
and the owner of the storage space (or their agents) together come to the Shrimmer, sign
a bond, and each tender matching amounts of cash into the hands of the nagra. If no
losses occur before storage ends, both reappear, the bond is destroyed, and the cash
amounts are returned. If a loss is claimed, the kala hear the dispute and adjudicate.
Typically, both lots of cash are given to the owner of the goods in such cases.
Larger goods (like coaches, suits of armor, and beasts of burden) can be registered,
and the nagra maintain two identical copies of the registry (one held by the owner and
one by the Shrimmer). Changes in the status of the goods (such as damage or beast

52
injuries and sicknesses) are noted on both registries whenever the owner presents his
or her copy and explains. (The kala direct when such claims must be verified by direct
nagra observation.) Loans and coin accounts are handled by the Shrimmer in much the
same way.
Nonportable property, such as land and structures, are handled through the
registration, precise wording, and amendment of ethrael, or written deeds. These are
handled by the Shrimmer in two forms: The owner has a written document precisely
describing the extent and situation of the property, and the Shrimmer vaults hold a long
roll of deed that both describes the property in the same way and keeps an ongoing
descriptive record of who bought the property from whom, with prices and conditions and
alterations all being recorded.
A typical ethrael property description might begin as follows: “That piece of land and
the cellar soil beneath that is within the fair city of Delzimmer and bounded thus: lying
along the west side of Such-and-Such Street from the northwest corner of its moot with
So-and-So Street, six tharodd north along Such-and-Such Street to a white stone set in
the ground and bearing the mark of a toad; thence westerly four tharodd and a foot more
besides, on an angle bearing north of west to a second white toad-stone; thence due
west three tharodd to Thus-and-Thus Street; south along the east side of Thus-and-Thus
Street . . .” and so on. (A “tharodd” is a straight linear measure of six feet popular in
Delzimmer and Luiren, though in the latter land it’s called a “hinthar.")
This wayward discussion of matters legal and property deeds may seem to some of
ye to have strayed far from my promises of current gossip, but wait until next time we
converse, and ye’ll see how such matters have a way of circling around to entangle
again, like serpents biting their own tails.
So now to the current clack resounding in the streets, stalls, taverns and back rooms
of Delzimmer:

• Among the hottest themes in current Delzmaeran news is ethrael fraud: the selling of
false or stolen deeds to outlanders, far away. In this manner, many citizens unwittingly
live in structures that distant folk believe they now own and may descend upon at any
time. Recently the rising pottery merchant Eloem Elchantragar, an energetic importer
of luxury goods from Amn, Tethyr, and Sembia, was broken in upon in the middle of
the night by a large and well-armed party of visiting Sembians. They were the traveling
household of the wealthy Selgauntan stonecarver Ildel Morusk, who’d come for the
first time to occupy “his” Delzmaer mansion and survey his property and the city he’d
correctly been given to understand was an important trade crossroads of the region.

Morusk’s skilled-at-arms retainers numbered over four dozen, and it was only with
difficulty (and the assistance of Delzmaer citizens and visiting mercenaries hastily
hired by Elchantragar) that the nagra managed to restore order and quell the
ongoing bloodshed as Morusk attempted to slay or capture all of the squatters and
thieves residing in his property and enjoying his goods.

The Sembian was only partly mollified by being given free temporary use of a nagra-
seized (but empty and somewhat crumbling) grand house, and a commission from
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 Elchantragar to find and slay the sly Sembian serpent who’d sold Morusk the false
deed back in Selgaunt. The stonecarver has since departed Delzimmer for his home
(though he’s thought to have come no closer to Selgaunt yet than Turmish), but the
kala are well aware that this is only the latest such incident to be discovered—and
that other stolen or false ethrael may well be on sale all over Faerûn.
• A honey-tongued and enterprising Lapaliiyan by the name of Imriskril Melsamber
has offered to set himself up as a “maevor” or trade agent (what other lands call
“factors” or “daeasaunce") to represent distant outlanders and costers. The kala of
Delzimmer have reluctantly agreed to recognize him—though open debate
continues among their ranks (and even moreso among the citizenry, spurred by
announcements from various satraps of their own desires to become a “maevor for
many") as to how a meavor might be trusted and his claims of representation
verified.
• Other current Delzmaer gossip revolves around the amorous conquests of the
aforementioned Imriskril Melsamber; a tall, bronzed, and muscular swordsman who
calls himself Thorongh Davarragar (who claims to be a dragonslaying barbarian of
the Savage North” though the mage Shonsarra Tel of Oslin tells me she doubts
Davarragar has ever seen snow in his life, let alone a dragon); and the native
Delzmaer merchant Marlyar Nilthrul. “Mighty Malryar” is an increasingly fat, jovial
seller of imported scents, perfumes, and herbal baths whose moustache has grown
very large—and who has long enjoyed a reputation of being an able consort.
Many husbands and fathers of Delzimmer are outraged at one or more of these three
Night Scourges, and more than a few now attend every feast and tavern revel attended
by any of the three—and do so glowering and toying with openly worn weapons.
Taverns, stalls, houses, and wellhead womens’ water-drawing gatherings around
the city are alive with ever-wilder and more colorful tales of the Night Scourges
leaping into bedchamber windows or hiding on balconies or racing away across the
rooftops chased by furious menfolk.
Yet the most sober citizens caution that none of the three men has yet been caught
at anything more than vainglorious boasting—bolstered by spiteful feminine
whispers and certain women making boasts of their own. And if Delzimmer were to
lock up every inhabitant guilty of baseless boasting and deceit, nigh every house
would have a lock on it, with its habitual dwellers shut up inside! (If, that is, there
was anyone left to apply such locks.)
As Delzmaer say, “Keep thy ear to the doorposts for more."
Any trade city, with all of its comings and goings of caravans and visiting traders, tends
to be always awash with new and racing rumors. Some of the latest in Delzimmer
concern the goblins who infest the western end of the Toadsquat Mountains; the
ambitious Claunkrar Coster of Rethmar; and a local merchant by the name of Antholo
Kraul (whose rumors will have to wait until our next converse).
• Goblins tend to be vicious and fast-breeding creature, who forage far and enjoy
battle (and ambushes, traps, and lures even more). Those who endanger the trade

54
 ways around Delzimmer do so despite periodic scourings of the caves that riddle
the western Toadsquat peaks, and they return in the wake of forays against them
even before the blood of their slain fellows has dried.
An alchemist of Klionna, one Urngath Dorrund, recently hired the hundred-strong
mercenary band of Rollivar’s Redfangs to encage and bring back to him alive some
forty goblins from the western Toadsquats (specifically from the peaks known as
Klauntra’s Leap, the Wyrmlar, and Liontlefang). The Redfangs did so, bringing him
some sixty captives to allow for losses on the road back at the hands of expected
goblin raiders from the more easterly Toadsquats. (Those raids did come, and they
were beaten back with some losses on both sides.) The initial Redfang gathering
attack became a pitched battle that folk from Delzmaer believe cost almost a
thousand goblin lives. Dorrund has given no public reason for desiring the goblins,
but rumor has it that he believes their blood has magical power because they spend
their lives drinking of deep mountain cavern springs whose waters rise through a
great store of magic. What that store of magic is, no one knows for sure—and
various rumors claim it to be all sorts of things, from lost dwarven or elven caches
to buried Netherese cities and even the work of more ancient and powerful wizards.
• The Claunkrar Coster (hitherto known only for their vigilant guarding of way
caravans between the Tashalar and the lands about the Golden Water, via
Delzimmer and Luiren) are said to be busily at work creating the Crawling Treasure.
The Treasure is nothing less than an ever-expanding network of portals linking key
sites in Faerûn—or rather, secluded hollows and lookout heights near important
trade route waymoots and wealthy cities. By means of these magical routes the
Claunkrar can move small, valuable cargoes (coffers of gems, distinctive stolen
property, individual kidnap captives, and the like) swiftly across Faerûn. Once they
gain a property in a city or trade town, they establish a cellar or indoor chamber
portal therein to allow coster members to arrive and depart unseen—and there are
even whispers that they’re growing bold enough to create portals on the roofs and
in disused back stairs of palaces.
I’ve spared a glance or three in the direction of the Claunkrar—enough to tell me
that some truth lies behind these tales, and I’ll explore them more with ye anon. I
can say thus far that the Claunkrar are hiring guards to watch over some of their
portals, starting to keep secrets (and build passwords and the like into portal
operations), and that they’re quietly hiring adventurers, brigands, and monsters—
shapechangers in particular—to join their ranks. It’s too early to say who’s behind
these schemes, or if this represents an ambitious new force in the ever-active,
always-foolish “road to seizing power over all Faerûn” game—but my ear shall be to
the doorposts on this one.
My last look at Delzimmer—for now—will conclude with a summation of the current
rumors in the city concerning the citizen Antholo Kraul. Hitherto ignored by most
Delzmaer and all the rest of Faerûn, he’s shot to prominence very recently for an
unexpected reason.

55
• Kraul is a short, stout, balding and rather nondescript man (a CN male human
Rog2, I believe) who sells maps and charts from his shop front, Antholo’s All the
Realms, on Riuntle Street. Said wares are plain, clear, and fairly accurate—if
unlovely and greatly lacking in detail—copies of the trade charts used in Tharsult
and the Tashalar and the cities of Calimshan (which are themselves usually
updated copies of more famous and authoritative originals kept at Candlekeep and
divers other monasteries and royal libraries). In short, Kraul’s maps would never be
snapped up as wall-decorations for a grand house, but sell steadily for practical use
at prices ranging from 25 to 200 gp, depending on size, subject, and date of survey.
This state of affairs makes Kraul a useful member of the Delzmaer mercantile
scene, but no man of influence or public importance. What has brought him rapt
recent attention is his death—or rather, his deaths.
Some months back, Kraul was messily and bloodily killed in Paroind Street when
one of the notorious building collapses occurred—and most of the west front of a
three-story, balconied house fell on him and several other passersby. His body was
crushed, but not his head, and some acquaintances he’d been walking and talking
with survived the tragedy, so there was no doubt of his identity or his passing.
Such is the daily work of deities—but what they or some fell mortal magic do far less
often was what followed: Kraul was burned on a temple pyre in the usual Delzmaer
manner—only to reappear, hale and whole, at his shop some days later. This
caused a stir (especially among three lady cousins, who’d arrived at his shop and
home to squabble over the division of his goods), but most folk assumed some
mistake had been made in Paroind Street and Kraul had been elsewhere on
business, perhaps buying maps from temporary halfling encampments south of
Delzimmer (a notorious source of shady wares).
Business resumed at Antholo’s All the Realms, and continued in the normal manner
for a tenday—whereupon Kraul was slain a second time by knife-wielding thieves
rushing down Lhavarild Street to escape from a robbery gone bad at Istryn’s Silks.
His cousins identified him before a kala this time—but despite another pyre and a
nagra sent to witness his bones blackening on it, Antholo Kraul reappeared at his
shop three days later. He was slain that same night, at the hands of Srandro Chree,
a killer-for-coins (presumed to have been hired by one of Kraul’s cousins), but was
seen again the next evening drinking at the Reaching Hand tavern.
His drinking companions there were the usual small circle of Riuntle Street
merchants of middling fortunes who—though they’d all heard of Kraul’s deaths by
then, and were both curious and alert for an impostor—all agree that they spoke to
the man himself, and that he seemed quieter than usual, a little sad, and dismissive
of queries concerning his passings.
Thereafter closely watched by the nagra under orders from three puzzled kala (who
even hired a traveling wizard to make sure that the Antholo Kraul they were now
looking at wasn’t something else wearing Kraul’s shape), the merchant survived
being nearly run over by a racing cart (the nagra have their suspicions as to the
cousins’ involvement with its driver, but can prove nothing) and being felled by a

56
drunken outlander in a tavern brawl—but died again seven days later when a large
urn of slael-fall flowers toppled “accidentally” from his own balcony when he
returned home. A watching nagra arrested a cousin seen leaving the balcony, and
confirmed Kraul’s death. Kala ordered the body brought to a nagra house rather
than to a temple pyre. It rotted for some days, but then—in the presence of several
nagra—Kraul’s remains simply faded away. Neighbors report that the bloodstain
before his doors slowly vanished at about the same time—and some four days later,
Antholo Kraul was seen again walking up the street in the morning to open his shop,
as he always does.
Thus far, nagra have failed to get any clear answers from the man as to what’s going
on, and the kala are said to be hotly debating how far their powers run. Some
among them say they should be seeking to hire an archmage to determine if
Delzimmer stands endangered by whatever is bringing Kraul repeatedly back to life.
Many Delzmaer are more afraid of the inevitable group of Red Wizards and other
beings of power who will probably soon descend on Delzimmer to try to seize the
raising magic that rides Antholo Kraul and take it for their own. Who knows who
they’ll slay—or magically transform and enslave, as crawling worms or worse—in
the process?

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 The Road to Khôltar
The Cairns
Well, ’tis time to shake the dust of Delzimmer from our boots and head out of town. Go
north, unless ye’ve a particular love for feeling the bite of dusk-elven whips—or halfling
fingers delving into thy purse several dozen times a minute. (I usually fill my purse with
snapjaw-springs before venturing into Luiren, and ye can often trace my trail there by the
sounds of hissing, cursing, and whimpering hin . . . but that’s another tale, for another time.)
We leave Delzimmer on the Traders’ Way: the broad, well-used caravan road that runs
north and west from Delzimmer to the Great Rift, and thence to meet the Golden Road
trade route and the cities of Lapaliiya.
Stone cairns (and natural crags and pinnacles) stand on the east side of this road at
irregular intervals. Raised in times forgotten to keep carters on the correct route when
duststorms rage, they’ve been plundered by builders seeking construction stone and
tumbled by weather and are now little better than the fangs of an aged hunting cat that
has many teeth missing.
A few are still useful as rendezvous points, and counting from Delzimmer north, these are:
• Harboot’s Tooth: Readily recognizable for its goblet shape (a large, upturned bell of
rock atop a more slender pillar), this was in the past a peryton roost and still serves
birds as a nesting place. On the trail side of the bell, someone long ago scratched
a symbol (meaning now lost) resembling a point-down equal-sided triangle with an
eye or circle in its center. The Tooth is perhaps 100 feet high, and it affords a good
vantage point in all directions save west (where the forest conceals all).
A small spring west of the Tooth, across the Way, feeds several pools. The largest
have been fouled by wagon beasts, but those closest to the Forest of Amlar are
safely drinkable.
Please be aware that “safely” is a relative term. All of the Way is watched by
brigands and prowling monsters from time to time, and at any place or time travelers
may suffer attacks.
The Tooth stands about a day and a half travel out of Delzimmer for wagons, a day
for lone riders on swift mounts.
• The Knife: This sharp, slender needle of rock rises some 80 or 90 feet above the
Way. A small, deep, and ancient well can be found just east of the Knife, but it
should be avoided. Its waters are chancy at best, and render most drinkers very ill
for days.
North of the Knife, the sweep of the Shaar ends in a small cliff dropping down to the
Way. In the lee of this 30-foot drop, entire caravans sometimes shelter from
storms—but of course leave themselves vulnerable to boulders rolled down from
above and attacks from brigands who pounce by night, letting themselves down on
lines.

58
 The Knife is about four days’ wagon travel out of Delzimmer, and three for riders
taking care of their mounts. It can be reached in the middle of the second night out
for riders who punish their mounts.
• Daustable’s Morrum: This arc of three tankard-shaped stones stands on the eastern
edge of a small hollow that forms an ideal campsite on the Way. A spring rises in
the depths of this hollow and flows across the Way (in a shallow, muddy ford that
never grows treacherous due to flat bedrock a few inches beneath the surface of the
mudwash). The rocks of the hollow are plentifully carpeted in edible lichens and
barb grasses. (Humans can eat both, if boiled. One tastes something like the
lemons of thy world and the similar orauth of Var, and the other more like thy endive,
or the reddish bittermur grass of upland Halruaa.)
The Morrum is actually the name of the hollow. The three standing stones are called
the Authraukh. Nimburr is the largest, central one; Raulvo, the northern one; and
Ilthkrist the smallest, southern one. According to legend, these are the names of
three human travelers who were turned to stone here by a stone giant wizard in the
early days of Faerûn, but such legends are most often twisted indeed from their
origins. All three are readily climbable, often serve as roosts to many birds, and are
reputed to be the hiding places of innumerable treasures. Travelers are warned that
thousands of folk have climbed them seeking such valuables, so anything easily
found must surely have been carried away long ago. Raulvo has two small, bone-
strewn interior caves (simple single-chamber affairs, one entered from its top, and
the other from an opening on its east face) that can offer concealment and shelter
to travelers. Nimburr, according to legend, has a magically concealed stone door
leading to extensive underways and perhaps ultimately to the Underdark itself.
There were tales, some three hundred years back, of much covert trade with the
Realms Below arriving and departing from the Morrum, but absolutely nothing—
either of rumor or of hard evidence, since.

The Amtar
Besides the three sites mentioned in my last column, a great number of nameless,
tumbled, and overgrown cairns lie along the eastern verges of the Way, all along its
length. Many see frequent service as tombs: When anything not wanted for stewpots
(such as one’s trading partner) dies, the corpse is often laid down beside a cairn stone,
and the stone rolled over onto the remains. This typically uncovers an older burial, but
does cut down on how many vultures and carrion-eaters are attracted to the travelers
who still survive and desire to continue their journey unmolested.
The western side of the Way has a much larger, ever-present landmark: the Forest of
Amtar (called “Amlar” by some folk of Dambrath). Though it was once far larger, the
Amtar is still a vast and wild place inhabited by many creatures today. In fact, I believe
there must be several active portals or deepspawn or both in its heart to account for the
abundant life constantly prowling and warring therein.
The southern and western Amtar are a battleground between the Trunadar elves of the
forest, the gnolls of the Gate of Iron Fangs (who recently returned in force to reclaim their

59
ruined city, probably by means of a portal somewhere in its vast and shattered halls), and
the Dambraii dusk elves. So fierce is their strife (for decades the Dambraii hunted the
Trunadar for sport) that they seldom have time or attention for preying upon caravans
using the Way.
Although warlike tribes of the Shaar have on many occasions swept down on caravans
traversing the Way, doing much bloody slaughter, the chief daily perils to travelers these
days are most likely to come from the Forest. There are even guides (who conduct riders
having no heavy trade goods who can pack all on mules) who travel between Delzimmer
and Khôltar well east of the Way, using its distant stones only as markers to stay on
course so as to avoid the watching eyes and fangs of the forest.
I know of at least two flourishing brigand bands who dwell in the eastern fringes of the
Amtar: the Raunstrar and the Maurvurr. The Raunstrar is an all-female human and half-
elven group whose members sell their favors to encamped caravans and trade fabrics and
assorted goods with them (typically loot from earlier plunderings). They size up the
caravans while they do so for covert sneak thefts or open attacks later along the route.
The Maurvurr is a band of wizards and sorcerers of several races. They are only interested
in plundering spellbooks, magic items, and substances useful in alchemy and magic.
Other brigands (notably a strong band of orcs and an adventuring band known as
Dracil’s Raiders) were formerly dominant in caravan plundering, but these have been
slaughtered or scattered and now survive (if at all) only as desperate remnants.
Aside from the Landrise itself, the eastern Amtar is dotted with ancient, overgrown
stone ruins (the cities of earlier peoples, at least one giant race among them), and broken
by many small, breakneck cliffs and gulleys, all of them overgrown by the lush trees. The
Amtar boasts stinking black soil overlaid by a foot or more of wet, rotting leaves in most
places; an abundance of snakes; and vines, vines everywhere in a vast and endless
webwork of choking creepers that drape all living things in a spiderweblike network.
Assassin vines, ropers and even some of the nasty little things called chokers (obviously
adapted to life aboveground) are all too plentiful in this gloom, and some of them watch
the few forest trails just as avidly as other Amtar predators watch the Traders’ Way.
That’s not to say that traffic on the Way is sparse. Far from it: There’s safety in numbers,
and in the ability to move fast and have lots of outriders armed with lances, javelins,
darts, and crossbows (hand crossbows in particular). Save in the off season, it’s not
uncommon to look around at any point along the Way during daylight hours and see
three caravans (and as many small bands of riders) within view. At peak periods, there’s
not enough camping room, and the spillover must go up onto the Shaar. (It’s generally
suicidal to camp on the verges of the Amtar.) Wise spillover campers don’t build fires or
show lights to attract the nomads. Knife fights and raids in the dark between encamped
travelers aren’t unknown, and the Amlar brigands I mentioned earlier often instigate or
take full advantage of these.
In general, harsh weather off the desert and water shortages are the main concerns
of large caravans using this stretch of the Way. Only smaller bands need fear brigands
and monsters very much. In hard seasons on the Shaar, of course, the nomads grow
desperate, and then no one within their reach is safe.

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 Now that I’ve shared all the cheery news, ’tis time—well, in my next missive—to warn
ye of what awaits in Khôltar. Eartheart is a firmly ruled stone fortress of dwarf temples
and trade halls, wherein all other races are tolerated but strictly policed, and we’ll do what
most caravans do: camp outside its walls for a night, paying to use its pumps to water
ourselves and our beasts. Then we’ll head on to the Iron City of Khôltar.

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 Khôltar
First Impressions
If Eartheart (and the accompanying trademoot of Hammer and Anvil) is the dwarf-
dominated meeting place between the Great Rift (and the Deep Realms beyond) and the
wider surface Realms, Khôltar is its human-dominated counterpart.
Known as the Iron City for its ironclad walls and its metalwork, Khôltar is a bustling,
noisy, never-sleeping place of some 7,600 or so permanent residents, plus several
hundred short-term guests (caravan traders on the way through) at any given time.
Visitors who pass through the frowning triple gates that pierce the iron walls in three
places (on the south, west, and north sides of the city), will see a muddy, smoky city of stout
stone buildings (some simple and massive, and others more ornate), cobbled streets, and
little greenery. The city walls are literally clad in great overlapping plates of iron bolted to
massive stonework. Rivers of rust run down them and have stained the stones and soil
around over the passing centuries despite the gallons of oil and tar that have been applied
to halt this crumbling. Thanks to the rare but possible threat of rust monsters, constant foot
patrols armed with pikes traverse the outside of the walls. They also serve to discourage
strangers from camping outside the walls but within sight of the city.
Inside, smokes rise from dozens of forges, lumber to feed them is a constant and
valued import, the clanging and hissing of forge work and casting is constant, and soot
tends to blacken everything that remains in Khôltar long. Coughing diseases, burn scars,
and short lifespans aren’t unknown among Kholtans, who tend to bear them as badges
of honor (“The marks of the gods upon us, for striving so near perfection") rather than as
things to be feared, cursed, or avoided by moving elsewhere.
Sometimes called the Place of Pourers and Filers (by dwarves who use the term
contemptuously, and by humans who use it for mere description, not realizing that most
dwarves mean it as an insult), Khôltar transforms dwarven iron and more valuable metals
into everyday ironmongery (notably spikes, hasps, hinges, buckles, rings, chains,
brackets, and piping) and cast alloy goods such as bowls, cauldrons, blandreths (small
cook pots with tripod legs that can be stood in fires), scoops for dispensing dry goods,
ladles and sieves, whisks and pour spouts. Beauty of design is admired in the Iron City,
but it takes second place to the Khôltan Triad: strength, durability, and efficiency. A “work
until you drop, but not beyond the point where you mar your work” ethic is strong; hearty
eating, drinking, and sleeptime are valued as needful to good work; and thieving and
swindling are despised, outlander activities not worthy of one worth her weight in iron (as
the local saying goes).
Street justice (usually by means of a hard and accurately hurled forgehammer, iron bar,
or piece of ironmongery or the blow of a forgework-hardened fist) is apt to be swift and
fierce, but Khôltar does have its fully armored police officers, who wield trap nets and are
armed with spiked gauntlets, saps, and maces. These police and known as the garthraun.
They slay monsters or murderers on the spot, and arrest lesser miscreants for trial by the
malgart (the judges), who administer the laws of the onsruur (the governing lords, or heads

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of the local “nobility” of old-money families) and the belarkh (the ruling lord, an elected
chairman of the onsruur who tends to be either a war hero or a respected local crafter).
Aside from sending garthraun riding forth to warn travelers not to camp within sight of
the walls, the Iron City tends to ignore the world outside except for its trade relationships.
(Travelers can camp farther off, where there’s a brisk trade in local brigandry to make
them feel welcome, or come into the city—they’re simply not welcome to camp outside
the walls.) To the dwarves of the Rift and of Eartheart, Khôltans tend to be almost servile
(grumbling in private), but they tend to consider themselves superior to folk from
elsewhere, driving hard bargains on thinking that runs somewhat akin to this: “We have
the best, and if you want it, you’ll take our terms or go without."
Well, now, I’ve fully aware that I tend to simply speak on and on when I get going—so
I’ll stop for a tankard for once and leave more words on Khôltar for next time.

Second Impressions
Visitors to the Iron City swiftly notice that the place stinks. In part, this is forge reek
carried on the everpresent smoke and in part it’s due to the Khôltan habit of sluicing all
wastes out into the streets and washing them down into the lowest muddy corners where
the lowest-class citizens constantly dig out the dung and suchlike, filling hopperlike
mudwagons high before carting out of the city, half a day downwind (to the southwest),
and dumping it. A large part of the stench is also due to the city walls.
There are actually two sets of walls, great thick runs of stone blocks separated by a
gap of some thirty feet that’s bridged at the gates and between inner and outer wall
towers along the runs. The walls are over a hundred feet high in most places, the inner
slightly higher than the outer (to allow raking fire of besiegers who reach the top of the
outer wall), and the great, poorly drained trench between is filled with rotting garbage
tossed from the tallest buildings near the walls, and great masses of jagged, hardened
spelter: waste forge metal (impurities and the like).
Garbage is also disposed of between the walls by garthraun paid off to drop the refuse
and say nothing about it. These sorts of disposals tend to be the bodies of those too poor
to afford cremations, and victims of matters that eminent citizens desire hushed up.
This mess has been used for catapult loads on the rare occasions when the city is
attacked. (Khôltar has withstood giant raids and orc hordes in the distant past, and two
concerted Shaaryan assaults in more recent decades.) Almost all of the wall towers
feature at least one heavy catapult and at least two light catapults. Inner towers have
mule-driven chain-tower elevators for lifting loads of stone to their firing decks, and outer
towers are supplied by cartloads run along the bridges from adjacent inner towers. Few
Khôltans can remember the last time there was a serious attack on the city (a Shaaryan
tribal raid almost sixty years ago), but once every few years a few catapult loads are
dropped into the camp of some caravan master or other who’s too arrogant or foolish
enough to obey garthraun warnings to camp out of sight of the walls.
I’m not quite sure why (aside from total penury, or some strivings for fresh air) anyone
would want to camp close by Khôltar’s walls anyway. The filth from the ’tween walls trench

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runs out of a few drains to foul the earth, laced by rivers of oils and rust running down from
the oiled but rusting great overlapping iron plates that sheath the stone outer city wall. But
try it, and ye can expect one of the frequent wall patrols to move ye along right smartly.
Attacking a garthraun patrol, by the way (usually horse-mounted and 13 strong outside
the walls, and on foot and 7 strong inside the city) is a sure way to invite furious Khôltan
attack, from all sides. “Strike at order, and you strike at us all!” is not an empty local
saying. Those with hankerings to defy authority are strongly advised to avoid the Iron City
or temper their opinions and actions whilst visiting. That said, be aware that order in
Khôltar really means: “Don’t bother me or hold up my supplies or steal from me or try to
swindle me, because I’m busy making goods and therefore money.” Some Khôltans
never retire and die slumped over their forges. Others travel west to the cities around the
Shining Sea, and there enjoy whatever years of luxury and idleness their work ethic and
punished bodies allow them.
If ye gain the impression that I’m not altogether enchanted by Khôltar—well, bright ye
are, to be sure. (Wizardly sarcasm, there—humor an old, old, old man, will ye?)
Dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and humans all dwell together quite happily in the Iron
City, by the way, but here humans are dominant. Of course, far more than any of the other
races, humans (work-driven crafter humans, at least) are never a cohesive group that
works together against other races. They’re usually too selfishly busy bettering their own
personal lot. “Trade through crafting” is king in Khôltar, and as a result, it enjoys cordial,
no-nonsense relations with Eartheart.
The Steel Shields patrol to within sight of the Iron City’s walls, along the Traders’ Way
as far west as the walls of Three Swords (which I believe we’ll take a look at next), and
north along the Landrise, holding sway over all the largely empty ranchland between, and
the folk of the Iron City leave them to it. Iron City folk are quite happy earning coins
crafting everyday metalwork for those who don’t want to pay the high-coin prices of the
gold dwarves or need to buy the very best. There are folk in Faerûn (few of them smiths)
who say “A hinge is a hinge,” and such folk are quite happy to buy cheaper Iron City
wares—which after all are seldom shoddy, just not the best.
But enough of philosophies. Let’s look again next time (when dealing with wizards in a
nonviolent manner, remember, it’s almost always next time) at what greets the visitor
inside the walls of bustling Khôltar.

Third Impressions
I’d be less than honest if I said the Iron City is entirely devoid of greenery. Many a soaring
Khôltan building is topped by a rooftop garden that grows herbs, vine vegetables, and
even a few flowers (though the usual intent is to grow useful edibles and garnishes).
Many Khôltan buildings resemble tall, unadorned keeps: square or cylindrical or
buttressed stone towers that soar up five to nine stories above the shadowed, canyon-
like streets. Few buildings are less than three floors tall, above street level, and all have
cellars—though these are strictly limited in extent to prevent collapses: Khôltan buildings
need huge footings. Large mule-driven pumps raise water from the depths under the city

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to upper-level cisterns in the buildings, from whence gravity and opened taps lets their
contents down to lower levels as needed.
The Iron City’s thirst is slaked by deep wells and steam-driven pumps that lift water to
a shallow reservoir (from which citizens’ private mule-pumps take it up into the dwellings)
from a vast underlying aquifer called Lake Drooud in ancient texts and Thauloch by the
few folk of the Underdark who dwell in the vicinity. A prevalence of poisonous fumes,
searing rock salts, and molten rock flows to the west of the Great Rift keep settlements
in this part of the Realms Below very sparse, and very deep, which is the very reason
the dwarven Deep Realms extend far to the east of the Great Rift and only a little way
west and southwest of it. (Lake Drooud is the reason the Steel Shields patrol the surface
north and west of Khôltar. Dwarves of the Rift tap its waters too.)
Khôltans tend to express great wealth by simply building taller and larger towers, or by
buying the towers of less fortunate neighbors and joining them to their own by precarious
flying bridges high above the ground. However, a few of the oldest and wealthiest local
families (all members of the Onsruur) have sought to set themselves apart by sculpting
less lofty mansions in stone that are a welter of turrets, balconies, bay windows, statuary,
thrusting chimneys shaped like dragon’s heads or the necks, heads, and maws of other,
more fanciful beasts, and even glass-roofed central courtyards where plantings of shade-
loving trees and fungi grow.
What visitors may call these dwellings (which soar amid the more utilitarian but still
monstrously large stone-and-tile-roofed warehouses, forges, and factories) I can only
guess (colorfully, mind ye), but to a Khôltan, the typical tower is “my fist” or “my greatfist”
(depending on size); an inn, stables, or anything catering to visitors is a traal; and the
curious mansions built by the few Onsruur who’ve abandoned their towers or augmented
them with smaller but more sculpted stone homes are called klathlaaedin. My grasp of
the local idiom isn’t great enough to make more than obvious comments on the origins
of these words. I do know that the old local word for an outlander was traaldyn, and I
suspect that (as laaeder is old local dialect for “made by") someone whose name was
something akin to Klath might have been an early builder of these ornate mansions.
The visitor can, by the way, expect to find inns that are large, solid buildings of stone
with generous suites. In these houses of welcome (to use the formal term), water is
ample; temperatures are kept comfortable; food is adequate; and covered, secure
storage for coaches, mounts, draft animals, and locked-away valuable cargo is superior
to what can be found in most other cities of Faerûn. Most inns are only three or four
stories tall, and those topping five floors are rare indeed. Khôltans seem to understand
that visitors may find the soot of the city distasteful, and most inns offer luxurious hot
soaking baths to all guests—both in private in-room tubs and in common guest lounges
divided into male-only, female-only, and mixed chambers. Business is often conducted in
such surroundings by folk who care nothing for privacy.
The Iron City is the first place in Faerûn, by the way, where I’ve observed large-scale
use of heat conductors: Metal bars are welded into continuous runs that form shields
around forges, kettles, and cook hearths, and from there run elsewhere in structures to
heat water and adjacent stoneware in drying cupboards and the like.

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 Oh, by the way, adventurers who bear weapons in the streets or into a Khôltan inn
won’t be regarded with suspicion. The Iron City produces many weapons, and the most
attention an adventurer who refrains from open street combat can expect is to be offered
the standard secure lockbox (in your room or in our vault) inn service for valuables
(wherein, for an extra fee, goods are locked into a huge heavy coffer, which in turn is
locked to wall rings), or solicited to buy weapons better than what they’re carrying.
Aside from lumber to feed its hearths and ever-hungry forges, Khôltar imports ale,
spirits (notably a fiery whisky brewed in Three Swords that’s called amberfire, and which
numerous Iron City bottlers doctor with their own secret ingredients to make an amberfire
claimed to be superior to all others), and copious quantities of food.
Good cooks can make a very good living in the Iron City. Hungry Khôltans devour
mounds of food at a sitting, but value flavorful seasonings that less skilled or more
rushed cooks deliver with fiery mustards, sauces, and melted cheeses. Fried or boiled
vegetables seasoned in a stock and then baked into greasy panbreads or omelettes or
hardcheese bars are common convenience meals kept handy by the forge (with copious
beer, of course), as are desserts of sugared and raisin-studded buns. However, a cook
who can deliver something more exotic in swift and mighty quantities is likely to find his
eatery inundated by hungry Khôltans until the next taste craze hits elsewhere—and even
then, each new taste gains some permanent devotees. It’s not uncommon for a Khôltan
out for an evening to walk to six different city eateries (called luthdren, by the way—ye
might term them restaurants, whereas thy diner or greasy spoon is a blurdren to folk of
the Iron City) and partake of a single favorite dish at each. As a result, such
establishments tend to be informal, simply furnished, noisy bustling places. The only
difference drawn between most luthdren and blurdren is that the latter have a serving
window and an elbow counter and perhaps a stool or two for the aged, whereas the
former have ample tables and chairs for big, beefy folk to stretch out in whilst they feast—
and feast—and feast.
As for exports, the Iron City gives back to Faerûn all manner of metal implements and
wares, and little else. Next time, we’ll tour a few specific local sites of interest.

Our Tour Begins

Finding one’s way about in the Iron City is both easy and hard, if ye take my meaning:
hard because street signs are unknown, so many towers look very much like other
towers, and civic landmarks are largely lacking—and easy because the three gates of
the city are linked within the walls by a triangle of streets that are thrice as broad as all
others. Market stalls are banned in Khôltar, by the way, though vending wagons are not
(so long as they move along whenever directed to by garthraun street patrols), so these
wide streets may be crowded by wagons loading, unloading, and moving along to their
next pickup or delivery, but they’re seldom impassable.
Pretend ye can hover for a moment, and see through smoke, and do so for some gods-
odd reason straight above the Iron City. Looking down upon it, ye’ll see right away that
the walls are irregular, jutting out in several prows, here and there, and having no clear
south, west, or any other compass-directed faces.

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 Yet see, too, what I meant about these large, landmark roads. Just inside the southern
gate (called Farrgaunlar after its builder) that allowed us entry along the Traders’ Way up
from Delzimmer, the road leading from the gate splits into a northerly route and a
westerly one.
The north way is called . . . ye guessed it: North Way. It runs through the city to another
waymoot just inside the north gate. That gate’s called Handrornlar after an early human
smith and warleader who defended the nascent Khôltar against Shaaryan attacks, long
ago, and it lets the Dunsel Trail (the trade route that runs on to meet the Golden Road at
Shaarmid) into and out of the city.
The westerly street running from Farrgaunlar goes to the west city gate and another
waymoot, of course. That gate’s called Dubrinlar after the last dwarven Shieldlord
(governor sent by the Deep Realm to rule the city) to hold sway in Khôltar. It links to the
main caravan whelming grounds and to the ring road that circles the walls, and is the
gate that Khôltans encourage their own, resident caravan drovers to use when entering
the city (to lessen the crowding and delays at Farrgaunlar). The westerly street linking
Farrgaunlar and Dubrinlar is called Hael Way after a Kholtan who built the first heavy
wagons (in great numbers) and overnight made the Iron City something more than a
cluster of tents full of crafters.
The last road of this triangle, linking the moot within Dubrinlar and the moot inside
Handrornlar, is called Orntathtar Way, after the first Belarkh of the city, who elected
himself by force, ye might say, to stop ongoing swords-in-the-streets strife among the
Onsruur, but set all the governing rules in place that the city now follows.
So if ye’re lost in the city, just head away from the nearest city wall until yet strike a
very wide street, and ye’re somewhere on the triangle.Ye can tell just where at each gate,
since their inside-facing carvings are quite distinctive, and landmark inns or civic
buildings stand at each.
By night, the city’s lit by dozens of forge fires and street braziers on high wall brackets.
Traffic never stops, and garthraun patrols are generally helpful in giving directions, though
ye may find yourself trading question for question if ye seem to be dressed as outlanders
or up to something not concerned with work, work, work or selling and buying wares.
Of course, a ring route circles the outside of the city walls for the convenience of local
haulers and travelers desiring to bypass the city or reach another entrance.
In later columns we’ll poke our noses inside some of the most interesting and useful
local buildings, but let’s begin by touring about until we know where some of them are.
Then ye can choose an inn for the night or—who knows?—just a place to duck into when
the garthraun come looking for ye.
We started at the south gate, so let’s hover just inside and well above it (standing there
on foot would get us run over by half a dozen carters in the space of a breath) and look
about. Hard on our left, in the southerly angle where Hael Way heads away west from
the waymoot, is the ornate bulk of Harth Trithketh’s House of Welcome, a palatial inn
catering to wealthy visitors who expect the best surroundings and beauteous escorts to
share them with.

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 Hah, I can’t resist! Enough of waiting for later. Let’s look in!
Among the eight floors of this statue-girt stone palace are two each dedicated
exclusively in scale (ceiling heights and the like) and furnishings to dwarves, to halflings,
and to gnomes. Trithketh is a merry little rogue and illusionist with the sharpest nose I’ve
ever seen on a gnome, glistening black eyes, and a truly villainous expression. When not
scuttling about spying on his guests, he’s usually to be found relaxing with four or five of
his escorts. If ye have the coins, mind, he serves an astonishing collection of drinkables,
and even pours baths full of thy favorite quaff, if ye pay up front and have the ah, stomach
for such diversions.
Mystra watch me, but I do run on! One building glanced at, and already ’tis time to leave
ye and attend to a dozen pressing little matters, and continue our tour together next time.

The Farrgaunlar
The next building west along the south side of Hael Way from Harth Trithketh’s House of
Welcome is one of the most genteel and spectacularly furnished luthdren in Khôltar:
Sesszemur’s.
Sesszemur is an avid gambler and gourmand halfling who seldom leaves his top-floor
gaming rooms—but when he does, it’s to take his own private elevator to his kitchens,
where he tastes and oversees a great variety of dishes. His specialties are jellied fruit
dishes using ingredients from afar and huge roasts served up decorated as mock
dragon’s heads and the like on gigantic silver platters borne in by dozens of servers. If
he considers a dish particularly unusual or its decoration a trifle baffling, he’ll costume
up some of his most beauteous servers to take their places on the platters—to rise up
and serve the diners once the platters are placed on the tables. This luthdren has three
floors, the lower two cavernous halls dedicated to relaxed eating, and the uppermost a
dimmer, low-ceilinged affair for diners desiring to do business in a quieter, more private
atmosphere, with curtained booths and some distance between tables (rather than huge
tables shared by dozens, a feature of the floors below).
A narrow delivery alley lies along the west side of Sesszemur’s, and the narrow
building beyond it is Halamor’s Sure Service, a running halfling delivery service that
whisks packages or supplies around the city or delivers them to a cratemaker
(Thalarmol’s) in the building just beyond to be packed for far caravan travel. Beyond that
is our first forge (Elduskryn’s Fiery Creations) and a place where one can buy pipe
fittings and valves (Belphendor’s), and that’s as good a place as any to turn right back to
hovering above the waymoot inside the south gate and look in other directions.
In the prow or northwesterly angle of the waymoot, between Hael and North Ways, two
buildings jostle for attention: klathlaaedin belonging to the Onsruur families of Horthander
and Khaundrove. The one on the left (west), with the two solid-looking peak-roofed wings
of three floors joined by a two-story section adorned with the large circular window to a
narrow, five-story needletop tower encrusted with all manner of carved beasts, fanciful
frozen flames, and staring human faces, is Anthormbrur, seat of the Horthanders. They
are a tall, elegantly handsome human family with a taste for racing horses, buying land
in Shaareach and Lapaliiya, and owning both the hugely successful casting foundry that

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bears the name and dozens of small local repair and installation businesses. (The
crafters who fix piping, paint, set stones and plaster, and so on.) Anthormbrur once
boasted extensive enclosed gardens, but these have almost all been filled in with ever-
expanding stables.
The mansion due east of Anthormbrur is Baharrokhbrur, seat of the Khaundroves. It’s
newer, built of lighter stone, and less adventuresome—some would say more tasteful—
in its mixture of styles. (Its cream stone hue is a facing, but even the stone beneath was
brought by dwarven masons from a northeasterly reach of the Deep Realms, and it cost
more than a dozen city greatfists built of more mundane rock.) Its three square, pierced-
top bell towers in a row are joined to a large, oval tower by a flying bridge that permits a
view into a tapering, triangular-shaped court overhung by a glissade sculpture of
hundreds of ever-chiming bells. The back of the court is made up of stables, the servants’
house, and guest residences, all joined into one continuous flow of light stone.
The Khaundrove family is as squat, heavily muscled, and plain of appearance as their
neighbors (and rivals) the Horthanders (whom they call “Horsefaces") are tall and
comely. Their pursuits include games of war strategy played upon tables dressed up to
look like sections of real Faerûnian countryside and real-life dabblings in the politics and
mercantile trade of the Tashalar, where they fancy themselves a growing power.
(According to one of my sources there, they could be more accurately be described as
“a growing annoyance that someday just might become effective enough to be worth the
effort of crushing.")
In the Onsruur, the Khaundroves are conservatives who seek to prevent dwarves
rising in wealth or power within the Iron City, don’t even think halflings and gnomes are
worthy of serious consideration, and believe the humans who hold wealth and power
right now are the only ones who should dare to desire to do so. Ironically, their fortune is
based on buying the cheapest Deep Realm raw metals and stamping or casting the
cheapest possible copies or equivalents to Great Rift products—and energetically
exporting these goods to the Vilhon Reach and “perfumed Calimshan, where they’re too
decadent to know any better” (to quote old Ansgul Khaundrove).
Charming folk, to be sure, if ye’ll excuse the snarl in my sarcasm. Well, we haven’t even
managed to leave this waymoot yet, but Storm’s at my door with some talking skull or
other in her hand, so I’ll have to leave ye for the nonce, and return to our tour of Khôltar
next time.

Looking Around the Farrgaunlar

So here we are, together again—still hovering inside Farrgaunlar, above all the groaning,
jostling wagons, looking into the city. Turning away from the two klathlaaedin facing us
and the marching ranks of greatfists that flank them to both west and north, we turn hard
to our right across the North Way, and our gaze falls upon a huge stone building fronting
on the waymoot just inside the gate.
It looks like a castle keep with sides that taper inward and then erupt back out in
exaggerated crenellations. The merlons aren’t real stone defensive piers, of course, but
a series of carved, snarling-down-at-the-street stone lions. This was once the House of

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the Lions, headquarters of a now-defunct trading coster of the same name that mounted
fast runs between Khôltar and Var the Golden, but it now houses Darvoro’s Plates.
Darvoro’s is a large and wealthy firm that makes ornate metal plaques of all sizes and
finishes, from lockplates and kickplates for doors up to ornate shield-shaped heraldic
nameplates meant to cover almost an entire human-sized door. They ship engraved or
blank plates all over Faerûn—upon prepayment, of course. (As a result, most of their
business comes from enterprising caravan merchants who buy blank plates at the
counters just inside the door to sell as chance cargo elsewhere along their travels.)
Darvoro is a polite, handsome, fair-haired man who’s grown so rich that he can do just
about anything he desires—except get into the ranks of the Onsruur, which has of course
become an obsession that consumes him. He fills his days with plots and schemes and
hired spies and bribes that only serve to amuse the Khaundroves and similar “standfast”
families who have no intention of ever allowing anyone new into the ruling ranks.
The narrow street running east off North Way (to the city wall) along the side of
Darvoro’s Plates is Raelrur’s Run. It’s lined with strong guard warehouses and one tiny,
dingy blurdren at the wall end of its north side: Mother Talasko’s.
No one remembers who “Mother” was, but this Khaundrove-owned eatery busily
serves drovers and crafters who are in a hurry and have strong stomachs. It’s perhaps
typical of the worst Iron City blurdren. Eight surly, much-scarred male dwarves who have
the look of outlaws or maimed battle casualties work in shifts to dish out food across a
counter day and night, serving forth some splendid Shaar stew (a thick brown broth of
sliced boiled tubers and field greens enlivened with small, hot-spiced and pan-seared
strips and cubes of mysterious meat that usually comes from trail oxen and horses past
their useful lives, stray field vermin, and rothé) and some truly vile trathake (buns filled
with the fried innards of various hooved animals held in place with pepper-spiced melted
cheeses). Stew is served in crusty breadloaf bowls or the buyer’s own metal cup
(warriors often use their upturned helms), and a copper coin buys a wrap (a large, thin
cloth sheet for bundling up food and keeping the soot and dust of the streets out of it
while it’s carried off). A serving of stew is 1 to 2 silver pieces, depending on what’s in it,
a trathake is 2 coppers, and a pour (ye might judge it about a pint) of thin, sour Talasko
ale into a breadloaf bowl or the buyer’s own container is 3 coppers.
Better Iron City blurdren run to sausages or “hog fry,” soups, scoops of nuts, sweets
(sugared dates, if nothing else), and a slightly wider and better selection of drinkables,
but the prices generally go up a coin or two.
The sole remaining nearby landmark of interest to visitors is the building that occupies
the northeast corner of the Run’s junction with North Way: a square six-floor fortress with
narrow barred windows and a ballista-battery mounted in a slit-deck on the corner where
it can fire through the gate or down either of the wide streets. This is Pauntraal, the
Farrgaunlar duty house (where visitors report for inspection if ordered to by the gate
guards, or go if they desire to contact the garthraun or lack the correct coinage to pay
their entry tax). It has dungeon cells and seized-goods-vaults beneath—four levels, I’m
told—a ground floor of meeting rooms, and five floors of armories and living quarters for
garthraun (because it’s also the main garthraun house).

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 Ah, yes, the entry tax. I almost forgot. Folk leave the city freely—but if they enter (even
if returning after a brief outing) they must have a guard chit (obtained free upon
inspection at any duty house, or bought illegally at dozens of city inns or taverns, or
demanded without inspection if you happen to be a member of the Onsruur) or pay an
entry tax.
Citizens pay certain other business taxes, but visitors pay only this one. I should have
told ye earlier, but mages so often avoid such things out of habit (not the parting with
coin, necessarily, but the warning authorities of our arrival and presence) that I clean
forgot. Heh-heh. Next time.

Leaving the Farrgaunlar

If we’d been entering the Iron City in the normal manner, along the Traders’ Way, the gate
guards on duty would have levied an entry tax on us right away, even before leveling their
queries as to our business and what goods we were carrying or seeking. (Most of them
accept personal payments from local merchants to recommend certain establishments
where such-and-such can be had, and this practice is not unlawful.)
One of the reasons a guard detail during daylight hours is some 20 strong is to make
sure all of this taxation doesn’t slow the flow of traffic overmuch. Near dusk, the strength
of the guard is often raised to thirty-odd to make sure no one slips in or out uninspected,
no tax thefts occur, and no one’s left waiting to enter or exit as darkness comes.
But back to the entry tax itself—forgive me; I do go on. Well, then—entry on foot or on
a single ridden beast, even if openly carrying goods, is free. Entry with a handcart, mule,
or other single beast of burden (packframes are permitted for this rate, but not beast-
hauled carts or sledges) is 5 copper pieces. Additional mules or pack animals are 2
coppers each, and this rate also applies to animals pulling wagons or coaches, even if
they’re also ridden by a person or carry no goods. Each wagon is 2 silver pieces, empty
or full, and regardless of size.
Those who can’t pay or refuse to pay are typically denied entry. If they’re citizens, they
suffer forfeit of goods to the amount of double the denied tax. Beggars aren’t welcome in
Khôltar, but someone who arrives coinless and claims to have been robbed will typically
be given a bowl of soup and detainment with some searching questions at a duty house
before being expelled from the city or personally escorted by garthraun to wherever
within Khôltar’s walls they claim to have business waiting.
Before we leave this busy spot, let’s wheel around and look at the inside of the gate
itself. See the carvings of wild desert nomads mounted on rearing horses dying with Iron
City spears through them? All of Khôltar’s gates sport different carvings, so this none-
too-tasteful display tells us we’re at the Farrgaunlar.
Let’s head up the North Way to Handrornlar. Our route is one of the most visually
interesting streets in the Iron City, because after initial ramparts of greatfists north of
Pauntraal on the east side, and north of the two competing Onsruur mansions of
Anthormbrur and Baharrokhbrur on the west side, the North Way becomes a welter of
older, smaller buildings—forges and foundries scarred and soot-blackened with age and

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daily hard use. Most of them have the fragments of collapsed stairs and balconies, and
projecting beams (much enjoyed by the local plumphaers, a sort of pigeon that poorer
citizens often fell with slung stones to make nasty-tasting pies) fitted with block-and-
tackle winches for the raising and lowering of goods into storage lofts. These are the
most run-down and cheapest of Khôltan buildings, and they change hands often—so
often that the North Way sports the greatest abundance of shop signs in the city.
Here the visitor can expect to find the largest number of second-hand goods shops,
curio and failed or salvaged cargo vendors, repairers and fixers and crafter who claim to
refinish as good—and of course many of the most desperate low local thieves and
swindlers (as opposed to those grander thieves and swindlers whose business runs to
shoddy goods and short shipments among hundreds of wagonloads, or misappropriations
of very large amounts of coin in dealings with large businesses elsewhere).
Here, too, many costers (such as Saravho’s and the Torch and Shield) and independent
caravan masters (such as Thalmuth Hulden and Undro “Old Master” Mhalanklar) have offices
where they sign on lone travelers and small-wagon merchants into whelming caravans.
Dozens of small alleys and largely residential streets open off the North Way, but only
two routes cross it directly (that is, have mouths facing each other across the Way):
Erethorn’s Ride and Suldroon Street. I mention them because we’ll explore them later on.
Well, well—my nonstop blather has brought us to another little crisis for me
(Mourngrym’s at my door now, with a long face and someone’s blood dripping from his
gauntlets), and the waymoot hard by Handrornlar for ye. So, see thee next time.

A First Look at Handrornlar

So here we hover, above the waymoot inside Handrornlar, the north gate of the Iron City.
First, look back the way we’ve come (something adventurers often don’t like to do, I
know, but bear with me). See all the fists and greatfists, rising like so many fangs east of
the North Way?
If Khôltar was built today the North Way would undoubtedly be lined with warehouses—
or at least the streets running east of it to the city wall would be, for the swift and easy
loading and unloading of wagons and swifter whelming and dispersal of caravans.
The reason for the predominance of houses everywhere in yon part of the city save at
both ends (the streets adjacent to the city gates) is because for years the view across
the Great Rift (and the relative safety afforded by its presence, prohibiting Shaaryan
raiders, orc hordes, or hostile armies from massing in great numbers) was valued as the
best ground in Khôltar.
The Onsruur later changed this by buying cheaper land elsewhere within the walls
(upon which to build the newly fashionable klathlaaedin) and making fortunes selling off
their greatfists to socially ambitious citizens, but the residential enclave remains. Many
East Wall citizens sniff at the crowded, crumbling traal lining North Way—but take full
advantage of the handy blurdren to snatch inexpensive meals close to home at all hours.
Turn again, now, to gaze upon Handrornlar, with its city-side carvings of proud dwarves
posing with hammers, pickaxes, and waraxes—a not-so-subtle reminder that the might
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of the Deep Realm lies just outside that gate. Some Khôltans see it as a warning to be
vigilant against the Stout Folk, but others (particularly dwarves who dwell in the Iron City)
see it as a recognition that dwarves gave Khôltar a reason for being, and then made it
great. (The city was originally a great camping ground for all who came hither, desiring
to trade with the dwarves.)
Every gate waymoot in the Iron City has its handy inns and eateries. However, this
northerly one is the least well served because Khôltans usually depart from it bound for
short-run trading business with Rift dwarves, or in huge caravans bound for distant lands,
and most of the inbound traffic consists of dwarves. It should then come as no great
surprise to ye that the two inns here cater almost exclusively to dwarves—as do the three
small, thriving blurdren and the large, roaring tavern.
As one faces the gate, the two buildings immediately inside it on either side that are
joined to it by small curving battlements (in a sometimes forlorn and largely symbolic
attempt to make truculent dwarves stop, pay entry taxes, and submit to wagon
inspections) are the Turthtraal, The Turthtral are twin duty houses which contain
garthraun offices and armories, with small vaults and holding cells beneath them.
Immediately to the west of Drurntraal (literally, “West Traal”) is a large stone building
dominated by a gigantic carved face with a stylized beard that runs into the ground,
unfinished. It is pierced by several arched windows and doors. Stout iron bars form a
thick latticework over the window glass, both within and without, but that hasn’t stopped
angry or inebriated patrons from shattering several of the windows over the years. The
cracks they’ve left have been sealed with pitch and molten metal. This is Taurgaur’s
Tarjteir (“tarjteir” being a Deep Realm dialect word meaning “place of happy gathering”),
Khôltar’s largest dwarven inn. It offers a ground floor dining room that serves simple,
hearty fare and deliberately weak ale. If ye can stand the thick, ever-present cloud of
smoke emitted therein by countless dwarven “trood” (locally popular clay pipes of
extreme length, typically used to smoke a blue-green rockweed that’s sickly sweet to
smell but hath a wonderful taste and bite), the roast boar, rothé stew, and sarth skewers
(alternating cubes of ox and horse meat that have been marinated for a month in a
variety of strong and wildly different sauces) are quite good.
Above the dining room is a floor given over to short-term rental meeting rooms, and
this is where many dwarves transact all of their important business deals in the Iron City.
Many Deep Realm traders have little love for tramping all over Khôltar making deals with
humans, so they rely on the services of dwarves who dwell in the Iron City and make
good livings as “ammarakh,” or local trade agents, who serve as go-betweens who can
connect dwarves in haste with Khôltan vendors and services. Inn staff runners
(predominantly human and halfling youths of both genders) can speedily fetch needed
ammarakh here if they aren’t already lingering over a bowl of stew downstairs.
These meeting rooms, by the way, have water pumped through thaelor set in the walls
between and above them, and are also furnished with double sets of entry doors with
elbow-turn passages between them, to lessen the chances of being overheard. (Thaelor
are “gurgle pipes”—literally pipes fashioned with curves and internal chambers and
bulges to make water passing through them noisy. They are a conceit first developed for
Onsruur desiring to make their homes distinctive.)
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 Above this level are four floors of guest chambers with the massive and durable
furnishings preferred by dwarves. Below ground, the Tarjteir offers several levels of
extremely well-built locked short-term storage vaults for the convenience of guests. Some
of these, it’s rumored—correctly, mind you—have manacles for securing unwilling
occupants. They can also be rented by the season or even longer, so that visiting renters
can reach the Iron City on foot and apparently near-coinless and yet have access to
riches, a large wardrobe, and all the conveniences they can store . . . such as casks of
favorite ales.
The Tarjteir is the anchor of dwarven social presence in the Iron City, and the meeting
place for dwarves not engaged in covert business. Next time, our tour continues with
glances at other buildings near the Handrornlar—including one with upper floors reached
only by hidden tunnels from adjacent structures.

Tarrying Nigh Handrornlar

So here we hover still above the waymoot inside the north gate of the Iron City, fresh—
if that’s the word—from our glimpse of Taurgaur’s Tarjteir. The seldom-seen and very
elderly Taurgaur, by the way, is one of the most jovial and lively-witted dwarves I’ve ever
met. He positively delights in learning new things. These days, he sponsors spies to peek
at new innovations in Lantan. Adventuring groups rove all over Faerûn just to come back
and tell him what they saw. Whatever treasure they earn, they can keep; he just wants to
see trophies and hear long and detailed tales of what befell them and what they saw in
words as truthful as they can manage.
Adjoining the Tarjteir directly to the west—that is, on the northwest side of the wide
Orntathtar Way, as it leaves the waymoot on its run to the west gate of Khôltar—is the
source of much of the noise customarily clinging to this locale: the large, roaring tavern
called Phlambror’s.
The tall, handsome, suave human merchant (and scourge of other Khôltan merchants’
wives) Phlambror is long dead. He was murdered by an enraged husband, and no one
was ever punished for the crime despite the garthraun arresting a man red-handed
(literally bloody-handed, over the body). As it turns out, no less than four hundred men
came forward to claim that they’d slain Phlambror.
No one denied that the wayward merchant was an amiable friend to many (even those
whose wives and daughters he was romancing), a generous donor to needy Khôltans of
all races and walks of life, and an investor in scores of concerns. Everyone was
astonished, however, when a decree of his wishes was read out before the Belarkh. Its
main thrust was the provision that all debts owed to him were now discharged; the
businesses he’d invested in were now wholly the property of their owners, free and clear.
Moreover, his own properties (Phlambror had no wife, descendants, or surviving kin)
were donated to a variety of citizens, and among them was this tavern, then called The
Hand of Welcome, which he gave jointly to three dwarves who always spent long hours
there when in town. They promptly renamed it after him and retired on the proceeds,
which have never faltered, from that day to this, since visiting Great Rift dwarves come
looking for this “home away from home.”

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 In Phlambror’s dwarves can relax. That is to say, they can sing, carouse, brawl, tell
tales, and drink truly strong and vile beverages (including garlraw, which I can describe
only as various ales and whiskeys stirred together with butter and sweet syrups, and then
simmered to bring the flavor up even more strongly; it’s a thick, rich drink that causes
most nondwarven stomachs to revolt). When some of them succumb to the effects of
these leisurely pursuits, tavern staff clean them up, carry them next door, and put them
to bed in their rooms at the Tarjteir (or bunk them over in the tavern’s “groan-and-snore”
loft if they’ve no known accommodations).
Many dwarves become morose and truculent when in their cups, and they don’t
welcome any nondwarves they see in Phlambror’s, but others just ignore or nod politely
to the nondwarven, and then leave them alone. (Regardless, few without dwarven blood
in their veins feel comfortable in the place, and they seldom visit it twice. The exceptions
are folk who bring in their own tankards for fills of favorite drinkables they can’t get
anywhere else and then depart again forthwith to enjoy the contents elsewhere.)
Behind Phlambror’s and the Tarjteir are a cluster of fists (the smaller towers that
Khôltans build as homes) that have been sold by the former human owners. These now
serve as dwellings shared by many dwarves, gnomes, and the occasional halfling
family—each of whom owns one or more rooms, or rents them from dwarven or human
“little owners” who hold title to most of a floor.
Somewhere in one of these towers is the notorious “Abanth” or “Dark Corner” where
shady and secret business meetings occur—meetings between thieves exchanging
stolen goods, swindlers arranging cabals, corrupt officials making deals with
lawbreakers, business transactions involving slaves, contraband, drugs, poisons, and
kidnapped persons of importance . . . as well as meetings between lovers whose families
are bitter rivals, or simply merchants or even Onsruur who don’t want to be seen
together. The Dark Corner is dwarf-owned and run, but it caters to all who pay and
behave themselves. In fact, several powerful local sorcerers who have partnerships in the
concern help police it while profiting from its stiff admission fees. (The fees start at 5
gp/person, plus the establishment has stiff costs for guaranteed-free-of-drugs-poison-
and-magic food and drink “ordered up” to people there. Some patrons run up truly
awesome charges of 50 gp or higher—and the price is usually thrice that if they use the
covert corpse disposal service provided.) If a guest kills another guest in the Dark
Corner, that’s a private matter—but starting general brawls or casting spells on persons
ye’re not meeting with is grounds for instant expulsion, fining, and sometimes fatal attack.
The Corner consists of three upper floors of a tower that have been walled off from the
rest of it and are now accessible only through stairs and elevators rising through the
tower walls. These “hidden ways” connect to secret passages linking with Phlambror’s,
the Tarjteir, and several other nearby buildings—one of which has a cellar lime pit for
permanent body disposals.
Extra stone walls have been erected within the Corner, thick tapestries hang from them
(and cover floors and ceilings) to keep sound to a minimum, and (dim) illumination
emanates from luminescent means brought up from the Deep Realms (glowing borer-
worms, glowmoss, and phosphorescent powders, all maintained in glass spheres with
what they need for sustenance), rather than by flammable lamps.
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 I like the Corner, but be warned: It’s not a place for thrill-seekers to come looking for excitement
or to overhear valuable secrets. Many folk vanish there, often. For the moment, so will I—until next
we meet. A certain Witch-Queen of Aglarond is beckoning me from yon staircase, with a familiar
smile on her lips—and if I’m at all wise, I’d best do my utmost to keep it there.

Hungry in Handrornlar, and More

Well met again. Aye, I’m still Elminster, and aye, we’re still looking about the waymoot
inside the north gate of the Iron City. ’tis time to look east of Lathacetraal (literally, “East
Traal,” the squat turret-shaped duty house inside the east side of Handrornlar) and
across the alley that runs beside it. This alley links the waymoot with the nameless
garthraun lane that runs around the inside of the entire city wall. We will also cover the
next building along. Not so imposing, aye?
This little chaos of broken towers and mismatched repairs and additions houses one
of the busiest blurdren in all Khôltar. ’tis not large, but the spot is right, thrusting out like
a snout on the front of the last (or first) city block by the gate. Nondwarves—and more
than a few of the Stout Folk, too—swarm to its serving-windows for the simple but superb
fare to be had here at Munsrum’s Ready Ladle (just “Munsrum’s” to most folk). Here a
small army of saucy, good-natured lasses—including three half-elves, which are rare
sights in Khôltar, and thus a lure for many smitten admirers—race about a bright, noisy,
chattering kitchen at all hours, making and serving forth a small, unchanging menu.
Hot vauge tea (made from the vauge or voj-weed that grows wild in the Shaareach) is free,
but rental of a (dented metal) cup if ye’ve not brought one is a copper—and they seem not
to care if ye wander off and never return it. Cordials (berry juice laced with a little firewine
and secret scatterings of herbs, promised to work against ills but largely sold for the flavor,
methinks) are sold by the bottle: 3 gp to 6 gp, depending on the popularity and availability of
a type. (Usually amber-hued muquet, made with the rinds and pulp of something akin to the
rarest of thy oranges, is the cheapest, and dark blue thannaberry, which is something like
sweet, almost cherrylike blueberries, is the dearest.) Ale (sometimes dreadful, at other times
adequate, but always a blend, from cheap kegs sold by arriving merchants) is 5 cp a cup for
the first, and 4 cp a cup thereafter, if ye use a Munsrum’s cup, or 4 cp for all servings if ye
provide a small tankard (larger containers will bring a price increase).
As for food, ye have three choices, all served in hardrusk buns (small bread loaves
baked iron-hard, and made with a huge central cavity and a squat base so they’ll stand
up with cavity opening uppermost): claevur (a mash of spiced fish, groundworms,
greens, and tubers—the fish being whatever salted fish is brought in by caravans in kegs)
for 2 sp; thimmer (thin strips of panfried boar and other meats, diced with sausages, and
served in a gravy of their own drippings) for 3 sp; and mantara (a fry of eggs that has had
various diced cheeses and greens stirred into it (what ye might call an omelet), and once
hard is cut into flat slabs and then rolled and stuffed into the hardrusk), also for 3 sp.
I say so much about Munsrum’s because ’tis about as good as an Iron City blurdren
gets, and because much of its fare is what most Khôltans in a hurry make for themselves
at home (though most larders would also have ready some root pies, minced-meat tarts,
and sugar candies).

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 Beside Munsrum’s is Oraundro Nempeth’s, a narrow-fronted shop selling rope, cord,
twine, binding wire, tying rings, and a small selection of chain. Next to that is the gloomy
entrance of Harhallo’s Warmhearth House, which is an old, small inn that caters to
dwarves but has been falling slowly but steadily out of favor as the newer, larger Tarjteir
has soared in popularity. Human guests now outnumber dwarven clientele almost two to
one in the dimly lit, many-pillared, threadbare passages and chambers of this old and
decaying inn. Yet Yontur Harhallo, third of his line to run this Iron City inn, remains a quiet,
kindly friend to many. Harhallo’s is massively built, with stone walls more than 3 feet thick,
and it offers relative quiet and privacy—and low prices. A guest and one beast will be fed
(straw in the stables, and onion soup, biscuits, and slices of roast brought to the rooms
of guests), watered, bathed if need be, and given a stall or private room with bed for a
flat 9 silver pieces a night. There’s a “common room” with a gigantic fireplace for those
who like to chat (drinks there are extra, of the 4 cp/tankard sort, plus a smattering of most
expensive wines). Old travelers, and the miserly, tend to stay at Harhallo’s.
Beyond Harhallo’s, down to the mouth of the first easterly street, Malpeir Lane, the rest
of the block is given over to hiring firms, who can direct any visitor—for a small fee—to
employers desiring workers skilled in this or that, without any surety of hiring, of course.
It also has “find it for you for a copper” services (who guide ye to any place in Khôltar that
sells, mends, or buys particular items) and a barrelworks.
So let’s turn about in our hovering to the last face of the waymoot, and look at what
stands there next time, before moving on.

A Last Look Around Handrornlar

So here we hover again together, inside the Iron City’s north gate, looking now at the
south side of the waymoot. That is, the prow of buildings that faces the gate directly,
looking north out of Handrornlar whenever the actual gates stand open.
Here we find some of the oldest fists in town—two to four-story towers given over to
low-rent housing for the poorest laborers (whose presence is usually heralded by the
copious lines of soot-hued laundry hung from balcony to balcony). This warren of
decaying towers flanks three buildings of interest.
The most westerly of this trio, the one with its own portcullis-gate and central
courtyard, is Harmeirlarko’s Journeys, a wagon repair shop and wheelwright. With his
swift repairs and replacement axles, wheels, and even entire light carts and heavy trail-
wagons, Rethtin Harmeirlarko has saved the hide of many an unfortunate merchant. His
prices are steep, but his staff of workers is happy, skilled, used to soothing furious or
anxious clients, and swift. I know of more than one experienced caravan merchant who
has examined the wagons on offer in Harmeirlarko’s while waiting for a repair to be done,
and decided to buy one of them and throw his own damaged wagon into the deal for
whatever he can get for it (the source of Harmeirlarko’s rare price bargains).
Other folk use the overhead cranes here to transfer heavy cargoes from one
conveyance to another; a typical “lift (always done by the Journeys staff, who don’t let
anyone else use their cranes) ranges from 1 cp (to a poor citizen) up to 5 cp (to a wealthy
merchant).

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 Some veteran caravan merchants order a spare wheel and axle whenever they’re in
Khôltar, so they always have replacements handy on the trail. When they pick up a new
one, it frees them to resell their oldest spare—for top coin to someone in desperate need
elsewhere on their travels.
Next to Harmeirlarko’s, heading east, is another small, thriving area. This one is called
Surlpar’s Stews, and ’tis a wretched, dirty place that flourishes by keeping prices—and
quality—lower than either the dining room of Taurgaur’s Tarjteir or Munsrum’s.
Surlpar’s sells to many visitors once, but only to the poor Khôltans who dwell nearby on
a continuing basis—and I’ve never seen the owner, Ensril Surlpar (an Onsruur heir of
luxurious tastes in clothing, wines, and women) dining there, or so much as glancing at
the place as his coach rolls by. If ye must grab something at Surlpar’s, make it the salted
biscuits; the salt on them is thick enough to drive away most molds and taints—unless, of
course, the rats have been at it (always turn thy biscuit over before leaving the counter!).
East of Surlpar’s is one of the Iron City’s surprises: Jamrado’s Thanetalium. (Visitors,
by the way, may call this “Jamrado’s,” but to Khôltans, ’tis always “the Thanetalium,” and
I may as well give thee the proper pronunciations of both: “Jam-RAD-oe’s” and “THANE-
tal-eeum.”) In old Khôltan dialect, “atalia” is a gathering, “atalium” a purpose-built
gathering-hall (as opposed to a building that happens to get used once for a meeting),
and “thaner” was a performance or planned entertainment . . . but as my apprentices are
wont to say, I digress.
The Thanetalium is a small thrust-stage theater: that is, the two-tier stage juts out into
the main hall. That stage actually has a third level to it: a trapdoor-covered “underground”
for pratfalls or grand appearances (amid smokepots), of ghosts or gods or conjured
creatures—or even a fourth level, if ye count all the acting done from partway up the
onstage stair connecting the floor with the upper gallery.
This thrust stage is surrounded on three sides by audience galleries: a stand-up “pit”
slightly below ground level, and two tiers of boxes overhanging that (held up by stout
pillars). Audiences can buy small paper cups of spiced and cinnamon-buttered nuts, but
debates are still raging as to whether to allow them to purchase drinkables that can be
spilled, hurled, sprayed, or spewed. Most bring their own since the arguments go on,
season after season.
Most of the Iron City ignores what’s offered at the Thanetalium, but a surprising
number of visitors, crafters, and laborers attend at least weekly (often armed with things
to hurl, though favoring performers with tankards, weapons, and other hard missiles is
grounds for swift expulsion). Audiences enjoy evenings of entertainment consisting of a
succession of short acts: comedians, jugglers, singers, dancers, and actors who do
satirical skits lampooning Khôltans and current news (racial and political mockery tends
to predominate, in a lighthearted, catchphrase-laden fashion that some of ye might term
“vaudeville”). The latest rage is shapeshifting performers who can provide variety in their
parts with snake or monster heads, tentacles, comically large body parts, or caricatures
of the facial features of prominent Khôltans.
’tis basic stuff, but the sort of lowbrow amusement has proven to be of enduring
popularity in more worlds than this one. Thine, for instance.

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 Well, well, it seems I’ve a trio of Harpers hammering on the door of my tower now, so
until next time—may thy spells never miss . . . and thy judgment keep pace with their effects!

A Tour of Dubrinlar
And so we meet again, hovering as foolishly sightseeing archmages do if they want to
look about or attract arrows, above the last waymoot of the Iron City: Dubrinlar, where
the road surrounding Khôltar pierces the west face of the city walls. The inner face of this
gate has carved images of human smiths and crafters, all holding their hammers or other
tools in one hand and holding out their other hands to receive coins. Each of them has a
small pile of accumulated coins already (mock discs of stone, of course, not real ones),
and I can’t help but think as many a visitor has: a more apt image of a Khôltan couldn’t
be found—workers who always have their hands out for money, as if that’s all that matters
to them.
Ahem. Well, there are worse things to do in life, and most of them involve sharp-bladed
weapons and the spilling of the blood of others. But let me not topple over into another
digression; I’ll instead plunge forthwith into my customary swift tour of what buildings of
interest fall within thy sight at this waymoot. Of the three entrances into Khôltar, this one
certainly presents the Iron City’s most formal and forbidding face to visitors.
Hard by the northern side of the gate is a tall, grim tower bristling with ballistae decks.
This is Darrusktraal, the local garthraun duty-house. It’s named for a long-dead local hero
of the garthraun. (Elgrol Darrusk was a much-loved lummox of a man who apparently
held the gate alone for some hours against scores of orcs before succumbing to his
wounds; if his statue just inside the doors of the place is any judge, he was large and fat
enough to fill most normal doorways without any need for armor.) Darrusktraal’s function
and interior is apparently very much like that of Pauntraal at Farrgaunlar, except that it
tries to make up for being singular (there’s no matching garrison point on the other side
of the gate) by being twice as large as it need be—and thrice as menacing. A lone triple-
bow points east along Hael Way, and another points northeast up Orntathtar Way; three
more are trained down on the waymoot, and the rest—sixteen, I believe—are aimed to
fire into the gate’s mouth. Clearly Khôltans see the people of Shaareach as much fiercer
folk than I do.
Next to the duty house is the mouth of the alley, where a reinforcement detail of
garthraun usually stands awaiting peak periods of inspection and tax collection. The next
building along, on the west side of Orntathtar Way, is a fist whose stone walls have been
worked into relief carvings of a random selection of wagon wheels, anvils, and
hammers—surrounded by hundreds of falling coins. This is Halamor’s Tower. The wise
Halamor died rich as a result of renting out the floors of his fist to scores of “finecrafters”
(mostly the polishers and assemblers and repairers of hinges, hasps, locks, and other
small items), who have their offices and workshops here. So popular was the concept
that the older, smaller buildings next to it (as one heads north along Orntathtar), Hindror
House and Nolvur’s Manyworks, have also been given over to finecrafters’ offices.
Beyond them, Orntathtar becomes a mixture of clothing shops and cloth merchant
warehouses, backed by streets of greatfists galore. So let us turn in the air and survey
the other side of the gate.
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 The mouth of the alley meets our gaze first, and beyond it rises a brown stone building
adorned with a row of very tall, narrow, arch-topped windows, and above them scores of
tiny “stand and stare” balconies with wraparound wrought-iron railings, which are entered
via glass-paned doors. The balconies got their curious nickname because they’re so
small that a person entering them has room to do little else but stand motionless and look
down (though falling is also an option).
This is the Maerador House of Welcome, which is a fairly clean, reasonably-priced,
new inn that puts three floors of small, rather spartan rooms over a ground floor with a
lofty ceiling. The ground floor is given over to common baths (male guests, female
guests, with a raucous mixed bath chamber between) and to an echoing lobby set with
open internal balconies at varying heights. Here guests are free to sit and chat with other
guests, or meet Khôltans to do business or for social purposes. (Several beautiful
persons of both genders and all four of the Iron City’s predominant races reputedly
operate as professional providers of “social purposes” in this room.) It’s the sort of place
I dislike, but many a weary traveler may seize upon it gratefully as “low on worries.”
Next door to the inn is Vandanamer’s, a very noisy and popular luthdren. It can be
described best as a great echoing barn of a place where thin soups and hearty slabs of
meat are cut in front of diners’ eyes from the many sizzling carcasses of rothé and oxen
that turn endlessly on spits. It charges a fair coin for the provender and feeds many
Khôltans swiftly every night.
Beyond it is the mouth of Galaglavur Street, and beyond that the ever-roaring din of
Krostur’s Forge. Let’s turn and look upon the prow of this waymoot and view the two huge
civic buildings that greet the traveler’s eye upon entry through Dubrinlar.
The one on the left (north) with several spires is Malgart House, a courthouse where
judges administer the laws, some serving as “guides” to present a case by questioning
accused (like thy lawyers do, but I’ll say more of that in a later column). The large,
pompous-looking box on the right (south) is Manycoins Hall. Primarily a city-run bank
and money exchange, it’s also where official Iron City representatives will (for nominal
fees) witness contracts and trade agreements.Ye also can hire copyists to duplicate such
writings and, in the lobby, view a large, detailed (but unlabeled, except for cryptic tax
codes) building-by-building map of the city.
And there ye have all of interest to be seen at this waymoot. Next time we’ll look at the
city’s grandest civic building: the central fortress of the ruling Belarkh. Gah, I’m trembling
already.

High Khôltar
Back again for more? Good! Well, I’ll fly thee invisible this time, for our mutual comfort
and safety. The Munificent Belarkh’s guards are all too apt to fire their crossbows first and
ask questions of the pin-cushioned corpse later.
We’re bound for the very center of the Iron City: the dark, grim fang of a fortress called
High Khôltar. ’tis built of black stone (the gray marbling upon it is made by soot, but no
one’s about to wipe it off) in a curious double tower shape. The taller tower thrusts out a

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deck over the spire of the smaller one (whose spire in turn serves as deck support) to
allow griffon or hippogriff or even—rumors say—wyvern-back traffic to arrive and
depart—but years have passed since the time of the last Belarkh who enjoyed such
travel, and his guards regularly cast weighted nets out over the deck to snare
plumphaers for their stewpots.
Aye, his guards. The Belarkh and his three principal tax collectors (the Darbrael) and
the Onsruur are far too mighty to have mere garthraun protect them; instead, they hire
their own loyal, armed-to-the-teeth bodyguards. These are usually former mercenaries,
but they include a smattering of adventurers—and a small but poisonous number of
Thayan, Zhentarim, and Cult of the Dragon agents, as well as spies for various Tashalar
and Calishite satraps and rulers. Most are human, but ye may even meet some yuan-ti,
if ye stray into the wrong mansion.
The Munificent Belarkh, however, prefers human guards. He has his real ones and the
guards he chose for appearance more than might (lads and lasses whose armor won’t
turn anything but male and female heads, though the Belarkh himself prefers to watch
the lasses), and they all strut around the mirror-polished floors of High Khôltar with their
armored, flashy boots clicking sparks from the metal. Ah, yes, the floors here are plated
with metal—flame-orange copper in the private chambers and “brightsteel” alloy
elsewhere. The taller tower of the fortress is where the Belarkh and his wealth and
personal guards dwell, and the shorter tower is where the armories and officials are, as
well as where the Onsruur meet with him.
The fiction, ye see, is that the Belarkh rules the Iron City like some sort of overlord—
not quite a king, but a Supreme Merchant. In reality, he’s the mouth-trumpet of the
Onsruur, who rule as a council and let him front for them—and any Belarkh who forgets
that is apt to suffer a sudden and fatal “forge accident.” (Three have, to my knowledge,
died in this manner, and if I’d been paying more attention to the affairs of this benighted
city, I’d probably have noticed more, though in recent times poison seems to have
replaced accidents as the favored method of unwanted-Belarkh-disposal.)
Perhaps I’d best give ye some idea of the present Belarkh. Picture a heavyset, short,
fair-haired man with two floor-drip spikes of a moustache and glittering green eyes. His
tanned skin is usually oiled to display his rippling muscles, and he loves shattering the
sculptures of others with a great iron bar but does no real work of his own. He holds
grudges and never forgets a face, and he loves to make profits by shrewd investments
and by “getting even” with anyone who bests or crosses him in matters of trade. However,
he is never foolish enough to cross the Onsruur, who tolerate his endless sculpture
purchases and pretty personal guard acquisitions (slaves, most of them, and the rest
soon discover that’s what they’re treated as, once they “settle in” and receive their armor).
One Enklaevur Rostigror by name (CN male human Exp4/Ftr3/Rog6), the Belarkh is a
native-born Khôltan, the son of weavers who died well before their son’s . . . errr . . .
greatness. Rostigror spent some years as a caravan merchant and a few more as a thief
and vagabond trader knocking around the Tashalar before his chance discovery of a
portal made him rich on a few timely runs of wines and medicines to Waterdeep in a
harsh winter. He bought some poison there, came home and poisoned his older brother
Urlingh and his elder sisters Evendove and Ithriya, claimed the family business (which
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he promptly sold), land, and wealth—and befriended some of the Onsruur just as the
Belarkh of the time made himself a difficulty to them.
A man after my own heart—and gizzard, and vitals . . .
As are the three serpent-hearted humans—sly, tall, thin men all of them, though as far
as I can tell not blood-related—who are the city Darbrael. They regularly submit to spell-
probings by mages the Onsruur hire to find thefts and swindles, so these Darbrael don’t
steal a coin—instead, they bully extra coins out of working folk as “waiting payments” so
those folk can be late with their payments. This graft the Darbrael are allowed to keep,
and they do so gleefully. One day I believe I’ll turn them all into oxen and sell them for
spit-duty at one of the city inns. Cheap.
Ahem. Well, now. Recall ye the two streets I mentioned that cross the city from wall to
wall: Erethorn’s Ride and Suldroon Street? Well, Erethorn’s is the more southerly, and once
ye pass through the greatfists crowded with socially ambitious Khôltans, going in from
either North Way or Orntathtar Way, ye come to what Khôltans call “Deepcoin.” ’tis the
relatively quiet heart of the Iron City, where garthraun and private guards are numerous
and klathlaaedin line both sides of the Ride. At the very center of the Ride, an arrow-straight
street called the Iron Way branches off north and runs to High Khôltar. It circles the fortress
and runs on to meet with Suldroon, in the heart of its smaller cluster of Onsruur mansions.
Ah, but I’ve said more than enough, so let’s leave off looking at things. In columns to
come we’ll speak together of Iron City laws and rumors and the like.

A Brief History of Khôltar, Part 1

I’ve heard some of ye yawning at my forays into the past before—oh, now, don’t try to
fool a wizard with an innocent look! What a waste of time! Ahem. Eagerly interested, all?
Hmmph. Know ye, then, that I’m not going to subject ye to long lists of dead folk, or
tongue-by-tongue political battles from the founding of Khôltar to yestereve. What I am
going to do is briefly tell ye the highlights that have made Iron City folk what they are, so
ye can better understand their character and probable reactions.
Khôltar began circa 316 DR as a camp-moot for humans and halflings who came north
from the Great Coast to trade with the dwarves. The Stout Folk wanted their visitors
confined so as to cut down on thievery, lawlessness, open sword-strife, dangerous
diggings without permission that were occurring nigh everywhere, and idiots falling into
the Great Rift at all hours, wagons and all, and bringing ruin down on the heads of
dwarves below.
The dwarves began by erecting a rubble wall—more of a rampart, really—in a great
ring and instructing visitors to camp within it. Those who refused were attacked by night
and chased away, and those who complied received first pick of the choice trade-goods.
The visiting traders learned swiftly—particularly after the dwarves built large, sturdy
warehouses and installed both guard-towers and guards.
At first they drove out anyone who tried to stay in the compound year-round, but as
Shaaryan attacks on the camp grew persistent, the dwarves saw that it was drawing
some of the traditional nomad raids away from Eartheart.
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 Amberu Khôltar was the young, adventure-loving Rift dwarf who offered to garrison the
camp and take its increasing expenses in hand—in return for a small measure of
independence from the Deep Realm. When this was agreed to in 341 DR, Khôltar
promptly offered human costers and mercenary bands permanent bases within the walls
of Durthkhôltar (literally, “Fort Khôltar) and set about recruiting his own “axemasters”
among his fellow young, restless Rift dwarves. Humans (both traders and folk of
Shaareach tired of Shaaryan raids) respected the firm, even-handed rule of “Lord
Blackbeard” (Khôltar had a glossy black beard as wide as his shoulders that descended
to ankle level) and came to the nascent city to settle in droves.
Now known as simply “Khôltar,” the city outgrew its walls thrice in a decade, expanding
so rapidly that the dwarves of the Rift grew alarmed. When their traders brought back
word that the Blackbeard was running short of funds, they moved swiftly (in 366 DR) to
meet with him in private. The result was an endowment that allowed Amberu Khôltar to
build the great walls he’d dreamed of raising and to give his friend Dunsel free reign to
build his dream: the good stone road linking Eartheart and Khôltar. It still bears his name
today, and although it became derisively known as “Dunsel’s Dream” to some Khôltans,
the builder pushed on, continuing the stone, gravel, and hard mud caravan road from the
other side of Khôltar to meet the Golden Road at the now swelling trade center of
Shaarmid (which was then only a paddock he built at the waymoot).
This influx of funds and building made Khôltar great. The price was its independence:
Khôltar himself became Shieldlord of his city. He was allowed to hold the title for as long
as he desired it—but it was understood that his successors would be governors sent by
the Deep Realm to rule under their direction. The humans grumbled a bit about this, but
the continuing stream of dwarven gold and disciplined dwarf guards (who for the first time
set themselves up as garthraun and malgart, and began handing written laws to Lord
Blackbeard for him to decree into open force) soon silenced it—the swindlers and bullies
departed, and the humans interested in wealth and peace stayed and prospered.
In 368 DR, a human crafter and Khôltan citizen named Ulbrask Hael came up with a
heavy wagon design of strength and durability that could be made (and repaired) swiftly.
Produced in great numbers, his wagons overnight made the Iron City a permanent trade
center rather than a tent city with elaborate defenses.
Many swiftly made their fortunes, and crafters threw aside their tents and shacks
and built stout stone houses and workshops. Crowding within the walls became a
problem for the first time—and Shaaryan raiders slaughtered and burned those who
built outside the walls. Most crafters preferred to cower inside the walls and leave
fighting to the dwarves, who in turn preferred to stand and defend rather than charge
forth to chase elusive nomads—but one human smith, a giant of a man named
Handrorn, made himself armor and confronted Lord Blackbeard, demanding the
right to lead Khôltans to war. More to calm the smith’s fury (and the mutterings of
Handrorn’s most angry human supporters) than out of any real enthusiasm, Khôltar
gave him coin and approval. Handrorn, the Iron Blade, burst forth to scour
Shaareach and the land south of the Iron City, slaying nomads with such fury that
they came no more to the western side of the Rift but confined their raids to the
village of Shaarmid and lands north of it.

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 But I’ve talked enough and more than enough for one history lesson, so let’s save the
rest of it until next time, shall we? Thy eyes look heavy, and the lass who now plays Lhaeo
to me has brought some tea that has interesting-looking things swimming in it . . . hmmm .
..

A Brief History of Khôltar, Part 2

Well, now, here we sit together again, and I’ve no doubt ye’re ready for the rest of the
Iron City’s history. Now, when we left off last time, Handrorn was destroying nomads right
and left, Hael was rolling wagons out of his shop slower than clamoring folk could buy
them, taller buildings were going up all over the Iron City, Blackbeard and the dwarves of
the Rift were grumbling into their beards for different reasons, and crafters were supreme
in a human city of Faerûn for the first time and bathing in more gold coins than they’d
dreamed possible.
All of which brings us to the first inevitable calamity. A certain haughty gold dwarf of
the Rift, one Inbrurr Harlenstar, saw no reason why humans should be enriched by (as
he saw it) dwarven endeavors and goods, and demanded that the dwarves take over
Khôltar, drive the humans out, and reap all the gold. The fact that this would have driven
trade and therefore prosperity away overnight seems not to have occurred to him, but
others of the Deep Realm saw it clearly enough, and refused to support his snarlings.
Inbrurr brooded for a year or so, and then in 374 DR hit upon a dark scheme: If he could
slay Shieldlord Khôltar but make it seem as if a human did the deed, this would rouse
the dwarves of Eartheart against “the ambitious murderers on their doorstep”—and if he
spread some dark rumors about whoever was sent from the Rift to be the new Shieldlord
and stir up anger among the humans so that they defied the dwarves, this would turn
opinion in the Rift against the humans, and . . . aye, it all fit.
Inbrurr chose poisoned weapons to be Blackbeard’s undoing and hired some rogues
(through layers of others, so that no one involved in the actual slaying would be quite
sure who was really behind it all). He forgot two things: that the rogues might have
ambitions of their own that include outliving the slaying (so that they might suspect their
own demises had also been arranged and take steps), and that some humans dabbled
in magic. Blackbeard was slain, but his killers overcame the hired slayers who were
meant to end their lives, keeping two as helplessly trussed captives, and the garthraun
turned to human wizards visiting the city and hired them to use magic to get to the bottom
of things.
The scheme was slowly traced to its heart, and Inbrurr was exiled from the Deep
Realm. (He’d fled into the wild Underdark a few running strides ahead of justice anyway,
to become a recurring rumor, down the centuries, of dark plots against the Iron City.) The
new Shieldlord, a dwarf named Onskrar Hammershield, found himself facing much anger
from the citizenry. He promptly established a council of citizens to hear complaints, draft
laws, and make suggestions regarding the governance of the city. It was his intent to
have this body consist of twelve old and wise human crafters, four dwarves, two gnomes,
and a halfling, plus eight seasonal members appointed by him, and that no one have a
permanent membership. If these humans were all swift tempers and change change
change, let it be so, with their own elders as the only lodestones to hold them back.
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 Of course, by the time (424 DR) Hammershield died in the collapse of a faultily-built human
tower he was inspecting (a true misfortune, not any attempt at slaying him) and his jovial, fun-
loving successor Gonth “Merrybelt” Forgegold had devoted his stewardship to befriending
(and drinking with) every Khôltan in sight, the council had sorted itself out through its own dirty
dark-night means. The temporary memberships had become a hereditary dozen (later
sixteen, and then twenty, as the Onsruur grew), the nonhuman members were gone, and the
seasonal appointees had been reduced to secretaries and envoys.
The Decrees of Onsruur, a councilor of the time, were set forth almost silently in 512
DR, formalizing what had already become fact. Forgegold cared not; he was busy getting
to know as many Khôltans personally as he could, giving them all little gifts and aid, and
becoming deeply loved by all in the process. He regarded them all as his to look after,
and he made sure that Iron City folk lacked for nothing. Luckily, the “hard work” ethic of
Khôltans was so well established by then that only the wealthy families of the council fell
into the decadence of believing they deserved everything Forgegold could give.
Something befell Forgegold in 577 DR that abruptly made him resign his stewardship
and go adventuring with a small group of oldtime friends from the Rift, from which none
of them ever returned. In that same year, Angloam Dubrin became Shieldlord. He was to
be the last dwarf to hold sway in Khôltar.
I suppose I should call for a doom-chord of heralds’ trumpets at this point to
foreshadow the bloody foolishness to come—but nay, I’ll leave that fun for next time,
when we wrap up this potted history of mine and when I say a bit more about the
villainous Onsruur of today. See thee all then.

A Brief History of Khôltar, Part 3

So let me take ye back to the Iron City of 577 DR again . . . comfortable? Good. Hearken, then:
From the moment of Shieldlord Dubrin’s arrival, when he began building a new and large set of
walls (the inner walls of today, with the gates I’ve shown ye and the great triangle of streets joining
them), he was the target of covert Onsruur plots and schemes to bring him down. Their aim was
to whittle away at the real, daily power of the Shieldlord, and then discredit him in some scandal or
other so he could be overthrown—and any successors repudiated by the city as a whole.
For his part, Dubrin (“DOO-brin,” by the way) soon saw very well what they were up to
and reported to his superiors in the Rift, leaving the decision with them as to whether he
should outlaw the families and imprison them (which would cause great human unrest),
or withdraw from the ever-increasing headaches of governing Khôltar, secure in the
knowledge that the dwarves could control its prosperity and ultimately its survival. (Its tall
towers readily could be made to collapse by undermining them from below if it ever
became necessary to shatter the power of the Iron City once and for all.)
The dwarves debated for almost forty years. As Dubrin grimly survived one “accident”
and open assassination attempt after another, Khôltar grew ever more prosperous, and
an orc horde arrived and was hurled back (amid two massive Shaaryan raids and
countless smaller ones). The outer wall was the result of the orc strife, and it was still half-
complete when the dwarves decided to withdraw.

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 Dubrin got his own measure of revenge by slowly and without announcement bringing
in a dwarf army. After the Onsruur had stewed in the juices of their own fear for almost a
tenday of this whelming, on a particular evening in 619 DR Dubrin used the troops to
hand-deliver to every citizen a surprise proclamation of his departure from office and
Khôltar’s new freedom. Then he and they simply disappeared that same night, departing
the city by cellar tunnels and other still secret passages. Dubrin knew full well the
bloodbath would soon begin.
He was not disappointed. In the days that followed, first one Onsruur family and then
another proclaimed themselves rulers of the city, and their hired bodyguards grew rapidly
in numbers, clashing more and more openly in the streets. The city devolved into
lawlessness and utter terror ere a senior human garthraun, Embran Orntathtar, grew
tired enough of the knifings and street-battles that were taking over the city. He wielded
all of the garthraun like an army against their fellow citizens—or rather, against the
bodyguards hired by some of their citizens—for the first time. He proclaimed himself
Belarkh (ruling lord) of the city in late 619, arrested and slew the worst Onsruur
hotheads, and made the rest his governing council, bluntly telling them to behave or die.
Of course, as is the way of things, the Onsruur who survived the first few attempts to
murder Orntathtar decided that even if this first Belarkh was going to defy and rule them,
his successor would become their puppet in the years ahead—somehow and by
whatever means became necessary. They succeeded, too, although I believe it took them
four Belarkhs to achieve complete control (with Hulik Strathtar, who ascended into High
Khôltar in 687 DR). Open election of the Belarkh came somewhat later, but as only
Onsruur can name candidates, suffice it to say that no one has been ruling lord of the
city whom the Onsruur did not choose, train, and have an iron hold over.
I won’t weary ye with the subtler machinations of power-shifts among the Onsruur and
on the part of the Deep Realm dwarves since, but suffice it to say that nothing essential
has changed in Khôltan politics from Strathtar’s days to now. So let me list the present
Onsruur families as briefly as I can (know thine enemies).
Blaskarn: Blaskarns are large, burly, and strong in bloodline; hedonists; martial; slavers
and coster owners; sponsors of Khôltan building firms; coarse and crass; and almost as
powerful among the Onsruur as they believe themselves to be.
Carthclarr: Carthclarrs are sharp-featured and handsome in bloodline; snide and
superior; learned and dabble in magic; extensive investors in Shining Sea coastal cities;
and skillful manipulators, long-term intriguers, and poisoners.
Daunphar: Daunphars are nondescript in bloodline; horsebreeders and livestock
ranchers; on fairly good terms with some unscrupulous Rift dwarves; as aloof as possible
from fellow Onsruur and Khôltan politics.
Emelduur: Emelduurs are short, handsome, and lithe in bloodline; talkative and
restless schemers by upbringing; tireless intriguers and “sharp” traders who make much
coins by swift investments and manipulations; and riders of “the moment.”
Horthander: Horthanders are tall and elegantly handsome in bloodline; owners and
breeders racehorses; extensive landholders in Shaareach and Lapaliiya; owners of

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Horthander casting foundry and dozens of small repair and installation concerns; and
longtime rivals of the Khaundroves.
Mystra, but I sicken of these folk just listing them. I’ve tasted more than enough for
now; I’ll list the rest of these delightful ruling Iron City families next time.

More on the Onsruur

Ready for more of the local villains? Then let us list the remaining self-styled nobles of Khôltar.
Izimmur: Izimmurs are lack-haired and -eyed, slender and small in bloodline; secretive;
careful investors in crafters while spying on them, continually urging them to more profits,
and tending them like a prize herd of cattle; and poisoners and vicious grudge-holding foes.
Jhalahaskur: Jhalahaskurs are fair-haired, tall, and strong in bloodline; martial; and
weapons-merchants and investors in costers, slavers, and mercenary companies.
Khaundrove: Khaundroves are squat, heavily-muscled, and plain in bloodline; dabblers
in Tashlutan trade and politics; owners of “cheap copy” casting firms; archconservatives;
antidwarf; and longtime rivals of the Horthanders.
Lhamalask: Lhamalasks are short and solid-built in bloodline; makers and vendors of
scents, oils, ointments, poisons, antidotes, and (magic) potions; lovers of luxurious
clothing who are often privately ridiculed by fellow Onsruur for adopting fashions that ill-
suit their build and usual scuttling gait.
Lurpryn: Lurpryns are handsome, dusky-skinned, dark-haired, and emerald-eyed in
bloodline; indolent and languid of manner due to upbringing; superior and “lazily cool” in
attitude; and landlords and investors in drug-smugglers, slavers, and slayers-for-hire.
They refuse to ever be seen “working” for even a moment.
Mieruura: Mieruuras are brown- and black-haired but otherwise nondescript in
bloodline; sly-tongued and urbane by upbringing; traditionally masters of drafting trade
documents and arranging mercantile deals; and large-holdings landlords in Khôltar and
Lapaliiya. They dislike confrontations.
Mispurr: Mispurrs are nondescript in bloodline but fashion plates who love “show” and
excess in dress, furnishings, and behavior; and they are good dancers, singers, and
patrons of many bards. They consider themselves learned and “preferred of the gods”
and are often privately ridiculed by fellow Onsruur for their “airs.”
Naganthuur: Naganthuurs are reclusive and repressive, with bodyguards swift to lash out—
and for good reason. Some blood-taint or other got into this family centuries ago, and they quite
often have limited (one or two limbs) shapeshifting abilities, so that they can seem monstrous
if caught in an unguarded moment or cornered so as to feel their “beast-blood” abilities will
serve them best. Otherwise they are tall and rather homely in bloodline; dispassionate short-
loan, stiff-penalty-fee investors in many Khôltan businesses; and collectors and sellers
sculptures of all sorts (those with hidden storage cavities are a family specialty).
Olophyn: Olophyns are handsome in bloodline and former Tethyrian commoners who
adopted full-blown heraldry and courtly manners of their own invention upon arrival in the
Iron City. They consider themselves “true nobility” and their fellow Onsruur “money-grubbing
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pretend-nobles.” They despise their fellow Onsruur and for the most part are
enthusiastically despised in return. Additionally, they love to hunt humans as game (in the
wilderlands, mounted and with lances, to the death); and they are slavers and weapons-
and armor-merchants who collect many-powered magic armors to use as their own.
Osstiurr: Osstiurrs are fat, short, and pudgy-featured in bloodline (most family members are
waddling, comically ugly beings); exceedingly wealthy moneylenders, dealers in stolen goods;
arms-dealers; sponsors of many firms in Calimshan and Amn; keepers of slaves trained to
personally praise individual Osstiurr often; fathers of dozens of bastard offspring while
consorting with their slaves (training the most promising of these as family agents in Amn and
Calimshan, and slaying the rest); and dabblers in sales of and experimentations with gases
that bring sleep, death, or obedience, or mad visions.They are treated warily by other Onsruur.
Pelardh: Pelardhs are sharp-featured and small in bloodline; energetic and fair dealers
with Deep Realm dwarves; bitter rivals of the Voaphangh; and owners of several firms
specializing in chasing, engraving, and plating; gourmands who import cooks and food
often for personal pleasure. They are among the most fair and principled of Onsruur.
Phangarl: Phangarls are nondescript in bloodline; widely regarded as buffoons by
other Onsruur for their love of comedy and acting and enthusiastic involvement in
comedic pursuits; vicious traders (who deal with Shaaryan raiding bands to attack
caravans of rivals but leave those of the costers they sponsor untouched); owners of
trading businesses in Var and hinge-makers in Khôltar; breeders and sellers horses (but
have no interest in riding); and owners of several coach-making firms and decorating
firms.
Surlpar: Surlpars are fair- or white-haired but otherwise nondescript in bloodline;
landlords and moneylenders to Khôltans in need; hedonists; fractious and feuding within
the family (and a “fallen power” because of this); and once great among the Onsruur and
therefore hated by many. They are reputed (correctly) to keep and breed monsters in the
cellars of their mansion to be guardians, sport-kills, and for sale.
Voaphangh: Voaphanghs are nondescript of bloodline; urbane and expertly self-
controlled actors by upbringing; and energetic and ruthless “seekers of supremacy”
among the Onsruur, which has made them feared and hated by most other Onsruur
except their close allies the Yulzaunt. They reserve their most biting rivalry for the Pelardh
family. They are also everchanging dabblers in all aspects of business and Iron City
goods-making and covert supporters to claimants for thrones and rule in dozens of city-
states in the Vilhon, Chessenta, and Sembia (hoping to win wealth, property, and
influence if those claimants ever seize power).
Yulzaunt: Vulzaunts are very tall and slender in bloodline; experts in matters of health
and healing, medicines and sicknesses (expertise they sell to the ailing); sponsors of
many gnome and halfling Iron City businesses; extensive Khôltan landlords; close allies
of the Voaphangh family; and ranchers who sell “beasts for the table” in a dozen
countries. They regularly try to arrange temporary shortages to raise prices—which they
then rush for-sale beasts in to take advantage of.
And thankfully that’s all of the Onsruur in their glory—dangerous foes, to be sure.

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 Credits
Author: Ed Greenwood
Editing and Typesetting: Sue Weinlein Cook and Julia Martin
Typesetting and Production: Nancy Walker
Web Development: Mark A. Jindra
Graphic Design: Robert Campbell, Robert Raper
Based on the original DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® game by E. Gary Gygax and Dave
Arneson and on the new edition of the DUNGEONS & DRAGONS game designed by
Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Williams, Richard Baker, and Peter Adkison.
D&D, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, MONSTER MANUAL, DUNGEON MASTER, d20 SYSTEM, and
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Originally published on www.wizards.com/forgottenrealms.
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