The wind changed and is now blowing in from the north, bringing in the stench of rot from the swamp that lies to the northwest of the Monetenapoleone, a small fishing village nestled on the mountainous edge of the Zabaglione coast. Destitute seems too optimistic of an evaluation of Monetenapoleone and the wealth of its residents. This fact is well-reflected by the ramshackle cluster of buildings that you would guess to be the the town proper. You can't imagine there are more than a few dozen people who live here, if that. Life is simpler here this far on the edge of the empire, and many of the typical trappings of imperial control simply aren't here. The cathedrals and military garrisons that you're used to in the metropolitan centers have been replaced by subsistence farms and small family owned shops. Hopefully the problems that follow the big cities of the empire have also been left behind, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to label this an adventure if that were the case, wouldn’t it?
The contract that you had with the ship you were protecting was to run out when you arrived in Monetenapoleone, and you now know why the captain was sparse on the details regarding the town. The ship docks only long enough to drop off its passengers and a few crates before pushing off. The captain gives you your pay without a word and the sailors quickly prepare their ship for departure (200 gp for the group). You hear some jeers from a crew member as they sail away, maybe attempting to negotiate a new contract would’ve been best. You overhear some of the other passengers talking about going to the Three Anchors Inn, a short walk from the boat. While the claim that this town ever had enough wealth to afford three whole anchors seems dubious, you are certain that this inn is probably the only decent place to get a drink for awhile. The wind that carried the smell of rot and decay down from the north doesn’t change, and judging by the general demeanor of the locals it seems that this might be the norm. Which is to say:
Wenrich wrinkles his nose and casts a wide gaze over his companions.
"Hey, let's maybe get inside this inn everyone seems to be talking about. It'll give us a chance to get out of this stench."
He eyes the large building closest to the dock, and quietly mutters under his breath something about the chances of a guild hall in a village this size as he starts off towards it.
It smells like shit.
The wind changed and is now blowing in from the north, bringing in the stench of rot from the swamp that lies to the northwest of the Monetenapoleone, a small fishing village nestled on the mountainous edge of the Zabaglione coast. Destitute seems too optimistic of an evaluation of Monetenapoleone and the wealth of its residents. This fact is well-reflected by the ramshackle cluster of buildings that you would guess to be the the town proper. You can't imagine there are more than a few dozen people who live here, if that. Life is simpler here this far on the edge of the empire, and many of the typical trappings of imperial control simply aren't here. The cathedrals and military garrisons that you're used to in the metropolitan centers have been replaced by subsistence farms and small family owned shops. Hopefully the problems that follow the big cities of the empire have also been left behind, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to label this an adventure if that were the case, wouldn’t it?
The contract that you had with the ship you were protecting was to run out when you arrived in Monetenapoleone, and you now know why the captain was sparse on the details regarding the town. The ship docks only long enough to drop off its passengers and a few crates before pushing off. The captain gives you your pay without a word and the sailors quickly prepare their ship for departure (200 gp for the group). You hear some jeers from a crew member as they sail away, maybe attempting to negotiate a new contract would’ve been best. You overhear some of the other passengers talking about going to the Three Anchors Inn, a short walk from the boat. While the claim that this town ever had enough wealth to afford three whole anchors seems dubious, you are certain that this inn is probably the only decent place to get a drink for awhile.
The wind that carried the smell of rot and decay down from the north doesn’t change, and judging by the general demeanor of the locals it seems that this might be the norm. Which is to say:
It still smells like shit.
THE PC’S
Gimble the Gnomish Bard
Slaekar Bottlethane the Dwarvish Warlock
Wenrich Clark the Halfling Rogue
Tychrides Kreptyr the “Human” Cleric
First
Wenrich wrinkles his nose and casts a wide gaze over his companions.
"Hey, let's maybe get inside this inn everyone seems to be talking about. It'll give us a chance to get out of this stench."
He eyes the large building closest to the dock, and quietly mutters under his breath something about the chances of a guild hall in a village this size as he starts off towards it.
Slaekar wriggles his fingers a bit and with the help of prestidigitation frees his nose from the oppressive stench.
"Inn sounds like a great idea, I'll see if we can secure some free board with the promise of a few entertainers livening up this backwater village."
He gives Gimble a wink and digs into his pack for his juggling crystals.