After long weeks in the green and woodsy wilderness, it is with some relief that our heroes set out on the People's Road and head north and east to Falcon's Hollow. Approaching the township they see a rough and humble frontier town, with rutted muddy lanes and an old-style wooden palisade wall around most of the settlement but with some homes and shacks having been built up on the unprotected outside of the wall along the northwest side. Everything is dank brown and gray, in sharp contrast to the verdant and teeming with life forest they have come from. nearby to the south the wide river called The Foam swings by. Deep and wide it is plied but Lumber consortium bargemen who hook and corral the logs coming downriver from the campsites, dragging them into the catchpool of the Sawmill.
As they approach the town the alarming, constant shriek of the sawmill provides a strange background to the town. Two surly and ill-bred gate-guards man the Eastgate Tower. Browntooth Earl and Tom of Wemberly Green, respectively a hateful old codger with a foul-smelling self-rolled cheroot of a dank, black smokeleaf and a doltish and simple but equally mistrustful and corrupt militiaman lazing on a three legged stool.
Tom demands the Gate Tax of a single silver per person but Earl comes up with his footman's pike to hold up the party over the suspiciously werewolf-like Najáre. It doesn't matter to curmudgeonly and bigoted Earl that she is a cat, she has fur and fangs and claws and walks upright like a man. He goes about trying to deny her entry to the town then asks for double the Gate Tax before Belton Harald, who can take no more of this tomfoolery demands to speak to the 'supervisor' of the guards. This elicits nothing but mockery and scorn from the foul militiamen but Earl sends Tom to fetch the Sheriff, having decided not to let these travelers in without a good bribe.
Tom demands the Gate Tax of a single silver per person but Earl comes up with his footman's pike to hold up the party over the suspiciously werewolf-like Najáre. It doesn't matter to curmudgeonly and bigoted Earl that she is a cat, she has fur and fangs and claws and walks upright like a man. He goes about trying to deny her entry to the town then asks for double the Gate Tax before Belton Harald, who can take no more of this tomfoolery demands to speak to the 'supervisor' of the guards. This elicits nothing but mockery and scorn from the foul militiamen but Earl sends Tom to fetch the Sheriff, having decided not to let these travelers in without a good bribe.
The sheriff comes along, a well armed, competent-looking fighter with a serious but reasonable demeanor.
Sheriff Deldrin Baleson is a strong-hearted seeming man with an honest desire to do good in his town. He questions the party about their business in Falcon's Hollow, looking out for the quiet and safety of his town. And after a brief interview, seems satisfied with handsome and charismatic Belton who is clearly an Inquisitor and therefor likely to be a man with a respect for law, and his pretty, quiet cohort Gaia, whose celestial-descended Elven beauty is remarkable and whose demeanor is non-threatening. He regards bellicose Sif Amarth closely. Clearly a Northman maiden from the fierce, raiding culture of the Nords, he takes in her well-worn armor, sharp axe at hand and fierce-eyed ready stance and trusts to her companions to keep her Raider's blood in chack here in the "civilized" town. Nanáre he immediately makes for "Not a Werewolf" and while curious, dismisses her as an undue threat, Taking into acount her fine and handsome features and her noble, elevated bearing. Despite her southern continent foreignness, he deems her more than a pet of these others and bidding them pay the silver gate tax, ushers them into the town.
Following the River Road they pass the screeching Sawmill bustling with workers and the busy industry of the lumber consortium. Taking in the sights they see that this ramshackle lumber town clings to the ragged edge of Andoran's Darkmoon Vale, staring down the wild shadows of a vast and largely unexplored frontier. Falcon's Hollow attracts the desperate in droves - and it also beckons the calculatingly cruel, who merrily grind those poor souls under their unforgiving heels. Beset on all sides by wild beasts, the dead of a ruined dwarven empire, and malicious fey, the townsfolk of Falcon's Hollow must also contend with the hardened hearts of those few who have made the town their fiefdom and the heavy yoke they hang around the necks of its citizens.
It is a blunt, sawdust-choked stop on a winding trade route, a festering haven of injustice and cruelty, Falcon’s Hollow rests perilously close to the infamous Darkmoon Wood. The long shadow of Droskar’s Crag casts a shroud of gloom on the desperate souls who call this place home. Many come here to make their fortune cutting darkwood lumber in the lush wood, while others journey to this remote fringe to start over, piecing together their shattered lives on the edge of an untouched wilderness far from the things of man. Persecuted zealots and outcasts flock to Falcon’s Hollow to practice their strange and often deviant rites unfettered by the mores of civilization. Finally, Falcon’s Hollow lures many explorers with the promise of great adventure nearby. The town, its people, and everything in it belong to the corrupt Lumber Consortium, controlled by the de facto leader of the town, the loathsome Thuldrin Kreed. His petty decrees and the consortium’s overpriced goods keep the people of the town prisoner as surely as if Kreed and his goons used manacles and chains.
The community thrives on a tenacious mix of greed, debauchery, and stubborn self-reliance. As much property of the Lumber Consortium as the buildings, cut timbers, and other assets in the town, the people of Falcon’s Hollow live in abject poverty and unending misery. Those born into Falcon’s Hollow (or those foolish enough to move there willingly—or even unwillingly) face lives filled with anguish and devoid of hope or betterment.
Common Folk of Falcon's Hollow
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It is a blunt, sawdust-choked stop on a winding trade route, a festering haven of injustice and cruelty, Falcon’s Hollow rests perilously close to the infamous Darkmoon Wood. The long shadow of Droskar’s Crag casts a shroud of gloom on the desperate souls who call this place home. Many come here to make their fortune cutting darkwood lumber in the lush wood, while others journey to this remote fringe to start over, piecing together their shattered lives on the edge of an untouched wilderness far from the things of man. Persecuted zealots and outcasts flock to Falcon’s Hollow to practice their strange and often deviant rites unfettered by the mores of civilization. Finally, Falcon’s Hollow lures many explorers with the promise of great adventure nearby. The town, its people, and everything in it belong to the corrupt Lumber Consortium, controlled by the de facto leader of the town, the loathsome Thuldrin Kreed. His petty decrees and the consortium’s overpriced goods keep the people of the town prisoner as surely as if Kreed and his goons used manacles and chains.
The community thrives on a tenacious mix of greed, debauchery, and stubborn self-reliance. As much property of the Lumber Consortium as the buildings, cut timbers, and other assets in the town, the people of Falcon’s Hollow live in abject poverty and unending misery. Those born into Falcon’s Hollow (or those foolish enough to move there willingly—or even unwillingly) face lives filled with anguish and devoid of hope or betterment.
In truth, all who work there do so under the oppressive auspices of the Lumber Consortium and Thuldrin Kreed's harsh vigilance, which make life as hard as the darkwood the lumber town devours . Nevertheless, the resilient folk ofFalcon's Hollow find a grim pride in their work. The cutyards are the pumping, bleeding heart of the town, with shifts around the clock cutting and shipping darkwood and other lumber down the River Foam. Hard men and women break their backs and lose limbs to saw and axe in the yards, aging 5 years for each one they spend toiling under these gruelling conditions. They're a rough and honest (for the most part) folk, obeying orders and defending the Consortium to outsiders. The lumberjacks and millworkers generally aren't looking for heroes-their problems are their own, and they're too proud to look to strangers for deliverance.
Making their way toward the end of the road and some bustle they spot from down the lane, our heroes find themselves in the Low Market. Open to all, the Low Market sells produce no longer fresh, heavily salted meats, and other questionable foodstuffs-most of which barely survive their trip to the market. Nothing in the Low Market sells for more than a few gold pieces, and almost nothing is worth more than a few coppers. Portly Jasin Greatoak organizes the market's various stalls and cart-bound booths. He is good-natured but dimwitted, and rarely has a sober thought run through his head. The Low Market is frequented currently by hordes of poor lumberjacks, struggling farmers, and outcasts. A few ramshackle stalls serve ale and blindness-inducing moonshine to carousing lumberjacks, fueling their revels and making pickpocketing an easy prospect. The party witnesses a clumsy pickpocketing beggar get his reward for his crime in the form of a brutal pounding by the poor lumberjack he robber. No guards are called and swift justice is meted out in heavy measure followed by the lumberjack taking all of the thieves coins. Belton confronts the ruffian and is met with indignant defensiveness and bewilderment at how this stranger could think to involve himself in this local problem. When Belton remarks about how the Lumberjack would feel if someone took his axe the impact on the whole of the crowd is immediate and remarkable. mouths fall silent and bitter, venomous glances and mutterings ripple through the townspeople. The Lumberjack leaves, not willing to face a fight with the well armored and armed Inquisitor.
Seeing the looks of misunderstanding on our heroes faces, the Moonshine merchant beckons them over before any other trouble can start. He demands a silver from Belton to pay for all of the party to "enjoy" a cup of his distilled horror and all of them are foolish enough to accept. Only two are brave enough to drink it. Sif Amarth downs the awful concoction and only her warriors constitution allows for her to hold down the poisonous alcohol. Lady Gaia drinks of her cup and within scant seconds vomits forth a putrid, rankling stream of foul-smelling, curdling bile whose chemistry emits a smell far worse than the unadulterated brew itself. It is truly a horrid liquor and Belton, decides to keep hos for later use starting fires or removing corrosion from any future treasure they find.
The erstwhile barkeep leans in close to his Still-Wagon and informs the heroes of the realities of life for these poor in Falcon's Hollow. Explaining to them the Company Store of the Lumber Consortium, the Axe-Tax, the Bunk-Rent and the other tools by which the corrupt Thuldrin Kreed keeps the poor in crushing debt and constant indentured servitude to his company. He advises them of Kreed's private army of thugs, pointing out some the sell-swords to the group. They eye them for a bit spotting that these are veterans of the Revolution which granted Andoran its freedom from the feudal system and the thrall of Cheliax. These mercenaries are battle tested survivors of a cruel and deadly war and not foes to write off quickly. They carry mean, leather covered truncheons and other blunt beating tools to keep the uppity in line.
Bidding the Moonshine Merchant good day the party carries on toward The Sitting Duck, the Tavern that Sheriff Baleson recommended to them in the northeast former of the city. But not before Betlon eyes the dark tower looming over the Low Market, a sturdy, ugly edifice without much in the way of adornment. A handful of gargoyles populate its upper parapet. Belton breaks away from the group by himself, promising to meet them at the tavern. He approaches the tower and sees it's ancient construction, predating the town by centuries. He watches the Gargoyles carefully. Noticing that their placement is not normal along the parapet. Where they should be evenly spaced they are randomly gathered along the top. For an instant he is sure that one moves an inch to the left but scrutinizing then closely, he becomes convinced of the possibility that it was just s trick of the light. He heads off to rejoin his comrades, vowing silently to do more to look into this tower.
The Duck is the local hot spot for adventurers, explorers, and other rapscallions looking for excitement, although it stands a little too close to the town's palisade for most residents' comfort. The tavern serves a potent brew of fermented darkwood leaf that could floor an ogre in a few tankards. As Najáre, Gaia and Sif take an out-of-the-way seat along the wall, Belton goes straight to the bar and starts asking about whats going on around town, eager for news that could lead to adventure and profit. The patrons of the bar are nothing is not obliging, regaling him with rumors of The Larkos clan. Word is that the Larkos are dead, but not gone. Their burned and twisted corpses washed up in a marshy patch of forest deep in Darkmoon Woods. Now they skulk in the swamp, howling into the trees and swearing vengeance against Kreed and all of the town's inhabitants. Inquirig about the dark tower he saw, he is assured that local recluse Sharvaros Vade engages in strange necromantic experiments in his tower. A portly bearded resident of the area insists that he keeps the desiccated corpse of his murdered mother hanging from hooks up there, where her raspy cackles can be heard echoing through the lumber piles on quiet nights. Ergin Tock, the brawny thug of a bartender seems to nod in agreement with every wild tale told, as though it all were the gods honest truth. The lovely but painfully provincial barmaid Jalene Artem offers the ladies drinks and and treats Najáre with an alarmingly belittling scratch of the top of her head as though she were a kitten or housecat, demeaning her with cutesy talk as she takes the requests of the table. Najáre, unable to brook such treatment unanswered, slaps the woman across the cheek and sends her away to retrieve their drinks. Within moments a shifty, thuggish man approaches the table, takes in what he's come to deal with and then staggers off with only a goo'day to be seen moments later arguing across the room with Jalene and leaving her in a huff.
Belton returns and shares the intel he's gathered. Determined to look into this tower even further. The girls want to go and see what the General Store they saw earlier, The Goose n' Gander has to offer and Belton agrees as it is adjacent to the Low Market at the near foot of the dark tower. Along the way Belton stops one of the town's children at play in the street. Offering him copper in return for stories about the tower. The bow, Little Timmy Townsend, a boat-capped urchin of the muddy lanes, is at first mistrustful and reluctant, but seeing the color of Beltons money, admits that the Tower Block Boys the little gang of three bullies that live at the foot of the tower, may know something. Belton offer him three pennies for the job but he explains shyly that he'll have to bride the wee-lords of the tower district with at least this much apiece in order to avoid a beating as a trespasser and to buy their knowledge. Belton gives the boy his twelve pence with the promise of more and the boy darts off to the south.
Arriving at the Goose n' Gander they enter the cavernous general store. Goose 'n' Gander is a labyrinthine muddle of winding aisles and precariously balanced shelve s stocked with everything someone living on the frontier might require. There is no apparent method to the store's organization, and one might find a variety of unusual items stocked in among the more usual domestic staples, dried foods, and mining supplies. Browsing the piles they find curiosities such as a gourd of alchemist's fire whose shape resembled that of a baby, a petrified pseudodragon hollowed out into a bull's eye lantern, and an unnaturally cold and blood-stained chisel. They find after a bit that if one searches the shelve s long enough, one can find most standard adventuring gear here. They are approached shortly by the proprietor of this establishment, Brickasnurd Hildrinsocks, a Gnome with a merchants penchant for palaver. He revelas that he does offer the occasional minor magic item among his wares, dragging them through the maze to regard his collection of feather tokens, a strange clockwork wand and other curios. Sif asks for thunderstones and he delightedly reveals a bizarre collection of the grenades from a vareity of makers and races. Asked about obscuring smoke bombs he leads them to some odd enamel and grey-stone snuff-boxes from far-away Minkai beyond Tian Xia which he is certain are the tools of the legendary "Ninja" and produce a volume of concealing smoke when dashed upon the ground. The Ladies do not trust this clearly dubious claim.
The group go on to be led hither and yon in the wild store, discovering a curious ancient mummy with some of its wrappings cut away to reveal its brown desiccated flesh. A very curious Ibis-headed cane and after a strange conversation with Brickasnurd, and a startling appearing on a shelf, a pure ivory Canopic Jar with hieroglyphics to match those of the neck of the ibis-headed cane. Much haggling and conversation and pleading and cajoling ensues and eventually, in due form, the party buys their articles of interest and bids the merchant good day.
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