Geography
Less than twenty miles from the border with the Republic of Ahetheinas, where the undead claw at the gates of Brites from the south, Shavenmound clings to the banks of the River Shale like a drunkard to his last ale. The river splits the burg in two: the east side, where the air reeks of sweat and sawdust, and the west side, where the scent of spiced wine and polished wood lingers in the streets. Three bridges span the Shale, their planks groaning under the weight of lumber carts and the occasional corpse floated downstream. The northernmost, the Soldiers Bridge, stands as the burg’s proudest relic – a reminder of a time when Shavenmound had soldiers to spare.
Beyond the burg’s limits, the forest looms. Not the gentle woods of children’s tales, but a wall of fir trees, their branches thick enough to blot out the sun, their roots tangled with the bones of those who dared to log too deep, too late. The lumberworks hum with the rhythm of axes and the shouts of men who know their labor is all that stands between their families and starvation. And yet, for all its industry, Shavenmound is a place of haves and have-nots, where the west side’s lanterns burn bright into the night, while the east side’s shadows stretch long and hungry.
Here, the climate is harsh. Freezing, snowy winters and cold, rainy summers. The average temperature is just below 12 degrees C.
The People: Grit, Greed, and the Ghost of Democracy
Shavenmound’s 1,700 souls are a motley lot: humans, mostly, but with enough dwarves, gnomes, and dark elves to keep things interesting. The dark elves are merchants, spies, or exiles — tolerated, but never trusted. The burg’s heart beats in its lumberworks, where the crack of splitting wood drowns out any whisper of dissent. Logs are floated down the Shale to the lowlands, where they’re turned into the roofs and walls of cities that have long forgotten the names of the men who felled the trees.
Gerard Marquee, fourth of his line, rules from Apple Hall (a), a squat, sturdy building on the main square. The Marquee family has held the mayor’s seat for so long that the idea of an election is now a joke told over drunk laughter. Taxes are voluntary, which means the burg’s coffers are as empty as its jail cells. The wealthy on the west side have taken to funding their own guards – men who keep the peace, so long as the peace benefits those who pay their wages. The east side? The east side gets what’s left.
And now, with the undead pressing from the south and the road to Brites too quiet for comfort, the burg’s unease is as thick as the sawdust in its air.
Notable Locations: Where the Stories Unfold
The Drunken Mare (North Side, Location b)
The Drunken Mare isn’t just a tavern – it’s the north side’s living room, where deals are made, lies are told, and the ale flows like the Shale itself. The two-story building sags slightly under the weight of its own history, its common room packed with merchants, guards, and the occasional dark elf slumming it for a taste of human ale. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat and pipe weed, and the walls are lined with the scars of a thousand bar fights.
Behind the bar stands Karol Milkin, a mountain of a man in his sixties, his apron stretched tight over a belly earned from a lifetime of sampling his own wares. His grey hair is combed back like a retreat in progress, and his small blue eyes miss nothing. He knows every patron’s name, their drink of choice, and which of them are cheating on their spouses. The giant cleaver hanging behind the bar is his pride and joy – a trophy from the time he allegedly slew a giant with his bare hands. The truth? The cleaver’s edge still shines like it’s never seen a day’s work, and Karol’s hands are large enough to make the lie plausible.
But here’s the thing: when the undead start clawing at the doors, that cleaver glows with an eerie blue tint. Just a little. Just enough to make you wonder.
The Knuckle Cracker (East Side, Location c)
If the Drunken Mare is the north side’s heart, the Knuckle Cracker is the east side’s broken rib – a one-story, smoke-choked den where the air tastes of desperation and cheap liquor. The common room is a sea of rough-hewn tables, and the kitchen serves a stew so thick you could stand a spoon in it – if you dare. The patrons here are lumberjacks, injured soldiers, and the kind of folk who have given up on moving up in the world.
Marleen Brightwood, the tavern’s owner, is a woman in her thirties with a sharp tongue and even sharper ambitions. She inherited the Knuckle Cracker from her late husband, Roald, and she’s damned if she’s going to die in the east side. She dreams of moving west, where the streets are cleaner and the coins are heavier. And if that means bending a few rules – or a breaking few necks – well, that’s just business. Rumor has it she’s been meeting with a dark elf in the woods north of town. Whether it’s for gold, protection, or something darker, no one knows. But the way she smiles when she thinks no one’s looking? That’s enough to make even Karol’s cleaver seem like a mercy.
Apple Hall (Central, Main Square, Location a)
Apple Hall is where Gerard Marquee holds court, and where the last remnants of Shavenmound’s democracy go to die. The building itself is modest but well-kept, its walls lined with the portraits of past Marquees – all of them looking down their noses at the burg they ruled. Gerard, the fourth of his name, is a man who wears his power like a well-tailored coat: comfortable, but always ready to remind you it’s there.
He governs with an iron fist in a velvet glove – harsh to those who cross him, but generous to those who know their place. Taxes are voluntary, which means the burg’s defenses are a joke. The wealthy on the west side fund their own guards, who spend more time protecting their patrons’ interests than they do the burg as a whole. The east side? The east side gets what’s left.
And if you peek into his desk – assuming you’re foolish enough to try – you might catch a glimpse of a black triangle hidden beneath the ledgers. Whether it’s a symbol of Lynk or just a very odd paperweight, no one’s brave enough to ask.
The Lumberworks, Smithy, and Jail (East Side)
The east side is where Shavenmound earns its coin and buries its dead. The lumberworks compose a symphony of creaking wood and ringing axes, where men swing blades all day only to end it with blistered hands and empty pockets. The smithy is a squat, soot-stained building where the local blacksmith dwarf, Yarl Ironwrangler, hammers out nails, horseshoes, and the occasional secret. And the jail? The jail is empty. Not because Shavenmound is a lawful place, but because Gerard Marquee prefers his justice swift and final.
It’s said that the jail’s cells whisper at night. Some claim it’s the wind. Others say it’s the ghosts of those who disappeared without a trial. But the truth? The truth is that in Shavenmound, justice is what the powerful say it is.