Scornubel

[DM Leverage]

Scornubel (Large City, 14,574)
- Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting -

Scornubel, the Caravan City, is a sprawling buzz of mercantile activity along the north shore where the River Chionthar meets the River Reaching. It is ruled by a group of elderly or middle-aged adventurers and caravan masters, some of whom favor hiring adventurers to solve the city's problems and others who prefer that adventurers move along promptly. In all things, the ruling council chooses efficiency and profit over ideals. Caravans of all nations, organizations, and trading costers are welcome in Scornubel.

Similarly, shrines to nearly all Faerunian deities can be found somewhere in the town's low buildings. The Red Shield merchant company runs both its military and trading caravan operations out of Scornubel. The Red Shields also serve as Scornubel's official army and police force. As an army, they're efficient. As a police force, they concentrate on relaxing, enjoying themselves, and looking after the Red Shield company's interests.

[DM Leverage]

- Volo's Guide to the Sword Coast -

Scornubel is the Caravan City a sprawling place of warehouses, paddocks, and stockyards. It is a city of traveling merchants with a population that can increase eightfold in a good summer, sixfold during most traveling seasons. It has no walls and is a place of ready swords and watchful residents. There have been more than a few raids on it by bugbears, hobgoblins, and the like, particularly in harsh winter weather, when game is scarce. Thieves and dopplegangers are a constant problem.

This rough-and-tumble place is the closest thing some caravan merchants have to a home. It sprawls along the northern bank of the River Chionthar where the Trade Way meets the waters. From Scornubel’s docks a ferry crosses the river. Many skiffs, narrowboats, and barges make runs along the Chionthar as far upstream as Berdusk (where rapids prevent travel onward), as far downstream as Baldur’s Gate, and as far up the River Reaching as Hills Edge and a few rancher’s docks upstream of it.

Old, sharp-tongued Lady Rhessajan Ambermantle rules the city, assisted by three Lord High Advisors (retired merchants) in consultation with a council of merchants. Her tongue and worldwise stratagems have earned her the title “the Old Vixen,” but she’s generally loved— or at least respected—among Scornubians.

She can whelm a mounted militia and scouts headed and equipped by the Red Shields mercenary company and has a watch of well-trained and well-equipped soldiers assisted by both priests and mages. The city has many shrines and visiting clergy, but only one temple, the Healing House of Lathander, which is much called upon to heal injured travelers of all faiths.

It’s been said the goods and riches of half of Faerûn pass through Scornubel, but the city itself is known as the source of much mutton and wool, medicines concocted by local artisans, merchant services (wagon repairs, moneylending and a barter fair), and the trading, training, and doctoring of mounts and beasts of burden. Businesses and the buildings that house them change from season to season or even more rapidly, and Scornubel has few permanent landmarks. One never need pay for a night’s rest unless one wants a bed, bath, or stables—even in cold winter weather you’ll see folk burrowing into hay piles to hollow out warm beds, and on hot summer nights many folk lie down amid their stock in the paddocks, surrounded by saddles and saddlebags to keep the beasts from stepping on them.


Landmarks

Scornubel has a few interesting spots the first-time traveler should be aware of buried amid all its many warehouse complexes, all of which bear large badges of the costers or companies they belong to, and so are easily identified. Most of these are clustered around the small, muddy harbor. The rotting, aromatic stalls of the fish market stand beside the ferry dock on the west arm of the harbor. The smithy of Kaerus Thambadar and the crowded yards of Arkaras the Shipwright occupy the east arm. Kaerus works mainly on wheel rims and useful ironmongery such as hooks, hinges, hasps, and nails, but can turn out simple armor and weapons. Arkaras is a huge, bearded giant with a perpetual fierce expression who keeps all the river boats running and owns the ferry.

From the harbor roads radiate out in all directions. On the back road of the largest and most prosperous block of shops on the east side of the Trade Way stands Scornubel Hall, seat of the local government. It’s the place you can hear all the arguing coming from. It is found three blocks up from the docks, just north of the intersection that borders the Walk, which is an open-air public meeting place and market. Eljan, door warden of the Hall, can give directions to most things and folk.

Some visitors to Scornubel make straight for Mother Minx’s, a festhall of some repute, or seek out Angah Lalla, a dealer in curios from far lands who’s known all across the Coast lands as a fence for stolen goods, but fewer folk know of the useful and interesting local mages: Buldath Andryn, Chansrin Alum, and Nethmoun Aln. The best way to find any of these three is to leave word at any of the inns or taverns. Their agents will find you and guide you to a meeting. Like many other people in this ambitious, dangerous city the three like secrecy. The traveler may be initially bewildered by all the nicknames, aliases, catch phrases, and passwords in use in Scornubel.

Buldath buys monster remains from adventurers, packages and preserves them, and sells them as magical components all over the Coast lands through a few very loyal agents. He’s a taciturn gentleman, and difficult to get to know well because of it.

Chansrin is a sharp-tongued sorceress who loves adventure. She loves to hurl spells into the midst of any fray in the city, often accompanying the watch on nights when she’s bored. She’ll leave Scornubel to rescue someone, but wandering the Realms is not her idea of adventure. As she told me, if she stays right where she is in Scornubel, “All the adventure in Faerûn will come to me!”

Nethmoun is a reclusive mage, a softspoken, small-headed and unprepossessing man who keeps to his small, ramshackle hut on the eastern edge of town. The hut is warded, and is guarded by six margoyles, a small forest of magically animated flying daggers, and other, more mysterious magical defenses, including several modified Evard’s black tentacles spells.

Nethmoun collects rare and unusual spells. If someone uses a magical item or spell he hasn’t heard of in the city, one of his agents will contact that person and offer to trade some magical training or magical items for the new item or spell. He usually sends his strikingly beautiful female cook—or a projected image of her.

There are other magical features of interest to the visitor in bustling Scornubel. The wizard and sage Phiraz of the Naturalists is interested in purchasing live monsters or unusual beasts or their relatively intact carcasses. He’s an expert on otyughs, and is engaged in a long-term study of all life on the High Moor.

Scornubel’s best lost treasure legend also has to do with magic. Somewhere under the Nightshade nightclub— reached by secret passages from that dim, crowded den of passion, music, and shady dealings—is the crypt of the Wondermen, sometimes called the Wondermakers.

The Wondermen were mages who dared much. They tested the limits of magic, traveled many planes and strange worlds, and in the end they chose to be consumed by magic. Their crypt is said to be guarded by several of them who have become liches, who await the coming of wizards mighty enough to withstand their spell attacks—wizards who will truly deserve to wield the awesome magics they did. If someone flees the crypt with a magical item, the legends whisper, these liches will hunt that person down, not resting until the thief is destroyed and the item has been regained.

The crypt of the Wondermen is said to be crammed with magical rings, wands, rods, gloves, dancing ioun stones, and, ringed by the grand catafalques of the Wondermen, a huge crystal sphere that imprisons an eater of magic. The sphere can be moved about by means of a hand-sized control sphere resting on a pedestal nearby. If it’s released, legend holds, it will roam the Realms devouring all magic until there’s not a spell or magical item left. The brute rule of barbarians, goblinkin, and monsters will then overwhelm all civilized folk.

Few have seen the crypt of the Wondermen and lived to tell the tale, though many come to the Nightshade seeking the way to it. The staff claim to honestly not know the way, some swearing that the sliding panel that leads to the right secret passage moves around from time to time by itself.

Many more visitors have seen the most famous magical inhabitant of Scornubel: the Oebelar. This mighty mage perished— or perhaps was merely magically transformed— some thirty-odd years ago. Great tongues of blue-white cold fire consumed his tower one night, and on the next one the silent, floating remnants of the Oebelar first appeared a single shining eyeball, its gaze cold and level, and a blackened hand and forearm. Sometimes these two remnants wander independently but they usually appear together—and can write and gesture, demonstrating that they retain the Oebelar’s intelligence.

The eye and the hand have roamed Scornubel every night from then on, gliding silently into the midst of the most private meetings and trysts, the bloodiest brawls, and the coldest of confrontations alike. Word of the silent remains of the Oebelar has spread across Faerûn, inspiring ballads and more than one adventuring band to name themselves the Eye and the Hand.

The Oebelar has become a familiar haunting to Scornubians. Most of them hate his (or its) coldly curious gaze and prying ways—but most of them can’'t do anything about it, and try to ignore him. Magic seems unable to detect him, keep him out, or harm him. Even the mighty spells of archmages and the undead blasting powers of senior priests are ineffective, though weapons of steel can hit and hurt the eye and the hand. The Oebelar goes everywhere and takes an interest in everything, and has quite dampened the ardor of many who’'ve eloped to Scornubel.

The traveler is warned that Scornubel remains a dangerous place. Many dark deeds are done in the shadows, and everywhere are intrigues that a visitor can all too easily get caught up in— only to meet with several feet of cold steel in an alley or nightclub doorway.

Traditional entertainments in the nightclubs of the city include mock battles (or not-so-mock battles) between well-oiled human acrobats and monsters, monsters that are trained to dance or do tricks, and monsters that participate in comedy or spell-hurling acts. Tales of various of these performers breaking free and slaughtering some members of the audience whowere trying to escape are true!

Dopplegangers, lamias, and other monsters able to assume human form or magical disguises have always dwelt in the Caravan City—and to some extent have been tolerated, if not welcomed, because of their special powers or knowledge, If you’re trying to contact a mind flayer, a yuan-ti, or even a beholder and would rather not do it in the trackless wilderness at a grave disadvantage, this is the place to come— if you can’t safely go below into the Underdark, where secure meeting places exist, such as Skullport under the great city of Waterdeep.

This is also the place outlaws, heirs on the run from assassins, misfits of all sorts, adventurers down on their luck or lacking ideas as to where to go looking for treasure (as well as danger, which seems far more easily found) all come. It’s not a place for the fainthearted or the fastidious.

Unfortunately, its ever-changing nature makes the work of a guide hard. Permanent features are few. Some follow in these pages—but the visitor is advised to keep a weapon ready travel in a group and by day only until the city’s byways and current intrigues have been scouted, and guard well all open display of wealth. Remember that in Scornubel, information always has a price, and moneychangers are everywhere. Be sure the money they'’re changing isn't unwittingly yours.

[DM Leverage]

- Volo's Guide to the Sword Coast -


The Dusty Hoof
Inn/Tavern

This middling establishment stands on the east side of Northstorm Street in the block above the six-way intersection of the Walk. It’s unexciting, but relatively safe and comfortable. As the name indicates, it caters to drovers and caravan wagonfolk.

The Place
The Hoof is long, narrow, and high ceilinged, with the upper reaches of every room always lost in the gloom. (There was a rumor some years back that a stirge got in and lurked aloft for most of a season, flitting down to drink from sleeping guests and then hiding up in the darkness again—until a guest who slept with a hand crossbow handy took care of the menace.) The street level is given over to the taproom, with the kitchen and gaming rooms in the cellar, and the dining room on the floor above. The dining room is closed off at night, and shields the guests trying to sleep on the three floors above somewhat from the noise of late night drinkers. Garderobes, a serving lift, and stairs are all at the back, linking each floor. All rooms lack windows except the front suite on each floor.

The Prospect
The clientele of the Hoof leads to it being neither a very sociable nor very unpleasant place to visit. Most of the drovers and caravan folk are tired and hungry of nights, leading more to the sounds of contented munching and murmurs of “More ale” than scintillating dinner conversation. On the other hand, few fights ever break out, as most visitors here fall over into bed almost as soon as they’re done eating.

The Provender
Food at the Hoof consists of the usual roasts, stews, steamed greens, and— in keeping with the name of the place—something called hoof soup, which tastes rather like broth of old meat cuts with diced old vegetables in it and is supposedly made by boiling the hooves of locally slaughtered livestock. Drinks are the usual ale, wine, sherry, mead, and winter wine. Nothing exotic or outstanding is served.

The Prices
Ale is 3 cp per tankard, and everything else is 1 sp per flagon. All food is 2 gp per serving. A serving is a generously heaped oval platter suitable for a large, hungry soldier or field worker. I saw two elves share one. They left food —and they started out hungry, not disdainful of the fare.

Travelers’ Lore
The cellars of the Hoof are said to connect with old, dry sewers now used for smuggling—passages that lead to warehouses far away across the city.



Far Anchor
Inn

This large inn sits on the north side of Far Rider Street between Stumblepost Trail and Red Shields Road. It’s probably the best accommodation to be had year in and year out in Scornubel.

Built by a retired sea captain only 12 or so seasons back, its name refers to its distance by river barge from the Sword Coast.

The Place
Large, bright rooms, simply furnished but kept clean, are things to be treasured in rough-and-tumble Scornubel —so this inn tends to be full most of the time. Its rooms have stout shutters and lack balconies, but this cuts down on thievery and the frequency with which empty bottles are hurled inside of evenings—unless one’s foolish enough to sleep with the shutters open.

The communal dining room (the largest in Scornubel) has two watchful guards to keep things peaceful. Folk who aren’t staying at the inn can come in and dine for 2 sp per serving. Some folk stay here regularly just for the chance to relax over a meal.

Others come because the inn has fewer bugs than elsewhere and is too new and clean to have much room for secret passages and the like. Its indoor garderobes (jakes) were new to the city when the place was built, but their like are found everywhere now.

The Prospect
Folk rich enough to have something worth stealing, but not so rich as to have spare coin enough to rent an entire house to stay in or to travel with bodyguards in strength, come here. (Many Scornubians live in one house and rent out their second one to visitors.) Most guests come back a second time if they visit Scornubel again. The cleanliness is one reason —and the baths are another.

At the Far Anchor one can bathe in the privacy of one’s own room or in a large and steamy—but warm!— bathing chamber in the cellar. Many wives will stay nowhere else for the latter reason, though one must beware the rather strong and dubious-scented perfumes sold around the city for adding to bath water. They’re created to mask the aroma of an unwashed body, and thus even when diluted they’re apt to leave the owners of refined noses reeling. The watchful staff of Far Anchor are all ex-adventurers of many races. All tend to carry hidden weapons and are ready to use them. Ask them if you need anything; they’re happy to help.

The Provender
No drink is served at the Anchor to keep breakages and brawling to a minimum. The fare is simple, of the roasts, stews, fried potatoes, and steamed greens sort. For the more adventurous palate, river clams, eels, and frogs can all be had fresh and pan-fried in butter.

Cheeses and sausages from all over Faerûn come to Scornubel, and this inn sells a selection, Of the cheeses, Elturian gray is very popular—though, strangely, I saw little of it in Elturel itself. Halflingmade sausage from Corm Orp is also a local favorite. It’s made from squirrel meat, ground nuts, and hogs, and has a distinctive fatty taste.

The Prices
A platter (any main dish) is 3 sp. A bowl (any soup or stew) is 2 sp. A plate (river fare or bread) is 1 cp. Cheeses and sausages vary with the going market prices, but are usually 4 sp per wheel for cheese and 1 gp per pound for sausage.

Travelers’ Lore
The Anchor is too new to have acquired many tales yet. It is said to be haunted, though, by the unseen spirit of a guest stabbed for his money. Guests hear his moans and the noise of clinking coins. His behavior would indicate his hidden coins haven’t been found yet.



The Jaded Unicorn
Inn/Tavern

This ramshackle complex of former warehouses occupies the center of the first block east of the one that has Scornubel Hall at its heart—but aside from position and size, the two places couldn’t be more different. This dump is proudly presided over by a life-sized purple unicorn sculpture that some wag—on a dare or a bet, no doubt, and with the aid of a levitation spell—has painted the face of with rouge, lip scarlet, and eye shadow to make it look like a cheap courtesan. Somehow it looks fitting.

The Place
This place is used rightmindedly only by the desperate and the poor. The small sleeping rooms smell bad and form a warren of mismatched corners and sloping floors, a result of combining warehouses that once had nothing at all to do with each other. “Rat holes,” one patron called them, very aptly.

The Prospect
The Jaded Unicorn is notorious, even in Scornubel. It’s the place where rough sorts go to get killed in brawls— on some nights, the stabbed bodies pile up outside like so much kitchen refuse, hurled out by the cooks with the same careless ease. It’s certainly the only place in town that welcomes (well, tolerates) orcs and half-orcs among its clientele—and a lot of elves, dwarves, and humans who come react with drawn blades. There’s a brief flurry, yet another body, and then the drinking goes on. Thankfully, this place has adopted the earthenware tankards used in some other rough houses to keep the fatalities caused by hurled drinks to a minimum. All of the wild partying that goes on in the taproom, which is usually packed, with patrons standing crowded together elbow-to-elbow, makes it a lousy place to try to catch some slumber. If the din from downstairs doesn’t keep you awake, the mutterings of plotters gathered in adjacent rooms will.

The Provender
Food in the Unicorn means slabs of salty bread, wedges of cheese, bowls of hare stew, patters of pan-fried trout (not bad), and cuts from a roast cooked in stale beer—and tasting of it. Drinks are the order of the day here—and the stronger and rougher, the better. I advise guests to dine elsewhere, if they must sleep here.

The Prices
Thankfully, all of this splendor comes cheap. All drink is 1 cp per tankard, all meals are 2 cp per serving, and all rooms are 2 sp a head per night, with another 1 sp per mount for stabling.

Travelers’ Lore
Smugglers and snatch bands of local thieves often meet here. Tales abound of thick-skulled, but healthy, youths being taken from here to unwillingly pursue sailing careers elsewhere. Beware!



The Raging Lion
Inn/Tavern

This large, but rather poorly run, establishment stands on the east side of the Trade Way on the north edge of the city. It has the advantage of a large, well-guarded compound to hold off orc and brigand raids and a location that allows timid guests to avoid entering the city proper—or to leave hastily, riding hard into the night, if need be. It offers the convenience of secure stables handy to the main building, but not much else.

The Place
The Lion is dirty and dingy. The life sized gilded stone lion out front a reminder of former greatness, is now sadly shabby. A frequent local prank is to place the severed head of a slaughtered hog or the like in the lion’s open, snarling jaws. Sometimes such a grisly trophy hides a message for one cabal or another. Once or twice, folk have been murdered in Scornubel and their heads displayed
in the lion’s jaws as a warning. (A grisly and brutish gesture.) Inside, the inn isn’'t quite as bad as that—but it’s not very exciting, either. The gilded lion’s head chamberpots were quaint when I first used them—and they'’re much older now. . . .

The Prospect
The staff members at the Lion pursue a rather unhurried pace, as if the worndown look of the establishment had invaded their very being. They are not exactly rude, but they are not on their toes either. They seem perpetually distracted, and a guest may have to repeat a request several times to get action.

The Provender
Food at the Lion consists of the usual roasts, stews, and steamed greens fare, with one note of interest: The cook has a personal liking for fried and stuffed snake and will happily prepare a platter of this delicacy for anyone requesting it. He does the snakes in a gravy of poultry stock and almonds, and the result is surprisingly tasty, if a bit rubbery. The kitchen also produces Elturian pheasant tail soup, but small rodents and other found meat may well find their way into the stock. You have been warned, travelers.

The Prices
Rooms are 15 gp a head per night, and stabling is 3 gp extra. Meals cost 2 gp per person for all one cares to eat, including a mug of cheap spiced wine. Other wines cost 10 gp or more per bottle. There's no ale.

Travelers' Lore
For years the lion was home to three rival adventuring bands, who outdid each other in boasting if not success. One finally found a Netherese ruin and brought back great wealth - but its members were promptly slaughtered by the rest. The gold, hidden here, was never found.