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Can you really blame him for skipping that dreadful place? Given
a choice, I would also.
-- Jerriv Forrim
Anghali G'Hosteren translates literally from the Dinganni tongue as Gathering Place That Moves With The Wind. Note that the apostrophe is a glottal stop, and that the G and H should be pronounced separately to avoid arousing mirth in your Dinganni companions. As well, the first part of the name is ang-hali, not an-ghali. Referring to the city as Anghali is permitted, but will mark you as an outsider.
Then came the Scourge. The inhabitants of the trade city went into kaers with their tribes. Agreements were made for the re-establishment of trade after the danger had passed. The tribes emerged from their kaers to find the world radically changed. By dead reckoning from the kaer entrances, the signatory tribes were able to find where the trade city had been. The river that the city had formerly straddled was gone. Nearby, however, was a small lake, fed by underground springs, and on its shore Anghali G'Hosteren rose again.
Coming from from Kratas, the first view of the city is from a rise approximately
a mile away. In the late afternoon, the sun glances off the lake and turns
it to molten silver. Fringing the water to the west is a ragged arc of
brightly colored tents, a few wooden and stone buildings at the center,
set back from the lakeshore to avoid taking up space that is needed for
water access.
Now, when the average Barsaivian hears the word "tent", the image of a small canvas or hide dome springs to mind, something that sleeps four dwarves, three humans or two trolls, and packs up small enough to carry on a single horse. While there are a few of this type scattered here and there, they are lost amid the vast expanses of brilliantly dyed silk and wool that comprise the tribal tents of the nomads. Divided into sections for travel, each tribesman carrying a panel of fabric and some of the poles and rigging, the tribal tents are divided internally into many rooms, held up by a complex web of poles and lines, and decorated with paint and embroidery that tells the story of the tribe, as well as pennons flying from the small poles and banners from the large. Watching one of these being set up is like watching a colony of spiders spinning a vast web. From the hilltop overlooking the city, the tent seems to bloom like a flower, tiny figures scurrying about it as it grows from bare earth to a fabulous blossom in only half an hour.
There are permanent buildings in the city, as mentioned previously. The problem is that there are no forests nearby. Thus, wood for building must be hauled great distances. Buildings are expensive to put up, thus few.
The Hall of Mynbruje is of stone, quarried in a nearby pit and packed across the plains by horse travois. Other than the Hall of Mynbruje, the three inns and the bath house, the Street of Merchants has most of the permanent and semi-permanent structures in town. Farriers, weaponsmiths, and other craftsfolk whose equipment is not easily portable have taken up residence, as well as food-sellers, tailors, scribes and other services. The buildings, however, have been put up in whatever clear space was available among the tents at the time, so there is no organized plan. As well, some of the structures are only semi-permanent, wooden sheds with tents attached, which can be moved to another location if need be.
The size of the city and its layout both fluctuate with the seasons, as determined largely by the breeding of horses and other riding beasts. When the latest crop of foals have been broken to the bit and are ready for market, the city swells, incorporating corrals, auction rings, and all the trappings of a massive horse-fair. Entertainers wander the streets, and the taverns do a thriving business at all hours. In the off season, though, when the tribes are mostly out wandering the plains, the few lonely buildings sit forlornly in the middle of vast tracts of empty space, anxiously awaiting the arrival of travellers to fill the void.
During the high seasons, the streets teem with brilliant colors. The nomadic tribes don their finest to impress their customers, their rivals and even their friends. Scorchers who make their living as mercenaries or in other honest ways are welcomed, as long as they obey the strict laws regarding the peace. Their unit markings and standards add to the variety. Each merchant stand, each food-seller stall vies for the attention of passers-by. Fabric is embroidered and dyed. Ropes are braided, have contrasting cords woven in, pennons hung from them. Bare wood is painted, carved, inlaid. No surface is left undecorated. Travellers from the more conservative areas of Throal may find it all a bit too much. My Vorst guard shook his head and dismissed the entire city as not caring about their survival. T'Skrang and windlings, however, should feel right at home.
First off, no Dinganni will ever refuse hospitality to an honest traveller. As long as there are fewer in your party than in their tent, and you follow their customs, there will always be space to spread a blanket, food and a fire. The polite traveller will of course make a guesting gift later in the evening. Too early and the host may feel insulted, that he is being offered payment for attending to a sacred obligation. After the meal and the first few stories told around the fire is the best time. Useful items with an interesting history make much better guesting gifts than simple donations of food or drink, although a flask of brandy or wine is always welcome.
There are other tribes that will also offer hospitality, but insist on more complex rituals, and adherence to more convoluted codes of behavior.
There are a number of taverns with rooms available, and three actual lodging-houses down near the Hall of Mynbruje. During the merchanting seasons, tent-hostels are set up by enterprising Name-Givers, offering private rooms, food and entertainment, but there are no doors in a tent, and thus no locks. While the proprietor of the establishment may be as honest as a newborn babe, there is no guarantee for the other guests, nor for the crowds thronging the streets. I myself stayed with the Biyazi clan of the Dinganni, and trusted my belongings to their honesty and their guards.
Constructed of wood on a stone foundation, the lodging house bears a sign as unimaginative as its name, a foaming mug over crossed keys. Fortunately, the kitchen is run by an inventive dwarven woman, a cousin of Sebkha Named Bria, who has obviously been discussing her chosen craft with the other Name-Givers who reside in the city and pass through it. Her cuisine features dishes not only of dwarven origin, but of ork, human, elven and even windling traditions. Some of her own creations borrow from several schools of cooking, mixing the grilling techniques of orkish campfire cookery with elven spicing to a delightful result. Her rendition of the regional specialty, veroniki, makes a truly wonderful meal. The dumplings are filled with ground sausage, seasoned with sage and cinnamon, deep fried as usual, and topped with a light cream sauce of Dinganni origin but with a traditionally windling spice combination of orry, ginger and hamat. Be certain to arrive with a large appetite, as the portions are oversized for the guest's race. Prices vary from a few coppers for a simple plate of bread and goat cheese to ten silver for a three-remove feast featuring the house specialty.
Sebkha's is a Guild inn. Services available and the prices for them are at the customary levels. There is a bath house on the opposite side of the building from the stables. However, I have heard that the windows do not fasten properly, leaving easy access for thieves. If Sebkha does not take steps to protect the valuables (and clothing, for that matter) of his guests while they are bathing, he may find his Guild mark in peril.
Meals here are ample, though they can be somewhat monotonous. I have a sneaking suspicion that Hattri's cook is yet another of her old military acquaintances. It has been my experience that military kitchens can take the best ingredients, the choicest cuts of meat and the most delicate herbs, and produce something indistinguishable from unsalted porridge. While the food here is not that tasteless, it certainly lacks variety. The prices, though, are very reasonable. A tight budget can produce a remarkable tolerance for plain fare.
The rooms are utilitarian, lacking in decoration, but spotlessly clean. The locks on the doors are not only stout, but I strongly suspect enchanted as well. Room prices run a bit less than Guild standards, but a bit more than an average hostel. Services available include valet, laundry and repair of weapons and armor. Private dining rooms are available, but not advertised. The bathing facilities are somewhat lacking, having no hot water and no attendants.
Overall, while the Feathered Serpent does not measure up to the Guild level, it does meet high standards for security of guests and their belongings, and provides good value for the coin.
The inn stands three stories high, the first being of stone and the remaining two wooden, the upper windows giving a good view of the lake and the town despite the iron bars across each opening. The Hall of Justice is somewhat distant, but not that far, and the Questors maintain a high presence. I suppose the life of a sky raider makes one cautious about defense of the home.
While the food is simple, even plain, the portions are troll-sized and the prices fair for the quantity. J'hork's ale varies according to who offered him the best deal on the last caravan, but is never bad. He told me that he would never serve anything he wouldn't drink himself. Apparently sky raiders, or at least this particular one, have decent taste when it comes to ale.
Room prices are commensurate with a decent inn, although less than Guild standards. There is no bathhouse. I was directed to the lake and told where I could obtain soap and a towel.
A rumor floating about is that J'hork either came here fleeing something terrible, or looking for someone remarkable. In either case, the rumor says that he is looking for the right person to whom to give his axe, to complete some sort of task. Plying the troll with his own ale did not loosen his tongue on the subject. Indeed, I am certain that no amount of ale could suffice to render J'hork incautious.
The population is predominately human and dwarven, with a scattering of orks including scorchers and settled craftsfolk and merchants. Windlings, trolls, elves and obsidimen are few, and t'skrang are practically nonexistent. The city's being so far from the nearest river might explain their absence.
Shortly after my arrival, I had gone wandering through the city to take in a first impression, when a colorfully-dressed old human woman beckoned me over to her red-draped stall. Recognizing a fortune-seller when I saw one, I prepared to part with a few coppers in exchange for some vague predictions about long journeys in strange lands.
Instead, "You are a scholar," she said, pouring black tea into gaudy red and yellow cups. "The different and the new draw you like a bee to pollen." She offered me fruit jelly for my tea. After a sip, I gratefully accepted. A mouse could have strolled across that brew without fear of sinking.
"I am that," I agreed. "What else can you tell me?"
Brushing a stray wisp of grey from her wrinkled face with a bejewelled, arthritic hand, she fixed me with a stare that must have sent hundreds reaching for their purses, certain that here was one who could tell them all, predict every act, warn of every danger and guide them to their greatest possible fortune. I stayed my hand, but felt a touch of frost up my spine.
"The red banner brings safety," she murmured, her voice deeper, rougher, maybe echoing a little. "The yellow banner brings pain, but with it, knowledge. You do not judge now, but once you threw stones. You will see the Golden Isle itself, and return to Throal before you die. Beware the dragon's wings, and be guided by the eye of the falcon."
She leaned back then, sipped her tea, hands wrapped closely around the handleless cup for the warmth, and favored me with a nearly toothless grin. "And if you keep going down this street to the farrier's tent, the one with the blue and yellow stripes, then turn left and find the stall with the sign of the fish, you'll be in for an excellent meal. My cousin makes the best veroniki on the plains."
I grinned at that. We spoke briefly about other sights in the city, I paid her fee and went on my way. As far as her other predictions, I don't know, but the veroniki were indeed excellent. And it is true, I try not to judge what I see, to write it down fairly. And I served with a catapult platoon in the war against Thera. It leaves one to wonder.
The Questors are supported by their respective tribes. Gifts and donations to the Hall of Mynbruje are accepted, but are carefully considered as to whether or not they are intended to influence the judgement of the Questors. Anything even remotely resembling a bribe is flatly refused.
In practice, the Questors become irritable over pretty much anything.
I suppose if I were spending my life riding herd on a lot of fractious
horse-traders, I'd be a bit grumpy too.
-- MTekele Cloudrunner
Now, just because the city is neutral and heavily policed does not mean that it is quiet. When you set up a trading point and bring rival tribes to it, intrigue breeds faster than horseflies. The city is a hotbed of spies and information merchants. A great deal of hiring is done here for illicit purposes, a lot of pay is delivered for disreputable actions. Anghali is a reasonably safe venue for making hazardous deals with dangerous people. Every so often, bodies are found when deals go bad, but the Questors are relentless and find the guilty parties more often than not. Most of the time, when the guilty are not brought to justice by the Questors, it is because they left town abruptly after the deed, and their absence points to their probable guilt. If they ever return, they will be questioned. The Questors have long memories.
The wandering tribes trade for metalwork and other finished goods, as well as delicacies that they cannot grow or find out on the plains. They offer wool, butter, cheese, smoked meat, and other products from their flocks of sheep and goats, as well as products of their craftspeople -- cloth, carved bone and wood, sturdy and colorful clothing, musical instruments, jewelry, and a host of other items too many to list here. While preferring to trade their products for useful items, the nomadic tribes are no strangers to honest coin.
As well, other merchants and craftsfolk have taken up residence in the city. As mentioned earlier, folk whose trade requires tools that are not easily portable have set up shops along the Street of Merchants. The air rings with the sounds of hammers, drills, augers, and shouting voices insisting that their products are better than any other. Not only metalworkers, but tanners, leatherworkers, scribes, food-sellers and others may be found here. A traveller passing through should have no trouble meeting any of his needs -- providing, of course, that he has sufficient coin.
During the horse fairs, the city does a thriving trade. In between, however, is when the wise do their shopping. During the slow times, the merchants are a little more eager to please, a little more anxious to make a sale that will help see them through to the next fair. Haggling for a fair price is not necessarily easier, but is certainly different when the merchant is looking at lean times and has longer to conclude the sale before going on to the next customer.
There being no taxes in the city, prices tend to be a bit lower than elsewhere. Some merchants, however, make regular donations to the Hall of Mynbruje or to other Passions and causes, and will tack on a surcharge to help support their patron. Checking for images of the Passions around the shop will help to warn the buyer of the possibility of higher prices.
During the horse-fairs, this ring sees the best of the stock brought in to trade. Food-sellers and other merchants cluster near the gates, and a lively time is had by all.
I suppose it may have something to do with the success of the ring and some Name-givers being jealous thereof. Any time that one person is more prosperous than his neighbors, whispers begin. Burthold does not help his reputation by being inaccessible except through layers of assistants, and reclusive in his own person. There are rumors, though, concerning the original source of his moneys, that they came from a looted kaer, one that may still have been inhabited, or from illicit deals in horseflesh, or from other unpleasant sources. None of these are substantiated, and I include this mention only because the rumors are so prevalent and persistent.
I was able to verify one peculiar incident. On the first night of the month, during the time I spent in Anghali, Burthold and two of his assistants from the horse-ring, formidable-looking ork fellows, former scorchers from what I was told, took a foal down to the edge of the lake during the night. They dragged the protesting colt up to the edge of a cliff overlooking the still water, then hurled the young animal off the rocks into the lake. It swam for a moment, after surfacing, then abruptly vanished beneath the surface and did not reappear. I cannot reveal the Name of the witness to this senseless and barbaric act, but can attest to the reliability of same. There being no penalty for slaying your own beasts, no investigation is likely in the near future.
Vorst cooking fills the belly without slowing the arm or distracting
the mind. Food is meant as sustenance, not as entertainment.
-- Hosten Shivak, guard to Tarliman Joppos
Perhaps a brief review of the regional specialties would be in order before discussing the establishments which serve them. Like so much of Barsaive, the time spent in the kaers without influence from other peoples and traditions has resulted in the people of the area developing their own cuisine. Anghali has its particular styles and dishes, those of the tribes who wander the region, but also new inventions resulting from these varied traditions being brought together in a cosmopolitan environment.
Primary spices used in the regional cooking traditions include garlic, pepper and vinegar, and the cuisine leans toward heavily spiced foods. I suspect an orkish hand in this, as orkish cookery tends to be similar. On the other hand, pepper and vinegar are decent preservatives, and will also cover up the taste of foods that are beginning to be dubious. That may explain their prevalence. Whatever the reason, the menu will tend to include a lot of peppered meat and pickled vegetables, occasionally spiced with hot peppers as well.
The dish that is perhaps best known is of course veroniki. These are small dumplings, deep fried and served in a variety of ways. As a meal, the filling is meat or vegetables, or a combination of the two, usually quite spicy and served with a light sauce, put on just before serving so that the crisp dumplings do not become soggy. As a dessert, the dumplings are filled with clotted cream or honeyed fruit and sprinkled with sweet spices. Travellers should be aware that these are quite filling, and what looked to be a dreadfully small portion may turn out to be more than can be consumed.
Another dessert that tends to stay with one for some time are medivnyki, honey cakes made with t'skrang spices. The sharpness of the kustiss prevents the honeyed wheat from cloying. Dried fruit is mixed into these when available.
No wonder he had to let out his belt. I'm gaining weight just reading
this!
-- MTekele Cloudrunner
The nomadic tribes normally grill or roast their meat over an open
fire, or boil it into stews. However, they prefer a different approach
when in cities. There, meat is breaded with egg and herbed breadcrumbs,
then fried. While a bit greasy, the result is quite tasty. Of course, this
is a bit more expensive than a basic stew, and the latter is available
for travellers with a smaller purse.
A useful word in Anghali is zakushi, meaning roughly "small bites". I do not know the origin of this term, but it is one that travellers seeking serious dining experiences should know. Zakushi are small portions of finger foods served on a platter set out in the center of the table. What is found on the platter varies from one establishment to the next, and from day to day, but is never dull. Zakushi range from sweet to spicy, from mild to blazing hot, and are fried, baked, rolled, stuffed, broiled, sauteed -- even raw. Beware of the hot pickled turnip, small off-white wedges with traces of purple rind and speckled with red. Two tankards of dwarven stout were required to kill the flames.
Fortunately, her sour attitude does not extend to her work in the kitchen. Her restaurant is by far the best in the city, as far as quality and skill of preparation. Many of the city's top merchants and senior Questors dine here on a regular basis. Prices are steep, but the experience and the company is certainly worth it.
One word of caution: Blood elves should avoid this place. The last one who tried to get a table was chased out of the restaurant by Zidrian herself, waving a meat cleaver and shouting obscenities in Sperethiel. The Questors advised her that while she could refuse service to anyone she chose, they would prefer that she use words alone and leave the carving tools in the kitchen.
As I related earlier, the veroniki here are indeed marvelous. Light, flaky crust, and served either spicy-hot with sausage filling or piercingly sweet with fruit, they make the search for the tiny shop worth the while. The stall has little frontage on the street, and only six tables, squeezed in between the open front and the counter where the old woman rolls out her dough. A great deal of the neighborhood seems to pass through here during mealtimes, when seats at the tables are impossible to get, and carry off the major portion of the daily batch. During those times, the gossip flies thick and furious, as everyone who comes in trades the latest news in the few minutes between placing their order and leaving with their meal, packed in a small fried-flour bowl.
The second day I was there, the old woman (whose Name I never did learn) was in the middle of a blazing row when I walked in. The other disputant was an obsidiman, which struck my attention, in worn and threadbare magicker's robes. The subject seemed to be the nature of some sort of spirit that dwelled in the lake, and whether or not it was angry, disturbed or about to leave. I didn't catch enough of the argument to know the whole of the matter, and the debate switched abruptly to a variant of the obsidiman racial dialect when they realized I was there. I did catch the word for Horror, though, and the word for deep or bottom, when the magicker was pointing out toward the lake. No one I questioned seemed to know anything about such a situation, or was willing to talk about it if they did.
The last includes the kirila, a long, slender tube with a reed at one end and holes along the body. The instrument is played by placing the reed in the mouth and blowing, producing sound from the vibration of the reed, and is fingered like a flute. Its sound is surprisingly mellow, like the deep-throated call of a water bird. As well, there is a variant known as the kirillin, a set of kirila-like pipes connected to a leather bag (usually the stomach of a sheep), with a separate tube for blowing into the bag to inflate it. Most of the pipes are left to drone a single note, their reeds being driven by air pumped from the bag. A single pipe off the bottom is fingered to produce the tune. The sound is far stranger than the kirila, an eerie, haunting moan overlaid with the wild skirling of the higher-pitched tune-pipe. I hesitate to think what a troubador could do with one of those instruments in battle.
Anghali has no music halls, and few taverns with a stage or even a hearth with space for a bard, but it really has no need of such. During the evenings, the sound of rival clans announcing themselves with their sept anthems, and the fast, high, wailing dance-tunes of the tribes echo over the tents and through the dusty streets. The jingling of bells at the wrists and ankles of the dancers and tambourines, the skirling of the kirillin and the quick, intricate strumming of the stringed instruments blend into an overall rhythm that sets the pulse racing. As a farmer once said to me, why buy a cow when you get milk for free?
Trade, good food, music, and plenty of sources of information. What
more could a dwarven scholar ask for? I may very well settle here in my
old age.
-- Tarliman Joppos
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