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Located on the shore of Lake Pyros, Servalen is a bustling, brawling community of some 7,500 Name-givers at best estimate. There being no central tax rolls, and what with the scorchers varying the number of troops in town with no warning, determining population is difficult. Many of the people in Servalen are transients, ork scorchers and riverboat crews on liberty, mercenaries waiting to be hired, explorers staging for expeditions into the jungle, and merchants from Urupa, Ardatha and further working out deals with local traders.
Servalen is a village that outgrew itself, whose government did not anticipate the popularity that their location would bring. Being set on the shore of Lake Pyros brings a good deal of trade to the city, although not as much as in safer regions. Having a dangerous jungle at their doorsteps (and frequently creeping in as well) brought the villagers to believe that few would come.
Instead, the dangers of pirates on the lake, poisonous animals and savages in the jungle, and the Thunder Mountains to the south brought a good number of Name-givers. The sort it brought, though, were not what the villagers would have preferred. In a few short years after the village's founding, bars and military equipment shops outnumbered what the original villagers considered more legitimate businesses. Although the situation is not as bad as in Kratas, the disreputable element certainly has the upper hand.
Center Shantaya's Sextant on Throal, and align point U on Parlainth. Sight along point daleth. Follow Thystonius midnight. Servalen lies 10 days ride, 16 days walk from Throal.
The Docks include the piers and the region immediately surrounding them. Bars and flophouses are prevalent in this district, as are warehouses and the offices of the traders who make their living from the riverboat traffic. This is a dangerous area during the day. At night, travellers should move in groups of no less than five, keep a hand on a weapon and know the location of the nearest questor of Garlen.
Kitavik Hechen, Peaceforcer. A lithe, graceful human in her late forties, Kitavik is an accomplished swordmaster, having attained the ninth circle. She and her partner, Lassiminde Downspinner, an Elven warrior of grim and silent demeanor, have patrolled the Docks for the last seven years. Kitavik is determined to keep the rot from spreading, and if some of her prisoners find their trip to the magistrate cut short by a stroll off the end of a pier, well, that's one less prisoner to be sold off to the pits. Her enforcement of the law tends to be harsh and quick, more tempered by justice than mercy. Lassiminde being a Questor of Mynbruje, he tends to back up her decisions more often than he argues with them. The two are known locally as Ice and Stone. More than one attempt to do away with them has ended with the would-be assassins swinging from a rope, or being fished out of the river downstream. Of note, most of the law-abiding citizens of the Docks get along with the pair quite well, and are normally happy to see them. Recently, Kitavik has adopted a human child orphaned by robbers, and is training the boy in the ways of her Discipline. Rumor has it that she is thinking of retiring from the Peaceforcers as soon as her replacement is ready.The Market is a random collection of shops, stalls, pushcarts and blankets spread with goods that extends inland and north from the Docks. Here the merchandise that comes off the river is sold, and local products are bought for shipment elsewhere. The smoke of the smithies, the stench of the beast-sellers and the tanners and the butchers, and the noise of hundreds of people all hawking their wares is enough to produce headaches. There is neither rhyme nor reason in the arrangement of the shops or the streets, and indeed in some areas the traffic lanes will shift and change according to where the mobile vendors have set up for the day.
Litallo Mosvendar, spice merchant. Owner of one of the more prestigious shops in the Market, built of stone with magical protections against thieves (and a very large dog with a taste for live meals), Litallo makes his home on the Hill. He deals in large quantities of spices both native and imported, supplying the city's larger kitchens and food preparation industries, such as the smokehouses and the butchers. His shop caters to the wealthier clientele, carrying smaller quantities of staples and exotics. His daughter, Salira, is a budding socialite given to lawn parties at the Mosvendar residence. Invitations to these parties are capriciously given, sometimes on the spur of the moment should Salira encounter an out of town bard or other promising entertainment. Her parents put up with a great deal, making exceptions for her occasional bouts of wild behavior and telling themselves that if they could only re-establish themselves in a better location, closer to Throal, that she would not be so bored and would settle down. In the meantime, Litallo maintains an even temper and goes on with his business. He dresses conservatively, by Elven standards, and has an open, honest face, if a bit careworn.
Mosta Verdeen, elementalist for hire. Mosta is a round, enthusiastic dwarven woman with a terrific gusto for life. She dresses in brilliant colors and lots of sparkly jewelry, laughs loudly and enjoys her work. Her shop in the Market is crammed full of trinkets, magical novelties, potions and just plain junk, making it difficult for anyone larger than her to maneuver. Mosta does a thriving business in cold chests, boxes with elemental air and water woven into them to chill anything placed inside. She also sells a lot of charms and magical weapons to mercenaries and scorchers, as well as providing basic household items such as firelighters to the general populace. Mosta serves as the hub of Servalen's tiny spellweaver community, holding frequent gatherings at her house up on the Hill where far too much food and drink is served and the guests spend the evening gossiping, trading magical techniques and generally enjoying themselves. Travelling magickers are invited if Mosta knows that they are in town.The Bilge extends south from the Docks, and inland a little ways. More bars, more flophouses, houses of ill repute, gaming parlors, and all the services a pirate or scorcher seeks on liberty are here. Illicit goods are traded in the street. Weapons and the skill and nerve to use them are mandatory. The city fathers would love to see a good fire rage through this district, but fear the repercussions if such a thing were to happen.
Jacor Rosten, proprietor, Grinning Skull. Better known as Three-Finger Rosten, Jacor owns and bartends one of the more popular watering holes for free lances. This is definitely the place to hire mercenaries who will not ask embarrassing questions. Be prepared to buy several rounds, as tradition dictates that the prospective employer provide the refreshments during negotiations. Three-Finger is a human swordmaster who lost part of his dominant hand to a Theran in a border conflict. He still wears his old uniform tunic, and boasts loudly that he still fits into it well, which he actually does. He despises Therans far beyond the usual Barsaivian distaste, and will gladly help out with contacts and connections any effort that is likely to harm the Empire. The Skull is a typical Bilge bar, wooden walls and dry-leaf roof, with trophies of past campaigns strewn liberally about for decoration. Strong drinks of average to poor quality are all that are available. There are private rooms available for interviewing, at a cost of four silver per hour.
Diktain Shieldeater, pitmaster at Three Arrows. A massive ork retired from the Red Fangs tribe, Diktain runs the fighting pit that is the primary attraction at Three Arrows. He arranges the fights in cooperation with the betmaster, oversees the animal handlers and the guards for the prisoners, and announces the fights. On occasion, he breaks up trouble in or around the pit. Diktain takes no guff and gives no slack. His name comes from an incident during his fighting years, when a Theran locked blades with him, and the two stood glaring at each other, shield to shield, both straining for an advantage. Diktain leaned to one side, and took a bite out of the Theran's shield. The move cost him a broken tusk, but it so unnerved the Theran that he dropped his guard. Diktain still has both the shield and the head of the Theran, both mounted on the wall in his office. The tusk he had capped with gold. Off duty, he can be found either in his office doing the paperwork, or out front, drinking with other scorchers. What he does not know about the trade in animals and prisoners could be writ large on a windling's toenail with room left over.
G'vork Haultimber, enforcer for the Bilge Taverners Guild. A former crystal raider who got his name from his habit of carrying a tree as a club, G'vork has the swamp-end of the Bilge in his charge. His job is to collect the Guild dues from each tavern and bar, ensure that the proprietor is buying his supplies from approved sources, and act as a watchman for the area. If a Guild tavern gets into trouble that its own bouncers can't handle, G'vork and his dozen or so underlings can be summoned to deal with the problem. This prevents bar fights from damaging business, at the expense of damaging a few customers. G'vork knows personally every bartender, bar owner, ale cart driver, bouncer, butcher's delivery boy and hostel operator in his district. He recognizes on sight all regular customers and streetwalkers, as well as anyone who has ever made enough trouble to require his attention (and survived). The green tunic he favors, with the Taverners Guild emblem on the sleeves and over the right breast like a badge, makes him very easy to spot.The Hill is a long, narrow rise of land extending from the north of the Market inland to the north and west. Most of the citizens who do not work in the Bilge or at the Docks have their residences here, above some of the smoke and noise and stench. There are also a few passable inns here, including one or two with Guild marks -- although the traveller would do well to question the validity of those marks.
Beyond the Bilge is swamp, jungle and shoreline. There is very little room to expand further outward, away from the city, thus the Bilge has begun to expand into the Market. Beyond the Market is farmland, and of course the Hill. The residents of the Hill keep a fearful eye on the border between the Market and the Bilge. They do not like to see their buffer zone diminishing, and the rot growing closer.
In the Bilge, stone is simply out of the question. The ground is soft, almost marshy at the southern end. Land subsidence precludes the use of heavy building materials. While tile or thatch is a preferred roofing material elsewhere, in the Bilge the large green leaves of the jungle trees, some as large as a troll's shield, are often used. While still green, these leaves provide good roofing, as they are resistant to catching fire from stray sparks, and shed rain like a duck. When dry, however, and this does take a long time in the humid climate, the leaves become no better than tinder for the first spark that happens along. Rain pelting down on the dry leaves makes a sound like gravel pouring onto metal. Conversation is impossible inside a leaf-roofed building during a storm.
The Hill generally uses the frame and plaster technique common throughout Barsaive, and roofs with tile or thatch depending upon the owner's wealth. More houses are roofed with thatch, obviously, than with tile. Fire is not as much of a hazard here, due in part to well-trained fire brigades, and partly to the houses being set a little apart from each other whenever possible. Some of the larger structures, such as the homes of wealthier inhabitants and the inns, will have their first story made of stone, and any upper levels of wood and plaster. Creosote, a black, sticky tar obtained from the swamps south of town, is smeared liberally about the foundations of the buildings to ward off insects, usually for a foot up the walls and out along the ground. Some of the buildings will also have poured creosote on the ground before construction of the floor. These places will have a distinctive oily smell permeating the entire structure.
Most buildings will have large windows with metal bars across the openings. The reason for this somewhat odd arrangement becomes obvious if one considers the environment. A large opening is required to allow even the slightest breeze. On the other hand, with thieves abounding, the bars are also a necessity to protect the building from invasion. The gaps between the bars, alas, are too large to prevent small creatures and insects from entering. Most building owners cannot afford the fine wire mesh that the wealthier Hillers and merchants use to completely stop the outdoors from becoming the indoors.
At the time of this writing, the population is largely human and ork, with some elves, many t'skrang in the Bilge and Docks regions, and a few members of other races. The windlings who have stayed seem to be adventuring and thieving clans who do not as a rule raise children in the city.
The populace is divided into two primary groups, the Dockers and the Hillers. The Dockers are all those who make their living in the Docks or the Bilge, and who, while they might like to see their lot improve, are not in favor of ridding the city of its unsavory element. The Hillers are largely those who live on the Hill, who would like to see the Bilge burn flat to the ground and the city return to being a quiet farming community. The two clash frequently, often violently. If something does not resolve the situation soon, the city may erupt into open warfare between the two groups.
In reality, the council controls only the Hill and the outlying farmlands, and has some measure of control over the Market. The council's Peaceforcers, who have in their charge maintaining adherence to the law, act as a watch as well as providing bailiffs to the magistrates. They are overburdened with the Market and their attempts to create order on the Docks, and do not normally venture into the Bilge. The general attitude on the Hill is to let the Bilge sink into its own rot. With any luck, a riot will break out one night and by morning the Bilge will have removed itself from existence. If a Bilgerat kills another Bilgerat, well, that's one less rat in existence.
Thus, the extent of the law, its enforcement and interpretation is determined by the area of the city. Throalic law holds sway on the Hill, has a loose grip on the Market and the Docks, and may as well not exist in the Bilge.
T'skrang goods, including fish and river spices, are in plentiful supply. More exotic spices harvested from the jungle are also offered for sale. Some of these can be quite surprising to the palate. The traveller is advised to be wary of the tiny yellow peppers, usually sold dried or pickled but occasionally fresh. One of these requires an entire pitcher of ale to quench the flames. On the other hand, there is a pungent root that the farmers dig up in the jungle that is quite pleasing when ground fine and added to stews and grilled meats.
In the Bilge, many items are offered for sale, most of which are not legal, or at least frowned upon, under the Throalic code. Poisons, fell magicks, and dangerous drugs can be found with a very few questions. The buyer of course assumes all risk, both for the possession of the item and for anything untoward that occurs in the process of making the deal. There are rumors that some of the houses of ill repute are involved in the slave trade with Thera, either as suppliers or customers, or as both.
The market closes for the early afternoon. The climate is simply too hot to do much of anything during this part of the day. Most natives retire indoors to spend the time in quiet pursuits, card games, catching up on the accounting, or sleeping. The market reopens shortly before the dinner hour, and most shops do not close until an hour past sundown.
Because of the heat, elementalists do a thriving business in cold chests and magically-produced ice. Some of the bars will keep their ale casks in cold chests. Chilled drinks are quite popular, but bring a high price, up to three times what would normally be paid for the beverage.
The inns on the Hill are by far the safest choice. Two are worth mentioning.
Barking Ligana has a brightly colored local lizard rampant with its mouth open upon its shingle. Its Guild mark has been recently renewed. Harl Jerren, the human proprietor, is a cautious sort, careful about who he lets his rooms to, and quick to call the Peaceforcers at the first sign of trouble. The food is good, if unimaginative, and worth the money. His stable is guarded by one of the largest trolls in the province, known only as Dicer, probably from his habits with the cutlass he carries -- the blade is easily the length of a human's leg. There is no bathhouse at the time of this writing, as the piping to carry water from upriver had been damaged in a storm. The locks are sturdy, and so are the doors, and the windows all have bars over them that are easily released from inside but not from without. The ale is only passable, as it is made upriver and does not travel well.
Kygren's Roost. The shingle bears a nest with a large, ungainly water bird perched precariously over it. This seems somehow appropriate, as the inn is perched at the brow of the hill, looking out over the Market. The building has obviously been added to several times, by different builders, none of whom had more than passing relationship with Upandal. The floors are a tiny bit tilted in spots, some of the doors stick from being out of true, and travellers should know not to set their mugs on the mantel, as the mortar is not that solid. The proprietor is a great, grinning scarecrow of a human named Velden Budgden, who seems a bit askew himself. While he is an enthusiastic host, and can tell the traveller quite a bit about the city and its environs, his discourse is rambling and spotted with non sequiturs. His wife, Lutha, handles the kitchen, moving her vast bulk from counter to stove to cold-room to pantry with the grace and majesty of a galleon under full sail. She too is a cheerful sort, never without a smile and a fresh-baked pastry to offer. Velden's sons and daughters work in the common room, the bathhouse and the stables, and there are either a great many of them, or they move very quickly. The food is excellent, the ale potable although a bit thin, and there is even a musician on occasion. The entire place just seems a bit odd, something that is perhaps a combination of the architecture and Velden's rambling and his wife's constant cheer, and maybe something else. Whatever it is, Velden should consider applying for a Guild mark, as his inn is worthy of it.
Music in the Bilge tends to be river chanties and rude, boisterous soldier's songs, mostly dealing with conquests both martial and amorous. Little dancing is pursued. Some of the better houses of ill repute, if such a place can be said to be better, will bring in musicians from other cities to provide the relaxing strains that help their customers to spend more, or to not notice the drugs in their drink and the fingers in their purse. It does not do to be too good, however, as that distracts customers from the real business, whether that be in a house of ill repute or a bar. Servalen has very little to worry about in this regard.
The primary entertainment in the Bilge consists of drinking contests, fights in the streets and wagering on the same, gambling, and pit fighting. This last custom must certainly have been brought in from Thera, and like the other major Theran import, slavery, Barsaive would be better off without it. A pit is dug into the earth, usually with its sides made higher and steeper with wooden walls. Spectator benches are erected around three sides of the pit. Into the pit are cast two opponents. In Thera, these would be slaves, armed but not armored, and the fight would be to the death, with only the survivor allowed to climb out of the pit. Here, the opponents may be prisoners of war who are not considered worth ransoming (usually Therans of ignoble birth), criminals, or one or both may be animals. A popular combination is a condemned criminal and a blood monkey. Wagers are made before each bout, with betting continuing up until its resolution. Sometimes the victor is allowed to go free after the match, but this is unusual. It is more likely that those who have lost money on the fight will force the victor into another bout, hoping for his death, or that those who have won money will see a chance for further gain. Hurling objects into the pit to try and influence the fight will invariably result in a brawl in the benches, sometimes with the offender being thrown into the pit himself. This happens two or three times a night, depending upon the crowd and what they have consumed before arriving at the pit. Vendors of ale and grilled meats have their stalls by the entrance. The combined smell of unwashed bodies, sweat, blood, stale beer, smoke and death is enough to turn all but the strongest of stomachs. Sadly, the Peaceforcers have been unable to stop this barbaric practice.
In the Docks, nearly every bar has a game of some sort in the evenings. A few gambling parlors may be found, but these do not turn a brisk trade. Apparently the reputation of the Bilge overshadows whatever the Docks may have to offer. Most of the money that is spent on gambling goes to the Bilge.
There are no playhouses in Servalen.
The city is also infested with tiny orange lizards known by the natives as spoogras. Growing to just under three inches in length, spoogras have a love of salt. This leads them into piles of dirt laundry, searching out old perspiration, into packs and rations looking for dried meats, and generally into places where they are not wanted. Their bite is annoying at worst, even to the smallest and frailest Name-giver, so dealing with them is simple enough -- just toss them aside. Catching them is another matter entirely. Spoogras move like lightning. The fastest hands are sometimes eluded by these irritating creatures. Travellers should be certain to shake out their boots in the morning before putting them on, and should lock up their rations and other fragile gear in stout wooden or metal chests.
Venomous snakes occasionally crawl out of the jungle. Any shady or cool, damp area near the jungle should be approached with caution. Disturbing a sleeping reptile is a dangerous business. The bite of the larger serpents can generally be dealt with by applying a poultice, but beware of the tiny, brightly-colored snake known as the kyrell. Its bite can slay a troll in the space of three breaths. The kyrell's distinctive pattern of black bands separated by red and yellow stripes should make it easier to avoid.
Spiders are a common sight in Servalen. The inhabitants maintain a cautious but friendly relationship with them. While some of these insects are venomous and can injure or even slay a Name-giver, they devour such a great number of other annoying insects that they tend to be left undisturbed to pursue their quarry. The egg sacs of non-venomous spiders are sought out and placed in safe locations in bars and shops, in the hopes that the spiderlings that hatch will remain in the structure to help free it of mosquitos and flies. The traveller should be aware of the attitude toward spiders, and ask before killing one.
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