Be careful on the South Road, the one that runs past the forest. Because, sometimes, when the forest is hungry, the road turns in to the forest…
Trophy: Fort Duhrin
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Rain is a slight woman far older than she seems. Normally found leaning over a customer in Squid Spit, the tattoo shop she is the proprietor of. Her prices are fair and she boasts her inks come from rare herbs - and other things - of the forest. The colors used in the tattoos are striking and the black is blacker than any other black pigment. Several of the Kingsguard have been patrons, but many folks do not care for her presence. Some adventurers that have returned to Fort Duhrin from the forest, both living and corpse, seem to have had the vivid colors of the tattoos she gave them “bleached.”
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For folks who had fun with Fort Duhrin, you may want to try your hand at The Rose District of Ambaret!
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The Bad Penny: Well known among merchants and regulars of the Terraced Bazaar, a single copper coin of the smallest possible denomination carries a simple malediction bestowing the owner conspicuously poor luck. The curse worsens in severity and violence the longer one owns The Bad Penny.
Why not simply bury it in the ground or toss it down a well? Many a song is sung of those unfortunates ignorant of this particular precept of the curse; the misfortune is yours until the coin is taken willingly by another.
Nondescript in look, save for a few casual scuffs and scratches distinct to locals, it has become a cruel game among the denizens of the bazaar to secretly pass The Bad Penny during financial transactions or, better yet, to an unwitting adventurer.
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In the bowels of fort duhrin there’s a silent prisioner, kept for his divination capacities. It is said that he can show the future in the guts of a loved living creature.
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Among the underpaid Kingsguard in Duhrin one may encounter lesser members of noble houses, especially from House Cliff’s Breaking, a House that prefers to enlist their bastard offspring in lieu of banishment, keeping them out of sight, in danger, and among those unsympathetic to their tales of highborn grievance.
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Visitors to Fort Duhrin often ponder why so little construction within its outer wall is made of wood: Imported brick and stone are expensive, and there are so many trees just across the river. But locals whisper of just what can befall those who sleep within a structure built of planks hewn from trees harvested from Kalduhr.
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At the back of a dead-end alley in the corner of Fort Duhrin closest to to Kalduhr, ancient roots emerge from beneath the crumbled city wall. The roots look sickly, but never die. When the full moon’s light shines upon them, you can see the faces of adventurers lost to the woods etched in the grain.
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Ashlyn the clockmaker’s shop is a cacophony of ticking, jingling, and chiming. None of the clocks show the same time. They say that every time a clock strikes, the forest has taken another soul.
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By the main entrance to Fort Duhrin, just a bit to the west, lives Hawthorne Wavery. Rumor has it that this crooked old man seems to know whenever someone falls victim to Kalduhr forest and builds a nice little kurgan next to his hut for the unfortunate fellow. Whether it’s true is hard to tell but each kurgan happens to coincide with him having a trinket or two to sell. A curious man this Hawthorne Wavery.
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They say on the south wall every seventh stone is notched so clean no smith’s blade could’ve done it. They say too that there’s a new stone notched each year when the new rains come. No one’s seen what’s did it, but the notches keep making their way around the wall.
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Initiates of the kingsguard, before they can earn their shield, must complete one final trial of strength and will. They must venture into the terrible forest, risking body and mind to retrieve a a token of fealty for the governor. Something of sufficient interest to please, or at least, momentarily ease the governor’s infamous bourgeoisie malaise. The horrors of that cursed place are reflected in the eyes of all kingsguard. It is the secret of their legendary courage. The kingsguard fear not death, for they have beheld fates infinitely more terrifying.
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People say that treasure-hunters new to Fort Duhrin often complain of restless sleep and fever dreams of visitations from a great shadowy stag.
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- Nestled in the building farthest away from the heart of Kalduhr is the Mourning Club, a group of assorted townsfolk who take inventory of everyone who steps foot in the Fort. They memorialize the dead every Sunday, because who else would?
- Every so often, treasure hunters are plagued by visions. Sometimes the sun is a little bit greener; other times a figure is seen walking the air. Whatever they are, they only last a second, and are easily passed off as tricks of the mind.
- Rumor has it that the Kingsguard are barely holding onto their humanity. Kaldur has slowly siphoned away their souls, and one day they will be nothing left but monstrous husks. A more outlandish rumor states that the Governor has already suffered this fate.
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The Durhin Children’s Opera is run by headmistress Jonel. She uses the show to keep children busy, and out of the seedier parts of the fort during the summer months. Although the scripts are always of a whimsical nature, many attendees say the events on-stage echo their own expeditions into the forest.
Some say the stones of Fort Durhin were pulled from a quarry hundreds of miles away by the Governor’s orders. Others say the fort was found, not built, and has been occupied by every doomed empire known. Everyone agrees, the stones are not from here.
Beek: A lonely waif, a tawny shoe-shiner, a bedraggled, dung-smelling man, the sole shoe-shiner in the whole fort. If you need to know someone’s business, or where they’ve been recently, he knows. All Beek asks is for small promises in return. Just small, never inconvenient, promises.
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The Whipping Tree. There is a gnarled old tree rooted in the southeastern corner of Fort Duhrin that, when lashed, offers from between the great gouges in its bark a marvelous sap, restorative of many ailments. Some say, however, that it is when the tree weeps of its own accord that the sap is most potent and pure. But what restless treasure hunter can wait for the proof of such a tale?
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They say the stones that make up parts of the outer wall of the Fort, those closest to the forest, were stolen from some toppled ancient tomb, dragged callously from their home. The faintest of carvings, wards and sigils smoothed by time and rough hands, lend some credence to this story. That the stones are said to weep and keen in response to some silent call from deep within the forest, lends even more.
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Roots regularly emerge in basements’ walls and they appear to come from the forest itself. If they are not taken care of quickly, they will take over a building’s foundations, making it crumble. It’s like the forest is trying to break down and reclaim Fort Duhrin, the place whose hubris defies the forest itself. Some townsfolk regularly cuts the roots off to avoid the collapse of the Fort. Unfortunately, those in this group seem to be under some sort of curse, as they age twice as fast as anyone else.