Shrine of St. Ygg, The

The Shrine of St. Ygg is a small church in the center of the village of Helix. Most villagers in Helix pray to both the ancient gods (Anganach) and the new (Futurus). The Shrine of St.Ygg, in particular, has been successful in establishing a small religious following. Brother Othar (Level 5 Cleric), and his under-clerics Cella (Level 2 Cleric) and Gamdar (Level 2 Half-Orc Cleric), oversee the shrine and tend to the needs of the villagers regardless of their faith.

Silver Standard Caravan Company, The

This building serves as the supply depot for the Silver Standard Merchant Caravan Company in Helix. Trade goods are both delivered and loaded at this location. Billworth Turgen oversees each shipment personally and normally has a small crew of men to load and unload the caravans. The building is locked at night. It may also be guarded by 0 level men-at-arms subject to the situation.

The Silver Standard Caravans follow a route that exchanges goods between the settlements at Helix, Ironguard Motte, and Bogtown. Iron ore, iron goods, and lumber are loaded at Bogtown and brought to Ironguard Motte. These goods are then sold or forwarded to Helix. The same takes place from Helix to Ironguard Motte and then to Bogtown.

In addition to the exchange of goods, the company is often asked to transport persons or cargo of import. In these situations the rate of pay is triple or more. Members of the Ironguard family and select merchants always travel with additional protection.

This building serves as the home of the mercenary guild in Helix. Osen, the Guildmaster, created a business for himself recruiting men-at-arms, classed henchmen, porters, torch-bearers, and guides to serve adventurers and expeditions into the Barrowmoor and the surrounding region. In the spring and summer months, when the population of Helix swells with the influx of lowly adventurers, scoundrels, and rogues, Osen and his guild manage to bring order to the village. The locals jokingly refer to the mercenary guild as "The League of Ordinary Gentlemen." The roster of men and women available for hire should be randomly determined by the Referee.

Karg Barrelgut (DWF FGT 4th LV) is the lead hammer at The Axe and Anvil smithy. Barrelgut is a fine craftsman and serves the village in the varied roles of blacksmith, armourer,and weaponsmith, as needed. His young cousin, Gern, works as his apprentice. Barrelgut was originally from the Stone Mountains far across the plains to the east but fled decades ago for an unknown reason.

He has befriended the other dwarves in Helix and his smithy now serves as the defacto dwarven meeting place (social and religious). He can provide all the weapons (except bows and arrows) and most armor types provided in the Labyrinth Lord Rules (plate mail must be ordered from Ironguard Motte on a cash up-front basis and will take one week).

In addition, adventurers can also purchase a Broadsword (1d6+1) from the Axe and Anvil for 8gp. The broadsword is the favoured weapon of warriors in the area. If given sufficient time, Barrelgut can make unique non-magical dungeoneering items and equipment. He is known as a fair dealer in Helix.

Billworth Turgen, a 55 year-old human merchant with 4 HP, has provided basic equipment and trade goods to the villagers of Helix for decades. He also serves as the local agent for the Silver Standard Caravan Company and facilitates shipments back and forth between Helix (dried peat, dried fish, animal skins, giant spider silk from the Blackened Forest, and goats) and Ironguard Motte (return shipments include wine, ale, fine clothing, armour, food stuffs (corn and wheat), metal ingots).

Turgen also hires men-at-arms through the mercenary guild to serve as protection for his caravans. He pays 2gp (per day, per person) and covers lodging (there are basic barracks at each Silver Standard supply depot). If a complete shipment arrives safely Turgen will pay an additional bonus of 2gp.

This is the central meeting and marketplace in the village. The village crier makes announcements each day at noon from a dais in the center of the square. These announcements normally gather a large crowd and provide an excellent opportunity for PCs to learn news or attempt to find hirelings or henchmen, beyond those available in the Mercenary Guild. The cost to solicit hirelings and henchmen through the village crier is 5gp. There is also a pillory in the square that serves as a deterrent for criminals and thieves.

Population: 632

Demographics: primarily human with a few dwarves, elves, half-elves, and halflings.

Political Structure: (Noble Family—Hereditary) Krothos Ironguard (Level 3 Fighter)

Industry and Trade: Dried Peat, Livestock (goats), Agriculture (subsistence)

Imports: wine, ale, fine clothing, armour, food stuffs (corn and wheat), metal ingots

Village Square & Marketplace {1}
Turgen's Trade Goods {2}
The Axe & Anvil {3}
Mercenary Guild {4}
The Silver Standard Merchant Caravan Company {5}
Shrine of St. Ygg {6}
The Rosy Quartz Jeweler and Money Lender {7}
The Brazen Strumpet (Tavern & Inn) {8}
The Foul Pheasant {9}
Wizard's Spire {10}
Bowyer/Fletcher {11}
Hendon's Mill {12}

Forty-three miles to the southeast is the village of Padoar.

A mesa and surrounding scrubby farmland on the northwestern outskirt of the town of Smokeshadow, Kellen Rock lies about two miles north and west of Smokeshadow, five miles south of the main road, and a little over nine miles southeast of Phandalin.

During the years from 178 to 201 PR, the mesa and its surroundings in an approximately ten mile radius was home to a trio of rangers — Sirac Silverhair, an elf and by far the oldest of the three — was mentor to Deornoth Sellguard, a human and his wife, the half-elf Gallidril Everleaf.

Together, these three rangers built a sizeable lodge and attracted a group of followers known as the Kellenguard. In the more than two decades of their purview, monster attacks and banditry in the locale sharply declined, and the Kellenguard were well respected by folk in Smokeshadow, Phandalin, Dolecherry, and the various thorpes and hamlets of the Soot Mountain area.

The Seekers are brotherhood that works to reclaim the lost knowledge of Earth's previous ages, even back in the dimmest past — for the Earth is far older than even the wisest living sages can estimate.

In this, the Scarlet Horizons campaign setting bears kinship with Kevin Crawford's Worlds Without Number or Monte Cook's Numenera.

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"Do we really have time for this detour?" Revole, a.k.a. Earnest Thromb, sighs at the delay. It's truly surprising how quickly he has lapsed back into the role he's held most of his life — that of a merchant and caravan master.

"Really, Mr. Ting, your parochialism is quite endearing," says Matthias, the Warlock. "Complete this caravan run, then hurry and get back to Isabel and the kiddos." He glances over at the halfling sitting next to him on the driver's seat of the lead wagon. "We're making time for this because we need a crew. A caravan of this size with only two people? It doesn't make sense, and therefore draws unwanted attention."

"True enough, but this place has a bad reputation," the halfling complains.

"You've indentured yourself to the Lord of Hell and to a lifetime of servitude to me, and you're worried about a few ruffians at Kellen Rock?" the warlock asks, presumably rhetorically, for Revole doesn't answer.

"You will address me from here onward as 'Lord Ember.' Not 'Matthias', certainly not 'Mr. d'Slaytonthorpe' — just 'Lord Ember.' And I don't mean just up ahead at Kellen Rock. I mean from now on, whether we are alone or among others. And you will do everything in your power to dissuade people from any interest of investigation into what has become of the two young Seekers of Helix."

"I will obey," says Revole Ting, and for a moment the warlock's eyes flash in anger, until he realizes that the halfling isn't being mocking. Rather, he is beguiled. The warlock smiles inwardly. I'm getting stronger, it would seem...

The wagons creak along up a winding trail toward the lodge at the apex of a hill. Revole carefully guides the horses along the stony course, and Lord Ember cranes his neck to glance at the top of the now not-distant mesa. "When I was a boy, I wintered here several times. My uncle Deor would come to Helix late every Fall, and I would return with him here with the first snows of Winter."

"Really? I never knew that about you, my bo— Lord Ember." The halfling thinks for a moment. "But wait; your father is Magen Eisenthrast of the Helix Seekers. I didn't realize he had a brother," Revole muses.

"That's the preferred fiction, aye. It's a heartwarming conceit perpetrated by the Father Abbot. Supposedly the magen, old even before I was born, sired me on a promising young girl from Threshold training in the Chapterhouse as chrono-archaeologist at the time."

"You're saying he isn't your father, then?"

Matthias is silent for so long that the halfling almost asks his question a second time. But then, "My father is over 400,000 years old. But that isn't a story for your ears, Revole. Now, prepare yourself. The Lodge has become a base for a group of bandits in the past three years. We'll be challenged, in all likelihood attacked."

"Well then, won't we be badly outnumbered? Shouldn't w—"

"Silence! I don't speak so that you may question my decisions!" Lord Ember breathes heavily, incensed. Finally, after a long pause: "Focus on my instructions, not your pathetic uncertainty. Don't use your wand. We want to intimidate and cow, not destroy these malcontents. They will become our muscle, the caravan's guards, and will leave my uncle's lodge empty to await whatever use I find for it."

Revole nods in understanding. "Your will be accomplished, Lord Ember."

Matthias scrutinizes the halfling's expression, decides he's being serious, not sarcastic. "Better. Now, should combat erupt, you shall discover that my will is made known to you without words. A red haze will color all that you see while I am exerting my willpower to guide you. Simply act on that guidance. You will find questions unnecessary."

The halfling nods. "My ... changed arm aches." It isn't a complaint so much as a statement of fact.

"Indeed," acknowledges Lord Ember. "It feels the machinations of Asmodeus tumbling towards his desired ending for one of his thousands of agendas."

"Hmm," the halfling considers, scratch at that arm through the thick long-sleeved canvas jacket. "It feels more like it wants to smash and kill."

"Just as I said," confirms Lord Ember.

◦◦◦

As the caravan pulls up to the sprawling lodge compound, a cold late October wind scours the hill and raises goosebumps on the arms of both Lord Ember and those standing in a broad, cobblestoned courtyard to greet the approaching caravan train. Interestingly, Revole Ting feels no such sensation, shows no such weakness.

"That's close enough," rumbles a mountain of a man. He must weigh at least eighteen stone and stand nearly seven feet tall. His enormous chest is harnessed in thick leather, and incredibly muscled forearms are wrapped in leather cords. Held casually in his right hand is a massive sword, an engraved rune near its hilt waxing and waning with eldritch light. The sword undoubtedly weighs a full three stones. "We aren't an inn, tavern, supply depot, or temple, so state your business and you'll need to make it particularly convincing."

Lord Ember sits on the driver's seat of the lead wagon, eyes closed, yet moving rapidly behind their lids. Just when Revole is becoming concerned that his master has inexplicably dozed off, the warlock's eyes open and he speaks. "Well, aren't you're just a peach? Tell your leader that Lord Ember is here, and brings much-needed supplies and a proposal on how the lodge's current occupants may enrich themselves further."

The warlock smiles winningly, perhaps mockingly, and notices that the guard's hands aren't human. Rather, they have three oversized, taloned digits, each as big around as Matthias' wrists. The sound of the man's creature's laughter is a deep bass resonance that is rich and pleasant, yet with a menacing undertone. "And what makes you so certain that I myself do not rule here, little man?"

"Well, you're too ugly and stupid for leadership, so it stands to reason you are working for someone else." The warlock's voice is light and lilting, but with a core of steel.

"Oh, I like you already," says the behemoth, chuckling. He turns his head on a neck like a tree trunk and bellows for someone outside the warlock and halfling's line of sight. "Tell Savra we have guests!"

A half-orc steps into view and draws up alongside his comrade. When the leather-harnessed miscreant gives the newcomer a questioning look, he growls, "Relax, Krelg's talking to her now." This newest thug is a foot shorter than his compatriot — only a hair over six feet in height — yet probably every bit as heavy — a half-orc with a barrel chest and big belly, though no doubt slabs of muscle beneath.

"These ruffians may be more formidable than I had anticipated," Lord Ember says quietly, only loud enough for Revole to hear. "So far, it appears there may be four of them, at least, outnumbering us two to one. How many charges does your wand have remaining?"

"Four," Revole answers, wisely not adding but you told me not to use it against these cut-throats.

"I see. Well, we may need it after all, but wait for me to make a comment about the hubris of the Helix Seekers. That'll be your signal. The woman is probably a caster, so she should be your target until she's out of commission."

A woman comes walking out into the courtyard to join her cronies, accompanied by a fourth bandit you're just seeing for the first time — another half-orc, this one carrying a wickedly serrated sword.

The woman and her companion saunter up to stand with the others. She is a striking redheaded human, decked out in fine plate and mail and carrying a shield that is embossed with a white skull. "Well, well, who have we here, Kaden?" she asks the first bandit.

"This one gives himself a title of lordship and names himself Ember. The ... boy has wisely said nothing, Death Mistress." Revole Ting doesn't rise to this bait, but fingers the dagger at his belt as if making it a silent promise.

"Lord Ember, I presume?" the redhead says in a throaty voice. The wickedly flanged mace she carries emits faint wisps of black smoke or shadow. "You have taken quite a detour from the road to come here. Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. I must assume the former. What do you have to say to Savra Skullmaster before I take your wagons and horses and decide whether or not to let you continue living?" She rests the head of her wicked mace on her right shoulder and adopts an insouciant pose.

"Such spunk! And confidence — I greatly admire confidence!" The warlock's voice is bemused. "But please, why threaten to take what is freely offered? These wagons are loaded with useful goods: flour, salt, bails of wool, strong drink, arrows, crossbow bolts, rope, oil, coal, torches, salted fish, and various other amenities. However well-stocked you may already be, extra never hurts, yes?"

Savra jerks a hand and the two half-orcs hasten to the wagons to verify Lord Ember's claim. "And why do you make such an offer? Not out of philanthropic zeal, I'm quite sure."

"Indeed not," returns the warlock. "It is my hope that this gesture will make you amenable to a proposal, one that may well enrich us all. Perhaps, we could discuss it tonight over a feast of fish, fried potatoes, honey-bread from Eastdale, ale from Kirkilston, and half a dozen brandies and whiskeys from Dartscale and Mimsy, mmh?"

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