Cavernous Coast

Ulamarag-Tol, the western land, has over the centuries, been called by many names. The giants called it Ejaberg, and now to the elves it is Haven Isle. Long gone now are the crystalline ages of its original inhabitants, but yet their own old name still persists to those who know. Perhaps with time the dragons shall rise to rule once more…

Within their stone piles dwell the coastal Goblinish folk. Gazing out from multitudinous lithic eyes of their lopsided towers above the surf, the goblins watch all passersby. None can traverse the region without their knowledge, and none can go by the coast roads without hearing their tales and paying their tolls. Stay a while, if you will, in their conglomerate halls. If you harbor no ill intent, the locals won’t bite…hard...

The waters off the coast of Haven Isle are rarely still. Though they don't always churn with the violence of a great tempest, the shadowy threat of the maelstrom ever lurks. To sailors that ply these waters, the omnipresence of storms is a force that must be appeased in order to maintain their lives and livelihoods, as powerful a deity as any other. To the local Goblin-folk he is called, in hushed tongues, by his most ancient name, Margololo-golo.

Highest temple of the coastal Goblins, home to the sainted congar, Cair Blixa sits atop her rocky throne through calm and storm alike. Here Hragatta Blixa, protectress, local spirit, swims her pool within the ancient sanctum. Within this holy of holies lie dark passages and dusty chambers, her ancient glory forgotten to all but the coastal goblin-folk. Their forays to make votive offerings with the change of every moon are the only times Cair Blixa’s sainted silence is now breached. What other secrets of another time may lie within?

A wind whips up from the west, carrying hints of the steam curtain’s humid perfume and of the acrid brimstone beyond. Clouds circle with life as their nebulous forms congeal into coherence. Thunder resounds, and all vessels upon the southern waves desperately seek the shelter of a lee shore, or else prepare to fight for their lives. The Lightning Lord looks upon the land, and is angered by what he sees. May he be merciful or may you never again know anything but the endless fathoms of oblivion.

By the shores of the sea there lies a cave. It is not, as some other caves, an empty thing or home to only cobwebs and crabs. It is a twisting network of salt-perfumed grottos and oozing galleries, a petty labyrinth. Within this cave dwell comfortable hermits and hidden cretins, in equal measure. Should you venture in, keep your wits about you and know where you’re going, lest you meet an unwanted surprise…

Not all who lurk within the Coastal Cave of Quarrioc are peaceable hermits who fled from society to the comforts of isolation. Sinister elements can also be found within their own rogue’s gallery by the roiling sea. Illicit goods of all forms, destined for the seedier parts of the city of Barnacle, are transported ashore within several of Quarrioc’s caverns. Members of the town watch rarely venture so far as to enter into this cerulean underworld between the sea, surf, and sky. Those that do don’t always return…

“Now this is a concoction of a curious sort, Aygir. You seem to have found a piece of a broken arrowhead… This particular steely specimen, however is coated with the residue of a substance known as Brinestar. Do you know what that is? I expected not. It is a foreign stuff, found, if memory serves, only in the far Southern lands of Drizmteag. What it is doing here, I do not know, but it cannot be for any good reason. Brinestar, you see, is mildly combustible in its raw form much like the Crackle Powder in that barrel you dragged forth from the same cavern. That is all well and good for lighting a hearth or minor pyrotechnics. When combined, however, the two react to produce an extremely volatile mixture so explosive that it cannot even be safely stored except in tightly-sealed, lead-lined barrels. If someone was experimenting with…shooting a Brinestar coated arrowhead at a barrel of Crackle Powder, was it?.. Yes, that can only mean they intend to devise a weapon not seen in these parts since the conquest of Barnacle. As one of the only left who knew those days of great triumph and awful suffering, I can only hope such a thing never comes to fruition. Enough of this now, let me retire. My waterpipe is empty and that Grovesheen you brought is calling my name…” -Connis Spindle, Elven Master of the Broken Tower, addressing The Vanguard

Kitesails are a family of medium-sized to large lizards whose hind legs have evolved to bear membranous wings, allowing them to fly and glide over the whole of Haven Isle. They are most numerous and diverse along the Southern coasts, where they can be found in all manner of forms. Some are a stony grey-brown or tan, others a brilliant seafoam green, and all both with and without elaborate cranial crests. Smaller kitesails may not be much larger than a raven, but the largest can be tamed and ridden by elves. From their cliffside roosts, wild kitesails flock with the setting sun, preparing for another night of skimming fish fresh from the sea. Take care not to tread into a nest unwittingly…

After a stormy night, the seas lie calm once more. Waves gently crash against the stony shore as they have done forever. Within the roiling surf, a faint glint of mineral rufesence recalls an ancient promise. A mirror shattered, an age lost to the past, and another shard in the sand now ends a story which shall soon begin again.