Monday, April 21, 2014

Bahamian Baskets - Part 1

As of April 11th the first draft of Hot Springs Island is done. Like all first drafts it's an ugly thing, but with a chainsaw, straight razor and bucket of Dapper Dan it may clean up ok. Updates to come.

This post is unrelated. Sort of.

Two days after finishing the draft, the wife and I went on a late honeymoon cruise. We left from Galveston, and hit Key West and The Bahamas before returning home.

The ocean is magic. These monstrous ships are obscene. And the world needs more six toed cats and suicidal authors. But this isn't about that. This is about the baskets of the Bahamas.

First though, some context. Let's start with the flag of the Bahamas.

It's a beautiful flag and has strong post-colonial symbolism. From

The symbolism of the flag is as follows: Black, a strong colour, represents the vigour and force of a united people, the triangle pointing towards the body of the flag represents the enterprise and determination of The Bahamian people to develop and possess the rich resources of sun and sea symbolized by gold and aquamarine respectively. (emphasis added)

A popular saying about this natural richness is "money on the ground", and nothing really represents this better to me than the Silver Top Palm and the straw goods made from it. This palm grows throughout the Bahamas, Keys, and Caribbean, and looks like this:

The leaves are harvested (or perhaps "collected" is more accurate), soaked in the ocean for a bit, dried and then plaited and woven into baskets, hats, fans, purses, wallets and more. All the tour guides and cruise ship guides (when not busy sucking the cock of Diamonds International, Del Sol and their ilk) call Bahamian straw goods a "must buy" on your vacation. Partially because I like plants so much, and partially because of the hype, I was looking forward to stopping by the straw markets in Lucaya and Nassau.

I was not prepared.

Now you see, I've worked in cruise ship port towns before up in Alaska. I've done my fair share of hustling and bamboozling the tourists and playing the "this is a special unique snowflake of a deal for a one time unique snowflake of a customer" bullshit. Lowest price. Final offer. Cash discount. The whole shebang. But in the end I was just a snobby cunt selling multi-thousand dollar dead animals to snobby cunts getting off of private yachts (and novelty rabbit skin jockstraps with raccoon tails. Can't forget those). I wasn't in the trinket business, and I certainly wasn't in the Caribbean (do the Bahamas _really_ count?) straw market trinket business.

Stalls full of crap. Conch shells and dried starfish piled up with knock off bags and the "made-in-china-just-add-local-name" assortment. It was like bad thrift store vomit. And these things. Fuck these things.

In the straw markets, all the tricks were in play. Like "throw toys on the ground in front of children and pied piper the little bastards into the deep dark recesses of the stall". Or how about, "Have 8 year old girls act like they're giving you a seashell bracelet as a gift and then demand payment if you take it". Fairy tales of course have taught us that touching things and taking things offered is dangerous (especially in a marketplace), and this is all pretty standard lotion kiosk in the mall level stuff, so I'm probably just being a snobby cunt again. I did find the "put anklets on old women without them noticing and then chase them after they leave your stall" strategy to be a bit of an escalation from the norm, but I may simply be rusty on my bazaar etiquette.

The things that utterly slew me about the experience though were twofold:
  • Sustained anger in the face of rejection
  • The perversion of hospitality
Sales is rejection. Fail and fail and fail and fail and fail and win and fail some more. Search "overcoming objections" and you too can gaze upon the belly of an entire cottage industry based on this fact. In the straw markets the stall tenders got furious in the face of no. Pissed. Arm crossing, under the breath cussing, eye burning anger. Yes I stopped walking for 15 seconds. No I don't want you to put that wiggly carved wooden shark into my hands. Yes, please get offended that I *didn't* step on the toy turtle on a string you threw into my path as I walked in front of your stall. Just another tourist piece of shit not buying anything. Huzzah.

Once upon a time, in Venice, I watched a short guy in nice pants, nice shoes, and a striped lavender button up with copious amounts of visible chest hair go from knock-off seller to knock-off seller and pick up wads of cash. But here in Freeport and Nassau I saw no little sharks, or big sharks swimming around for a 4:00 pick up. True, there may have been someone lurking in the shadows with pointy teeth, mirrored aviators, and a check list of hourly sales expectations, but I couldn't spot them no matter how hard I looked. All I saw were angry mothers yelling at angry children because some white bitch didn't check her privilege enough to buy a coconut bead bracelet at each stall she passed.

Now, I probably have exceptionally delicate sensibilities, and stretch too far by basing distasteful judgments on vague concepts tangentially associated with hospitality, but I'm on a roll and far off course of the original intent, so instead of scrapping all this, I shall valiantly careen on through the brush.

Let us think of the sundew. The sundew operates by perverting hospitality. It says to the fly "Oh Mr. Fly, so weary and far from the shit pile of your birth, come! I have what you need. Rest and enjoy what I offer." Now imagine that when the fly declines the invitation, the sundew becomes incensed and yells to all the other swamp plants how rude and ungrateful the fly is for spurning its kind invitation. If you can imagine this wonderland, then it is but a small jump to imagining the straw markets of these islands.

The wife and I walked through the market looking for straw goods (actually discussion of straw to occur in part 2 of this since I done got so long winded), and every stall we passed we were met with a slight variant of "Oh darling! Come in come in! Look around my shop. I have what you're looking for, see [this]?" Sometimes we were beautiful or gorgeous instead of darling, but the "come come look around" order persisted throughout.

If you ignore the hawker straight up (especially here), I found that it just nets loud commentary on the fact they have been ignored. So I went with the 6 step anti cell phone kiosk salesman process:

  1. eye contact
  2. smile
  3. slight head shake
  4. palm up (facing the speaker, but kept in the low chest region so as to not be confrontationally in their face, but still clearly within their eyesight)
  5. slight wave of said upright palm (mirroring the head shake, and sometimes jedi mind trick style)
  6. "No, thank you. Just looking right now."

 This is supposed to communicate the following:

  1. "I acknowledge your presence"
  2. "I AM NICE!"
  3. "But I am not interested at this time"
  4. "Let's establish some distance between us"
  5. "Let me reinforce that I am not interested with a second, mirrored, visual clue"
  6. "Let me vocalize that I am not interested at this time, but am polite about it"

This appeared to be successful. The wife and I walked down a row, checked out a few stalls, came to a dead end, turned around and began the trek back up the row. Things seemed to be going alright when we were hit with:

"I can't believe it. I invited you into my stall. I have what you need. What do I not have? You went into her stall and her stall and here I invited you into mine, and you didn't come in!"

There was no joke. No easy smile or belly laugh. Not even a giggle or twinkle in the eye. Only a shaking hand and pointing finger of indignant remonstration. Followed by arms akimbo, a jutting jaw, furrowed brow, squinting eyes, and a reiteration of the fact that we had been invited and she had been spurned for others.

Fuck all that.

And it was, unfortunately, everywhere. "Oh, you don't want to pay me $50 to take a tour in my motorboat? Fuck you." "Oh, you don't want to get something to eat at my conch shack? Fuck you." The whole dynamic was poisonous (but may make for some exceptional gaming fodder when paired up with The Rogue's Lexicon).

Not me, or my picture, but an excellent capture of the whole clusterfuck.
Up next, success, dying handcrafts and a copyright extravaganza!

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Struggling with Tranquility

I'd wanted to be done with writing the first draft of *everything* Hot Springs Island related by yesterday (03/21/14), but I didn't make it. I'm insanely close to the end (literally about 11 sections of stuff to finish, most of which are going to be quite short), but still kinda bummed I didn't make it. Oh well. At least I'm not having to write this as a Kickstarter backer update. ^_^

There are three dungeons left to write up, and for two of them "write up" is closer to "format existing notes and writings into a coherent whole". The third dungeon, the Temple of Tranquility, has been giving me problems, but today I think I figured out the problem with my approach. Instead of being a "dungeon" with various entries, exits, lairs, factional "territories" and what have you, Tranquility's three and a half levels are best thought of as a village stacked atop an arena, stacked atop another arena.

To explain using pictures:

Originally the temple was four floors of polished rock and flowing water, carved down into a hill, and elves came here to meditate.

Then, the popularity of meditation waned and the temple were converted into an aquarium.

Cataclysm by Zueuk
Then the island blew up and shit fell apart.

So now, the top floor has been taken over by Steam Imps and converted into a gambling den. They're the "driving force" of what happens here for the most part and the first floor is neutral/safe (assuming you don't try 'n skip on a bet). In many ways this gambling den is very much like a small village, or perhaps a large tavern in the wilderness.

The second floor, and the remains of the third floor are the home of the Albino Centipede.

Note the tiny person, and yeah, I just found the dirty scan on the quick search.
The centipede was there before the island broke apart and the cataclysm effectively trapped it on floors 2 and 3. There isn't really anything there but it, and whatever the steam imps have dropped into the holes or sent down to collect a centipede leg. This is arena 1: Party vs Big Thing. Big thing is "total focus" of area. Much of my struggle with making it "dungeony" was that on the one hand the area felt so empty and relatively big, but adding more kept feeling forced. I think hitting it from the point of view of an arena will lock down the elements of the area I need to include. It doesn't *need* other living things to be interesting. The big living thing and the things that fall into it provide that sort of interest, and in this situation they need places to hide, useful environmental structures, and just enough room to run so they start to think they're safe. ^_^

Much of the third floor and fourth floor collapsed and fell into a natural cavern below the temple complex and are effectively one big pit obstacle, or connecting shaft. The cavern below is arena 2: Party vs swarm. Like the big thing, the swarm is the total focus of the area.

We'll see how it goes.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Boar's Head Encampment

Mog'ok. A lesser god of vengeance smiles down upon Boar's Head Encampment
I'm planning to format dungeons and villages in an identical manner. I think it's going to work, but who knows!

Nestled into a clump of jungle right where the tree line begins to give way to beaches of black sand, the seven large huts comprising Boar's Head Encampment stand for one thing, revenge. As Srok, filled with Mog'ok's righteous fury, became more and more consumed by rage against Svarku, Glavrok faced a tough decision. He would have to risk Night Axe lives or risk a schism within the clan if he continued to spar with Srok's ideas. In the end, he allowed Srok and approximately 30 Night Axe warriors and edgesworn to establish a forward base devoted to the eradication of Svarku and his Fuegonauts.

The walls of the seven huts are engraved with the names of every Night Axe killed during Svarku's purge at the Black Spot [Hex HS-04] and the ogres recite these names as they perform a series of mental and physical exercises each day. Srok's followers firmly believe the enemy of their enemy is their friend making the ogres of Boar's Head much more hospitable towards outsiders than those of Glavrok Village. Many individuals would be exceptionally pleased to provide direct assistance (i.e., mercenaries) to proven enemies of Svarku.

Piles of basalt boulders and lumber are scattered about the camp in anticipation of future expansion and to serve as impromptu weapons in the event of a Fuegonaut attack. Tall rock formations around the camp are utilized as lookout points, but Srok's main defense, and the camp's namesake, is a ring of boar's heads on spears that circle the camp. Conch shells are piled around the base of each spear and enchanted to serve as an alarm system. Should a creature meaning harm to the ogres enter a head's field of vision, the conch shells at its base will begin to sound (as if each were a war horn) until the threat has been neutralized. Mog'ok's blessing causes the boar heads and shells to slowly burn up, so the ogres organize weekly hunting parties to replace them.

A Night Axe warrior named Torka loads up three domesticated broadbacks with goods and runs a trade caravan from Glavrok Village to Boar's Head Encampment every 10-12 days. At least one broadback hauls a full load of whale bones from the whale graveyard [Hex HS-08] each trip. The ogres slice these bones like sandwich bread before shaping and polishing them into rings. Once a month Mog'ok blesses these rings, transforming them into bone chains strong enough to hold an ogre. Most of these bone chains have been attached to the large weathered basalt pillars on the beach where they hold Fuegonaut prisoners before they are sacrificed to Mog'ok's glory.

Srok runs a tight ship, going to great lengths to keep the ogres constantly active and focused on the goal of crushing Svarku. Idle hands cool the fires of vengeance so large sections of the jungle have been cleared, a deep defensive trench had been dug and shored up, and stairs are being carved into the giant basalt outcrop called Lookout Point. The encampment is so clean and organized that many adventurers are completely surprised to learn it's inhabited by ogres.


This map is ugly. It's not going to stay that way.


1. Watery Trench
40' wide, 30' deep. Standing water[2'-3' deep], basalt formations[jagged], tree trunks[large, support northern wall], bones
Use: The nereid Neelan can flood the trench once a day to push attacker to the sea

2. Neelan's Dugout
Only visible if in trench. Spring[cold, fresh], red seaweed[dried, piles, bed], ruined painting[4' x 4', partially buried, ornate frame, depicts burning city], dirt walls[damp, clay veins]
Neelan (nereid) - Wants Svarku dead so badly she came here to join Srok directly. Provides fresh water. Floods Watery Trench. Shunned by other nereids. Doesn't care. Sings to herself constantly. Sounds like a lullaby, but the lyrics are obscene.

3. The Leafy Stumps
Deforested. Stumps[large, old growth, rotting], small trees[~2 years old], lush leafy ground cover[red flowers, orange peppers, 30-50 blindfire vines]
Use: This area was cleared for lumber and blindfire vine was planted, fed and tended by ogres as a natural defensive barrier
Vegetation conceals numerous bones (whale, salamander, imp, ogre)

4. Lookout Point
Giant basalt outcrop (60' high). Grey splotches[jellymoss], boar head on spear[east side], stairway[east side, carved into rock, unfinished, halfway, easy climb]
Boar head sprays subfreezing water. Sounds alarm. 10 charges. Save or stun/shock. Triggers if any intending harm to the encampment enter its field of vision.

Cache of rations, throwable boulders, signal torches and a war horn atop the outcrop.

5. Fresh Deforestation
Clear of most undergrowth. Stumps[old growth, 1d8 uprooted], log piles[six, neatly stacked], boulder piles[three, basalt, neatly stacked], palm fronds[strewn about, dried, yellow], ferns[single large clump]
Palm fronds next to uprooted stumps cover pit traps (20' deep, obsidian spikes, 1d4 in area)
Ferns conceal wooden crate containing six masterwork obsidian great axes

6. Encampment
Bonfire[maintained 24hrs], huts[whalebone, mud, boulders, logs], boar heads on spears[alarms, conch shells at base], stockpiles[crates, logs, barrels, basalt, clean, organized], nets[fishing, hanging], blue cloth canopies, tables[wood, crude, clean]
Huts comfortably sleep four ogres each
Blue cloth canopies shade tables/gathering area
Stockpiles contain obsidian weapons and five weeks of dried rations for 30 ogres

7. The Killing Rocks
White chain[bone, stronger than steel, too numerous to count], basalt pillars[natural, weathered, two, 50' apart]
Use: Fuegonaut captives are chained to, or between the rocks and sacrificed to Mog'ok at sunset. A fresh chain is used for each captive.

White bone chains completely cover almost every surface of the basalt pillars

What's happening in the camp?
 roll 3d6

Thursday, February 27, 2014

The Golden Cricket - A Thieves Guild

Huzzah! Secret Santicore volume 2 has hit the interwebs, and that's where my entry ended up. The request was the following:

Dear Santicore, I would like...
Five to nine (or more?!) paragraphs detailing the infrastructure and operation of a Thieves’ Guild that is controlled by a trio of women at least one of which is a widow with children whose family knows nothing of her job outside of the home. You are encouraged to explore all of the details and devise details to your heart’s content, but it is important that the women leading the Thieves’ Guild be regarded in their daily lives as unassuming and nonthreatening women whom nobody would ever suspect of being the masterminds of a nefarious underground organization.

I had so much fun writing this. Hopefully you have a lot of fun reading it and maybe even using it.

The Golden Cricket

Backstory Flavor

Once upon a time there was a thief named Marceline. She was young, beautiful and quick of mind, body and tongue. Her exploits are many, and best told another time, but never forget that it was Marceline the thief who stole the Holy Brand of Malthus from Redwater Monastery, recovered the Stones of Kismet from the belly of the gorgon Josira, broke the Florian Cartel's Stranglehold of Greenport, and was rumored to be the actual founder the Half-Moon Bread bakeries.

After retiring from a life of crawling through dark places in the world she set up shop somewhere in the mountains outside the capitol city, and with the aid of her gang The Quick Thirty, made the highways and byways pricy and uncomfortable for people with coin. Over time people started calling her Queen Marceline of the King's road. But this was all more than 200 years ago and probably not what you've paid me for. Or so you'd think. You see, at some point ole Marceline got her hands on a wish. Some say it were a fairy that did it, others say it were the ghost of old Malthus himself what blessed her, but any way you cut it, she got that wish and used it to wish for eternal life.

Shame of it though was that she forgot to ask for eternal youth too. Even though her grip on the gold of the wealthy stayed tight, her body went the way all ours go eventually, sagging' 'n wrinkling 'n withering to frailty, but Queen Marceline couldn't die. Over time she grew so small and so frail that she turned into a cricket. But that didn't stop her, or even slow her down. It's said she struck a deal with Fate herself 'cause there are objects on this world Fate wants but can't get at. Objects that need to be stolen. So Queen Marceline started up an organization that could help Fate get what she wanted and it runs, in the shadows, to this day.

Fate's Demand

Yes, Marceline is really a cricket. And yes, Fate promised her her youth if she could acquire a number of items, but the goddess had one demand: Marceline must be assisted in running her guild by three women in different stages of their life. The Virgin, The Mother, and The Crone. Only the best are selected to fill each role and as a woman transitions from one life phase to the next, she is not guaranteed the next position of leadership regardless of how well she did previously. If the stars align and the three positions are held by a blood line (mother (Crone), daughter (Mother) and granddaughter (Virgin)), Fate smiles upon the guild and their heists never fail, but this has only happened twice in the guild's history.

Of the Virgin, Fate requires the candidate is a virgin and can menstruate. Of the Mother, Fate requires the candidate has at least one child in her care, of her blood, that has not yet "come of age". Of the Crone, Fate requires the candidate to be older than 70. When a woman no longer meets these requirements Fate notifies both Marceline and the woman. Most of the leaders transition out of their roles willingly and with celebration, remaining respected members of the organization and hopeful they will be called to serve again.

Marceline has her own requirements of aptitude for each leadership candidate that change with the times and current needs of the guild, but one always remains the same: The Files.

The Files

To be considered for one of the three leadership roles in the guild each woman must commit at least twelve crimes of sufficient notoriety that remain unsolved or unsolvable. They must then provide Marceline with proof and a signed confession for each. These crimes are conducted outside the guild's normal pursuits and each woman knows they will be given to the authorities if it becomes necessary to protect the guild and brand them as an unaffiliated thief. When a woman transitions out of a leadership role, her file is publicly burned before all the guild and her full member protections are restored. Thus, to be considered for another role, fresh crimes will need to be committed.

The guild itself has no official name, but a small cricket made of gold is left at the site of any major heists causing many among the authorities to call them "The Golden Cricket". Rank and file members of the guild collectively refer to one another as "The Rabble", have no fixed hierarchy and focus exclusively on the skills and results a person brings and not their skin, creed or the parts between their legs. The fixed nature of the leadership roles and other initiatives skews female membership higher than other thieves guilds (making it a rough 50/50), but this is only a side effect and has never been a goal.

For low level jobs, individuals or small groups of people (1-4) from the Rabble are tapped on a job by job basis. For mid and high level jobs the leaders create gangs of 12, trusted, members that last only as long as the job. Marceline, with connections developed over hundreds of years, keeps the guild flush with work and at any given time each leader will be overseeing 1 to 3 gangs of 12.

While it would be avoided at all costs, the guild has the coin and connections to field a small army of 400-600 thieves and mercenaries in as little as three days. Because a reveal of this scope would necessitate the guild going dark for at least a generation (and probably relocating) it has never been attempted.

Services and Specialties
·         Acquisitions - Specifically goods and information. Kidnappings for ransom are avoided and human or humanoid slave trafficking is expressly forbidden.
·         Poison - Specifically those dealing with sleep and paralysis.
·         Setups - When they're done with the target the city guards will have thought they did all the work and pat themselves on the back for catching such a criminal.
·         Neutral Ground - The guild operates a number of safe houses and havens where the rival parties of other guilds and groups that operate outside of society can meet to discuss their differences, come to terms or deliver ultimatums. By remaining neutral and providing top notch locations and security, Marceline's guild has made quite a bit of their coin and connections this way.
·         Half-Moon Bread - Before aging to the point of becoming a cricket, Marceline set up a number of bakeries called "Half-Moon Bread" in every medium and large city in the land. She had always thought it would be fun to run a legitimate business and greatly enjoyed baking herself, favoring cinnamon rolls and turnovers. Although the bakeries were started with "ill-gotten gains" they operate completely on the up-n-up (no money laundering or funny business!). The bakeries actively feed the hungry and forgotten for free, and their open charity with the poor has created inroads into a number of religious organizations. Upper class citizens shun the bakeries because of how welcomed the unwashed are, but good, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth type lower and middle class families love them. Over the centuries, most of the bakeries have changed their name away from Half-Moon Bread, but the bakeries, mill and transport services that support them are all still owned by Marceline and provide many of the guild members with a legitimate occupation.
·         Forgeries and False Identities - The guild's primary service is a sort of witness protection program for society's outcasts, usually young women in bad situations. They take these women, clean them up, spend time polishing them up, and depending on their aptitudes and willingness, fabricate back stories and connections for them. That prostitute who killed her pimp is now a simple farmer's or merchant's daughter with witnesses and documents that attest to that fact. Many of the women (and men too) end up marrying relatively well-to-do individuals (shopkeepers, up and coming councilmen, rising stars in the city guard, etc). While many of the early "chance meetings" between the future couples are arranged by the guild (and kept secret from both parties) Marceline has found that the relationships are stronger and more... useful, if the eventual marriages are never forced. This helps keep eyes and ears throughout all levels of society and should favors ever be needed, the individuals who received a new identity and new life are happy to do most anything for their old sponsor.

The Crone

The guild's current Crone is Lady Isadora Dargetos. She is the widow of a ranking ambassador and in her younger days served as The Virgin. She is a renowned patron of the arts, thrower of phenomenal parties, and considered by many in upper class to be THE arch-maven of taste, style and polite sensibility. Her handwriting is exceptional and her forgeries are divine. She knows absolutely everybody (and most of their secrets) and delights in using her intimate knowledge of the social calendars to plan targeted heists. If you need something or access to someone in a city, Lady Isadora can provide.

The Mother

The guild's current Mother is Angelika Huxton. She is recently widowed (her husband having been kicked in the head by a horse) and owns and runs a 750 acre ranch outside of town with about 200 head of cattle and 100 head of sheep. She has six children, the youngest of which is 2 and the oldest is 17. Coming of age ceremonies take place at the age of 15 in these lands, so assuming her youngest child doesn't die, she will be the guild's Mother for the next 13 years. The ranch is mostly self sufficient, with ample acreage dedicated to farming and vegetable gardens and plenty of heavily wooded areas where a person could get lost for weeks. 30 to 50 ranch and farm hands work the land and livestock and guard the house. Of those ~1d10 are actual guild associates.

Demascus Slade, a real mountain of a man, and Angelika's husband's "first cousin" (i.e., forged and sent by the guild), came to live on the ranch and help Angelika keep things running after her husband passed. Demascus is scary good with knives (throwing, stabbing and whittling) and an absolute master of making and detecting poisons.

Cooper Tinsides is an old prospector who lives up in the mountains, coming down every so often to trade some of the metal he digs up for fresh supplies. He stays at the ranch for 3 to 5 days before heading back up to his claims. Some of the ranch hands don't like him too much, but it's only on account of how bad he smells whenever he first arrives. He can tell a hell of a story and Angelika insists he be well treated because of how much raw gold and silver he trades for the supplies and services. The truth of the matter is that Cooper lives up in Marceline's old bandit lair and acts as her current proxy. He collects news and information and delivers orders and assignments from Marceline. Cooper really does prospect, but only enough to know all the ins and outs of the mining and panning trade. Most of the ore is melted down booty and this facade launders a hell of a lot of gold. His requests for secrecy are well respected on all fronts because of his loud and frequently proclaimed fear of claim jumpers. So far, no one that's tried to tail Cooper has made it past the foothills of the mountains without a red smile across their throat.

Each weekend Angelika goes into the city to run a number of stalls in a farmer's market where she sells meats, grains, vegetables, honey and soap. The quality of the goods she sells is quite high, but she keeps her prices low and is well liked and respected throughout the capitol. The captain of the town guard himself went so far as to offer her a few men to help keep the ranch running after her husband passed on, but as Demascus was "on his way", Angelika politely declined the offer. When in town, Angelika takes up lodging in Black Dragon Inn and Tavern.

The Virgin

The guild's current Virgin, Fiona Sinclair has eyes of fire and a heart of steel. She was a swashbuckler in the company of Suulo the Blade who traveled through the ruins in Witchfire Mire and slew a black dragon. Fiona came away from the adventure with the dragon's head and a quarter of its hoard, three weeks before her 22nd birthday. She came back to the capitol city and opened up the Black Dragon Inn and Tavern because she had always wanted to run a tavern with her mother.

Fiona's mother Maple, was a brewer's daughter and spent much of her early life as a waitress in a small inn at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. After being beaten and raped by the owner one night, she killed him and proudly confessed to the deed when questioned the next day. Before she could be hanged, Marceline's guild disappeared her and set her up with a new name and life in the capitol. She never married and worked the counter at the Half-Moon Bread bakery and raised her daughter from that terrible night, in the thick of the guild. Maple makes delicious apple cider and always told Fiona it was her dream to one day run a tavern, so when adventuring paid off Fiona made that dream a reality.

Fiona enjoys being "shocking" to the members of high society. She uses her money and fame to get into places of wealth and refinement and then does something lewd or disruptive for a laugh, paying off any consequences with her "dragon gold". She dresses in a masculine fashion, wearing trousers but keeping her long hair in an unkempt ponytail with foolishly expensive ribbons. She enjoys swearing and arm wrestling and recently created a number of artistic works by covering her naked body in paint and rolling across some canvas. Lady Isadora Dargetos found the paintings mesmerizing and held a gala opening for them called "Colors of Adventure", and commissioned several more. On the opening night of the show a number of important documents were stolen during a break in at the mayor's house while he was in attendance. No connection has been suspected of course.

The Black Dragon Inn and Tavern feels cozy in a rough and tumble sort of way. Everything is on the up-n-up with it and no illegal activities take place within its walls. The food is good, the beds are clean, and the cider is beyond compare. The town guard and adventuring types frequent the location to drink and talk and gawk at the black dragon head above the central fire place. The tavern pulls in great bards and loud festive crowds every weekend and Saturday nights are a real blow out. The place is packed, shoulder to shoulder, and the rooms are always booked solid. Recently, the captain of the Night Watch, a strong, good looking guy with olive skin and grey eyes, has decided he's in love with Fiona and has been coming around much more frequently... exactly like she planned.