To get out of town, the PCs had already arranged a minor job escorting a merchant convoy traveling the road from Dinas Halak to the port city of Gillheda. Sadly, the river that flows through Dinas Halak to Gillheda isn't large enough for cargo traffic, so merchants must resort to the road. Gillheda is a reasonably sizeable walled port town, only a few miles from the border with the Ethestis Concord, specifically the city-state of Enxellon. Merchants of several nations put in at Gillheda, and mercenaries are always in demand.
Week 1
The first week began with surprising fortune. Clear skies and firm roads allowed the convoy to make better time than expected. Spirits lifted with the pace, and hopes for an easy journey rose. Midweek, the caravan encountered a troupe of traveling performers — jugglers, fiddlers, and a storyteller — who brought laughter and news from the south. But the mood dampened slightly two days later when heavy rains turned the road to muck near a narrow ford, costing the group half a day's travel and a great deal of swearing from the ox-handlers.
Week 2
The second week turned sour. Just after a problematic stretch of washed-out Halleck roadway, a laden wagon’s axle snapped. The crew spent an entire day unloading, reinforcing, and resetting the wheel with makeshift repairs. That night, the guards spotted distant lights in the woods — too many, too coordinated. At dawn, the convoy was ambushed. Later in the week, the group limped into a fortified hamlet, where merchants from the opposite direction shared grim rumors: uprisings in the borderlands, a noble’s army on the move, and whispers of monstrous shapes in the woods. The tale of the ambush seemed all the more unsettling in this context.
Week 3
Week three was mercifully uneventful. Clear skies and open road greeted the convoy, and the wounds — physical and emotional — began to mend. The days passed with quiet determination. Although the scouts reported strange tracks near the trail twice, nothing came of them. A rhythm took hold: march, camp, watch. No one spoke much after dark.
Week 4
Misfortune returned in the final stretch. Rough stone paths descending into low country shattered another wagon wheel, forcing another stop. Just one day later, yet another cart suffered the same fate — sabotage was whispered in hushed tones, but no culprits were found. As the coastline came within reach, the convoy passed a crumbling waystation where they heard more rumors: something had stirred deep in the salt marshes, and a city watch unit had vanished upriver. No one slept well that night. Still, by week’s end, battered but intact, the caravan rolled over the final rise and saw the walled town of Gillheda.
Population: ~3,500, Region: Southern coast of Halleck, on the Krayten Sea
Main Trade: Salted fish, peat, barley, sea-stone, modest regional exports
Gilheda is one of the few deepwater ports along the Krayten Sea coast, making it a necessary stop for coastal merchants, fishing fleets, and the occasional long-haul trader. Though never rich, its importance lies in reliability — a stable anchorage with steady hands. The town center and harbor are surrounded by an ancient stone wall that has long since outgrown the town. Taxes are levied at the two gatehouses. Gillheda is old, insular, and proud. Weather-beaten statues of ancient sea spirits linger in niches, and the locals observe odd customs when launching boats or burying their dead. Outsiders are treated cautiously but fairly — coin speaks louder than bloodline.
Points of Interest (for Adventurers or Trouble Seekers)
The Saltwind Quay
A broad, creaking quay where the sea meets the town’s heartbeat. A place of rumor, barter, press gangs, and slow deals over barrels of herring and peat bricks. Certain corners turn quiet after dark — especially near Old Dunric’s Loft, a warehouse with a reputation for moving things “quietly.”
The Dunfield Market
A sloped square of thatch-stall vendors, knife-grinders, and peat-haulers. Anyone looking for unusual maps, counterfeit seals, or dried sea creatures with "alchemical" properties will eventually be directed to a half-blind seller named Maegden, who never speaks above a whisper.
The Lank Manse
A ruined building turned boarding house, just off the northern wall, now home to washed-up monks, self-taught apothecaries, and vagrant scholars. Its old cellars predate the current town, and something about them causes compasses and prayer beads to twist oddly near midnight.
Southshore Chapel of Saint Herlan the Seaworthy
Built directly into the cliffside, its seaward wall is little more than carved stone and tide-splashed lintels. Sailors still leave offerings of fishbones and black candles at its iron gate. Officially an Ordainer temple of Vannemid, it is the only temple in the town.
The Drifted Pint
Gilheda’s most infamous tavern, run by a wide-smiling woman called Dreska, who drinks more than she sells. It’s said she can read a tide’s fate in the scum at the bottom of a cup. A good place to find reckless locals and bored foreigners — or to get into a knife fight over dice.
