Throneport: As seen by Timothy Arril

””Ah, Throneport. She’s a right mess of a city, an’ that’s the truth. On one side of ‘er, you’ve got the old folks what settled here back when a king ruled the keep. On another, you’ve got the criminal element, folks like me what decided that a ruler-less island city sounded right proper, know what I mean? And finally, you’ve got the new side of this city—a side that sickens me to the core: The nutters. Religious freaks what think they’re gonna shape the face of Khorvaire long as they convince the next fop who takes residence in Thronehold that their particular brand of crazy’s the best.

Now, first things first, right?—Don’t mess with the Throne Guard. They’ll mess you up and proper, leave you in a right state. Secondly, know the city if you’re moving around it. You got pretty distinct sections of city to work with, so it’s easy enough.

First, there’s the Guard Quarter. It’s the oldest neighborhood in Thronehold, mostly the attendents to the castle, and their families. A few of the upper-crust of the other societies make their way into here, but only if they watch what they’re doing. House Deneith doesn’t joke around, and if you make them angry—well, it’s not as bad as if you pissed off The Blunt, but you shouldn’t do it. Take my word. The mayor of Throneport, Simon Walterbury, he lives there too.

The second quarter is the Docks Quarter. My neighborhood. Trade of all sorts, find yourself anything you like. House Deneith and the Throne Guard come through occasionally, but they know well enough to keep their noses out of others’ business.

The third’s the Angels Quarter. It’s where the old shrines to the Sovereign Host are located. Not much to look at if you’ve ever seen the cathedral in Thrane, but a decent sight around these parts. This is the poor part of town, where the shoe-shines and pick-pockets mill about between meals.

Fourth’s the Rose Quarter. The Rose Quarter is where the affluent – and those who’d pretend to be affluent – dick around. The Silver Flame, their church is here, of course. Great big spires and spinnerets—think they might be compensating for something, eh!

Finally, there’s the Mud Quarter, named after the closest thing those sorry bastards will ever see to dry land. See, there’s not much room on the island, and all the remaining turf is reserved for farming. So, what do these elvish prick immigrants decide to do? They build a bloody wharf town, starting at the beach, and going out several hundred yards out on the water.

Now, some have called it to my attention that since there are five quarters, they should really be called fifths. Well, to them I say slag off! The last fifth I encountered laid me out for the better part of a weekend.”“


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