If for some reason the players ever decide to leave the joys of the Rookery, here’s its closest neighbour.
The Fogwalk, a borough of seaside views, commerce and depravity.
Sights, Smells, etc.
- Smells of salt, sweet fish, tarred wood and a lingering hangover.
- Moss grows around the docks and on the walls of nearby buildings. At night it glows a bright bioluminescent blue.
- The morning mist rolling in from the Hollow Sea to swirl about your ankles thins out through the day and returns at night.
- Strong black stone along the shore, towers raised up against the Hollow Sea, wide doors to admit cargo and release machines of war.
- Mixtures of stone and jettied wood the further you get from the sea.
Building: d6 storeys, d6 sub-levels (3-6 no sub-level).
Occupants: d10 per storey, 0 = currently unoccupied.
Dockhands going to work, fish buyers with baskets, men with knotted arms and sharp knives removing barnacles from the docks.
Encounter chance 1 in 6 per hour
Overhear Rumour on a 6
Chance of Godless: 20%/Turn
Cargo unloaded, goods being shipped out and haggled for, Neophytic Sisters of the Cathedral of Lost Virtue waiting to lead more discerning seafarers back to the Cathedral and away from the Plaza of Earthly Lust.
Encounter chance 1 in 6 per hour
Overhear Rumour on 6
Chance of Godless: 20%/Turn
Workers leaving, others arriving to unload the night cargo, revellers of the Plaza, Godless night watch.
-2 to reaction rolls unless inside the Plaza
Encounter chance 1 in 6 per hour
Overhear Rumour on 5-6
Chance of Godless: 30%/Turn
- Murder Loot: d100 sp. Carrying Curio on a double.
- Dock Trade: They may be the most powerful trading company in the Dockmaw, but Haugroten & Sons are far from alone. Organisations like the Hollow Sea Co. and Leviathon Cargo Cult maintain a presence on the Dockmaw’s boards, generally hiring mercenary dockhands job-to-job. Many speculate that Haugroten & Sons allow their competition to persist merely to avoid boredom.
Landmarks & Notable NPCs
The Council of Beggars
- Beggars and waremongers can be found along most of Möldenghast Blvd, the main street running into Cörpathium from the Dockmaw, but they are most concentrated in the wide courtyard surrounding the end of the Corpusmilch Canal.
- Here the Corpusmilch Canal empties under the streets of the Fogwalk after travelling through the centre of Cörpathium. The low rumble of its waters resonates from the buildings that loom around the edge of the courtyard, drowned out by the shouting of the waremongers while beggars shade themselves beneath skinny white trees with palms outstretched, hoping to catch the attention of those alighting from the gondolas.
Elsbeth, the Queen in Rags
– A voice ringing clear above the Council, streaming from a Francish woman of absurdly wide hips and pendulous breasts, standing straight and tall despite her advanced years.
– Her clothing is ragged but imperiously arranged and every day she incites the crowd to place her back on the throne of Cörpathium as their rightful queen, she was usurped, do they not recognise her? Is it because of the acid with which her face was marred when her throne was stolen? She is their queen..
– While most laugh her off as an insane old woman, and she is, she knows a lot more than you would credit.
- Harbour allowing entry to Cörpathium from the Hollow Sea.
- Safer than most of the surrounding coastline despite the monolithic black stones that rise from its waters.
- Moored floating docks and counter-weighted bridges service anything much larger than a fishing boat.
– Delightfully inappropriate and sharp-witted female Morgen mercenary dockhand.
– The clothes covering her work-shaped muscles seem wrong somehow, like a costume, like she shouldn’t be here.
– The enthusiasm she shows in her work however verges on the absurd, and she would very much like to be on the payroll of Haugroten & Sons even if they keep rejecting her.
– On her own quiet little quest for power, she wishes to one day be a Corvuscult head.
Beacon of Smog
- Eight storey black-greased stone lighthouse on the northern side of the Dockmaw.
- A shingled spire roof caps the uppermost floor, a circle of open stone arches like a minaret, oozing languid smoke from a cache of whale oil lamps, housing a silver mirror contraption of tracks and cogs to direct the light.
- Copious other lanterns hang from wooden beams and iron hitches jutting from the tower’s sides, lit by a decrepit old man hanging precariously from windows with a 10ft long taper.
Deacon of Smog
– An ancient hunched Francish man, gaunt and pale under layers of grime from his long years in the lighthouse. If he ever had a name other than the Deacon of Smog no one remembers it.
– Uninterested in the happenings of the outside world but fanatically enthusiastic about sharing his knowledge of artificial light and combustion.
– The interior of the lighthouse itself has been filled with all manner of lantern, torch and cresset, constantly lit which sees dark sickly smoke curl from sparsely-placed open stone windows, seeping up in streams to mingle with the fog above.
Haugroten & Sons
- Trading firm dressed in sombre dusky black wood beneath an elaborately calligraphed sign overlooking the Dockmaw.
- Haugroten is long-dead, but his sons carry on the name of the most powerful Saxon trading family that ever lived in Cörpathium. Whether it’s their business or not, they take great care to know about every import or export passing through the docks.
- They own half of the floating docks and counter-weighted bridges and cranes that service vessels unable to enter the Dockmaw, while the rest are owned by individual dockhand entrepreneurs.
- The majority of Haugroten Sons seen around the Dockmaw unloading shipments and overseeing crates are not family in the strictest sense, more of a small personal army. The true Sons of Haugroten are rarely seen in public.
– True Son of Haugroten.
– Copious of girth and necessary cruelty, dressed in the same sombre dusk as his offices.
– True Son of Haugroten.
– Extravagantly dressed for none but himself, bashful and brimming with unsatiated vice.
– Captain of the Haugroten Sons, no relation.
– Quietly spoken, endearing and attractive if you swing that way, impeccably dressed.
– Smooth and hard of limb except for the gaunt, shrivelled stump of his right arm, cut off at the elbow.
– Performs his duties out of absolute love for the Haugroten family over anything he might be paid.
The Plaza of Earthly Lust
- A walled courtyard of seedy terrace houses that comprise its attractions, close enough to be licked by the fog of the Dockmaw. A favourite of cheap thrill seekers and sailors just returned to the streets of Cörpathium.
- Through the stone arch and past the painted gatekeepers with their spears and knives, a world of opium dens and pleasure houses, wine and exotic narcotics, merchant houses spilling antique items of depravity and darker pleasures unknown.
- A side street off Möldenghast Blvd, wider than some main streets, billowing silks shade mongers of exotic and grotesque fish and Crustacea.
- Going “Under the Skirts of the Fishwife” is a popular announcement before a visit to the fish market.
– Elderly Morgen woman with wicked-looking boning knives and cleavers hanging from belts poking out from behind a thick oilcloth apron.
– Too old and world-weary to bother with tact, you’ll know exactly how she feels.
– Physically unremarkable, you’d never guess she was once one of Cörpathium’s most prolific courtesans, a time in her life she would rather not dwell on. These days she occupies time not spent at the fish markets composing sublime poetry that no one will ever read.
Brewhouse – Monolith’s End
- Operated by Annabel Mondarker, widowed wife of a Merchant Captain whose ship never returned from the fog.
- Dewy cobbled floor.
- Mainly serves fish, fresh from the skirts of the Fishwife, house-brewed Seablood ale and oily Leviathan Seed liquor.
– 30-ish female Franc, lithe and severe, dark hair dark eyes and a wit to match.
– Nicknamed Annabel-Lee for reasons unknown.
– The basement of the Monolith’s End opens into an ancient pool fed directly by the Hollow Sea, where Annabel worships and caresses the oily grey-skinned spawn of the leviathan she called from the depths to sink her unfaithful husband.
- Dominates a small square off Möldenghast Blvd, sea serpents of black iron curl about its crooked belltowers, jaws locked onto the stonework, forever injecting their non-existent venom.
- Houses around 50 Godless.
– Theophage of the Fogwalk Deicidium, commander of its Godless.
– A Moorish man of supreme nonchalance, he’ll wish you well and threaten your life in the same unchanging tone, with the same unflinching face.
– Physically he’d be as nondescript as his voice if not for the extravagant black armour and persistent blue fungal bloom that consumes his left cheek.
|1||A golden-haired baboon glares at you from its dockside cage.|
|2||A young woman bumps into a random PC as they push through a crowd, she blushes and apologises and continues on her way.
Further on down Möldenghast Blvd the PC will find an old man hawking something that looks very much like something important to them, something they no longer seem to be carrying. There are already several interested buyers standing by his stall.
|3||A troupe of hairless monkeys wearing grimy children's clothing and plaster doll masks over their faces dance around for your amusement, it's really quite an elaborate routine. If you don't give them any coin for their troubles you start seeing them standing atop buildings, in the shade of trees, outside your window, staring at you with the lifeless faces of plaster children.
They will come for you when you are alone, separated from your friends, without your sword.
|4||A man wearing a large stitched leather top hat and a coat embroidered with images of vicious rodents extols their virtue as pets and protectors, better than a knife. Caged rats are piled behind him for demonstration and several greased tame rats climb over his shoulders and crawl about his feet, leashed to his belt by string.|
|5||A young woman is bitten by a mongrel dog.
It's actually her mongrel dog, she's trained it to bite her just hard enough to draw blood and run away so that she can fleece whoever stops to help her.
|6||Dockhands opening a crate find twin girls instead of the spices they were expecting. The girls have no idea how they got there, and in a few moments won't even remember being in the box, why would little girls be in a box? What an absurd thing to say.|
|7||A group of ward-painted Morgen sea traders pass through a crowd, clustered around their captain. A moment later his throat is open and chaos erupts amongst his spilt blood, his killer unseen.|
|8||A small horde of slime-covered creatures like fat axolotls climb from the Dockmaw in a failed migration. They suffocate and die before reaching Möldenghast Blvd, leaving little corpses all vivid blues and purples. The toxins in their skin induce short-term fits of uncontrollable laughter verging on hysterical psychosis.|
|9||A fog bank rolls in, thick and white, making it impossible to see anything more than 10ft in front of your face. It will dissipate in d6 hours.|
|10||There is a great cracking splash as one of Haugroten & Sons counter-weighted cranes falls broken into the Hollow Sea, carrying precious cargo and screaming dockhands to the depths in a vicious sabotage.
You see a Moorish dockhand smirk silently before returning to his work, sweat dripping from his golden jewellery.
|11||A heavy rain sweeps in from the Hollow Sea, and what at first you mistake as abnormally hard raindrops you soon realise are translucent crustaceans like lobster larvae only bigger, all nacreous innards behind too-many eyes.|
|1||A clay tile shatters at your feet and a misshapen shadow flits away from the roof of the building above you.|
|2||Light spills from the door of the Leviathon Cargo Cult office, framing an absurdly large man holding a squirming filthy urchin child by the scruff of the neck in each massive hand. He throws them into the street and spits at their feet before slamming the door.
They are Vermintide thieves blushing with shame and rage at their failure, and don't look like they have any intention of going home empty-handed.
|3||A Worm-Killer alights from a small canopied boat, flipping a gold coin to the boatman. Bronze-handled sword and dirk gleam from one side of his girdled belt, Maleficar heads in various states of decay hang from the other.
As he pulls his hood close over his face and walks towards Möldenghast Blvd several figures slink from behind groups of drunks, eyes on the valuable skulls and fingers stroking knife hilts.
|4||A pair of lovers pass, professing the boundless depths of their affection and passion roused, sweeping each other up in leaping promises of love undying. The silk-hung woman curls her lips and winks at you as she passes close. You see a rat fall from her skirts.|
|5||A Merchant Priest staggers away tunelessly from the Plaza of Earthly Lust, bottle still in hand. He heads towards a side alley rather than the Boulevard and a pair of hooded fellows turn to follow.|
|6||An animal procuress stops unfastening a cage containing a pair of hyena when their extravagant purchaser attempts to change the fee at the last minute. While her back is turned in argument they break free, one fastening its jaws around its would-be owner while the other runs cackling into Cörpathium.|
|7||A well-off gent with small stains of Black on his throat, blood under his fingernails and a bottle in his hand is bored of the Plaza of Earthly Lust and is looking to really slum it. He asks if you might know the way to the Cuckoo's Nest.|
|8||A large plague of vermin is chased down Möldenghast Blvd, herding them towards the Rookery of Van Möldus. A small chunk of the horde turns on one of the Rat Herders, abandoned by her distraught friends lest they lose control of the rest of the horde. She screams under a gnawing blanket of fur, surrounded by idle onlookers stunned and amused.|
|9||A muck-covered beggar alights alone from a small boat, hobbling into Cörpathium without stopping to tie up his boat.|
|10||A group of revellers, wearing clothes more expensive than anything that can be bought from this borough, continue a parade of drunken celebration after leaving the Plaza of Earthly Lust. A dusty bottle sloshing with black fluid is thrust into your face with a liquor-blushed smile.|
|1||The monoliths in the Dockmaw are the eggs of some kind of mountainous giant that we've never seen, I was told in a dream, and I don't plan to be around when they finally hatch.|
|2||If you dove into the waters of the Corpusmilch Canal where it empties its waters beneath the streets of the Fogwalk and followed it for a space you'd find a deep well full of swept-away valuables and older things besides. Of course you'd have to have mighty strong lungs to survive long enough to bring anything back up.|
|3||There's a boat moored out beyond the Dockmaw on a floating dock, the open-mouthed face of a man covering the whole of its prow like an ice-breaking figurehead, Lament of the Sea they call it.
Socially lubricated sailors sometimes talk too much and word is that ship holds more wealth than they'll ever bring ashore, sealed up in holds beneath the waves.
|4||Möldus "Six-Fingers" Blacktongue of the Pitch Eaters spends a great deal of time in a private room of Mother's Milk, an opium den in the Plaza of Earthly Lust, lying on velvet cushions in a could of smoke, unprotected, out of his wits.|
|5||If you know the right words to say and your coin purse hangs low enough there's a door in the Plaza of Earthly Lust that opens on to a harlot Womb of the Wounded Wretch, maddening pleasure beyond the pale of your imagination.|
|6||A group of Godless went into the Beacon of Smog last night and the light actually went out for a couple of hours. Don't know what their business was but thismorning there's a lot more debris floating in past the monoliths than usual.|
|7||Fishermen travelling too far out into the mist of the Hollow Sea have been disappearing, their empty, dew-glistened boats floating back in over black water.|
|8||There's a scab-covered crone in the Council of Beggars that will perform a ritual to cure you of all ailments for just a few copper bits. I swear by it after a visit to the Plaza of Earthly Lust.|
|9||More girls have been seen leaving the Haugroten & Sons offices with heavy coin purses and heaving sobs. That Corfus Haugroten is a sick one.|
|10||The Hollow Sea Co. are looking for someone to take a run at Eggert Haugroten; removing him would go a long way to loosening the Haugroten & Sons hold on the Dockmaw.|
|11||The muck-smeared wretch who dwells in the Beacon of Smog has secrets worth knowing, he's lived there too long and too quiet, oh the sights that tower must hold in its depths.|
|12||Annabel Mondarker, the bar wench at Monolith's End traffics with devils from the deep.|
|1||A large telescopic apparatus extends from an attic window.|
|2||Archaic symbols forged into black iron banding bolted into the rough stone beneath, stretching from street to sky.|
|3||The blue bioluminescent moss that grows over the Dockmaw covers the walls of the building almost to its roof, spreading out over the street around it and the walls of its neighbours.|
|4||The lower stone of the wall glistens with slick smoothness, as if persistently vomited upon for years. A painted grey pig wearing a spired crown hangs over the door on a large wooden sign. Variously known as the Boar King, the Crowned Swine, the Hog Piss Brewhouse.|
|5||A gilled long-bodied fish gargoyle perches above the doorway, its wide blubbery mouth agape, human arms seemingly bursting from its chest.|
|6||Double wooden doors engulf the majority of the street-facing wall, built to allow entry to oversized cargo and war machines.|
|7||The moss and tiny ferns growing over the majority of the facade curl when touched and make soft musical sounds.|
|8||Warding clusters of bone and shells hang on crimson thread from the ever extending jettied levels of the building, sun-bleached decoration hanging over your head, shadowing the street.|
|9||Large windows of rippled green glass, water-stained whitewashed wooden exterior.|
|10||An enormous elaborately framed sign is nailed to the wall beside the door, like someone's masterpiece painted over, in intricate script surrounding a portrait of a severe-cheeked woman it advertises the services of Ms. Barralia Callistemon, Soothsayer Sophisticate.|
|11||A small decorative-looking arch sits above a pastel pink iron-banded door. An interior platform above the door allows a crouching doorman to open the arch, welcoming visitors with a knife-wielding demand of intent.|
|12||Scorched facade as if from a recent fire, darker in patches like firebombs were thrown against the wall.|
|1||Dead bodies hang in the uppermost room.|
|2||Small iridescent blue-shelled crabs crawl about the floors, swarms parting to allow you through and closing in your wake.
In a central room lies a corpse, the skin of its belly split and peeled back to reveal giant throbbing clusters of eggs, watcher crabs emerging from mouth and eye sockets to consider you as you enter.
|3||Smoke-filled wax hangs in stalactites from a gilded bronze wall sconce, off at an angle like the candles burned low while the sconce sat askew from its fastening.
Turning the sconce so that the wax hangs straight down causes a hatch moulded with cherubic faces to open and spill its contents from the centre of the ceiling. Bleached white shells litter the floor in absurdly large spirals, spilling fragments of bone the same powdery white. A human skull rolls from one, patterns scored into the bone as if something had systematically chewed the flesh from it.
|4||Mouldering refuse, lecterns bearing ancient books in front of shelves lined with bottled bizzarie and the resounding words of a progressing ritual so tangible you can almost read them in the air.|
|5||Intricate arrangements of fish bones patterned over the floor, best not to disturb them.|
|6||Caches of crates of varied aged discolouration, stacked against walls and piled in the centre of rooms, stamped with the Haugroten & Sons insignia. The building however is rather clearly not a Haugroten & Sons storage house.|
|7||Copper tubes curling around walls and banisters down from the roof dripping over evaporative plates, growing thick crusts of saline crystals.|
|8||A small but impressive shrine dedicated to an obscure god of birth defects and destiny, all mouldering tomes and candles and preserved animal foetuses in jars, variously two-headed, limb-deficient, unrecognisable.|
|9||A stolen Mordhund pup broken out of its cage, playfully raining destruction upon its surroundings.|
|10||Empty bottles scattered over the floor, opulence lapsed in neglect, an impressive pile of Red Spice on a flat wooden dish sitting out in the open. This narcotic doesn't come cheap.|
|11||The floor of the central room bears a large chalk circle full of chalk-marked glyphs and esoterica, with a set of bone dice sitting just outside the circle, like some manner of thaumaturgic gamble.|
|12||Curling maps of seas that have never existed line the walls, marked with directions notes and destinations.|
I guess there’s a slim chance that the players might want to visit the Plaza of Earthly Lust, so just in case here’s a table of some things they can find there:
|Delights of the Plaza of Earthly Lust|
|1||Shrine of the Corpulent One complete with resident Living Saint; guides, suppliers and consorts.|
|2||The Concierge and the Teal-Doored Tenement. Whatever your taste in human consort, the Concierge can lead you down intricate rug-lined halls to a teal-painted door containing it. You are expected to pay once their door has been opened though, this isn't some gallery of flesh for your perusal.|
|3||The Queens of Pain, men in ragged dresses of frayed fabric threads that might as well be naked for all the scarred skin they're covering, arms wrapped in whorl-inscribed black armour ending in gauntlets sculpted like feminine hands with wicked nails, eyelashes darkened and lips painted into near-grotesque harlequin pouts under delicate crowns, thin circlets pinned around their skulls like halos with needle spires. Given enough rope they will flay the soul from your body with ecstasy.|
|4||The Pearl-Clutch Harem, on a sea of rich silk pillows among soft-lit lamps and drapery, girls of all bodies and races, some tattooed, some deformed, all wearing naught but pearls. Hookahs and vessels of nectarous liquor flow through the vaulted room where all business and pleasure is conducted amongst the gently writhing limbs of the Harem.|
|5||A once-bronze door completely overtaken by its viridescent patina, curling in places like moss. The clang of the lion-maw knocker summons bright eyes gazing through a slid-back hatch. Without the password you'll never know what's behind it.|
|6||Eb Samungur Al Duran's Eroteric Paraphernalium, full to bursting with artefacts of sensual antiquity, smutty objet d'art, pre-loved tomes and unctures to quell the most insatiate curiosities.|
|7||A Morgen girl with bell-draped hips, whose mesmeric undulations invoke almost as much revulsion as arousal, rising while you watch her writhing dance. The bells never ring.
Save vs Paralysation or never notice how far her slinky friend's hands explore while she croons in your ear. There is a 1 in 6 chance that the next belonging you reach for is gone, the chance increasing by 1 each time you look for an item until something is missing.
|8||The Wagers of Sin, halls of gambling, bloodsport, and sexual exhibition.|
|9||Gauzy powdered fabric falls like frosting from the rounded limbs of Imelda Soufflé, her lust matches her weight, the only imperfection on the expanse of her soft white skin falls upon the left side of her face, melted around a milky sightless eye and down her cheek and neck, ending in scar-tissue fingers that stroke the rise of her breast. The smouldering defiance of her stare, her exquisite make-up and piled tiers of blonde hair do anything but draw attention away from her melted flesh. She'll ensnare your desire with a batted eye and do things to you unheard of.|
|10||A shanty shopfront selling the varied concoctions of the reclusive Narcotic Chymist Cul-Ragaroth Magog, managed by three furtive, helpful waifs. The entire operation is run by the Red Nails, a profitable little side-business that Family Van Möldus remains unaware of.|
|11||The black-veiled Morgen Spice Merchant and his flat wooden dishes laden with piles of Red Spice, with tiny silver sampling spoons and a set of delicate copper scales to weigh the cost of your inevitable purchase.|
|12||Oil lamps illume intricate blue-shimmering webs, fog filling the ceiling space. Your coin in his palm the purveyor taps the low-strung trigger thread and Poppy Spiders descend silently on silken strands, legs splayed out from soft plump green abdomens like a poppy bulb, venom like its milk.|
|13||Down rotting wooden steps into The Wine Cellar, where guttering candles flicker over the enraptured faces of would-be sommeliers sampling black wines from dusty bottles and dubious origins.|
|14||Mahmoud Chupacal, the Honeydripper, wanders the sights of the Plaza with dead-eyed escorts, submerging a silver dipper into a porcelain jar of Royal Honey to hold over the waiting mouths of his customers. Nearly as much gold drips from his lanky frame and whispers say he possesses a Sporous Queen.|
|15||Celephais Cormier's Galleria deBauchery, exhibiting her latest perverse statuary contorted in positions of sexual excess, partners missing, not all of them human. For a fee she will allow more than a simple viewing.|
|16||Past the candle-glow of red-and-orange silk curtains, surrounded by caged birds of paradise, reclining on a dais of swollen pillows behind polished gold-plated bars is Luxuria Ghorum. Pendulous swollen cream-skinned breasts emerge through the flowing locks of rich orange fur that fall down her prodigious ape body, shimmering yellow eyes peek below canopies of dark eyelashes as she croons softly from absurd plump lips, puckered from her hairless face.
Will you pay simply to gaze on the golden ape queen brought back from her jungle pleasure temple, or do your curiosities run deeper?
|17||The Mycelial Demiurge breathes her constant open-mouthed sigh on a pillow of her own bulk, fruiting bodies sprouting in clumps from her sickly flesh for the picking. The appearance and effects of the mushrooms change week to week depending on what they have been feeding her, they take requests.|
|18||Slinking carelessly about the terraces of the Plaza in nothing but loose orange & gold silk breeches Ung-Gommorah Loth sidles easily into the company of revellers, skin firmer and clearer than his age on display in the moonlight over muscle thinned by years of Red Spice addiction. Nonchalantly assured of himself and steeped in infamy for long-studied erotic disciplines, open to all genders whether for instruction or demonstration.|
|19||Three levels of a building hollowed out for the Beautiful Gardens of Aurora van Buuren, where vibrant flowers from the old countries bloom beside the stranger foliage of Malles Vermald. Wander their paths or recline on a daybed beneath nodding blossoms, lapsing in lurid dream spirals as their pollen gently drifts down upon your face.|
|20||Virgin pleasures of taste form the menu of the Gastronomicon, where serves the flesh of exotic beasts and insects still in the shell, hallucinogenic plants prepared just beyond the point of poison, bleeding fruits, deliquescing fungus, and delicate glasses of unidentified moulds and sludge. Rumour persists that still darker tastes lurk in the private dining room, if one were able to gain entrance.|