The Glory Whisperer Border Arbour

Hello sailors

Im very prou to present to you on this month the second map of the Razorgrass Campaing wich will take place in the upcoming campaing book.

After the Ship the Harbour, a step closer of the wide and wild plains of the razorgrass desert

Dont forget to grab your files at the end of the post

"It's a common misconception that every town and village grows like a sheaf of barley or a wild thistle. Chaotic growth, sometimes dazzling, sometimes slow and methodical, discreetly carving out an existence through adversity. But we always tend to imagine that the pilgrims, the lumberjacks or the first settlers set down their bardat one morning after a long journey, when at last they found a river, a creek or a haven of peace. Each hamlet represents an arrival, an anchorage point, the beginning of a new life.

Nothing could be further from the truth for the border harbour of the glory whisperer. There is nothing here really worthwhile. There's no water, no lush crops or deposits of promises and gold. Faith itself has failed to offer any sacred relics to enliven the purpose of a pilgrimage. The little port of the glory whisperer has never been anyone's destination. Nothing ends here. It's just a stage, a detail in a larger design. That's not quite true... To do justice to these few stone houses on the edge of the desert, we must add that this is also where many things begin.

It feeds on what's further away, in the heart of the steppes of sharp grasses. This isolated port is the open door to a world where anything is possible. This is where you buy your gladiator's pass, where you pay for your right to fight in the great arenas of Gargantua. Before leaving, the wealthiest treat themselves to a good meal and a quiet, comfortable night's sleep in the only inn in the towers. The more modest don't escape the gusts of wind that whip up the reefs, and camp out in the surrounding area while they wait for the ships to be announced. And when they arrive, the goods flow from the holds to the cellars, and the outpost comes alive. This place, which was never meant to survive, flourishes for the duration of the stopover. Everything passes through the hands of the post office employees: customs fees, urgent messages, letters of condolence, wanted notices. And for those wishing to beat the gangways to the bellies of the ships: transport tickets, letters of marque or subsistence tax.

Feet treading the piers, people jostle each other, shout, hurry, in short: they climb aboard. The wind swells the sails, carrying goods and passengers to glory, wealth or death. Then the port of embarkation falls asleep again. Proud to have fulfilled its role, it once again becomes a stopover. The cellars are full of supplies that will last until the next ship arrives. The beds are unmade and abandoned. The accounts are done, the mail is prepared. The tavern-keeper smokes on the steps and the empty streets whistle softly.

 As we wait for the next travellers, the wind whispers promises of glory."

Grab your files here 

Grab your files here 

Grab your files here 

See you around the table sailors 

-Inocyde