Journal of Gregor ClnGedden, warpriest of Clangeddin Silverbeard.
Dear Mother & Father,
I have landed in what the records described as the bustling sea-side city of Galeport. I fear time and the spellplague have not been kind to this community. The river that once served as the port for this town was clogged with sand and my traveling companions Fernir & Aldus Dakon and I were forced to hire a small fishing boat to take us to the remains of what was once Galeport’s docks.
The fisherman was a surly fellow named Jhuka and insisted that I call Galeport “Fishton”. When I asked him why, he took what appeared to be great pleasure in explaining to me that before the “fancy-folk” settled on the north side of the river and started calling themselves “Galeport” the village was called Fishton and when the fancy folk fled or got “What was commin’ to ‘em”, it became Fishton again.
Indeed, the north side of the river seemed to be wholly abandoned, with what must have once been impressive warehouses leaning drunkenly towards the river and dilapidated shells of what appeared to have been homes and businesses running up into the hills. Despite the fact that the southern side of the river is still occupied, it did not look much better than the north and the smell…
Other than his apparent glee at the fall of Galeport, Jhuka did not have much else to say to us and immediately shoved off after depositing us on the rotted remains of Fishton’s docks leaving us with in a cloud of curses for stupid filthy outsiders.
As we strode carefully across the docks we were set upon by ruffians that described themselves as the Fishton welcoming committee. They demanded a toll to leave the docks. Fenrir offered them three feet of sharpened steel as payment and this seemed to cow the wretches.
Alas, their state of good sense did not last long and we were forced to dispatch them when the set upon us. One nasty Halfling with some skill at slinging escaped, however.
After dealing with these fellows, we secured lodgings at a run-down establishment called “Balls”. The Inkeep introduced himself as Burkin Belkin and explained to us that our assailants were part of one of the gangs of criminals that roam the ruins on the other side of the river. After visiting the town mayor Oswold Veritas and determining that he had little knowledge of what was actually going on in his own town and even less to offer on how to solve the problem, we decided to visit the Thunder Brewery.
The Brewers were reputed to be giant men and descendants of the family of Duke Grungir Ironfist, the founder of Galeport and the leader of the band of heroes that once settled this once again wild region of the Sword Coast. This would make them relatives of Fenrir, as he is descended from cousins of the Duke.
After fighting our way through more thugs on the north side of the river, led to us by that accursed Halfling sling-sniper, we found the brewery. Judging by their massive height, they did indeed seem to be relatives of Fenrir. They decided this was the case as well and took us in as guests, plying us with surprisingly good ale… for human-crafted stuff.
We awoke early the next afternoon and after finding that the brewers had their hands full with brewing and no real interest helping us clear out the gangs infesting Galeport we began to think of what our next step should be. This decision was made for us as one of the filthy “dogs” the gang members used had apparently given me some sort of disease. The brewers suggested we visit the wizard of the Ivory Consortium, as there were no temples nearby and they were probably the only people with the kind of knowledge of magical skill in the area to remove my affliction.
So it is with hopefully heart and swollen joints we head to visit this mysterious order of wizards who are purported to be descendants of the Red Wizards of Thay.
I hope this missive finds you in better health than mine.