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Just SurvivingMiserablé[Burg - Minethys]Copyright © 2000 by >Brannon Hollingsworth

CharacterThe name says it all berk, we are eternally miserable here. Nothing is worth living for except the thought that today you might be able to drag someone else down into the dust-laden bed of misery with you. Misery might love company, but the bodies at Miserablé love to make their company miserable - even more miserable than they are.

RulerThe ruler of Miserablé is known as the Headman, which seems to be a title only as it carries no true respect. Granted, the Headman is usually feared and almost always hated and any folks around will usually do what he says (under the threat o' taking a swim in the near-by Styx). Respect in this place, however, is more precious than life and it don't come easily. The Headman that has been in power for the past several cycles is one of the mysterious Dark Clan Resshas, who claim to be creatures born of pure conflict. Despite the fact that she is obviously female, Silk seems to enjoy the perverse irony of the title of "Headman" and keeps it. She rules Miserablé with an iron fist that is always clothed in a stylish silk glove and those that cross her disappear quickly and quietly. Silk seems to have a soft spot for beautiful, flowing robes, particularly those made of silk from Elysium, which she imports at almost any cost.

Behind the throneAlways lurking near the Headman is a shifty-eyed, dark-haired, greasy human that goes by the name Moor. Clothed in dark, rough, intertwined robes that seem to make him twice as large as he actually is and that always trail behind him like several dead tails, he seems to have his fingers into everything. He knows just about every berk and sod in town and it is thought that he is in fact the leader of a slowly growing thieves’ guild. What would a thieves’ guild steal in a town where jink is not even an acceptable garnish? No one knows for sure. The chant twigs to the possible dark that Moor might actually be a shamtor, one of the shifter gehreleths that are hated even by their own kind. The chant follows that not only is he a shamtor, but that he has turned his back on the power Mockery, and now reports only to the high lord Apomps himself!

DescriptionLocated on Minethys, the windswept and dust-blown third layer of Carceri, Miserablé is a tiny burg that at best holds no more than 300 souls. Small, low slung hovels of hard-packed sand hunker close together, looking more like large, dusty dunes than actual kips or cases. If not marked by the cave-like openings that lead down into dug-out rooms, a thick-skulled cutter may mistake these homes and shops for strange sand caves. No signs mark the kips and cases one from another, but the locals know them all by heart and can point out any of them to the visitor, if they even bother to stop and listen to ya.

Folk don’t venture out too much in Miserablé and when they do, it is awfully hard to tell who’s who and what’s what, as they are all bundled up from the tops of their brain-boxes to the bottoms of their leather soles. Cold, staring dark goggles peer out from a face formed of enter-twined rags and a body built of layered cloaks and clothing. It is easily apparent except to the most thick-skulled sods that bodies in Miserablé don’t like making small talk.

MilitiaThere’s no militia to speak of in Miserablé; it's everysod for himself. While this might put a fire under some bashers to go about clashin’ and clatterin’, there's one thing that canny cutters keep in mind. While there might not be anybody to stop you when you're bashin’ on some poor sod, there is also no one to help you when a bigger basher comes along (and there is always a bigger basher, blood) and takes a shine to your brain-box.

ServicesThe wind never stops blowing in Miserablé and the only respite from the flaying wind, the choking and blinding dust, and the constant grit in your gullet are the few kips that cater to outsiders. There are only two in town, and one caters solely to ‘leths and is known as the Tar Bar, a joke that the ‘leths seem to tolerate with some impunity. The other caters to all other folk and is known as The Lecherous ‘Loth and any who are not ‘leths or obvious ‘leth spawn are allowed egress.

The Tar Bar is a prefect spot for a leatherheaded sod to get written into the dead-book, unless they are being escorted (dragged) in by a fellow ‘leth. If ya enter and aren't either with a leth or a leth yerself, you'll be immediately torn to shreds and devoured by the patrons. Seems like every cycle there's some soddin' berk that goes into the bar without a leth companion. After his bones are thrown back into the street, recent arrivals to the burg tend ta get the picture!

Needless to say, The Lecherous ‘Loth is the more frequented of the two and this is where a cutter would find any planewalker that's barmy enough or unlucky enough to wind up in this foul and miserable burg. The ‘Loth, which is run by an old scarred arcanoloth that appears to be infected with some form of leprosy. The loth goes by the name o' Mal’ouus and his place is usually a good place to pick up on local chant, if ya got the right attitude and subtle perception. It's also a decent place to scrag any items that one might need for travelling about in the inhospitable climes of Minethys, provided one can pay the price.

Remember though, bloods here don't take what ya might call "normal" garnish, as jink doesn't do much for these poor bashers. Ya see, here ya have to give up something of yours that is useful to get something else, and it's never new - normally rather worn and perhaps functional, but always used. After paying the price, however, a body could get their hands on most common adventuring supplies, as well as some Carcerian glimmer orbs, varr’yis goggles, as well as a filter face or three.

Current ChantChant as of late twigs to the rumor that there is a secret ‘loth prison hidden somewhere in the dust-dunes near Miserablé. No sod claims to know why exactly the ‘loths would want or even need a prison on Carceri, but then again, most bashers can’t fathom the reasons behind the simplest of ‘loth actions and they're certain not telling" If ya want the true darks of the matter, the locals say (only after a hefty garnish, of course) to find a cutter by the name of Krass. Krass is a big, tough and heavily scarred grusshum that calls Miserablé his kip. You can find him by the uncharacteristic red hood that he wears. He seems to be none too bright, but the big axe that he carries around does most of his "talkin" anyways.

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