A fine day indeed! Just this morning we received a parcel from long-time friend of the tavern, Henry Marshal. The young cartographer has been making his way across the lands creating these fine works of art. In order to settle his modest tab, it seems he made a rendition of our fair lands and sent it to Merri as payment.
As a few travelers have been quick to point out, this map, along with our map of the Crown Lands, is not meant for consumption based on its scientific scale or inclusion of each and every town or hamlet. Instead, young Henry paints a narrative picture of the rivers and mountains, cities and farms. They're meant to be enjoyed, not relied upon for survival or legal disputes.
The Northern Brambles is our home. The Ivy Crown Tavern is tucked away in the forest from which the region gained it's name. Once called 'the green kingdoms', it's since been settled far and wide by plough pushers and noble alike. Unlike the Crown Lands to the south, the folk of the Northern Brambles have always worn a streak of independence the southern Princes detest. We may have different coats of arms, dress or places of worship, but the peoples of the Northern Brambles are quick to open their doors to travelers in search of a warm meal, a pleasant hearth and a tale or two.
Water Cross
Water Cross is the largest and wealthiest city in all of the Northern Brambles. It controls all major trade headed north from the Capital or south from the frontier kingdoms. It also makes a killing on tolls as the only land crossing of the gargantuan Blue Horn River. The White Rose Bridge, a 3 mile long crossing lined with building and workshops, is so large and busy it could be a small city of it's own.
Water Cross is famous for it's sword school, plentiful sculpture arcades and sumptuous food. By day, its populace walks loose in their shoes, relaxed and unbothered by the common haste of urban life. Once the sun sets, however, the streets become filled with swaggered youths who would just as soon draw a sword as spend a coin. I myself have walked the city as its bathed in the orange of torch light and let me tell you, don't make eye contact. But also don't look away too much, or laugh, or walk too quickly. You know what, unless you're looking for a scrap I would stay inside at night.
Stoche
With it's massive towers built so high they scratch low lying clouds, Stoche is a city that has always reached towards the heavens. The founding family, the Ellengales, were well known members of an ancient celestial cult. They believed that humanity descended from the Halls of Glass, a divine place amongst the stars. One day, once humans have illuminated the world with worship, the gates of our star home will open and welcome us back, so they say. Perhaps by building their palace towers so tall the Ellengales thought they'd be the first through the door?
As for the rest of the city, folk from Stoche are modest enough. The food is nothing to write home about but many a famous bard and storyteller have come out of their towered taverns. Mathus Dier, born in lower Stoche and a well known spinner of tales, was said to have escaped execution by reciting a story of lost love so beautiful that the hangman declared his death surplus to requirements. Though Mathus probably made that story up as well.
Prince's Rest
The great tourney city of Prince's Rest lays on the banks of the Auger River. For folk who fancy contests of jousting, archery, melee or pie eating, this is a holy site. It's massive lists and fighting pits draw in farmers and noble alike for the spring and autumn tournaments. To the peacocked knight looking to mark their name in history, there are few greater accomplishments than to wear the Lily Crown of Prince's Rest after having smashed some poor bugger to a pulp.
For those uninterested in sport, Prince's Rest is a architectural wonder of it's own. Originally conceived as a outlandish monument to the slain Prince Adelio III, the 8 mile long statue was built by thousands of quarry chippers at the behest of a heartbroken Queen. Instead of heading home after the 25 year construction, the workers turned their canvas tents into timber homes and the city of Prince's Rest was born...around the statue of a dead guy.
Walden
The roots of Walden are an old base camp for adventurers entering the misty Greensea, perhaps the best preserved aulde forest in the Northern Brambles. The forest's trees are ancient and sprawling, creating a wooded labyrinth that stretches for miles in every direction. Faye ruins litter the hilly forest floor between red fern and creep moss, hiding mysteries of the world's past. It's no wonder adventures still flock to this expanse in search of treasures or, at the least, a glorious end.
The city itself is made up of lopsided stone and timber buildings intertwined with the wood and root around it. Some parts of the city are said to never see the sun on account of the wide canopy above it. I dread to think of the autumn mess.
Near and dear to my heart is the fact that Walden has no ruling family. The city was founded by transient folk of low birth. When the walls were built, the thought of anyone wearing a crown left a bitter taste in the populace. Instead, the city's daily business is run by a council of stewards, elected every other summer solstice. Over the years a few nobles have tried to come round and plant a stake, they can't help themselves you see. They all show up with an arrogant chip on their shoulder, one the rangers of Walden are obliged to shoot off.
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