Rootstone

Rootstone, nestled deep in a dense forest, is a town of old wood, older stone, and new people. It has been occupied by many different groups over the centuries. The current incarnation was established a generation ago after conquest by its current rulers, and has been thriving under their rule.

The ancient stone structures underpin more recent additions made from the abundant local lumber and shape their style. The most imposing structures cluster around the large central market square. A courthouse, town hall, and records office all support the town's focus on local government, while a formidable bank and an ornate exchange house bolster confidence in the town’s commercial life.

Trade in the town is vigorous, but strictly regulated. Each week, an auction is held where sellers bid on market stall locations. No commerce is permitted outside the walls and any sellers there, or otherwise, without a permit are shut down promptly. This organization and safety, provided by clear laws and a vigilant town watch, create a safe and friendly environment for visitors. The town bustles with activity night and day. Many establishments cater at all hours to travelers and locals alike.

Rootstone is a town of two halves. The town within the stone walls is a place of refinement, devoted to culture and commerce. The inn and stores cater to an upper-class clientele, including one of the finest furniture crafters in the region. Nearby is the forum; what may have once been a villa has been converted into a small library and chamber for the discussion of all matters academic, economic, and political.

Outside the sturdy walls is where the common folk live and work. Roads wind in organic paths through a hodgepodge of homes and workshops built in all manner of styles; here, one might find a low-rate barber or sawbones. Near the main gate is a timber�framed performance hall. Local groups of muscle-for-hire are always looking for work with few (if any) questions asked.

Rootstone is a place of dichotomies: wood and stone, rich and poor, order and disorder. In such a place, it is no surprise that Abel Trilby, Rootstone’s Master of Stores, has been slowly diverting supplies to his own endeavors for years. Taking these liberties has been possible thanks to the blistering incompetence of Squire Urthryn Fern, Head Record Keeper of the chancery.

Rumor also has it that a tunnel has been found, dug into a rise in the woods and directed toward Rootstone. It lies unfinished, however, with no sign of recent work. Who did this? Why?