"There is but one road in to the Village of Strangle, and one road out, and that is by design," your wagon-driver tells you and the other thieves you're with. "The Dutchy, they don't like our kind much, so they walled in the entire thing, 'cept this one notch here."

The two draft horses pulling the wagon expertly navigate through a literal hole in the wall of earthen ramparts in their path. The ramparts are covered in vines and tough ferns on the outside; once the wagon clears the hole, the interior of the wall is stark, barren, covered in a chalky white sand. It forms an imposing semi-circle miles long, easily fifteen feet high.

Twin guards are stationed on either side of the pathway. The single track pathway which winds through The Hole immediately widens into a two-lane cart path. The wagon with thieves takes the right hand path; patiently waiting to exit through The Hole on the left path is a small merchant caravan featuring two full wagons and a carriage. The caravan has a total of six  guards, four riding and one on each wagon. One of your fellow thieves raises a hand to wave hello; a mounted guard spits at him.

The wagon-driver laughs. "You won't find kindness here, until you're in the city proper. There, you can pay for any kindness you want," he says, laughing.

The wagon bumps along for a moment before the path travels over a small rise, which has until now obscured the distance. The wagon stops. "Everybody out," the driver says. "We need ta stretch, and you needs ta see."

The wagon empties, the half-dozen of you drinking from water skins or wine bottles and sizing each other up. The wagon-driver motions you to follow him; after no more than a dozen steps, you can see it lain out before you.

A city lays before you, at the end of the roadway you're on. It's small for a city but far too large to be called a village. "Strangle," the driver says, with a sweep of his arm. "Off there, you can see there's less smoke on the east- it's the fancy place where all'a yous hope to end up, some day. Thieves who stole from Storage and made it big for themselves. The richies." He motions to the smokey sections. "The rest of the city, well, it's a city. You've been to one before, I reckon."

He cleared his throat. "Now look past the city, you mongrels. See that huge thing, reflectin' light, way off there?" Indeed it was possible to see something which looked like a flattened castle, with parts of the building reflecting sunlight. A road led out of Strangle and directly to the building, and beyond.

"That's Storage. Ta be exact, it is The Long Term Storage Center for Wizards, Nobles, Kings and Remarkable People. Basically, if ya got special stuff that you don't want nobody ta see, or steal, or even know about, ya takes it to Storage and they keep it, safe and protected, for a fee." He pulls up his tunic and begins to urinate.

"Used to be they had a problem with thieves takin' the stuff they stored, so they came up with a different plan: attract thieves to the place, let them try an' steal stuff, and reward 'em if they get anything. If the thieves gets caught, like all'a yous losers will, they gets branded and stripped'a everything they owns. You can get branded four times, but if ya gets caught on time number five, ya don't walk out. Understand?" he says, dropping his tunic.

"An' that's all they pay me ta say to you new arrivals," the driver says. "Take a piss if ya gotta an' get back on the wagon. We're headed to Strangle, and I leave as soon as I get in the seat."
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:04, Sun 26 Dec 2021.

You can smell Strangle before you get to the edge of town. The odor of humanity and poverty mixes with a scent of food, and incense, and charcoal fire. "Rather charming, ain't it?" the driver quips, and laughs.

The wagon dumps you off at the edge of Strangle. The driver points to a sign and reads it:

"Long-Term Storage

Hear ye, hear ye! Adventurers, are you going on a long or perilous journey? Do you have extra items you cannot take with you, but have no idea where to store them while you are away? We have the solution for you!

Long Term Storage offers storage of your goods in a secure facility guarded by wards, wardens and clever engineering. Rent a chest, a cask, a barrel, a wardrobe or an entire room. Weekly and monthly rates available! We guarantee the safety for your items. We offer a challenge to any fleetfoot who manages to steal even a single protected item from our premises: a reward in gold!

We're the big building on the edge of town near the bluffs. Happy adventuring!

Long Term Storage Management"

The driver begins the process of turning the wagon around. He calls over his shoulder, as he circles back and rights his wagon on the cart path. "I'll give you two pieces of advice: head right straight off to The Lock Pick, and get yerself a room. Don't wander about 'til you're familiar with the city. Otherwise, you'll end up dead."

A straight-backed man with a woods-green hat walks up. "An' here's Patrick ta take yous all to the Pick." The man named Patrick tosses a small coin purse to the driver. "Go straight ta the Pick," the driver reiterates. "Best place ta start yer adventure off right. From there, you can go anywhere ya needs to."

One of your wagon-mates decides to wander off and not follow the driver's guidance; Patrick is there, with rapier in hand, gently guiding the wanderer back into the group. It's clear that Patrick could easily dispatch your entire group if he wished to, and therefore The Pick is where you are all going.

There is no wall surrounding the city area of Strangle, just a ragged line of shacks and small buildings. Once past the edges, Strangle does indeed seem like most other cities- taverns, beggars, vendors, people bustling along on their way.

You're no more than a dozen steps into the village when a mortal scream is heard, followed by gurgling and gasps. A man bursts through a doorway and collapses, bleeding heavily. He is followed by a second man who walks out. This human is clearly injured and bears a wet, red dagger in his hand. The grounded soul coughs blood and begins to tremble; the walker kicks him in the side and drives the dagger into the prone body. The man ceases to tremble; the walker quickly strips the man of his belt and performs a quick search of the corpse. Finding a secret pouch hidden in the dead man's robe, the wounded returns to his building.

"All yours, now," the walker calls out, before closing his door. Several bystanders descend on the dead body, clambering for the right to plunder the new corpse. They push and shove, quickly resulting in the corpse being naked and spread out.

Without missing a step Patrick says, "No brands. A newcomer. Like you." They are the first words the group has heard him speak; his language is heavily accented, but his diction is crisp and clear.

The Pick is close at hand. It is a tavern, a big one, the largest in Strangle. The wide porch houses chairs and small barrels, upon which are a smattering of humans and others, in various stages of drunkenness. Patrick opens the door, and into The Pick you are led.

Pitchy wood in the hearth crackles as your small band enters the squeaky doors of the busy tavern. Inside is filthy; the language is crass, the floor is stained and the poorly-maintained hearth contributes to both the aroma of desperation and the haze of smoke hovering near the rafters. Fat wenches long-past their prime circulate slowly and at their leisure among the eclectic assortment of tables, chairs, stools and cut-wood stumps that fill the dining area. Most chairs are full, but there are several tables open which would fit a party of your size.