Introduction
In the gorgeous golden glow of the western sunsets, atop an undulating field of red-violet grain, sits
Tygrar—the city of new beginnings. Built and rebuilt as it's been since ancient days, the city stands as a monument to the spirit of resilience that dwells within us all.
"Why Tygrar?" you may be asking, from your
wood-sung house in
Scalados or your cozy
Cantonovan flat. "That might as well be the edge of the world."
Dear reader—do not let distance deter you! There are good reasons so many different travelers across time have chosen to congregate here, beside the broad
Dreibach River and among the ruby fields of grain. Read on to discover them—and perhaps even to join them, should you feel the same call.
Area Overview
Tygrar is quite a trek into the
Western Duchy, at least a week-and-a-half from
Val-Nurem along the westernmost leg of the Felician Road. The fertile farmland along the way is dotted with bucolic villages and charming country inns, but regrettably—at my editor's insistence—I have no room to cover them here. Should you arrive in the sunny seasons, the rolling amaranth fields and the grand peaked roof of the
Church of the Solar Forge will greet you over the horizon a good two days out.
Many from points east may have heard stories of the Western Duchy as
Orokhim lands, and this is not entirely untrue; the prairies outside Tygrar are, fittingly, home to several of the
Prairie Clans. Tygrar itself is solidly the land of the
nuél-orokhim—specifically the
Torch of Tygrar, a kind-hearted clan with a long history as defenders of justice and peace. Many humans, halflings, and gnomes live among them, as is customary in any corner of
Dreibach, so any denizens of the new Republic will find familiar company and customs as well. What's more, there is even an
Elven enclave, much larger and more prominent than one might expect for parts west. A
High Elf Diaspora community has thrived in Tygrar for hundreds of years, carving out a little slice of the glory of old
Bjália from the western plains.
As for the town itself, it's laid out quite logically—they've built and rebuilt so many times over the years that they seem to have city planning down to an alchemical formula. Ranchers largely settle in the highlands to the west, farmers near the low, fertile plains to the southeast, and industry thrives near the reservoir and steel mill along the river. The southern sector is largely set aside for off-duty members of the Torch's patrols, making it peaceful most of the time but quite rowdy when the majority are on shore leave (though "shore" may not quite be the word here). The eastern and northeastern neighborhoods are industrial and eclectic, let's say, and perhaps more suited to younger budget travelers than those seeking any significant measure of comfort or quiet. And you'll see and hear almost more
Elvish than
Common in the northern quadrant, surrounding the religious orders and craftsmen's guildhalls associated with the Church of the Solar Forge.
Landmarks
The spectacular standout of the skyline is the aforementioned
Church of the Solar Forge, a magnificent cathedral to the elven goddess
Brigid. The building's towering buttresses, false gargoyles (at least, I'm told they're false), shining stained glass windows, and above it all its soaring multi-vaulted roof are a sight to behold from both street level and afar. I'm told the inside is even more glorious—alas, the old elven religions hold long grudges against a few faux pas I committed twenty years ago, and I was unable to enter. Fortunately, I was able to appreciate my share of high elven statuary in the form of the fountain shrines to Brigid's many daughters dotted around the neighborhood.
The
Rahvusarchiv Dunzhanim in the center of the city, arguably the city's most venerated landmark, is as endlessly fascinating as it is difficult to spell. The exhibitions in the main hall change out on a thrice-yearly rotation, and each one I saw was an engaging and accessible guide to some aspect of history or arcanum I'd never thought to explore. For a reasonable donation and an agreement to check one's weapons at the door (not that your guide travels heavily armed, but a wanderer like myself must be prepared!), an archivist will happily answer any questions you have about their range of knowledge, and perhaps even show you some fascinating artifacts as a visual aid. Do be respectful of the sages' time, however; they're quite busy with their work, and some tire easily of being charmed.
On the west and northwest boundaries of the city, you'll find the amphitheaters and
rodeo grounds you're quite likely traveling for: Five Foothills Arena, the Stanaforth Stadium, and of course the
Irontown Rodeo. None of these are particularly impressive feats of architecture in and of themselves, but one doesn't often travel to an event hall to see it empty, does one? The events held here more than fill the spaces waiting for them, most particularly the spectacular Tygran rodeos—but much more on those later.
To end on two more somber notes, it's more than worth it to pay tribute at the two memorials The
Monument of the Torch is a moving reminder of all those who laid down their lives to protect this city, and all those who will happily take up arms for it in the future. The ancient
Weeping Ruins honor a different sort of grief—far older and far stranger than that in the center of town. Visit at sunrise or sunset with a solemn mind and the ears to listen, and it's said you'll hear the voices of the dead.
Special Events
Ilgaslana, the high Promethean holy day, is celebrated with a torch-lit parade, started by one mayor at the southern gate and ending with a bonfire lit by the other atop the northwestern hills, passed through the hands of various town leaders and visiting dignitaries along the way. (Yours truly even bore the light for several short-but-crucial steps!) The brilliance of the final bonfire is nearly enough to make you forget it's winter, and the smell of the roast brisket prepared beside it is nearly enough to make you forget your aching legs after the steep climb.
At irregular intervals, you'll hear the word sweep through town a week or two before it hits:
"major regrouping." This is the Torch of Tygrar's term for when most or all of the patrols gather back in town to retrain, refuel, and… reinvigorate the social scene, let's say. It's a time much feared by street medics on the night shift and anyone trying to get a good night's rest, but highly anticipated by bartenders, courtesans, and especially the confectioners who set up shop in the officers' favorite game parlors. (It's astounding the amount of sweets the old veterans can put away in an afternoon at the poker table, the chess board, or the shuffleboard lane—and I say that as a
halfling gourmand, and thus a certifiable world-class expert.)
But what's most famous, of course, is the time-honored tradition of
rodeo. It is fast-paced, bombastic, spectacular: in short, almost Tygran to a fault. Riders of all shapes and sizes find fame and fortune in these rings, with their dizzying speed, dazzling strength, and And the feats of daring these rodeo riders perform... my word! In just my first afternoon at the Irontown Rodeo, I saw eighteen bulls wrestled to the ground, twenty-five great-goats roped by the horns in seconds flat, thirty-two
gnomish zebra riders (a fact that did not please the corresponding zebras), and certainly a generous handful of broken bones along the way. And for the finale, a horseman and a
bankhur rider roped and tied down a stampeding mastodon. Yes—a fully-grown, positively-peeved mastodon! It's all thrillingly fun to watch with a heavy pint of ale and a bag of toffee-coated nuts in hand, but I doubt I'd have such a jolly time facing these challenges myself. In fact, should you ever see your humble scribe in the wild facing anything remotely resembling the rodeo events of Irontown, I implore you to send one or more of the handsome horsemen of Tygrar to my aid.
Mayoral elections, most typically scheduled in even-numbered years, are a veritable rodeo in and unto themselves. (Eagle-eyed readers may notice that Y1107 is an odd-numbered year, and thus not typically one where I would experience such an event. Alas—some tragedy befell poor Mayor Stanaforth in the spring, and the municipal diviners declared him dead and unrecoverable.) Debates, town halls, religious services, llama pageants (a baffling yet somehow entirely straightforward description)—all seemingly require each candidate's polished appearance and somber attention. Election season lasts an eventful (yet eventually exhausting) two months; I'm told this is truncated from decades past, when it seemed someone-or-other was always on the campaign trail.
Food, Drink, and Lodging
General wisdom of the well-heeled rarely paints Tygrar as a fine culinary destination. In my (if I may) authoritative opinion, this does the town a disservice. Simplicity does not a boring meal make; some of the greatest gustatory delights are to be had in great ingredients, humbly presented.
Mute Donkey Saloon. The fine people of Tygrar really do love their goat, don't they? Roast goat, grilled goat, boiled goat sausage, fried goat dumplings, goat tartare, goat-and-potato pie, goat salad sandwich. All are found in spades, and quite expertly done, at the Mute Donkey Saloon in the Bunk District. The
qoftekoza here is particularly excellent: ground meat and sharp cheese, rolled into bite-sized pieces and fried in lard until crispy. It's unfortunate that the name translates to "goat balls," or so I'm told.
The Bank. Rustic and straightforward as this town tends to be, the Lake District is rough around the edges even by Tygrar standards. Riverboat-turned-tavern The Bank does not offer loans, and any coins deposited there can only be exchanged for plentiful, cheap liquor. At a place like this, where the clientele runs free and the booze runs freely, one is never terribly far from trouble. One evening, I made a critical-yet-accurate comment about the house bloodwhiskey (an acquired taste at even high quality, which this was not suddenly, I found myself sailing over the railing and into the reservoir! Fortunately, hired lifeguards are on hand for just such occasions, and a strapping young man fished me out fast enough not to ruin my
sweater. He bought me several drinks that were significantly more to my liking, just for the trouble. On the whole? I'd recommend it, for the story and company alone.
The Traveler's Scabbard. This elven inn, nestled deep in the Ironbound District, primarily caters to a clientele of scholars, pilgrims, and priests. I won't lie: it lacks something of the finesse and the
je ne sais quoi of elven enclaves in other hubs of the
High Elf Diaspora (Cantonova,
Archvale, and even fusty old
Breughelland come to mind). It fits much better with the no-frills Tygran ethos of practicality over finery. However, if one wishes to worship at the cathedral before sunrise or beat the crowds to the best blacksmiths of the Solar Forge, the location can't be beat.
Trihorn Junction Tavern and Inn. If you can acquire the coveted reservations necessary, Trihorn Junction offers by far the finest accommodations in a town that otherwise trends quite rustic. This cozy, exclusive establishment—tucked away on a side street near the mayoral hall—offers a simple, elegant prix fixe that changes with the seasons. For my money, the nutty amaranth pasta (far and away the standout course) pairs best with the honeyed butternut squash of late fall, though the summer's zucchini and goat cheese pasta is a close second.
Oldguard Bed and Breakfast. Lastly, one archetypal Tygran accommodation, similar to the majority in the town but worth describing as such. The simple inn in the Bunk District is an old guard tower from bygone days, repurposed into a simple yet comfortable inn. What's special in places like this is not the unadorned beds nor the rustic shared restrooms, but the breakfasts that await you in the morning... ah, the breakfasts! Dairy from the herders and ranchers, cheap and abundant, manifests on the table as fresh, soft cheeses and tart yogurts topped with candied nuts and sweet amaranth crisp. Hearty, grainy toast is slathered thick in butter and honey. Local fruit spills over in abundance: by itself, preserved as syrups and jams, and in an array of cordials and juices that would make a Cantonovan mimosa bar blush. (The mimosa is strangely uncommon here, and i did get questionable looks when occasionally requesting champagne with second breakfast. Frankly, it's their loss.)
I should warn you, though, of one baffling caltrop in the otherwise pleasant path of a Tygran breakfast. Among the mulberries, strawberries, and apricots, you may see a pile of hefty gold-hued orbs, much like the prized oranges of
Malakar but so large that we small folk must carry them in both hands. In another guise, it may come to you in a tantalizing fresh juice the pink-red shade of a duchess rose. Locals will call it "grapefruit," a harmless enough name evoking the sweetness of the vineyards of
Vignión. Dear readers: do not give in to the temptation to try it! It is a sour, astringent thing, acidic as a
Mimic's maw, and bitter beyond belief. The taste lingers in the throat like a poison. You may see a local pour sugar on it, and assume this acts as shield enough against the fruit's natural defenses; you would, however, assume this incorrectly. Grapefruit with sugar tastes like an inept assassin's blatant attempt on your life, but with sugar added to it. I can only surmise that this so-called fruit was first cultivated as a weapon in one of the ancient Tygran sieges, or perhaps to be thrown in some long-forgotten sport that needed an extra element of danger. If the
Tomato Wars of
Klïppington and
Klöppington had access to this menace to the breakfast table, there would doubtless be no survivors.
(Editor's note: in Mr. Jaunt's first draft, this rant about grapefruit was the entirety of the "Safety" section. He refused to sign off on publishing the guide without it. On behalf of the rest of Fiddle About Press, I apologize to the orchardkeepers of Tygrar.)
Safety
Tygrar has quite famously seen its fair share of strife in its storied past, as local monuments and historians will attest to at length. The modern traveler, though, has little to fear. Still, there are a few dangers left to keep a weather eye for, beyond the violent assault to the palate conducted by the barbaric grapefruit. The dam at the Orrobach Reservoir, though impressively built, does not always contain the floods that happen during the rainy season in winter and spring. These tend to hit the Lake District hardest, so I'd recommend that budget travelers stick either to the summers or to the hills west of town. It's harder to predict where the area's occasional tornados might pass through later in the spring, though—keep a weather eye, so to speak.
There's more to be wary of on the roads into town than on the Tygran streets themselves, of course. Unprotected travelers on the roads north, south, and east are sometimes raided by the nasty skirmishers of the
Pack of the Black Claw, or (much more rarely) the dreaded hordes of the
Prostomurakhim. Taller tales may tell of the kingfissure worms: great hideous tunnellers, as long as the walls of
Castle Val-Nurem, that supposedly dwell beneath the prairies and swallow entire unfortunate caravans whole. Frankly, I wouldn't worry; no source I'd consider trustworthy (least of all myself) showed me plausible proof of their existence. The more salient threats, in my opinion, are the herds of wildebeests and mastodon that occasionally run roughshod across the road. Worse still are the grotesque river beasts known locally as the
'Ngaragola. Never cross a body of water dotted with smooth black stones! They rise from the water as massive, lumbering creatures with even more massive jaws and not an ounce of mercy. I understand being chased by predators looking for a delicious meal—
the Fates and my loyal readers know it's happened to me often enough—but in my opinion, the great horror of the 'ngaragola is that it does not feed on flesh. It hunts for sport and sport alone. No mere beast should have a sense of malice; alas, this one does in spades. Steer well clear of the wretched things.
Final Thoughts
Tygrar is a long way off the beaten path, so to speak—and you certainly won't be in
Spargell anymore. But there's a touch of the familiar blended in with the exuberant and exotic here, no matter where else you might be from. The generous and proud nuél-orokhim of the Torch, the high elven refugees from old Bjálian days, the hardy
Human settlers from time immemorial, and all and sundry who have alighted in the west to establish a life for themselves—each denizen is a brick unto themselves that builds up this onetime humble prairie outpost into a truly special place.
About the Author
Merriweather Jaunt, aka "The Homesick Halfling," is an award-winning travel writer whose books have reached tens of thousands across the continent. He has written over 30 guides, including best-sellers "(The Homesick Halfling's Guide to) Brightwater" and "(The Homesick Halfling's Guide to) Cantonova, Vol. 1 and 2." The Homesick Halfling is proud to say he has only been kidnapped by ogres thrice.
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