The interactive map of Inkwell. Click on the locations for information about the districts.
Inkwell
The NORTH Gate
The North Gate, framed by ancient stone and wrought iron, stands on the southern wall.
Some say that the city's founder had a skewed compass. Others whisper the cartographer was deep into his cups when he etched the map.
Regardless, the name stuck. Locals just shrug. "Ya learn your way 'round Inkport by feel," they say, "not by directions."
The Beastmarket
The Tipped Quill
Speaker's Square
Cartographer's Hall
The air smells of vellum, ink, and musty old books. Racks of rolled parchment line the walls - some sealed with wax, others frayed at the edges. Maps line cracked wooden tables: the crumbling ruins of the Sunken Cathedral or the twisting paths of Darkwood Forest. Some maps are well-known, while others are failed attempts with crossed-out passages or dead ends facetiously labeled "Here Be Regrets".
"Don't touch!" a curt voice says as you reach for a map of the Inkport sewers. A middle-aged woman with half-moon glasses and ink-stained fingers looks up at you with a scowl on her face. "Oils from your skin will smudge the lines."
An old scribe approaches you. "Behind every map within the Halls is a story," he says, his voice dry and ancient. "And every story needs a traveler willing to get lost...Now, which map are you after?"
Gearsmith Quarter
Wayfarer's Lodge
The door and floorboards creak. So do the joints of the spindly old woman behind the counter. "If it's information y're after, there's plenty in the racks," she says, her voice soft but high-pitched. "Take what y'need. Leave new when y'ave it." She pauses to gesture towards an area off to the side of the half-lit and half-warm common room. "Bunks're empty there if y'plan to rest. Don' snore neither."
Revolving racks line the common room, filled with leaflets, pamphlets, flyers, and notes. A guestbook lies open on a table near the hearth, filled with scrawled entries: "Ask the Gearsmith about the escape hatch." and "Don't trust the map with the rainbow border." and "The Beastmarket unofficially closes at dusk."
The old woman points towards a shelf jampacked with tattered guides. "Them. Take one. Y'll find 'em useful to figure out where y're going next."
Inkwell Inn
The Citadel (Scribetower)
The door is heavy. The silence is leaden. The Citadel is unwelcoming.
A spiral staircase stretches into shadows. There are no windows, just the ensconsed torches flickering and barely providing light. The acrid smell of the torches' smoke barely masks the muskiness of the old tower.
The highest loft of the Scribetower is a long way for thy feet, a dry susurration speaks from nowhere and everywhere at once. Tis easier for thee to go down than up. Most do fail, but an thou makest it, thou shalt be deemed worthy to enter the summit door.
You start to climb the spiral staircase, easy at first, but the steps appear to become steeper the higher you go. Your breath becomes ragged, your vision blurs. You stop to rest and consider abandoning your ascent. However, the whispering voice lends its opinion:Â The Citadel hasteneth not, neither should thee an ye wouldst attain the ken thou desirest.
You steady yourself, taking one slow step at a time, and after what seems like hours, you finally reach the top. There is a single door with a note and the words:Â TURN TO PAGE 1.