Part 2: Welcome to Turnvale

Chapter 2: Welcome to Turnvale

Last time we left our hero Diermot lying face down in an alley, having just fallen through a sewer pipe. A sewer pipe with stone walls.


Oh good, he's alive. Time to explore.

THE SEWER OUTLET. A steady stream of evil smelling waste flows from the pipe into a drain below. The air is thick with flies and midges.

The thick sludge is mostly liquid, but also carries the waste from the Castle's kitchen and toilets.

Unfortunately, our bottle broke in the fall.

The glass fragments are green and sticky with mead.

Diermot carries the broken glass with him everywhere anyway, just in case it comes in useful.  It doesn't. 

There's always the option of giving our useless inventory items to Ratpouch to hold anyway. More on that later. For now, let's move on.


Here is faithful Ratpouch, waiting for his master to recover. Any character who wanders freely can be yelled at like this, to prompt a conversation. The camera cursor means that something is happening that cannot be interrupted, in this case Diermot is approaching Ratpouch, who is waiting for him.

We were given an objective from Wulf, to find the Blacksmith. So let's ask Ratty.



Ratpouch isn't from Turnvale originally, so he doesn't know the whereabouts of any characters, he is always good to hit up for a gag though.

Continuing on'



CASTLE GATE. In between the grotesque guardian statues are the main gates leading into the castle.

The massive gates were built to withstand the mightiest of siege engines and battering rams.

Looks like we're not getting in there then.



A Skorl patrolman appears and barges his way past Ratpouch, Is this the end?

Well, no. He just turns around and walks away. Part of his patrol route covers the castle gate and we'll have to keep our eye on this chap. He turns out to be quite important later on.

The Skorl is a magnificent specimen of his race, with strong broad shoulders, thickly muscled limbs, deep set eyes beneath a massive brow, and a wide variety of parasitic life forms thriving in his filthy fur.

He seems nice, let's have a chat with him.



Okay, maybe not.


Even Ratpouch tries to talk to him and is met with cold ignorance.

Finally, we enter the town proper.



APOTHECARY LANE. The lane leads past a neglected house, the upper floor leaning precariously above your head. The faint scent of herbs and blossom hangs
in the air.

This place is closed now though, so we can't enter.


Oh, hello. This is virtual theatre in action, characters in town will sometimes greet you with polite nothings, sometimes a simple excuse me.

Quite often, characters in the game (including Diermot) will automatically move aside to let people through, this can get annoying when there are four characters converging on the same place and you have to wait for every single one of them to mutter their 'excuse me's to each other and move aside.

But let's be polite and talk to this nice lady.

The woman is dressed in serviceable but threadbare clothes. Her hair is grey, and her lined face suggests someone who has worked hard, but her eyes are bright and alert.



Diermot greets every character in the game like this, they will all be listed as Stranger until they tell you their name.



Gwyn: Well, in a place the size of Turnvale you've got to mind your own business. Speak not ill of your neighbour, Gwyn, that's what I tell myself.

Gwyn: And my neighbours, what a pair! Never a day goes by without their shouting a banging, all hours of the night, and it's the child I feel sorry for, sir. Poor little mite! Oh, the sorrows of this world.

Wow! She talks a lot. I kind of regret asking. Also, having vented her gossip geyser, she just walks away without another word. What a strange woman. Sadly, we'll be seeing a lot of her around Turnvale, useless as she is.


Here's an example of what I was talking about earlier. Gwyn walked off to the left but came back to let the Skorl come by.

Sometimes, (actually it happens only once) Ratpouch will try to get your attention.

Ratpouch: Hey, sir!

It's a good thing Ratpouch helped me escape the dungeon or I might take a difference to his speaking out of turn like that.




Just when I was starting to like you, Ratpouch. Toilet humour has no place in Let's Play. Right?

You may have noticed (unless you're blind) that a monk passed by as Ratty was telling us that joke. Trying to catch people who pass by while you're in the middle of a conversation is almost impossible. They move at the same speed as you and don't seem to be impeded by loading times, so by the time you get after them, they're long gone. So try to pre-empt people when following them.

I'll take the roundabout tour of Turnvale, so you can see the outskirts. Let's go left first.



CASTLE WALL. The well-used road winds beside a section of the towering fortified wall.

And look, there's the goat I mentioned earlier.



Left again.



MIDDLE STREET. The imposing stone columns give the building an air of officialdom.


Looks like there's something of a half-arsed rebellion going on here.

The Skorl is obviously younger than the rest of his breed, his fur sleek and almost clean. His eyes are glazed with boredom.



Skorl: To keep you out! Get lost, 'uman.

Charmed. Left again.



WERE GATE. In this quiet corner of town there is an atmosphere of calm, a sense of timelessness and ancient magic.

This is going to be a vital place later on. Who's this completely legitimate-looking fellow loitering nearby though?

The man has a thin, drawn face with sharp, rodent-like features. He glances about him furtively from time to time, his small eyes ever watchful.

Let's talk to rape-eyes then.



Diermot: Greetings, stranger. What is your name?



Diermot: What is your line of business?

Mallin: Buying and selling. There's a golden opportunity waiting for the right man. No catches, cash in hand; what do you say?



Never say I'm one to miss out on an opportunity to make some money through "legitimate business ventures".

Diermot: Just tell me what I have to do.

That's the spirit!



He hands you a large, heavy metal bar.

Diermot: Can you tell me where to find the Blacksmith?

Mallin: Yes, of course I can! He'll be in his forge.

What? No directions, just enthusiastically tell me that he's at work? I guess I'll just have to find his forge myself.


Yay! We've found our first pub!

WEST STREET. A large well-kept inn straddles the alley to the north.

The sign bears the words: The Severed Arms. You ponder upon the choice of such a grisly name.


Sounds like a classy place, despite the name.



THE SEVERED ARMS. The inn is clean, quiet, and entirely without character. A meagre log burns in the huge fireplace, providing little warmth or cheer.

Maybe one the punters knows the blacksmith? I'll ask the lady knitting by the fire first. That other guy looks a little unbalanced.

The girl is well built, with a heavily powdered face and rouged lips. Her odd appearance is greatly exaggerated by the fact that she has plucked her eyebrows so that only a think line remains.

Diermot: Greetings, Stranger. What is your name?



Diermot: Can you tell me where to find the blacksmith?


I beg your pardon?

Maybe the big guy over yonder can be more helpful?

The man is dressed in brightly patterned clothes, with a band of silver around his shiny black hair. His swarthy face wears a fixed grin, bearing his huge gleaming teeth.

Diermot: Greetings, Stranger. What is your name?


Ultar is, without doubt, the best character in the game.



Diermot: Where do you come from?



Ultar: I wept. But horse make food for journey. I think it could not get worse. Ultar was wrong. I find this place.

Diermot: What brings you to Turnvale, sir?


Dragon, eh? This place gets more interesting (and frightening) all the time.

Diermot: Can you tell me where to find the blacksmith?


Progress! Diermot can't contain himself.

Diermot: I have recently escaped from the hands of the Skorl.


Oh, I see. Ultar isn't the blacksmith. He's just insane.

I decide to ask the landlord. Landlords are always good for local info.

The man is considerably overweight, with a belly which sags over the waist of his trousers. The flabby, dough-like skin of his face shines with sweat, and his suspicious eyes hold no hint of a welcome.

Diermot: Greetings, Stranger. What is your name?



As he tells Diermot his name, another man enters and queues behind me. We'll let him get served first, we came here to gossip and not drink after all.



Gereint: Old Trout, Luthern?

Stranger: No, I don't mean to sound funny, but the last few have tasted - different. And it doesn't seem as strong as it used to.


Ratpouch joins the queue.

Stranger: He's a barbarian. They'll drink anything. Anyway, I don't want to make a fuss. Give me and Old Trout.

And so, the man leaves. Ratpouch gets his turn.



Gereint: Try somewhere else, son. You don't look old enough to me.

Ratpouch: I'm going to tell my master about you, fatty!

Very smooth, Ratpouch. Now what is he going to think of me?



Gereint: Did you come here to drink or gossip?

Don't back down, Diermot!

Diermot: A jug of your finest ale, if you please, landlord.

Gereint: That's one groat.

Diermot: Can you tell me where to find the blacksmith?


Damn it! That one groat was everything we had. That muscular guy who just left must have been the blacksmith. Just typical of my luck.

Maybe we'll catch him next time. Until then, let's get drunk seeing as we're in the- ...Oh, no money.