Temple Ward

Temple Ward is an area of Drakkenheim bordered on the north by Market Square, on the east and southeast by the Drann River, on the south and southwest by the city wall including Temple Gate, and on the Northwest by Middle Ward.

Most notably it contains St. Vitruvio's Cathedral, where The Lord of the Feast resides; and the holy catacombs beneath the cathedral, resting place to St. Vitruvio and Argonath.

From "*The Bleeding Idiot's Guide to Drakkenheim*," by Montague Rharby, c. 1125:

"Ah, the Temple Ward! Where all the big brains, holy rollers, and magic mumblers used to strut their stuff! If you’re reading this, you're probably thinking, 'Ooh, I bet there's still some sacred magic gizmos lying about, waiting for a hero to snatch them up.' Well, let me tell you, if you’ve got any sense in that noddle of yours, you’ll turn tail and head for safer climes. But of course, you're an Idiot, aren't you?

Now, once upon a time, the Temple Ward was a sight to behold, steeples glistening in the morning sun, clergies bustling about with their holy scrolls, and the incense...oh, the incense was enough to get you high! But now? It's like a pack of ravenous werewolves had a rave and the after-party went horribly, horribly wrong.

The Cathedral? The jewel of the Temple Ward used to be the Cathedral of St. Vitruvio. Named after a bigshot paladin who apparently liked to hang out with gold dragons. It's a sight, let me tell you. Huge baroque structure that makes you feel like a pixie. The spired central dome alone is taller than a stone giant on stilts. It's a veritable fortress of religion, flanked by towers adorned with every holy symbol and angelic statue you could think of. Just looking at it was a sermon on its own.

But now? Blimey, it's a nightmare. It's not a cathedral anymore, not really. It's more of a den, a lair for this beast called the Lord of the Feast. Name says it all, doesn't it? Surrounding the cathedral, there's this unholy camp of ramshackle hovels and barricades. It's like a goblin's idea of urban planning. The whole area is decorated with a gruesome display of bones and body parts. Smells like an ogre's armpit, and the sounds? Let's just say they're not hymns. It's enough to make even the bravest adventurer lose his lunch.

The street that used to thrum with the hushed whispers of devotees? They now echo with the guttural groans of...well, let’s just say they aren't preaching sermons anymore. And the Orphan's Garden, few blocks south, that used to be a thing of beauty - now it's a collection of gnarled, alien trees, reaching out with their spiky branches as if trying to strangle the sky.

Oh, and remember those high and mighty magic mumblers? Well, the ones that stuck around have been touched by whatever nightmare magic made Drakkenheim a hellscape. Now, they've got too many eyes, or their skin’s turned a lovely shade of green, or they can’t help but speak in rhymes. It’s quite entertaining, I won’t lie, but let's just say they’re not as fond of company as they used to be.

I'll tell you about my mate Rufus, a proper magic whiz. Decided he’d nip in, grab a quick relic, and be out before the cock crowed. That was, oh, about three months back. Last we heard, he was hosting a tea party for a group of ghouls and singing hymns at the top of his lungs.

So, my dear Idiots, think twice before planning a picnic at the Temple Ward. You're far more likely to end up as the main course than to have a nice day out. So again I urge you - for the love of all things holy and the unholy things in Drakkenheim, keep your precious feet far, far away from that cursed city! And remember, you're an idiot for even considering it. Good luck!"

A description of the Temple Ward from before the meteor's fall, in "*Dispatches From Drakkenheim*," by Nathaniel Krumb (c. 1105):

"My dear reader, let us journey together to a place as enigmatic as it is mesmerizing, a place where the mortal and divine play out their eternal waltz, choreographed to the timeless rhythm of faith and tradition. This is the Temple Ward of Drakkenheim, the sacred heart of our vibrant city, a spiritual enclave where the echoes of a thousand prayers ripple through the cobblestone streets, a living testament to our collective quest for the ethereal.

The Temple Ward is not merely a part of Drakkenheim; it is a world unto itself, a tapestry of faiths woven over countless generations. There is a delightful hodgepodge of architectural styles, embodying an aesthetic dance of diversity; an ancient church standing shoulder to shoulder with a modern chapel, the ethereal hymns of the past intertwining with the vibrant chorales of the present. It's as if the district is a living chronicle, where each alley and edifice narrates a different chapter of our spiritual saga.

When entering the district, one cannot help but feel a subtle shift in the air, as though the very fabric of the world is thinner here. The streets are narrower, lined with row upon row of modest townhouses where the devoted dwell. Statues of saints, goddesses, and mythical heroes peep from the corners, their stone faces carrying the joy, the sorrow, the eternal cycle of human endeavor. Here you'll find devotees on their way to the sacred spaces, carrying bouquets of wildflowers, their lips murmuring prayers, their hearts an open book to the divine.

Ah, dear reader, no depiction of the Temple Ward is complete without its beating heart, the colossal Cathedral of St. Vitruvio. It is more than a symbol of our city; it is our pride, our collective accomplishment, an ode to our relentless spirit. Yet, as we step away from its shadow, the true beauty of the Temple Ward reveals itself.

As I walked the prayer-strewn lanes one evening, a pair of hooded figures, perhaps mercenaries or treasure-seekers, melted into the shadowed alleyways, their intents as veiled as their visages. Such figures are not uncommon in the Temple Ward; the age-old district is rife with mysteries that lure the adventurous. Who knows what forgotten relics lie beneath the stone, or what celestial secrets the ancient Cathedral might hold?

How can I forget the wafting aroma of Brother Elias's bakery, which no cleric worth their salt could resist? The old gnome, with his flour-covered apron, his warm smile always ready to brighten even the cloudiest day. The taste of his honey-laced bread, my friend, is divine communion in its own right.

Speaking of communion, a visit to the Temple Bar District is an experience for the senses. Despite its location within the spiritual hub, the district possesses an idiosyncratic charm, as though it purposefully tips its hat to the sacred yet revels in the profane. Here, the bohemian spirit finds its voice in music, poetry, and art. Eccentric taverns exist side by side with tranquil teahouses, and the nights echo with the rhythm of passionate debates and lively melodies.

The district, in all its ecclesiastical grandeur, is not without its quieter corners. Venture towards the small park nestled between the chapels, where the young novices play their innocent games, their laughter a melody sweeter than any hymn. Or the old library tucked away in a side alley, the heady scent of old parchment beckoning the curious and the learned alike.

My friend, I could talk endlessly of the Temple Ward's grandeur and mystique, yet words often fall short. It is a world to be explored, a tapestry to be woven into the fabric of one's soul. A melody to be felt, a faith to be understood. For to know the Temple Ward is to comprehend the heart of Drakkenheim, to hear its whispered prayers, and to feel its timeless pulse. Come, dear reader, let us continue our journey, for there are countless tales waiting to be told, and countless prayers waiting to be heard."