
I really loved Adventure but I wanted to go through space so once once I'm done adding fantasy stuff I will make a giant update that would just be map that space stuff new races for outer space spells I do have to do that somewhere in like a month or two but I might have to take a small Hiatus for a little bit
Played | 12 times |
Cloned | 0 times |
Created | 21 days ago |
Last Updated | 8 days ago |
Visibility | Public |

Coordinates | (479, -1921) |
Tucked into the ramshackle sprawl of the Outer City near the Blackgate District, The Mazarine Quill is a quiet refuge for booklovers and arcane dabblers alike. Sharing a storefront with a leather-stinking cobbler, it might be overlooked were it not for the unmistakable dagger-shaped sign of a blue quill that juts over the threshold like a challenge. Known among smugglers, hedge wizards, and rebellious scholars, the Quill specializes in rare and outlawed texts—particularly on planar theory, dream magics, and the occult. Its proprietor, the enigmatic half-orc sage named Grolvyn Maz, is rumored to have once served in Candlekeep but was dismissed for "delving too deep." Locals say his beard holds secrets, and some claim his books whisper at night. The City Watch rarely ventures near, and regulars prefer it that way.
From the grime and grit of the Outer City rises an unexpected wash of color—The Mazarine Quill’s weathered façade stands out in hues of blue: soft woad-toned plaster flecked with rain stains, peacock-hued shutters, and a steep roof tiled in cracked indigo slate. The cobbler’s domain shares the left half, boots and soles spilling out onto the stoop, but it’s the right side that draws the eye. A faded, wooden quill—carved like a stylized blade—hangs on rusted chains above the door, swaying slightly in the breeze. Step inside, and the air shifts: dust, aged paper, and a hint of lavender ink. Dim lanterns cast golden light on crammed shelves that rise like crooked towers. Behind the counter sits Grolvyn Maz, peering over his golden spectacles, his beard of six white braids resting like a scholar’s curtain. A bell chimes overhead, soft and deliberate, like the start of a spell.