The foggy port city on Cormyr is a decaying mishmash of cultural and architectural styles. Different influences can be seen in the halfling enclave of the Rise while the small promontory of the Chokewarren bears the marks of older Cormyran limestone houses mixed with more modern Vornish wood and plaster rowhomes built upon ancient Dambuilder foundations. The waterfront Hulltown contains ships and wrecks from a dizzying variety of cultures both vibrant and long-dead.

Flotsam has seen better days and has grown increasingly isolated from its subject villages, yet can be counted fortunate as it has not been ravaged by the increasingly violent struggles flaring up on the mainland.

Though nominally an Imperial possession it boasted no Legion presence and was ruled directly by Osbald Felltergrubb in the name of his uncle, Frollo. Its isolation has come to an end with the arrival of the Imperial Galleon, and with it a Sleeping Priest of the Somnolent Order.

The Rise

Occupied by the halfling ruling class and others who manage to stake their claim above the stinking miasma. Halfing nobles and dour merchants carve their homes in the limestone cliffs of the crescent circling the bay. Access is restricted to those willing to bribe their way up one of the lifts.


Despite the name it is considered at least a better part of town to live in than most. Chokewarren is a jumble of buildings jutting up and overtaking one another, all packed on the narrow strip of dry land between the sea and the limestone cliff. The streets here are almost always dark due to the shadow of the overhanging cliff and the extended rooftops that serve as a shelter from the almost constant rain of crumbling limestone.


The largest and most populated part of the city, Hulltown is built entirely from the wrecks of ships and cargo (“flotsam!”)- their origins span centuries and cultures, many of which are long dead. Sailors strut down the alleyways as dockside whores scream their services – it is considered a civic duty to patronize the ‘seawives’ as all licensed prostitutes are widows of lost sailors, forbidden to remarry. Whales harpooned from Leviathan’s Wake are dragged here through the Wormways and chopped apart by an army of butchers. The place smells of salt, sea, rotting flesh, wet wood, and fish. This is not a pleasant smell. The layout is confusing and directions are extremely obtuse – there is an entire underclass of “sea urchins”, little children with the job of running messages and giving directions (as well as robbing people blind). The sea urchins tend to be in training for the Camorra, if they make it that far.


The Old Ones bry105