Page 226 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Bakers.”

Marley looks like she’s about to burst into flames.

“Fine,” I say. “A fighter from a baker’s guild. Name?”

He pauses. “Warr?—”

“No.”

“Bram.”

“Bram what?”

“Bram Ash.”

That’s annoyingly good.

I’m the Dungeon Master, which means I’m in charge of everyone’s joy and suffering. It’s just a normal amount of pressure.

The campaign opens in the coastal market town of Marrowwick, where the party has gathered during the Feast of Lantern Bread, a yearly festival celebrating the end of winter and the first safe trade crossing through Widow’s Teeth.

Warren immediately asks how many trade wagons come through the pass per season.

I stare at him. “Many.”

“How many is many?”

“Enough.”

He winces. “That’s not a number.”

“Bram, this is fantasy.”

He looks confused. “Isn’t that still important?”

Oliver lifts his glass. His ankle is crossed over his thigh, and his other arm is draped over the back of the chair. “I hate to say he’s right, but he is.”

“Tavern keepers need to stay silent,” I tell him.

He mutters something about labor violations.

I flip through my notes, which are, to no one’s surprise, mostly based on vibes. “Fine. About two hundred wagons per season. More after the pass clears. Fewer if there are raids.”

Warren nods. “That supports a town of this size only if they also fish.”

“They do fish.”

“Where is the harbor?”

I tap the map.

“This inlet is too shallow for large ships,” he says.

“That’s not for larger ships. It’s for fishing boats. Bigger ships dock at Thornbreak down the coast, then cargo comes up on smaller vessels.”

He nods and sits back.

I continue narrating before I do something embarrassing.