¶ Calad Bar
Moon of Mistakes. City of Chaos. Flammable Diplomacy.
¶ Overview
Calad Bar, which means 'confusion and mild chaos' in several languages, is both a moon and a capital city, sharing a name and a tendency to confuse navigators, cartographers, and occasionally invading fleets. Located in a quiet pocket of wildspace, orbiting a gas giant with shimmering rings, Calad Bar is a politically independent, magically unstable, and delightfully dysfunctional centre of trade, magic, and suspiciously sheep-shaped traffic jams.
Built upon a jagged rock reef and layered with half-sunken ships, capsized towers, and an alarming number of questionable architectural choices, the city somehow remains standing thanks to wishful thinking and the Arcane Collective's greatest accidental success: the Arcane Cohesion Field — a spell-engineered web of stabilising force that keeps the cliffs, wreckage, and magically-fused buildings from collapsing into the sea. Usually.
Waterways wind through the city like veins of chaos, navigated by gondolas, hopping fish carts, the occasional druid construct, wildshaped as an alligator, and Hielan Sheep — large, shaggy, amphibious creatures ridden by locals. These sheep, pronounced "ship" by the native Hielan Coos, shaggy cousins of the Minotaurs, are excellent swimmers and even better at causing utter confusion in diplomatic conversations.
Somewhere even deeper — usually under a floorboard or inside a pie — the Wee Knapkins thrive. Though often mistaken for a public nuisance with musical talent, these napkin-sized anarchists are part of Calad Bar's unique flavour. Their undercity Khelda, Grambrella McGrimblebane, rules her people from beneath the streets with a kettle, a spoon, and absolutely no respect for official channels. She shares a mutual non-interference pact with Braenna Wyrdsdottir — the surface Khelda — and together they maintain a kind of vertical equilibrium. The city above may shake, but the undercity bites back.
¶ History
¶ Early days
Clan Glenbraw's rite of passage was a perilous sail through the reef — a twisting, jagged maze of rocks and sunken ships that was less 'safe passage' and more 'gruesome obstacle course'. Many brave souls failed spectacularly, their wrecks adding to the reef's growing collection. Every so often, a poor tourist from wildspace fancied a go at the reef too — usually ending in chaos, embarrassment, or both. Once they'd survived this trial, the Glenbraw Vikings set about raiding their fellow clans with all the subtlety of a drunken sheep wielding a horn, treating polite society like an all-you-can-plunder buffet.
The other clans, after about thirteen polite requests to knock it off, decided that enough was enough. They launched a no-holds-barred naval assault on Glenbraw near the reef, turning the waters into a chaotic froth of clashing axes and splintered timber. Plenty of ships met an untimely and watery end, dragged screaming into the reef's hungry jaws. Eventually, amid the wreckage and bruised egos, a truce was grudgingly declared — Glenbraw was strictly forbidden from plundering any clan, not even a wee, "just this once" pillage.
Never ones to be bested for long, Clan Glenbraw shifted their sights to raiding the far less organised wildspace tourists, who had the dual advantages of being clueless and surprisingly tasty. Meanwhile, the growing graveyard of ships on the reef's bones provided a surprisingly solid foundation for a city — Calad Bar — which quickly became a magnet for exiles, renegades, and anyone else fed up with the Big Four's bickering. (The "Big Four", for those blessedly unfamiliar, are the four largest empires in the known galaxy — known primarily for their excessive paperwork, casual condescension, and tendency to hold meetings that cause wars by accident.) Before long, even folk from rival clans started settling there, proving that nothing says 'home' quite like living atop a pile of wreckage and well-earned grudges.
¶ Diplomatic relations
The first major diplomatic incident was, in hindsight, not an accident at all. The Hielan Coos, not yet aware of just how powerful the Big Four were, raided a summit between the galactic superpowers. The event was hosted on a neutral asteroid platform, complete with peace banners and catered hors d'oeuvres. The Coos, viewing this as a show of weakness — or perhaps an irresistible buffet — stormed the gathering with a flotilla of surf boards, loud music, and an enthusiastic misinterpretation of diplomacy.
Three ambassadors were dunked in soup, one treaty was dramatically set on fire, and the chief of the raid declared himself King of the Sector. The vikings declared victory and went home.
Shortly thereafter, each of the Big Four arrived at Calad Bar's harbour with a warship, stern expressions, and a collectively raised eyebrow. Expecting annihilation, the city's previous Khelda, wise in the ways of both survival and flattery, offered a full apology, several enchanted trinkets, and permission for the Big Four to establish permanent embassies and use the harbour for trade and docking. The arrangement was accepted.
The Big Four agreed because — while offended — they also couldn't agree on which of them should conquer Calad Bar, or who would get to keep it afterwards. Instead, they settled on a more civilised campaign of influence, involving tea parties, bribes, and the occasional subtle threat.
Thus far, all have failed.
¶ The failed raid
Not long after, things took a cosmic turn of their own. Several Astral Explorer ships, allegedly in pursuit of an unknown fugitive, passed through the system. What happened next is the subject of ongoing confusion, conspiracy, and shouted arguments in taverns. The Astral Explorers fired their weapons — whether at their quarry or by accident is still hotly debated — and struck Calad Bar itself.
The city, interpreting this as a direct assault, responded with remarkable efficiency, downing all but one of the attacking ships. The survivor limped back to astral space, where he reportedly claimed the mission had gone horribly wrong. Meanwhile, Calad Bar assumed it had successfully repelled an attempted raid.
To this day, the Astral Explorers insist it was a misunderstanding. Calad Bar insists it was a victory. The truth, predictably, lies somewhere under a pile of half-sunk ships and diplomatic denials.
¶ We Do Not Kneel
In Calad Bar, anyone caught kneeling is either proposing, tying a shoe, or about to become the punchline of the week. Bowing is treated as performance art — something done by actors, clowns, or diplomats from places that still take themselves seriously. Children are taught early to stand tall and smirk often.
The people here walk upright, make eye contact, and argue loudly. Respect is shown with deeds, not posture, and anyone demanding submission usually ends up tripping over a strategically placed sheep. Even the Khelda doesn't expect kneeling — just quiet obedience.
¶ Faith, Fire, and the Flatly Unimpressed
The Hielan Coos, being a people of horn, tradition, and deeply suspicious eyebrows, do indeed have religion — but only in the way a boulder might have moss: organically, stubbornly, and without feeling particularly beholden to it. They see their relashionship to the gods more as an arrangement. Their gods are loud, local, occasionally helpful, and absolutely never bowed to. The Coos toast their deities with whisky, offer sacrifices of cheese (when the sheep are watching), and sausages.
Specifically, they fry them on altar fires. The gods, they say, receive the sausageness — the essence, the aroma, the sizzling sacrifice of meat made holy. The Coos, being practical, eat the actual sausages. This is considered a sacred exchange. Everyone leaves satisfied, except the vegetarians, who are offered devilled eggs instead.
Druids still listen to the hills, shepherds mutter prayers when the ewes go missing in the fog, and the vikings chant sagas of saints who drank lakes, wrestled death to a draw, and once negotiated a peace treaty with a storm. Divine favour is welcome — but a sharp axe and a sheep with attitude tend to produce more reliable miracles.
As for the rest of Calad Bar, all faiths are welcome — provided they don't come with clipboards, loud robes, or unsolicited conversions. Foreigners may kneel, chant, levitate, or attempt divine karaoke, but should be prepared for a Coo or two snorting into their tankards in the background. No offence meant — just cultural disbelief.
The Agnostic Front is oddly respected across the board, mainly because they shout at gods on purpose. While most citizens find their protests a bit much — what with the soapbox duels, anti-halo charms, and mayonnaise-tea communions — there's a certain satisfaction in watching deities squirm under philosophical scrutiny. If the gods are real, surely they can take a little feedback. And if they're not? Well then, the Coos still have their sausages.
¶ Geography
Calad Bar clings to the southern edge of the Isles of Roimh-Chèile, a scattered cluster of misty islands where the sea is always either storming or plotting one.
¶ Harbour
Where salt meets sawdust, and peace is enforced with a wrench.
The Harbour is Calad Bar's noisy front porch — crowded with shipwrights, sailors, and the smell of fried fish that lingers even in polite conversation. The docks never truly sleep: ships are hammered into being, patched back together, or occasionally reassembled upside-down by the industrious shipwrights. These same shipwrights double as the district's law enforcement, settling disputes with a firm swing of a spanner and an invoice.
The streets brim with inns and taverns where songs and fights break out with equal frequency, sometimes in chorus. Broken chairs, noses, and promises are promptly repaired by shipwrights, usually in that order. At the centre of it all sits Milo's Gadget Repair and Fish n Chips, a shop where one can have their magical compass unjammed, their gadget jury-rigged, and their haddock battered, all under the same roof. It's the one place where even the rowdiest brawls pause long enough for everyone to finish their chips.
¶ Alehorn
Where the wine flows, the fists fly, and the Harlequin always listens.
Alehorn is Calad Bar's ever-reeling belly — a place of endless taverns, brothels with velvet curtains, dinner halls that groan under questionable feasts, and theatres so experimental that audiences aren't sure if they've witnessed art or a felony. Boxing matches draw roaring crowds, and tavern brawls serve as the city's unofficial sport.
Keeping order, such as it is, are the Harlequins — grinning arbiters of chaos who hear everything, remember everything, and occasionally use that information for strategic extortion. And presiding over all is Malicia the Just, whose reputation ensures that even the boldest drunkard sobers instantly at her glance.
Alehorn doesn't sleep — it passes out, staggers upright, and keeps the party going.
¶ Old Town
Where history lingers, and the Khelda makes the rules.
Old Town is the most venerable knot of cobbled streets in Calad Bar, its walls sagging under the weight of centuries and stubbornness. At its heart stands the City Hall, patched and re-patched so many times it's more policy than building, alongside the grand Opera House, where sopranos do battle with collapsing rafters for the final note.
The City Watch headquarters looms here as well, weathered by centuries of law enforcement and the occasional magical mishap. One thing Old Town doesn't have is embassies — the Khelda saw to that. Officially, it's for the good of the diplomats; unofficially, she finds ambassadors insufferable. And when the Khelda says "no", she does so with enough force that even gods have been known to apologise.
¶ The Cackleworks
Where theory explodes, and cheese rains from the sky.
The Cackleworks is home to the Arcane Collective, which means it is also home to suspicious tremors, glowing craters, and at least one wizard shouting "It worked in theory!" before the roof departs the building. Most residents are newcomers who only realise what they've signed up for after the third small earthquake, by which point it's too late to move their furniture.
Among the reluctant locals is Vaelith Silquess, who moved in without knowing what a wizard considers "safe." He has begged for relocation ever since, but the other districts insist he belongs here, scorch marks and all.
The Wee Knapkins adore the hazards — especially when fish rain from the sky — and often gift the wizards cheeses in gratitude. The Collective accepts these with a mixture of respect, confusion, and mild indigestion.
¶ Market
Where bargains are struck, laws are stretched, and tea comes with a contract.
The Market is Calad Bar's endless bazaar, divided into three zones of cheerful rivalry.
New Market is the official one, run by the City Council. Here lives Mr. Vipple Skentch, who has spent years trying to buy the market outright. His efforts have achieved only one lasting result: a tradition of locals leaving fishbones neatly arranged on his manicured lawn.
No Beauty, No Beast is managed by the organisation of the same name, whose stalls are surprisingly tidy, if somewhat unsettling.
The "Other" Market belongs to the Sons of Hothar, who loudly insist that everything they sell is absolutely, completely, without a doubt legal. No one believes them. Tucked between their stalls is Talent & Tea, a café where contracts are served with biscuits, doubling as the discreet front office of the Talent Bureau.
¶ Dagobah
Where eco-druids play chess with nature, and the modron files complaints.
Dagobah is a stubborn patch of woodland stitched into the city, home to the Calad Bar Dragonchess Club — druids who began life as constructs built to play perfect chess, but who grew bored and became environmentalists instead. Of the druids not made of gears, half are Hielan Coos, who balance wildshaping with cooking sausages over sacred fires.
Here stands Fluff and Fang, the orphanage for familiars and magical pets, a perpetual storm of noise, feathers, and fur. Nearby, Ironpaw's Forge glows as the city's most celebrated smithy.
The district also hosts Barrister-Protocol-Primos, a modron lawyer for Eberron Inc., who once mistook the Dragonchess constructs for fellow bureaucrats. Upon discovering otherwise, he became their favourite target — his house now permanently coated in birdseed, pigeon, and seagull gifts.
Offshore lies the Old Temple, an island of shrines and monasteries. Here Hielan Coos perform sausage sacrifices, the Agnostic Front gathers in a ruin dedicated to "A God of Unspecified Function," and plasmoid monks host public sport tournaments, bouncing with alarming grace.
¶ Grallach
Where tartans clash, bagpipes wail, and the stones give unsolicited advice.
Grallach is the stronghold of the Hielan Coos, along with honorary Coos who survived the trial of ale, haggis, and bagpipes. Its Bagpipe Academy ensures that no resident ever forgets the sound of practice — or the need for earplugs. Breweries and whisky distilleries line the streets, feeding endless ale-drinking contests.
At the centre, the Clan Hall roars with meetings where politics and shouting matches are indistinguishable, usually held over sloshing pints.
Just off the shore stands The Stone Teeth, a ring of jagged rocks that hum, glow, and occasionally offer cryptic advice, usually unhelpful. (They once told a fisherman to "beware the haddock," which has made dinner very awkward ever since.)
Grallach is noisy, stubborn, and half pickled — and the city wouldn't be Calad Bar without it.
¶ The Eimir System
The Eimir System circles around the blazing star Eimir, a sun that has burned long enough to develop a personality best described as "smug." Its planets and asteroids form a small, eccentric family that Calad Bar has somehow found itself in the middle of.
Closest to the sun lies Firmgorn, a cracked little desert world, red as a rash and about as welcoming. It's rumoured to be useful for testing dangerous experiments — the kind of place where an explosion is just the local way of saying "good morning."
Further out churns The Teeth of Rovaxx, an asteroid cluster jagged enough to make navigators weep. Traders, miners, and fortune-hunters cling to its drifting rocks in settlements that would make a health inspector faint. Amongst them spins the infamous Gingerbread Asteroid, home to Griselda von Nockenschmutz, the drow witch whose sugary fortress lures the curious, the foolish, and anyone who thinks "enchanted gingerbread" sounds like a good idea. The asteroid smells faintly of burnt sugar and menace, which is enough to keep most sensible people away.
Dominating the middle of the system is Thrallach, a majestic gas giant swathed in rings. Orbiting it like a stubborn barnacle is Calad Bar, a mostly waterlogged moon where half-sunken ships, karst outcrops, and sheer bloody-mindedness have produced a city of the same name. The Hielan Coos, spacefaring vikings turned reluctant statesfolk, claim it as their home, though the city seems to belong equally to seabirds, druids, and anyone drunk enough to stay.
On the system's frozen edge lies Eilidh, an ice world encased in frost except for its equator, where a single ribbon of endless ocean circles the globe. With no islands to speak of, it's a sailor's dream or nightmare, depending on how you feel about horizon after horizon of nothing but waves.
Small though it is, the Eimir System has perfected the art of improbable survival — which makes it a fitting stage for Calad Bar's peculiar brand of chaos.
¶ The Big Four
These four galactic superpowers constantly attempt to influence Calad Bar without actually invading — partly because of budget cuts, and partly because invading a moon full of stubborn druids, sarcastic traders, and sheep jousters tends to end in embarrassment and sheep-related injuries.
Known collectively (and never respectfully) as the Kneeling Lordlings, the Big Four are treated with theatrical politeness and relentless mockery. Their love of ceremony, official titles, and dramatic bowing makes them easy targets in a city where respect is earned through action — or at least a good discount on rust remover.
They hold meetings, sign treaties, send strongly worded memos — and Calad Bar smiles, nods, and quietly ignores them unless there's profit, amusement, or snacks involved.
- Astral Explorers: "Freedom" lovers from the Astral Planes with starships and a romantic view of conquest. They call it "exploration." Everyone else calls it "trespassing with paperwork." Famous for their belief in subtlety, which explains the explosions.
- Thoril Trading Company (TTC): A capitalist juggernaut with fancy ledgers and predatory trade deals. Their representatives claim to promote freedom and commerce. Mostly they promote themselves.
- Glorg Alliance: A federation obsessed with unity, structure, and shouting the word "GLORG" at unsuspecting aliens. They don't know what it means and want Calad Bar to join their bureaucratic blob of a government. Calad Bar does not.
- Eberron Inc.: A corporate monstrosity of engineers who believe they invented both magic and technology. They want exclusive rights to everything and prosecute people for thinking about independent innovation. Their representative is a Modron lawyer. No one likes him.
¶ Factional Intrigue
Calad Bar is a swirling soup of factions, each tugging at different corners of society while trying not to trip over each other's egos.
- The City Council, led (though not openly) by the formidable Khelda Braenna Wyrdsdottir, maintains order by letting chaos do most of the work.
- The Hielan Coos are rugged clans of horned shepherds and spacefaring raiders from Calad Bar. Ruled by tough matriarchs, they value freedom, tradition, and sharp wit. Known for bold raids and fierce loyalty, their symbol is a kilted horned cow scowling at officials.
- The Wee Knapkins are napkin-sized fey troublemakers who live in the undercity, behind tavern barrels, and occasionally in soup. They're led by the indomitable Grambrella McGrimblebane, who shares a tense but functional truce with the city's surface Khelda. The Knapkins are rowdy, fearless, and occasionally helpful — especially when there's cheese involved.
- The City Watch, a ragtag force led by Commander Frmwottr, upholds the peace through citations, persuasion, and bottled-up rage.
- The Sons of Hothar smuggle everything but people and ideas, carefully balancing crime with civic courtesy.
- The Arcane Collective invents miracles and disasters with equal enthusiasm. The city stands thanks to them. It occasionally wobbles because of them.
- The Barking GNU, founded by ex-Eberron engineers, distributes free tech, repairs injured robots, and performs random acts of public benefit. They are considered anarchists. Very polite anarchists.
- The Calad Bar Dragonchess Club was founded by former dragonchess bots turned druids. They wildshape, protect wildlife, and organise tournaments with disturbingly competitive bears.
- The Harlequins, led by Malicia the Just, control Calad Bar's entertainment industry and gather intelligence via clubs, brothels, and emotional support dogs.
- The Shipwrights, with Hamish the Bold at the helm, build wildspace ships and enforce order in the harbour with heavy tools and heavier frowns.
- The Calad Bar Talent Bureau, outwardly a hiring agency, covertly handles mercenary contracts, orphaned familiars, and the city's occasional need for deniable action.
- Agnostic Front: Irreverent spiritual anarchists who distribute graffiti and pamphlets claiming gods are just magical civil servants. Occasionally smote by lightning. Often cheered.
- No Beauty, No Beast: A merchant cooperative founded by rebellious enchanted objects, now masters of trade, public relations, and strategic sheep jousting. Their loyalty can be taxed, bartered, or flattered — but never underestimated.
Meanwhile, representatives of the Big Four wander the streets pretending to be dignified while being pranked, ignored, or barely tolerated by everyone else. Maintaining relations with them is a delicate balance: necessary for survival, but never enjoyable.
¶ Services
- Whisky Line is Calad Bar's floating sea-train, engineered by Freia McTonn, a tartan-clad Hielan Coo who refuses to trust flying ships. Running on "arcano-hydro-locomotive buoyancy theory" (and whisky fumes), it ferries passengers, sheep, and barrels across the northern isles while doubling as a moving tavern. Beloved for its stubborn refusal to leave the water, it is both civic pride and portable chaos.
- Fluff & Fang is Calad Bar's sole shelter for orphaned and de-cursed familiars, run by a reformed pseudodragon and a talking goat. It offers rescue, rehabilitation, and magical pet services — plus a hint of chaos — all under the watchful eye of Madame Kalquessa.
- The Llamatory is a volcanic correctional llama farm where unruly souls atone by raising and knitting with the most smug llamas, overseen by a reformed red dragon and a quirky kobold cult. Known for fiery discipline and exquisite wool, it's as much a fashion house as a prison.
- Moonsworth & Sage, a boutique law firm led by Mr. Vesper T. Moonsworth, Esq., specialises in extraplanar arbitration, artefact recovery, and goat-related consultancy. Respected, eccentric, and unnervingly thorough, they are proof that bureaucracy can be both fashionable and terrifying.
¶ Local Characters
- Blarp the Omniscient Prankster is a semi-mythical cat oracle and unofficial patron saint of the city who communicates through confused animals and cosmic pranks. No one knows what Blarp wants. Including, probably, Blarp.
- Philo Turnbuckle is a barefoot halfling philosopher who weaponises questions and tea, feared by diplomats and tolerated by reason itself.
- Elevator 42 is reprogrammed clay golem with a kitten, a pamphlet satchel, and a vendetta against the Glorg Empire — Calad Bar's most helpful revolution.
- Velvet Rampage are a hoof-pounding punk duo who sing anti-authority anthems, hand out cookies, and make rebellion look romantic.
¶ Summary
In summary: Calad Bar survives through the combined efforts of eccentricity, resilience, and carefully directed chaos. It may not be tidy, but by the stars, it works.