The Port de Vour is an unpleasant piece of sinking earth, maintaining regular trade with the nearby city, and by regular, one means timely, but irregular relations otherwise, and by irregular, one comes to mean, none at all. Save in matters which cannot be otherwise avoided or done “in house” as it were, the people of Port de Vour keep to themselves. Even in those rare instances in which they leave their marshy holes, they are a taciturn race. Of a group of five or ten, and such numbers are nearly unknown outside of Port de Vour, only one of them will speak with us outsiders. They will not even be heard to mumble among themselves when in such “public” arenas.
I spent some time in Port de Vour once. I gathered to myself no friends nor made so much as an acquaintance. Some would talk, but only in answer to certain direct questions. In all, there is nothing I can say about the place which is pleasant. Even the sea air, which I am liable to romance due to my early childhood, struck me as dirty and unfit to breathe. There is always, it seems, over Port de Vour, a hazy atmosphere, not quite fog like, a miasma of sorts, the foul odor of which is reminiscent of corruption.
There is a single public house, and the manners of its host, though rude by any other standard, is at least not as insufferable as the rest of those denizens. It is kept, mostly, for sea traders, though they do not stay in port long, and, unless ignorant, will choose to remain aboard their ships and not step one foot upon that land which many a sailor will tell you is accursed.
[Author’s note: As many will realize, this is very heavily based on another fictitious, coastal town.]
Tale Told 