A Guide to the Realms: Adventure to Shelligan
Ah, Shelligan! Of all the corners of the world I’ve visited, few cling to the memory as stubbornly as this sea-kissed land. The very air seems steeped in salt and song, and every stone tells a story if you’ve the patience to listen. The folk here are hardy, shaped by gales and tides, yet they welcome strangers as if they’ve been neighbors all along. You’ll find little separation between land and water in Shelligan—each shapes the other, just as surely as Shelligan shapes all who call it home.
I’ve taken notes on the scents and sensations of this remarkable region, each tied to a candle that captures the spirit of Shelligan. May these musings guide you, should you ever wander this way.
The landscapes of Shelligan
Shelligan is a place where land and sea seem to wrestle endlessly, leaving behind a country both rugged and breathtaking. The moors stretch wide and windswept, painted in purples and golds when the heather blooms, and alive with the chatter of small birds that nest among the gorse. Mists roll across the hills with little warning, softening the world to a blur of shadow and color until even a seasoned traveler can feel delightfully adrift.
The cliffs are Shelligan’s proudest guardians, towering walls of stone where seabirds wheel and cry, their nests clinging to ledges high above the crashing surf. From their heights, the ocean sprawls out like a living map, waves glittering in sunlight or foaming white beneath storms. Below, tidepools gleam like treasure chests, brimming with darting crabs and swaying weeds.
And yet, for all its wildness, Shelligan offers gentler scenes as well: quiet meadows tucked inland where sheep graze peacefully, and pebble beaches where the sea sighs more than it roars. To walk this land is to know resilience, beauty, and the endless pull of horizons, each step carrying the promise of discovery.
The candles inspired by adventures in Shelligan
You can enjoy the richness of Shelligan right from your own hearth (where it’s probably much warmer and drier). These Cantrip Candles were inspired by this beautiful landscape, and I daresay they do a fine job of replicating the spirit of Shelligan.
Black Hound Tavern
Taverns are the lifeblood of Shelligan, and none beats stronger than the Black Hound. Its sign sways over the harbor road, a familiar beacon to sailors and farmers alike. Inside, one is greeted by the mingled smells of stout ale, salted meat, and the worn leather of old sea-boots. I confess, I stayed longer than I meant to, swept up in card games and boisterous song. This candle, warm with whisky and firewood, will have you swearing you hear laughter echoing down the hall and a fiddler tuning up in the corner.
Brinewater Tides
Step along Shelligan’s rocky shoreline at low tide, and you’ll understand why the sea here is spoken of as if it’s alive. The air is bracing, heavy with salt and kelp, with the occasional sting of spray when a wave crashes too boldly against the rocks. It is not always a gentle sea, but it is an honest one. Brinewater Tides captures this ferocity and freshness both: a tidepool in a jar, wild and invigorating. Breathe it in and you may feel your hair grow damp with mist.
Newfound Shores
Few things stir the heart quite like sighting land after weeks aboard ship. I once sailed with a trader’s crew, and when Shelligan’s hills rose green from the horizon, there was not a dry eye among us. Newfound Shores carries that sense of renewal—brisk air filled with salt and meadow-green hope. It is a candle of beginnings, of opportunities waiting just over the horizon. I light it whenever I set quill to fresh parchment, for it feels as though the world itself leans forward, eager for the first word.
Cairn, the God of Crossroads
I once lost myself in the moors of Shelligan, where the heather grows thick as carpets and the mist rolls in so dense it swallows the world whole. For hours I wandered, the path vanishing beneath my boots, until weariness settled into my bones. It was then I spied a figure at the fork of two worn tracks: a kindly man with a weathered staff, a hound at his heel, and eyes that seemed older than the hills.
He said little, only pressed a tin cup into my hands—strong scotch that burned and warmed in equal measure—and offered his pipe, fragrant with rich tobacco. The smoke curled upward, softening the weight of my worry, while the sweet scent of nearby heather reminded me I was not as far gone as I feared. When I looked up again, the path before me was clear, and the man was gone.
This candle holds that memory close: scotch, pipeweed, and heather, woven together like a gentle hand upon your shoulder when you need it most.
Shop Cairn, God of Crossroads →
Osric’s advice to adventurers
If you should ever find yourself wandering the shores of Shelligan, a few notes may spare you some trouble (and perhaps earn you a tale worth retelling).
Mind the tides. The coastline is riddled with hidden coves and sea caves that beg exploration, but the ocean is a greedy keeper of secrets. Always watch the waterline and never linger too long where the rocks glisten.
Pack a stout cloak. Shelligan’s weather changes its mind faster than a gambler with poor dice. A morning of sunshine can sour into a gale by noon. Best to be prepared, lest you find yourself damp and miserable.
Learn a song or two. Nothing wins you favor in a Shelligan tavern faster than knowing the chorus of a shanty. Even if you’ve no voice for singing, clap along! It’s poor manners to sit quiet when the whole room roars with mirth.
Keep an eye on the gulls. They’re cleverer than they look, and more than once I’ve seen a sailor lose his lunch to a daring dive. Best to eat with your back to a wall or under a tavern eave.
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And so, dear traveler, I leave you with the salt still on my lips and the cry of gulls echoing in my ears. Shelligan is a land that lingers—its taverns, its cliffs, its moors—all etched into memory like lines upon old parchment. Should you wish to taste a piece of it yourself, I can think of no finer way than through a flame.
Light a Cantrip Candle and let Shelligan’s spirit find you, wherever your own road may lead.
Until the next journey,
Osric O’Malley
