Update on the Care Package Update

There are some folks who want to contribute money to Operation: Tamalanche (so help me, I am going to make that term stick) but for whatever reason are unable or unwilling to donate through PayPal, and wish to write her a check directly but do not know where to send it.

LET ME INFORM YOU that since folks are mailing goodies to be put into a Care Package, your checks will be right at home there.  Email me (erin DOT palette AT gmail DOT com) and I will send you the mailing address of Tamalanche Headquarters.

Thank you!

Monday Gunday: A Tale of Two Pistols

(It's Monday, right?  Yesterday felt like Sunday. It was a three-day weekend, after all. Close enough for government purposes and all of that.)


So last week, on the Tuesday before the election, I was finally able to get my mom out to the shooting range.  We brought the PMR-30 (this is the last post on this pistol, I promise,) as well as her S&W Bodyguard in .380.

I'm actually going to talk about the Bodyguard first, even though we shot it second.  Mom decided to get this pistol sometime in the summer because, frankly, she's had her heart set on an automatic from the moment we went pistol shopping. Even though she got the Ruger LCR,  it wasn't specifically what she wanted, and mama wants what she wants, so a few months later when she saw the Bodyguard 380 in the store she decided to get it.

I've said this before, but it bears repeating: If you're going to buy a pistol, test fire it first.  Mom didn't do that. Instead, she just fiddled with the demonstration model a bit.

I feel it is important to point out at this time that the Bodyguard is double-action only (meaning that it has no hammer which can be cocked with your thumb). For this reason, it  has a long and heavy trigger pull. It's probably longer and heavier than is mechanically necessary -- I imagine S&W made it "worse" for the sake of safety i.e. they fully expected some folks to literally drop a loaded gun into their pockets without putting it in a holster first. With a long and heavy pull, it becomes difficult (though not impossible) to accidentally shoot yourself while you're un-pocketing the pistol.

Having said this, it should come as no surprise to anyone that, when it came time to shoot it, mom was unable to pull the trigger. Just completely unable. We're talking trigger constipation here: lots of straining and squeezing and grunts of effort, but nothing budging.

Did I mention that mom has been carrying this as her self-defense pistol? Lesson #2 (pun not intended): If you're going to carry it for self-defense, make sure you shoot it before you start carrying it.

I was able to pull the trigger, however. Recoil was... well, recoil was categorically NOT "brisk but manageable". Recoil was more like "Getting hit repeatedly in the webbing between thumb and forefinger by a police baton with only slightly less force needed to create a bruise."

In other words, GODDAMN THAT HURTS.

Before you ask: No, I don't know the grain weight of what I shot. The bullets are back in mom's room and she's taking a nap right now. They're whatever standard grain that round nose FMJ .380 cartridges have. Doesn't matter, because FUCKING OUCH.

No, seriously. I have shot larger bullets (150gr) out of .38 revolvers that hurt less than this little .380 did, and that's with a semi-auto action to absorb some of the recoil. I after the first magazine I had to put on a driving glove just so I could have some padding between the pistol and my poor hand.

In short, I would not recommend the S&W Bodyguard 380 as a self-defense pistol for little old ladies. I wouldn't recommend it for young ladies either, unless they have extraordinarily tough hands.

That said, I did pretty okay with it at seven yards:

That's about 24 rounds, or 6 magazines' worth. Yes, I know I am all over the damn place. Part of that is due to OMG TRIGGERPULL. The other part of it -- and yes, I realize this sounds like I am making excuses for bad technique -- is that it honestly seemed like the sights did not line up with the Point of Impact. I mean, when I have the pistol straight out in front of me and bullets are hitting several inches to the right of my point of aim, something just feels off, you know?  I will admit that I probably don't have the best technique, but the dang gun just felt wonky.

Now let's compare that with the PMR-30.  As I've said before, mom has arthritis in her hands -- one reason she couldn't pull the trigger on the Bodyguard -- but when she picked up the PMR, she had zero difficulty shooting it.

No trouble. At all. And she shot the entire 30-round magazine, which is unusual because normally she needs to take a break in order to let her hands rest and regain their strength.

Again:  She shot the entire magazine without trouble, without flinching, and with no mechanical difficulties other than forgetting to disengage the thumb safety.

This is how she did, using 40gr CCI Maxi-Mag at 7 yards:

I'd like to point out once again that the keyholing problem seems to have disappeared. I am going to attribute that to "breaking in" the barrel.

Her thoughts:

• The trigger is very easy and comfortable to use. 
• Lack of recoil means she doesn't dread pulling the trigger (this means she doesn't flinch when shooting, and therefore her aim is better).
• She likes how light it is. 
• She likes the bright fiber-optic sights, although there was some problem with the rear orange sights fading into the orange of the high-visibility target.
• She likes that is looks more like a "proper" gun, and is therefore "more intimidating". 
• She likes the "nearly bottomless" magazine. 
• She LOVES that it's ambidextrous. 

To put it another way:  After we got home, mom took the Bodyguard out of her bag and replaced it with the PMR. Then she handed me her credit card and said "Buy it from Kel-Tec."  So I did.

I honestly can't think of any praise higher than "This is the gun I would give my mother to use for self-defense."

About the worst thing I can think to say about the PMR-30 is that it's a pain to disassemble for cleaning.


Disclaimer: Kel-Tec sent me the PMR-30 to test and evaluate for 90 days. When we chose to buy it, we were able to do so at a reduced rate. Kel-Tec did not pay me to write these reviews, nor did they give me anything in return for them. 

Operation: Tamalanche

If you're a gunnie or a regular reader of this blog, you are aware that someone I know and admire has been diagnosed with basal cell carcinoma and that we in the gun-blog-o-sphere have rallied around her in a flurry of fundraising that I like to call Operation: Tamalanche.

Can the rest of you start calling it that, too? I think that name has a nifty ring to it.

Anyway, despite the fact that all the awesome raffles have been getting the lion's share of the attention, I've already heard from six folks who want to contribute to the Care Package. I'm not sure if I should start naming names -- some folks may want to remain safely anonymous (if you want to be publicly recognized, let me know in comments or email) -- but this means that our goodie bag has already tripled in volume.

Since plenty of folks have been emailing me with questions like "What can I contribute?" and "Where should I send it?" and "Which great opponent of Cartesian dualism resists the reduction of psychological phenomena to a physical state and insists there is no point of contact between the extended and the unextended?", I figured I would just make a blog post about it rather than keep answering all these questions over email.


1) The goal of this package is to raise her morale and make her smile. Therefore, I suggest you donate one of the following:

• Something savory. I'm told that Tam likes meat and things which are salty. If you go this route, make sure it ships well and isn't going to go bad in a few days. 
• Something silly. A toy, a stuffed animal, something that references a joke you two may have shared. It doesn't need to have any practical value -- if it makes her laugh or smile, then mission accomplished. 
• Something fun.  Tam loves books, so get her something from her Amazon wishlist. Alternately, pick up a trashy adventure novel in the Mack Bolan vein; I'm pretty sure they're more her thing than a Harlequin Romance. (Although truth be told, I am sorely tempted to buy her a trashy novel about a time-travelling viking who becomes a Navy SEAL, just for the sheer WTF-ness. If you do something like this, you've just got to let me know!)
• If you've got no clue, then email Brigid or Roberta X asking for ideas. I'm sure they can think of something. 

2)  The_Jack is going to be our Point of Contact, since he lives in the same city as Tam. He has requested that his physical address not be posted across the internet, but if you email me (erin DOT palette AT gmail DOT com) requesting it, I'll get it to you within a day. 

3) Henri Bergson.

And if you do end up contributing to this care package,  it will increase your chances of winning the handgonne auction that is being run by The_Jack. Everyone wants a 50 caliber firearm with no moving parts, don't they?

NCsoft's stocks nosedive like lemmings off a cliff

Oh, look, their stocks are auguring into the ground:

At this rate, how long before they've lost so much they will need to start selling off IP in order to staunch the hemorrhaging? Or the stockholders call for a vote of No Confidence in the CEO?

Oh NCsoft, it couldn't have happened to a nicer company.

... you find someone to carry you.

So as it turns out, Tamara -- the Goddess of Snark and, as far as I'm concerned, the Grand Aunt of the gunnie world -- has basal cell carcinoma.  To say that this has put a damper on her spirits is a bit of an understatement.

Now, I am personally of the opinion that picking a fight with Tamara Keel is somewhere between "Getting involed in a land war in Asia" and "Going against a Sicilian when death is on the line," i.e. cancer is going to have its ass handed to it so thoroughly it will never be able to sit again, but she is still somewhat rattled by all this.

Some other bloggers have suggested you go to Tam's blog and donate a few bucks to help with the surgery. I think that's a great plan, and if you decide to do that you're an awesome person. In fact, I plan to donate some myself.

As it turns out, some other awesome folks are sweetening the deal:  if you donate to Tam, send a screenshot of your receipt (or forward them the email) and for every $5 you donate you'll get a raffle ticket in drawings for cool stuff:  two gorgeous holsters and two sets of pistol grips. I don't think there's anything unethical about donating, and then entering in both raffles.


However --  I have a slightly less orthodox plan in motion.

As recently as last night, I was conspiring with Brigid and The_Jack to create a Care Package for Tam. The exact details of what we are including are Top Secret (because we are doing something silly for the lulz, you see), but that doesn't mean people can't get in on this as well.

If you are interested in contributing to a morale-boosting care package, email me (erin DOT palette AT gmail DOT com) and I will give you the details of the how and the where and the what.

Tam can't crawl right now. Let's help carry her for a bit.

Pellatarrum: Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

A guest post by Jon "Kaptain Von" Garrad

And the people -ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls...
-- Edgar Allen Poe, 'The Bells'


Unlike true undead, a ghoul is not a walking, mindless extension of the Negative Material Plane, nor does it have the luxury of being animated by an elemental force that lends it some sense of rationale or rhyme or reason. The ghoul is a petty tragedy, borne of desperation; it would warrant pity, were it not morbidity that walks on two legs. To face a ghoul in combat is to put its out of its misery -- but it will not go willingly, for it has so often been driven to its existence out of an absolute longing to defy death.


BIRTH OF A GHOUL
A ghoul is born when, out of desperate need, a member of a servitor or half race [1] descends to the depths of eating the dead flesh of a humanoid race (their own race or another) and fails to rise again. Once is not enough -- a brief foray into cannibalism is unwholesome but not a damning failure. Repeating that foray again and again, though, causes a change to begin. Negative energy begins to saturate their degenerate bodies; if wounded, they do not heal true. The flesh of their extremities begins to suppurate and leak 'ghoul sweat', the noxious pus that lends them their crippling touch. Teeth and nails become thicker and stronger, all the better for rending tough, preserved flesh and cracking old bones. Worse, the mind begins to crumble; the hunger that drove the developing ghoul to commit its vile acts grows stronger and stronger. No matter how much they eat, their wounds do not heal and the growling of their insides is never silenced. No other food even comes close to sustaining them, even if any is offered or available. Eventually, the ghoul's system becomes so clogged with stifling negativity and indigestible flesh that they have, to all intents and purposes, eaten themselves to death.

The resulting undead creatures are grotesque, deformed humanoids that slink and snarl in graveyards, on the fringes of battlefields, in pestilence-ridden ghettos and in the wake of travelling caravans. Hunched and withered, they're as likely to crawl on four legs as walk on two, and almost all have missing chunks of flesh, appendages absent without leave, or broken, never-healed limbs. Their poor condition and inability to take entirely proper care of themselves makes them short-lived; the lucky and the clever and the careful among them can endure for up to a decade, but most last less than half as long.

Often, adventurers stumble on the lone survivor of some failed expedition, squatting among their former colleagues with a ragged chunk of thigh pressed to their rotting lips, and in disgust they put the creature out of its misery, thinking it to be the monster that attacked, overcame and devoured the expedition.

Those ghouls who degenerate together are more fortunate, in a way. For one, only another ghoul quite understands a ghoul's experiences. For two, the company of others helps them maintain some sense of sentience. They are still driven quite, quite mad by the negative energy poisoning every part of them, but if a whole community has taken this last, desperate step together, there is no-one left to cast the ghouls out and let loneliness finish the job. Instead, they watch each other's backs, lead each other to sources of food, patch up each other's injuries as best they can with their clumsy, crumbling, soggy fingers, and most importantly of all, they act as constant reminders of one another's past lives.


PACKS AND COLONIES
Ghoul packs have a sort of collective memory -- the more ghouls there are in a particular place, the more reminders there are of their old life, and consequently the more skills and knowledge from that life they maintain. In places where long sieges, years of famine, or particularly vile diseases have driven entire cities to take their first step down the path that ends in ghouldom, those cities are still standing, repaired in a slipshod kind of way by their new inhabitants, who raid and trade nearby settlements for what they cannot build themselves -- and for corpses as well.

The prospect of a city’s population descending into ghoulery makes siege by starvation a rare thing in Pellatarrum. Condemned by the Church of Light, it tends to make the city somewhat less than desirable. It’s all very well conquering a territory, but if that territory is a decrepit hellhole infested by poison-fingered cannibals, who’d want it?

More common than the siege is the creeping descent of a city that starves by degrees. Perhaps there is a run of bad harvests, or a pestilence among the livestock, or both in succession. Perhaps there is a flood, and the city is cut off for a season or two. Sooner or later, someone gets desperate, and the idea spreads as surviving by any other means becomes less and less likely. To these instances the Church of Light responds with world-scouring fury, and the cities seldom stand for long once the required forces have been amassed.

While whole cities of ghouls are mercifully rare, there are ghoul colonies in many cities that remain otherwise vibrant. The dispossessed often gravitate to graveyards, turning to a diet of carcasses to supplement or stand in for theft or begging, and fail to turn away again. The ghouls in these colonies are used to watching over one another; they post watchers and arrange bolt-holes, first out of conscious choice and later, as they degenerate, out of unconscious habit. They are excellent at avoiding detection, know their territories inside-out, have hunters’ instincts for skirmish tactics, and are in short very difficult to dislodge once they've settled in. Many cities turn to professional hunter-killer types to winnow their ghoul colonies, and it tends to be these colonies that are encountered by urban adventurers.

Similar colonies sometimes exist in dungeons -- the remnants of adventuring parties who have become cut off from supplied and forced to subsist off their kills. These ghouls are fewer in number, but are alarmingly competent -- the harsh environments in which they dwell force them to retain a great deal of their old know-how and capability, and they were often dangerous individuals even before the change took them. [2]

GHASTS
What a ghoul does out of necessity, a ghast does out of choice. A cannibal of the lower or servitor races who embraces their hunger wilfully, rather than resorting to it out of desperation, accelerates their degeneration and becomes something far more than just another rot-fingered corpse-muncher. Owing to the sheer amount of negative energy that pools clammily in them, ghasts have a far more dangerous touch that paralyses victims for longer; they emit a dreadful stench as their flesh begins to slough off them; and they carry with them the corrosive power of the Negative Plane.

Where a ghast walks, decay follows; prolonged exposure to the ghast brings a creeping decomposition [3]. Vegetation rots, metal rusts, structures fall apart -- and those ghoul packs with a ghast or two among their number become feral, bold and dangerous, their shared memories and physical forms eroded by the presence of the ghast. They are short-lived, decomposing rapidly, but their brief lives are spent rampaging with ravenous hunger, overrunning small or vulnerable settlements and crashing upon the walls of larger ones. [4]

Fortunately, both mind and memory decay much faster than in the reluctant and resistant ghouls, and so ghasts are short-lived. Their carcasses could well last for up to a year, but they are almost always slain beforehand; after all, their very presence draws attention to them, and they tend to revel in spreading their influence.

Notwithstanding the occasional lunatic (who embraces their state gleefully) or the accidental cannibal who devours too much, too fast, most ghasts are made rather than born. Necromancers frequently encourage their most fanatical devotees into cannibalism in order to transform them into ghasts, acquiring not just a powerful shock trooper, but a walking embodiment of corrosive principles. A ghast’s effects on their surroundings make them poor defenders, but they can be let loose among a necromancer’s enemies singly, as a distraction or a force of terror -- and if said cultist should decide to unleash a protracted campaign against some enemy, a whole pack of ghasts could be created, and their noxious energies expended en masse.

Further Reading

• For more information on undead, go here. 
• For information on how the Church of the Light deals with undead, go here. 
• For information on the Cult of the Dark, go here. 

Footnotes
[1] For some reason -- whether it be hard-coded into the reality of Pellatarrum, or their stronger elemental connections -- the elder races are not susceptible to becoming ghouls. This does not make them immune to the attacks of ghouls, however.

[2] In this case, give these ghouls class levels as appropriate. Alternately, this unofficial template may be applied.

[3] These effects are not fast enough to be effective in combat. Should it become necessary to adjudicate the entropic effects of ghast decay upon an object, a good rule of thumb is have the item’s Hardness be reduced by the ghast’s Hit Dice per day of exposure. Once Hardness is reduced to zero, damage is applied to any remaining Hit Points. 

[4] Treat this effect as the Bard Inspire Courage feat, with the ghast’s CR rating used in place of Bard levels and the ghast’s stench as the “performance.”

Return to Broken River

Broken River:

Halflings

by Mike (Rhishisikk) Kochis

Background
This series of articles was begun almost a year ago when I was making half as much (and had almost three times the spare time). With the persistence of Pinkie Pie, Erin has asked when the next release is coming out. I know I promised a look at religious matters, but the truth is those haven't gelled enough. So -

Foreign Diplomats in Broken River: Halflings
As noted earlier, halflings own substantial agricultural lands to the west of Broken River. Their main exports are foodstuffs and textiles (especially children's clothes); their main imports are salt (and other spices), metal goods, and artwork.

The  “Diplomat Bakery and Brewery” (Managed by the Stubb family) is an eatery that serves luxury food. It also creates upper-end confections (cakes, eclairs, and other complex dishes) as well as a selection of fine ales ales. For simple things, like pretzels, bulk cookies, and beer, they just order from nearby human businesses. When the halflings want to discuss something with their human neighbors, the mayor gets a “free meal” coupon.

The Diplomat is located in the west (rich) side of town, just two blocks inside the west road gate. It is almost obnoxiously close to the guardhouse serving the gate, and offers special rates for guards just before and just after their shifts. The Stubb daughters (with guards in tow, later) sometimes take “surplus” food to the guards on duty at the gate or to the guardhouse proper. Although the Diplomat doesn't make deliveries to the “noble” households, servants of said households will often be seen making journeys to the Diplomat, and returning with food. (The Diplomat sells finished foods; those households that make their own foodstuffs get the ingredients from the normal farmer's market.)

There is no official “diplomat” in the sense that humans think about it. Either of the Stubbs parents or their eldest three children (depending upon which of them the issue was brought to) will just happen to mention an issue to their guest, and if they may be so bold, suggest how to resolve the little problem.

Incidentally:  Don't attempt to force yourself on the Stubb daughters. When the town watch started looking for the last offender, it took two weeks to finish finding bits of him. None of the pieces had any evidence indicating the Diplomat or the Stubbs. (But, as we already know, the better divination magics are just not available in Broken River.)


The Peddlers
There is a courtyard in front of the Diplomat. Usually, it's noodle vendors or a single merchant trying to sell elven silk or some other luxury. But every so often (and usually for only a few days a month), something special comes though: one of the town's few magic items, for example, or a map showing the location of a lost treasure.

Everybody wins: The town gets a few silver pieces a day, and gets to keep the “ritzy and snobbish” out of the farmer's market; the merchants get to go to an area where townsfolk will expect their upscale wares; and The Diplomat gets to remain the town's most exotic locale.

If you want a masterwork or exotic weapon, this is the place to look. A rare book, potions or scrolls? Sure, you could get those things at the Sow's Ear. But if you want to be certain that it's legal, you want to get it from here.

(Note: Conversely, this is absolutely not the place to barter poisons and the like.)

The Stubb Family
Oliver Stubb (Commoner 2): The patriarch of the Stubb family, and legally the owner of the Diplomat, Oliver keeps himself busy tending tables and telling tall tales. He would certainly never compete with his daughter behind the bar, although he's not above refilling a mug or glass. He's just happy making sure others are happy, and doesn't bother actually taking charge of the place. Every business needs a social front man, and for the Diplomat, it's Oliver.

Myranthakal (Mira) Stubb (Witch [Wisdom] 2): The actual decision maker of the Diplomat, although she caters to her husband's needs. The business keeps her busy enough that she rarely tends to her cat, Squirrel Shadow (who is quite happy curling up on anyone's lap and demanding snuggles). She doesn't advertise being an arcane caster, but is almost always willing to buy or sell scrolls.

Laura Stubb (Commoner 1): Many mistake Laura for a beginning bard, because of her flair behind the bar (Perform [bartender] skill) and willingness to discuss anything at length. She always claims to be romantically attracted only to “her man”, who is unavailable to her, but is more than willing to conspire with others in matters of the heart.

Arthur Stubb (Com 1): Many think that because Mira is never seen that she slaves away in the kitchen all day. This couldn't be farther from the truth. The kitchen “slave” is Arthur, the family chef. Arthur puts in twelve to sixteen hours a day baking and cooking, and he loves it.

Cora Stubb (Adept 1): The family “bard”, specializing in illusions, and apple of her mother's eye, Cora proudly shows off her magical talents. She refrains from participating in the contests at the Diplomat (see below) so that she can serve as a judge. She has been actively trying to get a theater started in the town since she was twelve, and shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

The Staff
As one would expect, the staff of the Diplomat work around the clock. They are made up mostly of commoners. This doesn't mean that they shouldn't be as detailed and “real” as the Stubb family, merely that they do so without the benefit of special classes.

Mr. Jasper (Com 2): Whenever one of the family isn't awake, Mr. Jasper is.  Mr. Jasper is part bartender, part manager, part chef, and all Diplomat. He may not have been born inside the Diplomat, but he fully intends to work here until the day he dies.

The Brothers Guthrie (Com 1): Clad in leather armor and carrying sword and shield, these “warriors” serve as bouncers at the Diplomat, and both will be escorting any Stubb daughter outside the Diplomat's walls. Either of them will brag about how they earn more than the town guard, and get better meals as well.


Plot Threads to Draw PCs to the Diplomat

• Alchemist: Need that one rare plant? The salt works isn't likely to have it – at least not at a reasonable price. Maybe someone at the Diplomat has one? And maybe they need that slightly sticky mess you made when you failed to make that Tanglefoot bag? One can hope, of course...
• Bard: The Diplomat hosts monthly storytelling contests and seasonal music contests. The Diplomat also has a reputation for being where you can find those oddities, like a +1 dagger of rabbit slaying, or a self-heating mug. Travelers from all walks of life bring their stories here.
• Barbarian: Other bars are better for rowdy or uncouth behavior, but if you want to get free drinks in exchange for your latest battle story (without the risk of having to prove it with a duel with the orcs), this is the place to bring your bragging.
• Cavalier: If you want to enjoy the finer things in life without spending too much time with one local noble family or another, this is the place to remain out of town politics. If you are involved with local family politics, this is one of the places to show the family banner.
• Cleric: Want to engage in a debate on ethics (or anything else)? Ask if anyone else has seen that weird holy symbol you found in those ruins? Or just celebrate with that Imperial dish that nobody else can make properly out here on the fringes of society? Besides, where else are you going to experience so much of life?
• Druid: It's no surprise that the agricultural halflings have a working druid circle. Haven't earned your way into the hearts of the outriders (halfling border guard) yet? This is the place to make contact with other druids, some of whom may be seeking training in the halfling farmlands.
• Fighter: Other bars may be more militant, but this one is friendly. And safe. And it feels like home. Want a break from the razor's edge of danger the Sow's Ear presents? Rooms here aren't cheap, but they are safe, clean, and cozy. 
• Inquisitor: The bars of Broken River are full of information. If you want rumors from outside the township, this is the place for it. Besides, there is no place where life is celebrated like at the Diplomat. After a long day or night staring into the abyss of darkness, a short break here can restore your faith in the Light.
• Monk: Just because YOU live a life of ascetic simplicity doesn't mean you want those around you to be miserable with the simple comforts you enjoy. The Diplomat offers an enjoyable experience for you and your friends. Besides, where else can you find people willing to talk about the differences between different types of tea or the fine details of gardening?
• Oracle: Want to hang out in a crowd where people don't seem to care that you're different? The atmosphere of the Diplomat may be just what you need. Besides, exposure to all of the exotic travelers may spark an “interesting” vision that you need to have.
• Paladin: Need a break from people begging you to lay hands on them? Just ten minutes without being asked to climb a tree and rescue a cat? Somewhere that crinkle-faced old lady won't ask why you do something about those beggars? When you need to take in some solace instead of handing it out, the Diplomat is the place to gather it.
• Ranger: Want to brush up on what beasties are where? Travelers along all roads (as well as some river traffic) end up here. Also, if you want to meet up with a caravan and hire on as a guard, this is the best place in town.
• Rogue: Want to trade trap bits? Quietly buy a set of dental tools that just happen to include picks that just happen to be good for lockwork? Show off your skills of legerdemain as a magic show? This is the place for you. However, the staff frowns on con games (including “unfair” gambling) and has no tolerance for outright thievery. None. (Ask your GM whether that means you're turned right over to the watch or whether you get to join the other handless beggars down by the docks.)
• Sorcerer: Is it just the WRONG season for you? The Diplomat has underground rooms, safe from exposure to those elements that might drain your magical reserves. And, if you just don't want to hang out with The Four (the town's sorcerers; more on them in another article), this is the place to hang out, whether to avoid people asking why your hair is always on fire or to avoid people asking why your hair ISN'T always on fire.
• Summoner: Does your eidolon have a taste for apple butter? Need to get the straps on your exotic saddle fixed? Where will you find a smith willing to make those metal claw-covers they need? Well, the Diplomat is a good place to start.
• Witch: The Diplomat is pet friendly (as long as your pet isn't a squirrel with an aversion to black cats), and probably has all kinds of exotic things available. The Diplomat is welcome to all, and Mira is always willing to discuss arcane matters.
• Wizard: Tired of those old men hiding enigmatically in the corners? Hah! The corners are all well lit here. Besides, where else are you going to be able to discuss ALL of your knowledge skills in one night?

Plot Threads For the Diplomat Staff

• Many other inns would love to have Arthur's recipe book. Or to dig up dirt on his life that would give them the ability to blackmail him into working for them. For his part, Arthur isn't above hiring adventurers into getting rare spices, meats, plants, etc. that just aren't available from “home” or the farmer's market.
• Who is Laura's “man”? Is it one of the halfling merchants? Some farmer bumpkin who ignores her subtle hints? Is she secretly of the Dark, because they offer her the option of celibacy? Laura is a starting point for several romantic adventures and misadventures that can occur in Broken River.
• Mira Stubb just doesn't have time to locate all the potential covens, search all the ruins, or any of the other things she feels compelled to do by her magics. Fortunately, she has access to a small cash flow, at least enough to hire some adventurers...

Relations With Others

• As noted, the Diplomat has good relations with all the 'local' nobles, and with the local guardhouse. They are also liked by the Church of Light; if only they would allow sex in the common room instead of discrete back alcoves... 
• The Cult of the Dark also likes the Diplomat – where else can you exchange parcels and words across social classes without risk of raising an eyebrow? In particular, Scott Trask (not known to be a member) likes meeting with his brothers Antoine and Harker in places with multiple witnesses.
• The wood elves like the bustling chaos of the Diplomat, which means the sea elves refuse to dine there. Copperbeard Jaegra (of the Dwarven Trade Consulate) doesn't really enjoy the festive mood, although her staff (the gnomes) are sometimes found here.
• Orcs don't particularly like the atmosphere, but they appreciate the artistry of which the chef is capable. It isn't uncommon for a challenge to be delivered in a form similar to Iron Chef (“We desire a four-course meal made for a family of six. All dishes must include – SHRIMP!”). For his part, Arthur looks forward to these challenges.
• If either of the dragons has interests other than keeping their non-kobold agents welcome here, nobody knows it. For the same reasons the PCs might want to hang out here, it is almost guaranteed each dragon is at least keeping tabs on happenings at the Diplomat.
• The alchemists pinch their pennies – the Diplomat is more expensive than they like.
• Although the Diplomat caters to the rich, it has a love/hate relationship with the poor. Poor folks like complaining about the excesses of the Diplomat, which won't keep the family from dressing up for holidays and having a “fine meal”. The poor in need tend to go bother Harker Trask or other eating establishments rather than wait here for surplus food.

Afterward
This was supposed to be an article on all of the diplomats of Broken River. Gladly, the
Diplomat emerged as an article in its own right. I look forward to the other embassies also having their own articles. [Me too! -- Erin.]