Saldon has been called the Isle of Vice, the Wicked Isle, the Isle of Sin and The Decadance. Its innately magical nature, concentration of power and money, and isolation each winter have served to cultivate and strengthen its cultural differences from the rest of the Cognoterre. There is something a little fey, a little wild, and a little wise about all of Saldon's natives, and anyone who lives too long on the island begins to demonstrate the same characteristics. Some scholars point to the island's isolation, its inbreeding. Others point to the island itself, imbued as it is with vortices and avertiis, magical residues and taints of all sorts. Whatever the cause, there is no doubt that Saldonian morality is rather different from the morality of the rest of the Cognoterre.
They say that after the Demon Wars, the dragon-emperor's Aspect felt quite at home on Saldon. They say that the Saldonians felt quite at home with the Aspect. But what they don't say is what happened to the Aspect. Like Saldon's gargoyles, the Aspect vanished from the city's books and records after the Theophany. Some believe he still lives in the labyrinthine back halls of Mynedd Palace. Some believe he lives with the Guildmaster in the Manse on terCaraciel. Some believe he was murdered and divided among Saldon's sorcerors. And some believe there is a fine Aspect-shaped fur rug over the back of the archon's throne. I know this last isn't true; I have seen the throne. There is no fur rug over it.

Captain Abano pulled his coat collar higher as the winds swept cold rain sideways across the cobbled plaza. He stood at the top of the High Lord's Stair, watching the last ship leave the Bay of the Setting Sun.
"Well, Captain. Are you ready for winter?"
The Sword turned and gave Lord Soleil a sour look. The white-haired Saldonian was leaning against the iron gates of his mansion, which looked out over the bay.
"As much as I hate dealing with tourists, at least they're easy to handle, and they keep everyone busy," Abano said.
"But in the winter...," Soleil prompted him.
"In the winter, everyone has too much time on their hands." Abano shook his head, heading down the stairs to the Magnus. "And I could damn well wish they'd find a better hobby than killing each other."
Behind him, Soleil chuckled, watching the ship until it vanished over the horizon.

The Daemon Chain rises two, three storeys above the ocean's surface, a pale, craggy circle of stone and coral thrust from the sea during a great storm generations ago. About a mile off the coast of Saldon, it circles the island like a fence, breaking the worst of the winds and waves. The ridges are narrow, craggy, and sharp, jutting into the air like razor-edged teeth or fractured bone. Seagulls, albatrosses, and other sea birds nest in the ridges and scold ships as they pass. One gap breaks the chain, a narrow arched passage that twists through the chain and leads to the inner sanctum wherein sits the island of Saldon. The gap is called the Black Gate, and during times of war a great, heavy black chain is stretched across it to seal Saldon off from intruders.
Nobody knows how the Daemon Chain was created, although all agree that sorcery was involved. It appeared several generations ago after a violent winter storm swept the island—a storm in which some people claimed dead spirits walked the streets and vortices released unnatural creatures upon the world. But chances are those people are exaggerating—there's nothing unnatural about the Daemon Chain itself. No magical auras, no vortices, no monsters. A few adventurous souls have explored it, entering the narrow, twisting passages that wind through the rocks like wormholes, rising up to the peaks or plunging down underwater. Several of those adventurers never returned. Those who did reported nothing of interest in the passages. If any great worms once lived within the coral-and-stone walls of the Daemon Chain, they are gone now, or remain beneath the water, shunning the dry upper regions of their environment.
Most Saldonians leave the Daemon Chain alone. It provides a home for fish and has increased the haul around the island, pleasing the fisherfolk; it provides a defense against the worst of the winter storms, pleasing the populace at large; and it provides a wall against would-be intruders, pleasing the politicians. If mages and scholars wish to probe deeper into the Daemon Chain's origins, nobody will stop them—but all suggestions that somebody attempt to lower it again have met with firm resistance.

Most Saldonians are human. Other races, it seems, have a hard time acclimating to the island—as, to be sure, do many humans. The climate, the isolation, the political cynicism, the magical residues, the jaded morality, and a multitude of other quirks and oddities about Saldon tend to make other races uncomfortable. A few half-elves have learned to live comfortably on Saldon, and even fewer full elves, but most other races prefer not to spend more than a brief week or two on the island.

The rains pounded through the halls, flooding the floor and making the black avertiis slippery. Portcullis stepped lightly through the water, as always, balanced and in control of himself. He tapped lightly on the heavy oak door that faced a split in the broken wall.
"Yes, yes, Portcullis," the Guildmaster said. Portcullis pushed the door open and stepped inside, shaking slightly. The Guildmaster was pacing back and forth, surrounded by books, maps, and sheets of paper.
"The first storm of winter," Portcullis said, taking a seat by the fire. His eyes never left the pacing Guildmaster, even as he swung his pursuivant's sword over his shoulder and laid it across his lap.
"I know. The last ship left yesterday. Just in time. And the notes are already coming in." The Guildmaster handed one to Portcullis, who wiped his fingers dry on the seat cushion before taking it. The assassin's dark eyebrows rose, an unusual display of emotion from the usually impassive Bahr al'Raml native.
"Do you intend to accept this?" he asked, turning it to look for a seal.
"I don't know. I don't know. What do you think?"
"I think some bottles are better left unopened."
"Could you defend me from the fallout?"
"All four of us together would not be able to defend you," Portcullis said, regretfully. "There are threats we can be no use against."
"I know that," the Guildmaster scowled, still pacing. "I know. But I had to ask. Had to see if you saw anything I didn't. Hell. What a way to start the season. I hate this rain. Is Blue Mantle around?"
"She's in the palace."
"Damn. She won't be back tonight, then. Not unless she walks up. Damn!"
Portcullis finally glanced away, scooting his chair closer to the fire. His wet shirt stuck clammily to his chest, and he shivered.
"I want you and the others to stay alert," the Guildmaster said after a long moment. He paused next to a table, looking down at his map of the city. One finger absently tapped the parchment, making it rattle. "If this is a sign of what's to come, we'll need to stay on our toes. All right?"
Portcullis looked back up at the Guildmaster.
"I'll spread the word."
"Good. Good. Now go. If you see Blue Mantle, tell her to report to me. Don't mention this letter. It's between you and me. Understand?"
"Of course."
"Good."
Portcullis quietly let himself out of the room, leaving the Guildmaster pacing back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome.

Few Saldonians pause to consider it, but the island they live on is as riddled with mines as the Daemon Chain is riddled with wormholes. Saldon began as a mining community, a source of the rare black energy-sucking stone avertiis. By the time the avertiis mines were tapped out, Saldon had already established itself as a pleasure island, and the passages were quietly closed off and forgotten. The only ones who remember the mines now, it seems, are historians, scholars, and smugglers.

Nobody is buried in Saldon. There simply isn't enough land. All bodies are cremated in the city's crematorium. It fires up every third day and burns all night. Fine grey ash rises from its chimneys and is usually swept off by the breezes that criss-cross the island. On still days, though, the ash settles over several blocks of the terrace, and the natives curse and call it deadfall.
The ashes and bone shards are used to enrich Saldon's tiny patch of agrable land. There are persistent rumors that they are also sold to candle- and soapmakers, and perhaps to necromancers, but those are just rumors.

One of the most popular legends of Saldon among tourists concerns the dragon that is said to dwell in the flooded streets of Base Lucerne. The legends say its scales are the color of autumn jewels and its body long, sinuous, and deadly. It is supposed to eat fish and drowned bodies, both of which tend to be plentiful around Saldon. A handful of natives, some quite respectable, will swear to wide-eyed tourists that they have seen it darting through the underwater streets, or rising, briefly, on foggy nights to inspect a lamplit gondala slipping through the canals. Many tourists spend long nights paddling through the canals, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fabled beast. There have never been any reports of it attacking anybody.

A Companion is a common child who is raised side-by-side with an aristocratic child. The Companion is, typically, of the same sex as the aristocrat, but a few years older. The Companion's role is a combination of slave, guardian, and playmate. Most Companions and their owners grow up to become close friends and confidantes, and it is usual for an owner to free his or her Companion during adulthood—often when the owner gets married. The freed Companion is typically given great wealth and accorded high status, so that many of the successful families of Saldon have Companions as their founders. Many families treat the Companions of its members as brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and even fathers and mothers. Although it is rare, there have even been occasions of a Companion marrying into nobility, with minimal stigma attached to the arrangement.
Social scholars argue that Companions teach Saldon's aristocracy responsibility and provide a liasion between noble and commoner that keeps channels of communication open—a necessity on an island as politically charged, stratified, and isolated as Saldon. Although there have been abuses of the Companion-owner relationship, in general the tradition has continued with little discord on either side.

When Saldon was discovered by Candorian sailors, there were already gargoyles living on it. The gargoyles didn't remember—or wouldn't reveal—who had created them, or why, but they welcomed the sailors and aided the first settlers.
What happened to those gargoyles? There are none left in Saldon and no records to show where they went. One by one, they drop off the early annals of the city, until finally there is no mention of them at all. Nobody seems to have noticed or remarked upon their disappearance while they disappeared. Only much later did scholars studying the history of the island pause to wonder what had happened to the first known denizens of the island.
None of the gargoyles of Cislunar have ever admitted to knowing anything about gargoyles on Saldon.

Poverty? Oh, yes, there's poverty on Saldon. But you have to look closely to find it. The median income of Saldon is—well, let's just say it's quite high. Saldon is an adventurer's resort, and its free markets and few laws contribute to a steady flow of visitors—and income—through the island during the summer months. Of course, most of this income goes straight to taxes. Taxes are high in Saldon; all costs of living are high in Saldon. They have to be—the island survives on imports. Tax money maintains the freshwater wells and ensures a stockpile of food and drink enough to last out the isolated winters.
There's no room for idle hands in Saldon. The island simply can't afford to support too much poverty. During the summer the lower classes can usually find plenty of work as laborers on the docks or porters through town. During the winter, though—ah, during the winter. Some able-bodied young men and women leave Saldon, travelling to Cislunar, or Jackscrag, or Candor, in search of winter work. Others rely on their savings and, when the savings run out, live hand-to-mouth, constantly searching for work of any sort to put food on the table. Some become prostitutes. Some sell themselves into slavery. Some are taken as slaves, or simply taken, for whatever malign reasons people have for kidnapping each other. Some resort to crime to survive; and of those, many are killed as criminals. And some, well, some just starve to death.
Sometimes a family can make enough money selling a body to the right buyer to feed itself for the rest of the winter.

There are prisons on Saldon, but it must be understood that those are primarily set up for tourists. It's bad for business to kill tourists, so a tourist who breaks a law is usually imprisoned until a fine is paid or he or she can be put on the next ship off the island.
Native Saldonians seldom see the inside of a Saldonian prison. They are immediately fined, whipped, mutilated, or killed.
Saldon saves a lot of money on upkeep that way.