Medieval towns often grew around a central point for several reasons, primarily because important structures such as a castle or church were the centre of communal activities. The need for communication was greatest for these places, while residents wanted to easily access key amenities like markets, courts and counting houses. The feasibility of foot travel produced a considerable impediment to urban spread. Carts and animals couldn't be stored while attending to daily business, even by the rich, since it wasn't safe to leave even a guarded animal in the streets. The limited range of foot travel constrained the reach of merchants, artisans and farmers, impacting trade and economic growth. Transporting goods by hand was inefficient and physically taxing, making it difficult for merchants to transport merchandise to market and for residents to procure essentials like firewood and food supplies. Additionally, foot traffic alone could lead to wear and tear on streets and pathways, often made of poor materials, especially in inclement weather. This posed hazards to pedestrians as well. And without modern waste management systems, the disposal of waste in medieval towns was a challenge, though tropes about streets serving as open drains or dumping grounds are almost certainly false, the invention of 18th and 19th century scholars.
Consider this from the party's viewpoint: traffic in the town isn't comprised of leisurely shoppers or individuals with ample time on their hands. Instead, much of the populace spends considerable time shuttling back and forth, laboriously carrying heavy loads or waiting impatiently at various locales to fulfill their daily needs. For instance, at daybreak, crowds gather at the creamery to collect milk, only to disperse gradually over the span of half an hour as they are served. Similar scenes unfold at neighborhood wells or locations recently replenished with recently arrived essentials such as lamp oil, soap or remedies, particularly during times of outbreaks or heightened need.
The appearance of beer in October attracts considerable attention. As the autumn season sets in, anticipation builds among the townsfolk for the annual delivery of this beloved beverage. When the first barrels of freshly brewed beer arrive, it signals the beginning of festive celebrations and jovial gatherings. Crowds eagerly gather at the brewery or designated distribution points, eager to partake in the communal enjoyment of this cherished libation. The aroma of hops and malt fills the air, mingling with the laughter and chatter of the townspeople as they raise their tankards in toast to another year of camaraderie and merriment. Like events occur with the pressing of wine. In both cases, such beverages could not be kept from year to year, and so there were always times of the year when no beer or no wine could be had, and what there was tasted terrible.
Visualise this against the way a town was laid out. Medieval towns accumulated step by step, with individually built houses emerging gradually over time, around the forementioned centre. As the population increased and the need for housing grew, individuals would start to build their homes on the outskirts of this central area, typically following the natural contours of the land. There was no plan, no logic; no potential existed for flattening land or imposing strict grid patterns like modern city planners do. Instead, individuals worked with the natural landscape, adapting their construction to fit the terrain. This meant that streets often meandered around hills, followed the curves of rivers, or skirted around rocky outcrops. Moreover, there wasn't a unified architectural style or predetermined layout for the entire town. This resulted in a more organic development where buildings were placed according to the available space and the preferences of their owners.
As such, streets would end in narrow stairways that went up a hill, where they might join with another throughway or into a court of houses in a haphazard circle. Roofs might be joined with bridges, used by the local residents to avoid setting foot on the street to visit their neighbours, but which are unavailable to the public. Because buildings would be positioned to advantage natural sunlight and airflow, access from the street may lead into the front of the house or the back. Places where buildings can't be easily established, for any number of reasons, are made into green spaces and sometimes set aside for grazing goats, pigs or fowl.
Initially, new houses might be modest structures consisting of a single room with a thatched roof and earthen floor. Over time, as families prospered and their needs changed, houses would be expanded or renovated to accommodate growing households or new functions. Additional rooms, upper stories and outbuildings might be added, gradually transforming the original dwelling into a more complex and substantial structure. These new constructions are wedged between the buildings that already exist, sometimes closing off lanes if the homeowner is sufficiently privileged. As more houses were built in this haphazard and irregular fashion, the town becomes a warren of unrevealed corridors, stairwells, squeeze points between buildings and precipitous drops as houses are built right against a cliff or a watercourse. It becomes easy to get lost, especially as there are few streets with actual names, while at night the streets and lanes are truly inky dark. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary to get directions from those in the immediate neighbourhood to find any minor workshop or personal residence.
Each house is a unique expression of its owner's identity and social status, reflected in its architectural features, decoration, and size. Wealthier residents might construct larger and more elaborate homes with features such as ornate facades, decorative carvings or private gardens, while poorer inhabitants would make do with simpler, more utilitarian dwellings. These latter tend to be found further and further from market and guild locations, so that where the poor live, not only can they not afford services, those that exist are a long way to walk.
As one moves through the town, multi-story structures loom overhead, dominating the views and creating a sense of enclosure and intimacy in the urban environment. Characters would experience the vertical stratification of society firsthand, with the upper floors of buildings often reserved for wealthier residents and commercial activities, while the lower levels house artisans, laborers, and service providers. Thus, the vertical effect shapes not only the physical landscape of medieval towns but also the lived experiences and interactions of those who traverse them. Without elevators, it might seem strange that wealthy persons would want to climb four or five floors up from the street; but as they were wealthy, servants did most of the climbing. Persons could lower baskets from windows to hawkers on the street, who would take coins out of the basket and provide bread, fish, fruit, whatever, which could then be hauled up again. Far above the street, the air was clearer; there were no footsteps on the floor overhead; one could see a distance out of a window. A flood of water from the rain might drown a poor inhabitant living downstairs, but the highest floor need not worry about the waterspouts.
For those residing in a town, especially within their own neighborhood, each building and corner holds immediate familiarity, much like the places we remember from childhood. Restricted to walking and with ample time for exploration, we develop a keen awareness of the small world around us—the nearby yards, the occupants of neighboring houses, the convenient shortcuts, the low fences that could be most easily jumped, even the best gardens to steal carrots from or find ripe apples. We instantly
We instantly recognized anyone who didn't belong in our neighborhood, much like the inhabitants of medieval towns would have done. Unlike a dungeon, where solitude reigns, towns are teeming with onlookers, ever vigilant of our actions—whether at street level, peeking through cracked doorways, or observing from above through alcoves and window shutters. The likelihood of initiating a confrontation in the open without a dozen witnesses present is slim, as bystanders stand ready to identify the instigators, or more likely, the outsiders. For reasons like this, and because so many passageways exist through a town, it's not really possible to just run a town like a dungeon; there's no logic for the citizens to stand around waiting to be killed, while a group of murder-hobos are bound to attract more and more guards, until they're overwhelmed.
It's better to view the town as a series of interconnected, specific locations that are linked together through the urban landscape, each with a specific purpose for the character's adventure. When I'm done here, I'll pick a film to better illustrate this concept, but let's view it through the lens of D&D first.
Each area within the town—whether it's a bustling marketplace, a quiet residential street, or a secluded alleyway—offers its own distinct atmosphere and opportunities as a scene or campaign interlude, without losing the overall tapestry of the town's environment. By organising the town in our minds into these discrete elements, we can flesh out and develop what the players might encounter at a scale they can more easily comprehend. This allows us to move the players vertically through the town, up hills, along streams, through overgrown abandoned lots or into the town square without actually needing a physical map to show precisely how these link together.
This allows us to concentrate on those specific places the players will encounter at this session, filling the space between with a description like, "Leaving the street, you head across town to the largish avenue, where you were told there was a wealthy apothecary who could help you. Just like that, we "transition," like in a film, to the next place. We describe the outside of the apothecary's shop as though viewed across the street, the players decide to go in and the next scene takes place. There's no need to rigidly force the players to explain which streets they travel, or what turns they make, to get from the last place to the next.
Which brings me to a point not addressed yet: what are these passageways, and how does knowing what they are help us? Loosely, I propose dividing the throughfares of a city according to a simple measurement: how friendly is it to wagons, which are used to move so much in a town or city. If the thoroughfare allows four wagons to pass side by side, it's an avenue. If two, it's a street. If the space is but one wagon wide, it's a lane; and if it's not wide enough for a wagon, it's an alley.
Picture the avenue as the grand thoroughfare of the medieval town, a wide expanse of cobbled road stretching from one end of the bustling urban center to the other. Stone buildings with decorative facades give an air of prestige. Rows of townhouses merchant halls tower above the paving, their arched windows and balconies offering glimpses of the wealth and prosperity there. A steady stream of activity pulses ceaselessly. Traders peddle their wares from push-carts while wide shop doors stand open with queues standing under the eaves out front. The shops sell expensive wares, exotic spices, fine silks, jewellery, armour, weapons, porcelain, glassware and so on. Horses and carriages clip-clop along the cobblestones, their drivers navigating the crowded thoroughfare with practiced ease. Here and there, clusters of townsfolk gather to gossip and barter, their voices mingling with the sounds of bustling commerce and conversation.
Despite the frenetic energy, a palpable sense of security pervades the air. Uniformed guards patrol the thoroughfare at regular intervals, their watchful eyes scanning the crowds for any signs of trouble. Watchtowers flank the road at strategic intervals, adorned with banners bearing the town's crest. From these vantage points, sentinels keep a watchful eye on the people, ready to sound the alarm at the first sign of danger. For the wealthy who feel safe on the avenue, security is a paramount concern. Young loiterers are chased and caught for nothing worse than wearing clothes that suggest they might be thieves, to assure the rich citizen may move about without worrying over their pouches.
Here and there, in gaps between the townhouses, are iron fences or stone walls protecting manicured gardens and private courtyards, the rich greenery of their trees stretching out twenty or thirty feet above the street, offering places of shade, where sellers provide chilled teas and confectionary. This offers a small respite from the bustle of the city, a tranquil oasis amidst the urban chaos.
As the sun sets on the avenue, lanterns flicker to life along its length, casting a warm glow. The air is alive with the sounds of laughter and music as revelers spill out from taverns and alehouses, their voices mingling with the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the distant strains of minstrels' songs. Long after this, the avenue quiets in as darkest night settles, until only the tapping of a watch-guard's cane warns those who shouldn't be here to move along, lest they be caught.
Smaller than the avenue, the street serves as an artery between avenues, connecting them together. There's still much activity, with the streets worn smooth by the constant passage of carts and pedestrians. In some ways, the street is busier than the avenue; it is the home of artisans and craftsmen who ply their trades in workshops tucked behind unassuming storefronts. Lining the street are rows of modest buildings, their facades adorned with signs and awnings advertising the various trades and crafts practiced within.
Here, the clatter of hammers and the spinning of wheels fills the air as textiles, metalwork and pottery are spun and pounded and molded. The scent of wood shavings, leather and freshly baked bread wafts from open doorways, inviting passersby to peer inside.
Instead of crowds of onlookers and shoppers, the street is populated primarily by those engaged in business; artisans at work, teamsters shouting at one another to get out of the way, or coming to blows over who overturned whose wagon. Apprentices run errands and make deliveries. Merchants tend to their stores rather than stand in doorways to encourage buyers to enter; there are still queues, but they're either much shorter or they go on for a block or more.
For the residents and workers who call the street home, it is a vibrant place during the day; but in the evening, the taverns are less raucous and filled with dour, tired souls who have worked all day, who drink to ease the soreness of their muscles, not to play. Except the occasional lit public house, come the end of day the streets are deserted almost at once; darkness descends quickly. Now and then one lone watchman might walk the streets silently, or in some places there may be a lamplighter, but usually those on guard travel in groups of two or three.
Lanes meander through the town like a narrow ribbons, leading off from the main streets. These are quiet, intimate spaces, lined with rows of modest worker's residences. These simple dwellings, built from local materials such as timber and wattle-and-daub, are clustered together in a seemingly random manner, their quaint facades weathered by time and neglect. Life in the lane revolves around the daily rhythms of work and family. Many of the town's artisans and laborers abandon the lane for their work in the streets, leaving behind wives and grandparents to look after the daily business of keeping a home. Children play between the houses, their laughter ringing against the narrow walls as they chase one another through the maze of buildings.
As evening falls, the pace of life in the lane improves somewhat. Workers stream home while residents emerge to gather in small groups to share news, gossip and stories from the day. Beneath the soft glow of lantern light, they linger in the narrow streets, exchanging pleasantries and catching up on the latest happenings. Amidst the comforting familiarity of their neighbors and friends, the worries of the day seem to melt away, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and community. Where there are courts, the end of the lanes become small circles with trees that have been planted in ancient boxes. The residents sit on rough-hewn benches, enjoying the cool evening breeze and the company of their fellow townsfolk. One by one they retreat to their homes to sleep, to ready themselves for the new day.
As the night comes on, furtive persons emerge from alleyways into the lanes, with business to do, though wisely they leave the residents alone. There are no members of the town watch to see them gather and plan, readying themselves to venture into the streets to acquire what they don't possess.
Alleys connect with streets and lanes, and serve numerous purposes. Picture them as shadowy passages flanked by high walls and looming buildings. They are secluded and intimate spaces, reaching into the bowels of the city, especially those buildings which have grown too old or derelict to be lived in by anyone but the poor, desperate or criminal element. Hemmed in on all sides, sunlight filters weakly through the narrow gap overhead, casting dappled shadows on the worn earthen surface of the alley, from which a few old cobblestones, not pried up to be used as materials, yet lie. The air is cool and musty, filled with the faint scent of damp earth and decaying wood.
Throughout the day, the alleyway is quiet; knowing residents who have little to fear pass along, knock on an unsigned door, and enter. A few pass through on their way to someplace else. As night falls, however, few dare to venture down its darkened length after dark, preferring to stick to the better-lit streets and lanes nearby.
These are the points of movement between those important locations discussed earlier. Each in themselves can become such a location, as the players are directed to go here or there, to find the right door for the right person they need to speak with. An alley becomes a good place for a one-on-one fight. An isolated garden at night for a larger encounter. Attached to the town, even inside the town walls, are fields and orchards in case of siege, where players may go to rest and picnic during the day (no, seriously), or venture out to meet with the worst souls at night. There are many such possible places to set a scene in a town, to connect the players with various individuals, factions or officials, each with their own tale to tell, their own motivation, and their own reason to encourage the party to do this or that. The party need only pick a side for the adventure to begin.
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