Session 26: Always Bring a Gun to a Fistfight

The river city of Kemperbad brooded beneath low-hanging clouds, its crooked towers and steep cliffside streets giving the impression of a place both ancient and opportunistic—much like the people who schemed within its walls. It was here, in the narrow alleys and merchant halls, that the travelers once known as strangers to one another found themselves entangled ever deeper in the machinations of Empire and Chaos alike.

The letter arrived quietly, penned in the careful hand of a journeyman Grey Wizard—Valkyr Rhys—whose missive carried more weight than ink could contain. It named the unlikely group: a dwarven viscount, a gnome bounty hunter, a weathered bailiff, a swift-footed midlander, and a veteran Azrai with blades kissed by distant wars. They were, according to Rhys, the reason Bergenhafen still stood. No medals were offered. No declarations made. Just a caution to others: watch these ones.

But fame, even whispered in the shadows, bears consequence.

In the winding districts of Kemperbad, trouble crept with purple banners hidden beneath belts and knives cloaked in cordial words. Thindruk Steelbone sought to ease their departure from the city, approaching the merchant lord Keitel with an offer both practical and veiled: a vial of clear potion, said to deliver a day of sleep, presented as a solution to the merchant’s final-day demands. The merchant, shrewd but not blind, understood the bargain. If the potion worked, their dealings would be remembered favorably. If not… well, promises mean little once a riverboat sets sail.

But Steelbone’s path home was not unchallenged.

In the flickering shadows of lamplight, three figures emerged, half-drunken and dressed in the livery of street scum, but with purpose. They named Thindruk Lakkarson—a name from another life, or another man’s life entirely. The viscount played it cool, bluffing with the calm of a noble far too seasoned to be rattled by alley whispers. He bought their retreat with a silver coin and a place: The Filthy Bucket. And like ghosts given names, the men promised to return with their message.

The council gathered at the River’s Rest, voices hushed over ale and strategy. Some urged a clean exit, others a deeper dig. By the time the group arrived at the Bucket—where bruises outnumbered clean mugs—they knew they weren’t just being watched. They were being hunted.

Arnold Kiefer and his lot delivered their message with theatrical flair and a blade stabbed into rotten wood: return with the inheritance or suffer. Purple cloth was offered like a signet ring; recognition meant to bind. But Thindruk—ever the noble—feigned ignorance, and Felrick, ever the cynic, eyed the room for treachery. The thugs, perhaps more accustomed to targets who fled or flinched, found themselves disarmed with coin and confusion. They knew little, only that a man had paid them well and pointed them toward the dwarf at the River’s Rest.

That man, it seemed, was still nearby.

Felrick stalked the upper floor, his gaze landing on a sickly figure at a card table—mole on neck, weak eyes, wrong height. Still, wrong or not, the sight of him stirred unease. The gnome made his move, calling out the game for what it was: rigged. Tensions rose like river fog. Cards were dropped, fists clenched. Kessler, as the man was called, stood defiant until Felrick challenged him to settle matters in the street. Pistols were handed to Wanda. A crowd gathered. The Bucket’s patrons came to see blood.

Felrick struck like lightning—short, sharp, brutal. Kessler never touched him. The gnome’s fists were memory and menace, and soon Kessler found himself manacled in the dirt, bleeding and humiliated.

The crowd didn’t take kindly to the twist.

What began as a street brawl spiraled into chaos. Accusations of treason, shouts of honor, Wanda’s whip cracking like thunder—all while Nora tossed aside thugs like she was back on the Blitzball field. Qavitrae sliced and parried with calculated grace, her strikes disabling rather than killing. Thindruk, ever the charmer, tried words before fists—but it was Felrick who ended it. One shot. A pistol round to the leg. Kessler’s scream pierced the night, and the crowd scattered like rats at the scent of fire.

They left him there, crippled and barely conscious. Whether he was the man they sought or merely a pawn was unclear, but he wasn’t going to answer questions any time soon. Kavitrae, pragmatic as ever, offered coin to an onlooker to take the bleeding man to a healer. Whether he made it would depend on fate, or perhaps the honesty of desperate strangers.

By dawn, plans were already in motion. They treated their bruises, rested their weary limbs, and on the morrow, escorted their earnings—finally released by the wary bank—back to their vessel. Keitel had honored the deal: a ship laden with timber bound for Nuln, cargo that might fund their next steps… or bury them beneath new debts.

But before departure, they played the part of historians, dragging the noble count to a battle site upriver. The guise was a tour, but the motive was distance—to keep him away from the city, the potion unneeded. The day passed with wine and false cheer.

And when the sun rose again, they slipped from Kemperbad’s grasp.

Behind them, the city stirred. The scent of gunpowder still lingered in the alleys, and purple kerchiefs passed between trembling hands. The Grey Order watched. The Purple Hand whispered. And the river carried five marked souls deeper into a tale that would not be forgotten.