Session 30: Capitalism!

A bitter spring wind drifted ashore with the river-mist as dawn bled across the chimneys of Nuln. The smoke of braziers and forges clung low to the streets, stinging eyes and throats, yet even that acrid pall could not drown the scent of lavender and blood inside the Temple of Shallya. There, among the rows of straw pallets, the fellowship gathered—care-worn, sutured, but alive. White-robed priestesses whispered hymns as bandages were changed; coins clinked into alms-boxes; and old vows were renewed in silence. When at last Viscount Thindruk Steelbone pressed twenty gleaming crowns into the high priestess’s hands, Mercy and Pride bowed to one another, and the companions were gently ushered back into the city that had nearly forgotten how to pity them.

Felrick Flappan emerged last. His wounded eye lay hidden behind a fresh swathe of linen, black as pitch beneath the gauze. Though the sisters assured him sight would soon return, doubt nested in the gnome’s copper gaze. Qavitrae, grave as winter bark, studied the bandage and said nothing, but her fingers brushed the hilt of her sword with unspoken promise. Nora Abendroth—restless as any Blitzball striker trapped on the bench—tested her mended ribs, declared herself “fit enough to drink,” and led the way into the smoky lanes. Wanda Hahnemann lingered only to murmur a wry prayer for the surgical saws to stay sheathed a little longer.

They found harbourmaster and timber-buyer alike at the edge of the iron-brown river. By noon, their barge’s belly was emptied of black-oak lumber, and Herr Kober—a man whose handshake smelled of tar and profit—counted out one hundred twenty-five crowns. The viscount’s beard bristled with satisfaction; elsewhere merchants haggled coppers, but the companions made silver sing and gold dance.

Coin inflamed appetite. In the armourers’ quarter red sparks leapt like fire-sprites while hammers rang out a martial litany: Wanda bartered a wooden heater for a solid metal shield; Qavitrae exchanged padded hides for supple leather; Thindruk commissioned a rapier whose basket hilt bloomed with lion-filigree; and Nora hefted a claymore—one-and-a-half hands of brutal elegance—to fit her new brigandine. Dwarven journeymen fit plates, stitched seams, and laughed that only mad travellers launched upriver clad in such finery. The travellers laughed with them… and bought powder, shot, and laudanum besides.

That night the Reavers’ Return spilled ale across scarred tables while Wanda unrolled the sheaf of letters stolen from Etelka Herzen’s tower. Candle-flame guttered as ominous verses of Mórlieb—the Chaos Moon—whispered from the page. The elf’s green eyes narrowed at the sigil scrawled in violet ink; doom rested there like frost on grave-soil. Over mulled wine the fellowship traced clues: a cryptic scouting report from two centuries past; mention of cursed tears falling as meteors; a rendezvous in Kemperbad; and, scrawled in a trembling domestic hand, the words Barren Hills—a name spoken only by mothers frightening children into obedience. Nora remembered stadium gossip of that forsaken land: soil turned to ash, forests to bone, every honest soul steering clear. Qavitrae breathed a vow to hunt the sorceress to whatever barren edge of the Empire she chose for sanctuary.

Yet secrets breed in silk as well as soot. The next evening Thindruk guided Wanda through the gilt doors of the city’s most exclusive dinner-club. Nobles preened beneath chandeliers while servants glided through steamy kitchens. There, over spiced hare and tart Riesling, the viscount gleaned whispers: Lady Herzen—a diviner of the Celestial College—had once studied the stars from these very halls; her appetite for arcane lore was matched only by her fondness for dumplings and discretion; and scarcely a fortnight past she had departed eastward with a stranger at her side, talking of omens. In the scullery Wanda traded flirtatious smiles for sharper truths, prying from the maids a single certainty: the wizardess was bound for ruinous country, and ruin often travels faster than rumor.

Spring’s final day found the Dandy Fraulein once more under sail. Felrick lay in a canvas hammock sewn tight against the gunwale, the thrum of river current lulling his pain. Above deck, steel bars glinted beneath fresh oiled cloth; casks of smelted iron—fifteen in all—settled into the hold to finance whatever fate awaited downriver. Qavitrae watched black smoke fade behind them and felt the city’s toxins lift from her lungs. Thindruk twirled his new rapier, a peacock’s plume blazing from his hat, and rehearsed the speech he would deliver to any wretched bandit foolish enough to waylay them. Nora gripped her claymore, certain that real opponents would appear soon enough. Wanda leaned at the prow, wind tugging raven hair, and tasted the river’s chill as a herald of darker winds to come.

Three days hence the barge would nose against the wharves of Kemperbad, where the trail of the blue-robed sorceress ran cold beneath star-scarred skies. Behind them lay smoke, silver, and stitched flesh; before them stretched the Reich, the Barren Hills, and the promise that not all who stare into prophecy return whole. But for this one dawn, oarlocks creaked like tired bones, iron casks rattled like distant thunder, and six companions rode the current toward destiny—grim, perilous, and irrevocably theirs.