Kronholm is a place composed of layers. The first layer, built by the ancient dwarves, was hewn from the great mountain with which the city came to share a name. Their time ended with a blaze of blood & magic, sorcerers acting unrestricted in those days, leading to mass death. In time, like vermin, humans spread across the land and discovered the hollowed-out ruins of a once great city. On top of this, they constructed Sirenhelm Keep, where, to this day, the royal family resides in the palace, though sightings of them are much harder to come by, and rumors spread that the line died out generations ago.
Kronholm came to be seen as the last point of civilization before the blasted wastes of the Sajir Desert, so merchants would hawk their wares here to travelers who had just come from the sandy dunes or were about to embark on a journey to cross them. Eventually, many decided to make Kronholm their permanent home as it had everything one could desire. And so the city’s layers grew. Kronholm grew out from the mountain like a terraced rice paddy. The monied classes found their home close to Sirenhelm, and the working & the poor settled for spots towards the mountain’s base.
Then, the Eastern Empire and their war against mages brought the city to prominence it had never known. The magicians congregated here, intending to make this place hidden from their enemy’s eyes. That would be accomplished by briefly opening the veil between the material world and the land of shadow. But these skilled artisans underestimated the primal forces they were tapping into, and thus, thick onyx ichor spilled from the cavity they created. Hordes of nightmares swarmed over the city, killing thousands. By the time the mages had been able to shape and place the Obsidian Obelisk, it was too late for Kronholm. It was forever covered in shadow, an aberration in the landscape.
The city continued to expand but now it went beneath the earth itself. An undercity began to form, and the need for control increased with expansion. The once adequate Kingsguard were diminished, relegated only to the Keep. In their place, the Kronholm Protectorate was formed, and leaders were voted into power by the citizenry, but they were not immune to corruption.
It is in a damp, windowless holding cell that Uram of the Greywolves found himself. He’d been beaten unconscious and awoke to find heavy shackles around his arms and legs, the other ends of these chains bolted to the stone wall of his cell. On the other side of the bars, the man in the redcoat who struck him in the Torchlight Market leaned back in a weathered wooden chair. Uram had picked up some of the common tongue and script from elders in his tribes and quietly said the name embossed on the man’s badge: “Hobbs.” The dim torches fastened to the walls outside the cell flickered, obscuring most of Hobb’s features.
“Awake, are ye?” the man started, then cleared his throat of what sounded like a thick gob of mucus. “Don’t get many orcs in the city. Some, but not many. You understand my words, boy?”
Uram silently nodded, eyes locked on his captor.
“Sniffing around the Torchlight for food? Think you can swipe something for free, hm?”
Uram shook his head.
“You escape from the slave pens? We can get you back there within the hour. Show me your brand.”
“Not a slave,” Uram finally spoke up. It startled Hobbs. His mouth hung open for a moment before regaining his composure.
“Never heard one talk so well. First time for everything, I suppose. What are you doing in my city, boy?”
Uram tried to stand but found the chain length had been cinched tight to keep him on the wet floor. “Slavers took my people. I have come to bring them home.” He stared with defiance into Hobbs’ hollow black eyes.
“How heroic, you damn fool.” Hobbs grinned, and then it shifted. Uram knew that face. It was the face of human thinking, and it was always a dangerous thing to happen. “This is quite serendipitous, indeed.” Uram did not know that word but knew it didn’t mean anything good.
(Oracle: Demand Warning)
The sounds of The Red Hall overwhelmed the young orc as he stood outside. Everything felt uncomfortable. The people walking by stared at him. The castoff clothes Hobbs had given him to blend in were nothing like the simple loincloth and shoulder strap Uram was used to. But the Protectorate officer has insisted he’d stand out too much if he let him traipse around “looking like a savage.”
There was little choice in the matter as there was little choice in Uram standing outside the most popular brothel in Kronholm. The orc could surmise that this was not a prestigious neighborhood either, but the clientele appeared to be monied people slumming for pleasure. He stepped inside and was met by a muscle-bound woman who extended a hand to his chest, staying Uram in place as she looked him over. There was a brief hint of surprise on her face, then an arched eyebrow as she took her time viewing the orc. Uram could feel the lust emanating from her.
“Don’t know if we’ve ever had any of your kind in here,” the woman said. Uram felt he was about to be ejected from the building, yet…” Three coins to enter; I hope you have more for drinks and other services. Don’t cause any trouble. I’d hate to mess up that pretty face of yours.” She stepped aside, and Uram awkwardly stepped further into The Red Hall. The noise was so much louder in here. Some tables were arguing over card games. Others were lost in the revelry of drink & song. On stage, there were scantily clad women performing an elaborate dance number that involved clothes coming off. Uram felt something land on his shoulder and saw it was a human undergarment of some kind. Its owner winked at him from the stage. The orc pushed it off his shoulder and continued to scan the room.
Sitting at a raised table in the corner was Ransley Carver, the man Hobbs had described to Uram. He was a well-known fence for the Larcenists’ Society, a thieving organization that fancied itself a powerful institution in the city. Hobbs had explained that he had eyes & ears all over the underside of Kronholm, and they’ve been telling him the same thing – the Society has something big planned, something destructive. The details were scarce, so the officer needed someone the Society wouldn’t know but who Hobbs could control.
“You want your people out of those slave pens?” Hobbs asked, leaning close enough to the bars that Uram could smell the mix of tobacco and sweat on the officer. “You bring me the plans, and I set all the orcs free to go back and cavort among the sand dunes till the world burns up. Deal, boy?”
(Secure an Advantage – Weak Hit)
What choice did Uram have? So now he stood trying to think of how to approach Carver. Hobbs had set up a fake sting to put the scare into Carver. Those officers were waiting outside. Uram knew he only had twenty minutes to act and ate up much of that while pondering what to say. The two guards standing before Carver’s table would make this challenging. The woman sitting beside the fence looked formidable, too. She spun her stiletto daggerpoint on the wooden tabletop, and the interplay between the two didn’t remind Uram of lovers but colleagues.
Ransley Carver’s jet-black hair tumbled freely to his shoulders. His face exuded fearsome charisma, someone who knew they were going to get their way, and if you refused, it was no big deal to slit your throat. His dark leather coat, adorned with discreet silver detailing, balanced practicality and refined luxury. Uram could see the marks where blades had tried to cut through and failed. The deep burgundy shirt underneath hinted at Carver’s regal tastes, while his polished boots show he spent a lot of time on his presentation. A silver pendant graced his chest, catching fleeting glimpses of light, and his fingers bear rings, each a silent testament to his cunning ascent within the Larcenists’ Guild.
The woman cut just as striking a figure. Her wiry frame exuded an air of contained energy, coiled like a spring ready to unleash immediately. Uram was reminded of the desert vipers that would tighten every muscle in their long body, prepared to strike with venom. Clad in practical and flashy attire, she seamlessly blends into the shadows while still catching the eye of those who dare to look too closely.
She’s constantly observing; her disposition hints at someone ready to engage in combat, an act Uram hopes to avoid. He is unable to tell if she is wearing armor under her midnight black cloak. The cloak is adorned with subtle embroideries of intricate designs. The orc knows those must communicate her threat to those in the know, but they remain nothing but lovely patterns for him. Her true nature is revealed as Uram watches her stand to signal to one of the barmaids for more drinks. Strapped to her thighs are sheaths containing an array of daggers, each blade gleaming dully in the dim light of the brothel. Their placement speaks of practicality, ensuring quick access to her weapons should danger arise.
(Face Danger with Iron – Weak Hit. Lose -1 Momentum)
The guards keeping the uninvited from Carver’s table are shocked when Uram shoves past. Cutlasses, scimitars, and pistols are drawn on Uram. The fence goes from looking shocked to furious, his own blade touching the orc’s jugular. Uram looks Carver dead in the eye and says, “The Protectorate are about to raid this brothel. You need to leave now.”
(Does Carver believe Uram and leave? Odds: 50/50. Result: No.)
Carver glances quickly at the woman, says, “Melicent, darling,” and gestures at Uram with his free hand. Her blade joins Carver’s at the orc’s throat, inquiring who the hell he thinks he is to approach Ransley Carver in such a fashion. Uram reiterates that there is an imminent raid; he saw the officers outside. They need to escape now.
It’s too late as the doors burst in, and the redcoats swarm with weapons drawn.
Carver looks stunned for just a moment. Then he grabs Melicent by the shoulder and glances towards the kitchen. She turns to go with him, and he says, “Bring the orc.” Uram follows right behind them.
(Face Danger with Iron – Weak Hit. Lose -1 Spirit.)
Uram helps shove a path open for Carver, even taking out some Protectorate redcoats, making himself look more honest. Inside, his heart thumps with wild abandon, and adrenaline surging can’t even protect him from the waves of anxiety washing through his blood. Eventually, they come to a dead end, but Carver presses a hidden button, the wall slides away, and they vanish.
(Oracle: Await Passage.)
Uram finds they are walking beside a murky canal and then stopping at a small dock. Melicent blows a high-pitched whistle, which echoes through the tunnels. In the distance, Uram can hear rows pushing through water. After about 8 minutes, a boat appears around a corner. A lantern hangs off the hook near the front, and a hooded gondolier rows steadily and stops at the dock, tossing a looped rope over a post. Carver & Melicent hop on and look back at Uram. He joins them.
Beneath the city, concealed within the shadows of crumbling facades and fetid sewers, lies Carver’s safe house. Hidden from prying eyes by layers of urban decay and neglect, the entrance is hidden away; it requires a keen eye to discern the subtle signs amidst the endless & seemingly identical crisscrossing tunnels.
The walls are coated with the grime of ages past. After finding the right brick that triggers the lock, the wall swings away, and another short trek down a narrow tunnel forces Uram to bend at the waist to get through. The orc emerges into a spacious chamber. Despite its subterranean location, the chamber exudes an air of faded grandeur, a relic of a bygone era. Dimly lit by lanterns and flickering candles, the room casts dancing shadows upon the walls, lending an aura of mystery to the surroundings.
The walls and floor of the chamber are adorned with a tapestry of stolen treasures—a patchwork of riches pilfered from the unsuspecting denizens of the city above. Glittering jewels and shimmering fabrics intermingle with meticulously drawn maps, each telling a story of conquest and adventure. It is opulent but rotten, a testament to Ransley’s eclectic tastes.
The air within the chamber carries a musty scent, heavy with the weight of centuries gone by. It mingles with the distant echoes of rushing water from the city above, a constant reminder of the bustling life that thrives beyond the confines of the underground sanctuary.
Uram is in awe; he’s never seen such material wealth. He’s also quite perplexed because his focus has always been on survival. Ransley has Melicent pour them all a glass of bitter nightshade. Uram slightly chokes on this acrid substance but tries to be polite and finish. Ransley holds court, bragging about recent exploits and emphasizing how he could have handled the Protectorate, but he appreciates Uram’s help.
As repayment, he wants to offer Uram a job. There’s a Jeweler’s shop in the Nocturne Plaza district. The jeweler who runs the place has acquired the Starlight Seraph, a topaz shaped into a cherub. Carver has a buyer outside the city willing to buy the item if it can be acquired. Ransley has heard about the powerful brute strength of orcs and thinks Uram would make for great muscle. It would be Uram, Melicent, and a trusted goblin safecracker, Dreviz.
Uram knows he has to gain this guy’s trust, or he’ll never have a chance to free his people. In a ledger with a bulky lock hanging from it, Carver tallies some calculations and decides the heist will be the next night. Uram is given a sparse side room to sleep in and some of the best grub he’s eaten in years. Melicent keeps a watchful eye on the stranger.
To be continued
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