Volo's Trade Franchise - PbP - Campaign Thread

As the party rounds the final corner of the shadowed docks, the dim glow of The Pen & Parchment’s lanterns is the most welcome sight they’ve seen all day. The air still carries the metallic tang of the scrapyard and the sulfurous reek of Duragaaz’s foundries.

Diomede meets them at the base of the gangplank, brass fittings clattering as his nimblewright joints twitch in visible agitation. His voice comes rapid and clipped through the sending-stone grille:
“By the Everbright Forge—what happened out there? You look like you’ve walked through the Nine Hells! I was about to seal the ship’s hatches and call it lost!”

Despite the scolding tone, he has clearly been busy—supplies are organized on deck, the helm area scrubbed and reassembled in readiness for Bramble’s work.

Once the chaos subsides, Diomede explains their position briskly: the Pen & Parchment is flight-ready but still needs the coupler installed. Trade lines remain viable through the Leira Registry, but Duragaaz is unstable. The team has several options:

1. Rest aboard the ship, recover their strength, and return to negotiate with Saphra Vexx, perhaps even broker a partnership that might shift local control and reopen trade. 
2. Pursue repairs immediately and prepare to leave Duragaaz before becoming further entangled in its political web.
3. Attempt to slip off Duragaaz immediately and try effect repairs elsewhere - anywhere else.
4. Scout the lower foundry, where Brother Vult rules, to assess Saphra’s claim and the feasibility of ousting the Ravagers’ current leadership.

Diomede’s final remark clinks with a note of dry irony:

“Of course, if you do intend to alter the power balance of a mining moon, I’d suggest sleeping first. Adventuring, like commerce, profits little when exhausted.”

Archael simply nods. Whatever option the team voted for he would need to rest and regain his strength before even making any further decisions. He wouldn't object to Bramble starting with installing the coupler as soon as possible to keep their options open though. He would advice against doing any scouting for now but if any of the others insist he would be too weary to really object. All in all he wasn't against doing business with the locals, but it bothered him that they thought being uncivilized would somehow be helpful to them. Good trade relations required mutual trust, and the way they had been treated had not inspired anything of the kind.

"I am for resting, recovering our strength, and then return to Saphra". Vic says .  "But Ill go with the majority rule!". 

The adventurers retire, bone-tired but alive.
In their two shared quarters — narrow bunks, low timbers, and the constant creak of the hull — the scent of pitch, oil, and salt mixes with the faint sweetness of the galley’s spiced tea. Lanterns burn low in brass cages; the ship hums faintly as Bramble and Diomede work through the night at the helm nearby, the rhythmic tap of tools and murmured clockwork jargon filtering down like a lullaby.

Sleep comes in fits: dreams of starlit voids and metallic howls echoing in their minds. Yet, for the first time since Leira, the ship feels… safe.

When they wake, the Pen & Parchment hums differently. The air thrums with a steady, resonant pulse — the sound of the helm re-forged and alive again. Sunlight from Duragaaz’s orbit filters through the upper portholes, painting the brass fittings in gold and red.

Bramble waits by the galley table, soot-streaked but grinning under his goggles.
“Coupler’s fit snug as a coin in a purse,” he reports proudly. “Your ship’ll fly true now — though she’s still got her quirks, mind you.”

Diomede adds dryly, “As do her owners.”

Tahlia heads back with the others, possibilities swimming in her head.  She finds her space comfortable and glad to retire to it after the eventful day on this rock.

The next morning, she is happy to hear the difference in the ship and Bramble's confident words.  She smiles at the last of them and Diomede, "Like you'd expect anything different!"  she turns to the others, "Shall we go meet with Sasha?"

"**Let's do it**" Vic says, after a pause to catch her breath.  

That night, while the others drift in and out of uneasy sleep, Djoser’s rest deepens into something else entirely.

He finds himself standing in an endless hall of light and shadow, its floor paved in gold and obsidian tiles shaped like coins. Above him hang vast, radiant scales—so immense that entire worlds seem to rest upon their pans. Streams of shimmering trade routes, caravans of light and ships of starlight, flow across them like living ledgers.

At first, the balance is perfect.

Then, somewhere far beyond sight, one pan lurches.

A cascade of light spills away into darkness. Routes fracture. Markets collapse into void. Entire constellations flicker like dying candles. The scales groan under the strain.

From the brilliance emerges Waukeen, veiled in gold and flame, her voice neither loud nor soft, but absolute.

“My servant… the currents are broken.”
“In the Astral Sea, profit has become predation.”
“Balance is being stolen, not earned.”

She gestures, and Djoser sees flashes: shattered trading enclaves, enslaved merchants, hoarded planar wealth feeding something vast and unseen.

“You have learned to weigh coin and conscience,” she continues.
“Now you must follow the imbalance.”

A subtle pull tugs at his spirit—like a compass needle snapping toward an unseen north.

“Go,” Waukeen whispers. “Not in haste, but in faith. Rebalance what has been twisted… or all trade will wither.”

Djoser awakens before dawn, breath steady but heart pounding.

The cabin is quiet. The Pen & Parchment hums softly around him.

Yet the sensation remains.

A distant, unsettling pull—not toward Duragaaz, nor Selûne, nor Waterdeep—but outward, into the Astral Sea itself.

Somewhere, far beyond known routes, something is tipping the scales of commerce.

And Waukeen has marked him to find it.

He knows, with quiet certainty, that a private pilgrimage now waits in his future—one that may soon demand his choice between the franchise’s rising empire… and the Golden Lady’s greater balance.

Morning light filters weakly through the upper portholes of the Pen & Parchment, catching on brass fittings and the faint shimmer of the restored helm. The ship feels steadier now—whole again—yet beneath that stability, something in the air remains unsettled.

Djoser lingers behind as the others gather their gear.

He stands before the small shrine set into the forward bulkhead—a modest alcove of polished wood and inlaid gold, bearing Waukeen’s twin scales and a small bowl of minted coins offered by grateful traders. He smooths his robes, voice quiet but resolute.

“I will remain here,” he says simply. “The Lady has spoken to me in dreams. I must listen more closely before I act. Pray for clarity… and balance.”

He kneels, folding his hands, already slipping into reverent stillness.

With Diomede coordinating preparations and Bramble giving a final approving nod to the helm, the trio, of Archael, Tahlia and Vic, disembarks once more into the soot-stained corridors of Duragaaz.

Behind them, in the quiet glow of the shrine, Djoser remains in prayer—while ahead, power, profit, and danger await.

The walk back into Ironfound Station feels different this time.

Where before the alleys had pressed in with threat and uncertainty, now they seem merely watchful—aware of the party’s passage, but no longer openly hostile. Word travels fast among thieves and smugglers, and it is clear that Saphra’s mark still shields them, for now.

Near the shadowed edge of the docks, a familiar figure detaches from the gloom.

Ashstep waits where smoke and darkness meet, arms folded, ash-grey braid hanging loose against his collar. His steel-colored eyes flick over them once, quick and professional.

“You took longer than expected,” he murmurs. “She’s restless. Wants this done before Cragbrow catches wind.”

Without waiting for agreement, he turns and motions them on.

They follow him through narrow maintenance corridors and half-forgotten service routes, slipping past furnace crews and patrols that never quite see them. The upper foundry roars around them—molten slag pouring through channels, chains rattling overhead, heat rolling in waves—but Ashstep guides them through it all as though following an invisible map.

At last, he parts a veil of hanging cables and rusted ducts.

Behind it waits the same forgotten ore-processing rig, its great gears frozen in place, its chute clogged with years of debris. Ashstep clears a hidden latch and swings open a narrow steel panel.

Beyond lies the access tunnel—dark, descending, and steeped in heat and old magic.

“This is it,” he says quietly. “Straight down into Vult’s domain. From here on… no more shadows to hide in.”

"**all right-  we're ready fer it!".** Vic whispers, and with a brief look at the group, she starts stealthfully down the passage...

stealth 18 

The young white-haired waterdhavian noble shakes his head and reluctantly follows along. He prudently uses his magic to cast a protection spell and hopes he will be of some use at least on this thug mission.

Cast Mage Armor
Perception: 16
Stealth: 7

Marching order?

Archael would suggest Vic taking point with him following and Tahlia last.

Vic will lead, as stealthfully as she can,  rapier at the ready.

(did we get a rest before this? just realized shes injured)

Tahlia happily takes up the rear, looking forward to doing well, something.  And she hopes this will help solidify their um.. notoriety here?  Why not?  she thinks to herself.  She thinks back to Djoser as they are following Ashstep and is missing his company on this outing.  She is afraid that he is going to be leaving them for quite some time on some Waukeen thing.  She just didn't get it.

Archael makes more noise than he should as he tries to be quiet in front of her and she whispers to him, "No, like this." (and she crits her stealth roll! 28)

"Aplogies for not being good at skulking around like this, I blame my parents for not having the foresight to train me for a situation like this, apparently they expected me to be a merchant, but to be fair, so did I until recently." The young white-haired waterdhavian noble whispers back with a wry smile.

((yes you should be all rested up. I shall post late tonight as I am running around today))

(OK!  Vic stealth 18 in log) 

They descend in silence, the forgotten tunnel breathing hot, metallic air against their skin. After ten tense minutes of careful steps and whispered signals, the passage opens onto the Entry Gantry—a narrow iron walkway suspended above churning slag channels. Below, molten metal glows like a living river. Overhead, chains creak beneath slow-moving ore carts.

Archael’s boot slips on oil-slick grating, but Tahlia catches his arm in time, steadying him without a sound.

Ahead, fire-shrines flicker and distant zealot voices murmur through the smoke.

Carefully creeping ahead, Vic nimbly tries to avoid creaking the gangway too much, while also inspecting for any dangerous spots.

16 investigation, 18 stealth as she continues advancing stealthfully toward the voices