Volo's Trade Franchise - PbP - Campaign Thread

"How revolting." The young white-haired waterdhavian noble whispers as he peeks down at the masses below. "So how do we know who our target is among all these...things?"

Ashstep quietly grunts in agreement with Archael's disgust. "I do not see Vult here."

"Better keep looking then." Archael whispers, ready to skulk on.

The party sits inside the illusory crate just hidden from the view of a full mess hall of devotees of the flame. Their crate is in a dark corner near the entrance on the west side of the room. That way leads back to the sorting room. On the south wall of the mess there appears to be another hall leading beyond. However to get to it, the party would have to leave the cover of the illusion and cross the busy, well-lit mess hall.

Tahlia watches for a moment, transfixed with the sight of them all.  She wonders if they are all here at the same time so that other areas are less occupied?  At Archael's suggestion, the bard nods and then whispers to Ashstep, "Any idea which way we should go?"

Ashstep is silent a moment, still looking at the throng of creatures here. A shiver of clear disdain flickers over his face. "Vult's followers," he drips sarcastically, "carnally driven. May be helpful to us. The map indicates a downward passage accessible through there", he points to the entrance south across the hall, "as well as to the south from the sorting room. Vult may be less guarded below."

. . . (Bringing this Campaign to a close due to loss of Players and issues with DnDBeyond/Hasbro)... here is a possible fictional wrap up of this 'episode' in our adventures:

The party tried to get to Vult - either by being captured or by stealth they managed to.  Along the way, they found indication that Vult was not the monster that Saphra and Ashstep had painted him as. In fact, he and his 'cult' were more of an odd family held captive by the Ravager's politics. The team finds a way to free Vult and Duragaaz of the Ravegers... by removing Vult's cult from the board:

The fires of the Lower Foundry burned low when the bargain was struck.

Not with steel.
Not with spell.
With words.

Brother Vult did not stand like a conqueror when they found him. He stood among his followers — not above them — one hand resting on the shoulder of a soot-streaked zealot who watched the adventurers with the wary eyes of a child waiting to be told he had done something wrong.

Archael spoke first, because of course he did.

“You are not ruling here,” the wizard said, voice calm, noble arrogance softened just enough to sound like reason. “You are being kept here.”

Vult’s eyes flickered.

Tahlia stepped beside him, her tone gentler, but no less precise.

“They fear being alone,” she said, nodding toward the dolls, the nameplates, the little carvings set into furnace stone.
“You do too.”

Silence hung between the furnace pillars.

Vic shifted on the catwalk railing, arms folded, watching Vult like she watched a locked door she hadn’t decided how to open yet.

“You don’t need this place,” she said.
“You just need them.”

That broke him.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.

Brother Vult sat down on the edge of the slag channel like a tired man who had been standing too long.

“Grinn says…” he muttered, “Grinn says if we leave… we don’t survive out there.”

Djoser was not present, but his words from the night before lingered in Archael’s mind like the echo of temple bells.

Balance.
Trade.
Movement.

“No,” Archael said quietly.
“You survive somewhere else.”

He gestured upward.

“We have a ship.”

The Plan

Ashstep nearly choked when he heard it.

“You’re what?” the spy hissed. “You’re not killing him?”

“No,” Tahlia said brightly.
“We’re relocating him.”

Vic grinned.
“Think of it as… aggressive workforce redistribution.”

Saphra Vexx did not like the idea.

She liked the results.

With Vult gone, the foundry would fracture.
With the foundry fractured, Grinn’s grip weakened.
With Grinn weakened, Duragaaz opened.

“Fine,” she said, after a long moment.
“But if this goes wrong, I never met you.”

“Comforting,” Archael replied.

Smuggling a Cult Off an Asteroid

Getting five adventurers into the foundry had been difficult.

Getting thirty-two soot-covered zealots out was absurd.

They moved in shifts through slag tunnels and maintenance shafts Ashstep barely remembered.
Vic scouted ahead, silent as drifting ash.
Tahlia kept the cult calm with soft words and softer magic.
Archael floated crates, tools, and one very confused furnace-acolyte on unseen force.

At the loading gantry, the first alarm bell rang.

Not loud.

Just enough.

Ravagers.

Boots on metal.
Voices.
Chains rattling.

Ashstep cursed.

“They’re early.”

“Of course they are,” Vic muttered. “It wouldn’t be a franchise job if it went smooth.”

The Run to the Dock

The Pen & Parchment waited at the edge of the dock, hull patched, plates mismatched, rigging humming faintly with half-repaired magic.

Bramble leaned out from the gangway.

“You brought—”

He squinted.

“…more people.”

“They’re part of the shipment,” Archael said.

Bramble blinked.

“…Right. Of course they are.”

Behind them, Ravagers burst from the tunnel.

Crossbows raised.

“MOVE!” Vic barked.

Zealots ran.
Tahlia shoved two up the ramp.
Ashstep fired without stopping.
A bolt struck sparks from the hull.

“Inside! Inside!” Bramble squeaked.

The Helm Problem

The helm chamber still smelled faintly of burned copper and hot crystal.

The repaired coupler hummed.

The chair waited.

Archael stopped when he saw it.

Up to now the hired helmsman had handled every jump, every maneuver — and even that had drained the man the first time they left Selûne.

Bramble shoved a wrench into a panel and shouted,

“The pilot got clipped in the leg at the dock! He can’t hold the chair!”

Silence.

Everyone looked at Archael.

Vic pointed at the helm.

“You’re the wizard.”

Archael blinked.

“I am a scholar of the arcane markets, not a—”

Another impact rocked the hull.

Ravagers on the gangway.

Tahlia grabbed his sleeve.

“Archael.”

Beat.

“…Please be the wizard.”

He swallowed.

“Very well.”

He sat.

The moment his hands touched the armrests, the helm flared alive — too bright, too hungry — magic surging through him like a current looking for somewhere to burn.

He gasped.

The chair pulled harder than it should.

Too much power.
Too little control.

Bramble yelled from the panel,

“It still draws too deep! Don’t fight it — guide it!”

“I am attempting to guide it!” Archael snapped, eyes blazing with strain.

The ship lurched.

Hard.

Outside, Ravagers scrambled as gravity shifted.

Inside, the coupler screamed.

Vic grabbed the back of the chair.

“Stay with me, noble.”

Archael clenched his teeth.

“This device… is criminally inefficient.”

“Fly first, complain later!”

Escape from Duragaaz

The Pen & Parchment tore free of the dock in a shower of sparks.

The helm flared again, draining Archael so fast his vision tunneled.

For a moment, the ship hung crooked in the void.

Then the coupler caught.

The field stabilized.

Slowly — painfully slowly — the spelljammer climbed away from Duragaaz.

Below them, the asteroid spun, furnaces glowing like wounds in the dark.

Inside the hold, Brother Vult stood among his followers, counting them one by one, making sure no one had been left behind.

No chanting.

No fire.

Just relief.

Tahlia leaned against the bulkhead, breathing hard.

“We just stole a cult.”

Vic wiped soot off her sleeve.

“Yeah.”

Beat.

“…we’re gonna do that a lot, aren’t we?”

At the helm, pale, shaking, and very aware he never wanted to admit how close that had been, Archael whispered,

“This chair… needs to be repaired.”

From the hatch, Bramble shouted back,

“If Saphra pays what she promised, I can fix it right this time!”

Archael closed his eyes, still holding the helm steady.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“Let us ensure she does.”