Djoser rises to negotiate with the gnome - he is particularly interested in the terms provided with this 'warranty' - but he is too slow.  The gnome has already been hired before the cleric is fully risen from his seat.  After a moment's chagrin, he waves it off.  After all, the rate seems reasonable enough on its face, and he himself had stressed the urgency of proper repairs.  

As much as he may delight in haggling over contracts, there rest of the crew has agency of their own, and in this case it appears they secured a fair deal.  

He takes a moment to quietly look over Diomede's star chart, the paths through Realmspace still utterly foreign to him.

With their immediate course charted (or so it seems) Djoser retires to the temple, making minor adjustments until he feels it is 'just right'... or at least as close to 'just right' as he can make it with the adornments, holy symbols and materials available to him.  He also makes an exhaustive list of those improvements which will require more exotic materials.

• He would like to cover the spartan walls with something more elaborate.  Ideally, it would be Waukeenish tapestries - the Golden Road would be an excellent theme, or the Merchant of Many Faces.  That being likely too much to hope for out in Realmspace, then cherrywood or brass panels for the walls would be acceptable.
• Some of the Golden Lady's rituals involve the tolling of a special bell.  In particular he needs a small silver bell tuned to produce a clear tone of 432Hz.  This would be struck as a request for blessing prior to important events.
• Any temple of Waukeen of significance would have such a sanctified ledger.  Priests use them to track the records and finances of the temple, to track official blessings, and pages from the book may be removed to serve as important contracts, such as marriage certificates.  While it is a bit presumptuous to have such an item in a ship's temple, Djoser considers this a special case and will seek out such a book.  If Waukeen agrees, he will surely find what he is looking for.  It should be a hefty, blank book,  bound in exotic leathers, and the pages should only be the finest vellum.  If an appropriate book can be found, Djoser will then begin the lengthy holy rites necessary to sanctify it and prepare it for use.

To Archael's proposal: 

Bramble raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly both surprised and quietly pleased by Archael’s warm tone. He shifts the strap of his tool satchel over his shoulder, then takes the offered gloved hand in his own calloused, oil-stained grip, giving it a firm, brief shake.

“That’s kind of you, lad—and I’ll take the work, gladly. But let’s not jump the helm just yet.”

He gestures vaguely back toward the direction of the docks, where the port sprawls in layers of luminous mist and distant shouting.

“I’ve got other customers, see, and the Misses would be in a proper state if I just popped off about the spheres without so much as a word. Which reminds me…”

He begins patting himself down, checking for something—then pulls out a small rolled-up note, muttering.

“Need to stop at home, give her my schedule, and leave my apprentice instructions that don’t result in a melted propulsion chamber or an invoice to the City Guard.”

He tucks the note back in.

“I’ll be back by dusk—packed for a few days’ run. Should be enough to get your helm safe to Durgaaz. And aye—on the way there, I’ll gladly tell you everything I know about spelljamming tech.”

He gives Archael a small but genuine nod.

“You’re the right sort, I can tell. But first things first: let me keep the ship flying. After that, we’ll talk careers.”

With that, Bramble turns and heads back toward the glowing alleys of the Dry Spire District—boots clanking, shoulders set with purpose.

Djoser notes all of his inspection of the Temple in his personal ledger as a "Temple Shopping List" for future trade trips.

On Diomede's direction, Tahlia and Vicky will have exited the Bridge and inspected the Officers' quarters immediately forward of the Bridge, Port and Starboard. They may choose who they wish to share quarter's with, but the quarters have two hammock's each, one above the other. Other crew quarters have four hammocks in a similar arrangement.

"Excellent, we will await you til dusk then Bramble." The young white-haired waterdhavian noble says with a friendly smile and sees the tinkering gnome off the Pen & Parchment. He would then make  brief inspection tour of the ship, with the company of others if they would so choose. Eventually he would end up by the officer's quarters, ready to take any hammock left.

As dusk settles over the glimmering towers of the Leira Trading Center, the gentle hum of the helm awakens under Bramble’s touch. True to his word, he returns with a satchel of tools, a change of clothes, and the resolute calm of a man who has told his wife exactly how long he’ll be gone.

With Diomedé’s meticulous preparations completed and systems primed, The Pen & Parchment lifts gracefully from its moorings. Those standing along the portside rail or peering from open portholes witness a mesmerizing tableau: spelljammers of every shape and size drift past, leaving curling trails of etherlight in their wake. Below, the city-platform of Leira blazes with multicolored lanterns, magical billboards, floating market stalls, and the distant echo of laughter and trade—a living constellation of commerce and culture.

The stars shift above them, and the ship veers silently away from the hub. Bramble, seated with legs crossed near the helm, says little as the black velvet of wildspace swallows the station behind them.

Flight to the Tears of Selune

The journey is smooth at first—Realmspace is tranquil this close to Selûne. But as The Pen & Parchment enters the Tears, the environment changes. Before the crew, dozens—no, hundreds—of asteroids scatter across space like shattered glass across a table.

Some tumble in slow, chaotic rotation. Others seem still, like stones sleeping in a starfield. Several flash red on Diomedé’s navigation scrying pane, and Bramble curses under his breath making an adjustment as the mage at the helm redirects the spelljammer.

“These rocks don’t play by physics. They drift in the memory of old gods and mage wars. Hold steady…”

The larger bodies are rare, and most are too small for even a campsite. But after hours threading the veil of debris, a distant glimmer becomes visible—then glows steadily.

Approach to Duragaaz

The asteroid is large enough to boast geological strata, its surface pockmarked with craters, carved with mining tunnels, and veined with the dull orange of molten industry. It rotates slowly—deliberately—held in place by ancient dwarven mechanisms or older magic.

From above, the voyagers see low iron buildings, smokestacks, and roads slick with soot. Yellow lights glow from window slits, but no welcoming signal flashes. In fact, as they descend, they see figures ducking into doorways, shutters slamming, and a sudden, eerie quiet overtaking the visible streets.

“Charming,” Diomedé mutters, adjusting his cravat.

Then—two ships rise.

They’re smaller than The Pen & Parchment, but armed: one shaped like a rusted knife, the other like a bulbous fish lined with harpoons. Their hulls are mismatched, armored with scrap and hull plating from other vessels, and their weapons gleam ominously in the reflected starlight.

“No transponder codes,” Bramble says dryly.
“Private security, or opportunistic vultures.”

The two ships take flanking positions and force The Pen & Parchment toward a blackened docking platform built of scorched stone and iron rails. Steam hisses from pressure vents as the ship is guided down—not by welcome, but by command.

Ironfound Station has allowed them to land.
But not without making it clear who is in control.

. . .

The rear gangway creaked as it folded down from The Pen & Parchment, releasing a hiss of arcane pressure and steam from deep in the hold. Diomedé, ever the picture of mechanical poise and genteel indignation, clicked down the ramp with stiff-legged precision, his brass fingers steepled before his chest.

"A formal escort by cannon-bearing privateers—how provincial. Perhaps next time we should simply fire off flares and announce our position with trumpets," he quipped, his tone sharp and metallic. "No matter. This exit will do."

As the adventurers followed him down the ramp, the dock came into full view. Soot-black stone stretched in every direction, littered with crates—some new, some ancient, all stamped with trade marks, crests, and customs glyphs from realms near and far, including a few whose letters twisted the eye just to glance at.

Parked a short distance away was a modest vessel—a sleek, spike-rigged courier ship painted in dull red lacquer, its hull bearing the lotus blossom sigil of Kara-Tur. Beside it stood its owner: a shou half-elf, all wiry grace and tight braids, wearing lacquered scale armor dyed sea green. They argued—politely but with rising tension—with a frazzled, slender dwarf, whose spectacles pinched his nose as he jittered through armloads of scrolls.

“Twenty-two crates, not twenty-three—I accounted for the tinctures twice!” the dwarf muttered. “Unless the barrels count as crates, in which case... oh my stars, did I mark these by volume or by shipment weight?”

His hand scribbled marginalia on the scroll with a quill that somehow never spilled a drop of ink, flipping pages faster than seemed possible. “Mister Kei, please—did the manifest include the jasper runes? Or were those… auxiliary?”

But before the exchange could resolve, the air shifted.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Intentional.

From the far side of the platform came five broad-shouldered ruffians, all smoke-leather and iron rivets. Their leader—a bald man with a snake tattoo wrapping his skull and disappearing behind one ear—strode directly to the dwarf, who barely had time to glance up before being shoved aside with a thump and a flurry of paper.

"Shut it, ledger rat. This is how you negotiate."

He marched past the fallen dwarf and squared up on the ship owner, grabbing Kei by the collar and hoisting him into the air with one arm.

"This cargo’s ours now," the thug sneered, teeth like broken gravestones. "You can take your little bird boat and fly on outta here... or we’ll take that too, and you can stay behind and serve our boss. He’s always hiring."

The gang laughed—low, ugly chuckles—while the dwarf scrambled on hands and knees to collect his scattered scrolls, muttering furiously. Diomedé, standing beside the party, gave the scene a long mechanical pause.

"Charming," he said, voice flat. "Shall we engage in negotiations of our own?"

After claiming the starboard side of the office quarters for herself and Vicky, Tahlia checks out the desk, seeing if there is anything of interest.  Then leaving the room behind, she starts exploring the ship, impressed by how smoothly they leave Leira behind.  She goes up on deck along the portside rail to watch their first dock amongst realmspace grow smaller.  She takes out her treasured lute, tunes it for a moment and then starts plucking some chords, her voice soft but clear as she sings.

Lanterns blaze on Leira bright,
A thousand lights in velvet night,
Silver trails where ships have flown,
We dance among the stars unknown.

Ether curls like ribboned lace,
Bramble guides through endless space,
The hub behind, the stars ahead,
We sail where mortal dreams have fled.

With parchment wings and pen in hand,
We chart the sky, we roam the land,
A song for those who dare to dream,
Upon the tide of starlit gleam.

She has a far off look in her eye as she finishes and puts her lute away.  As the Tears approach she goes below and watches from the stateroom (assuming there are windows there?).  Her mind whirls with possibilities.

 As they disembark their vessel and the thugs start things with the other boat, Tahlia nods to Diomede's suggestion and rolls up her sleeves.  She takes a couple steps forward and with a voice as sweet as silk, she raises it just enough so she is sure the lead thug can hear her, and she suggests "Why don't we set Mister Kei down and help the dwarf back to his feet, and while you're at it, pick up the scrolls he dropped."

(DC WIS save of 14 or succumb to the spell)

Vicky sizes up the situation, prepared to take action if the suggestion fails, first a bit of her own magic with silvery barbs, while studying the thugs for an opportunity.

Thug leader rolled 11. (Failure)

The thug blinked, his breath catching in his throat as Tahlia’s words slipped past his bravado and curled around his thoughts like silken cords. For a heartbeat, confusion flickered behind his eyes. The tight grip on Kei’s collar loosened—then released entirely, letting the half-elf stumble back onto unsteady feet.

The brute’s jaw clenched as he turned, mechanical now, as though his body were no longer entirely under his own command. He stooped without a word and began gathering the dwarf’s scattered scrolls, thick fingers oddly gentle as they plucked parchment after parchment from the soot-black stone. His companions stared, mouths parting as their leader—the man who moments ago was ready to break bones—was now fussing over tidying paperwork.

The dwarf blinked rapidly, cheeks flushed.

“Oh! Ah—yes—thank you, yes—careful with that one, please—that's an original writ of holdback taxation…”

Scroll after scroll made its way back into the dwarf’s frantic arms.

And then — as he stooped for the last scroll, placing it neatly into the dwarf’s arms — the spell’s grip snapped.

For a moment, his face went slack, and then anger surged up like a rising tide.

Behind him, the other thugs—who had stood nervously moments before—now exchanged glances. The spell's unnatural calm had unnerved them, but now that their leader had been made to play errand boy for a dwarf, the familiar comfort of cruelty returned.

One of them couldn’t hold it in and chuckled under his breath. Another elbowed his companion, smirking.

“Nice form, boss,” one whispered, not quietly enough.
“You missed a spot,” another added, barely containing his snicker.

The leader froze, his eyes twitching toward his own men. His face twisted—first with confusion, then with humiliation, and finally with pure, unfettered rage. He whirled on them, his voice rising into a low, venomous bark.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” he growled.
“You want to pick up scrolls next? Or maybe you want me to put you down like I should’ve done the first time you mouthed off?”

The snickers died instantly, replaced by wide eyes and backs pressed tight against the crates.

He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, now having completely redirected his fury at his own crew—momentarily forgetting the party that still stood ready only paces away.

Diomedé leaned in, voice light but edged with metallic amusement.

“Remarkable. Truly. Internal dissension already. You must run a thriving operation.”

The thug leader, red-faced and breathing hard, whips around at Diomedé’s jab, his rage now desperate for a target.

“You want to talk operations, tin-man? I’ll teach you operations!”

With a guttural roar, he charges the party, heavy boots pounding the soot-black stone. His men scramble behind him, caught between fear and loyalty.

Initiative:

• Tahlia (20)
• Thug Leader (13)
• Range Thugs (x2) (12)
• Vicky (11)
  Djoser (8)
• Diomede (5  Dex= +4)
• Archael (5)
• Melee Thugs (x2) (3)

Archael would have prepared himself, casting spells to protect him before debarking.
(Cast Mage armour and Unseen servant)

(ooh combat!) 

Tahlia sighs as the thugs turn towards them as she figured was the inevitable.  She then looks towards the leader and as he charges she snears, "Aw, poor thing — all that muscle, yet you were so eager to scrub dwarf boots. Should we fetch you a mop, or will you be mopping up your own pride after this beating?”

DC WIS save 14 or 3 psychic damage and disadvantage on it's next attack

The thug winced mid-charge, his stride faltering as Tahlia’s words slashed into his pride like a knife, his face twisting in a mix of pain and fury. A dull throb behind his eyes slowed him, but his momentum carried him forward, fists clenched, rage boiling past the sting.

The thug leader barrels into Diomedé with brute force, mace raised high. The first strike slams into Diomedé’s brass-plated shoulder, ringing out like a struck bell. Sparks flash as gears grind, but the Nimblewright holds firm. The second blow comes down with brutal precision, cracking into a joint seam — a vicious hit. Diomedé staggers slightly under the force, internal gyros whining, having taken 13 points of damage—but remains standing, optics narrowing with measured irritation.

Two thugs, quick on the draw, raise their heavy crossbows with practiced menace. The first bolt whistles toward Tahlia, but glances harmlessly off a polished stud on her armor, skittering away with a spark. The second streaks for Archael—deadly and true—until it veers at the last instant, harmlessly deflected by the shimmering field of his Mage Armor, which ripples like disturbed water before fading back to invisibility.

Initiative:

Next -> Vicky -> Djoser -> Diomede -> Archael -> Melee Thugs -> Tahlia -> Thug Leader -> Ranged Thugs

Vic moves around to the back of the thug leader, and with incredible speed, plunges her rapier into his side.  (23 to hit, 7+5 SA =12 damage.)

She disengages and nimbly dances away from the thug, taking cover from the crossbowmen, while saying "Bet that stung!  You're welcome to surrender when ye get tired o' losin."

His face a mixture of irritation and disappointment, Djoser turns his attention to the two melee thugs.  "Flee!" he commands them.

[Djoser casts command, upcast to level two to target both melee thugs.  WIS save DC 14.]

The thug leader lurched with a grunt, clutching his side as Vic’s blade bit deep. Staggered, he whirled, blood seeping, rage burning hotter than pain.

One thug’s eyes widened with panic, dropping his weapon as Djoser’s command echoed in his mind—he turned and bolted. The other sneered, shaking it off.

"Not today, wizard."

With fluid precision, Diomedé shifts his stance, cloak swirling, optics narrowing. His brass frame tilts, anticipating every angle, prepared to deflect any incoming blow with elegant, swashbuckling poise.

Next: Archael -> Melee Thug (one has fled)-> Tahlia -> Thug Leader -> Ranged Thugs -> Vicky -> Djoser -> Diomede 

Trying to hold back on the lethality of his arcane magic, the young bearded white-haired noble weaves an arcane pattern with his slender fingers and utters a short incantation, calling upon the elemental forces to turn away the insolent thugs.

(Cast Gust of Wind to throw as many thugs away, hopefully crashing into something that will make them think twice about getting back into the fight, Str save 15)

He then positions himself behind Diomedé, ready to redirect the strong wind towards anyone trying to engage him.

Archael’s Gust of Wind roared to life, a howling force that swept across the dock. The thug leader and both crossbowmen stumbled, feet skidding, then were blasted back fifteen feet, crashing into crates and scattering loose cargo. Only the sneering thug—who had resisted Djoser’s earlier command—planted his feet, gritting his teeth as the wind howled past. Nearby, the dwarf customs agent ducked behind a heavy crate, scrolls clutched tight, shielded from the gale by sheer instinct and luck.

The thugs scrambled to their feet, boots slipping on loose parchment and soot-streaked stone. The last standing bruiser, caught between rage and survival, glanced back at his battered leader. With a curse under his breath, he grabbed one of the leader’s arms, hauling him up as the crossbowmen awkwardly fumbled to raise their weapons, aiming more for show than threat.

“We’ll settle this next time!” one barked—though his voice cracked with less conviction than intended.

Staggering, dragging, and limping, the gang retreated down the dock, disappearing between stacks of crates, their pride bleeding worse than their wounds.

Diomedé watches the retreating thugs with a tilt of his head, optics narrowing in mechanical contemplation. After a beat, he dusts an imaginary speck from his cuff and speaks with crisp, dry delivery:

“Ah. The timeless art of negotiation: they posture, we counter, they flee. Efficient, if a touch undignified. Though I do appreciate their commitment to leaving with all vital limbs still attached. Quite sensible, really.”

Vic seems a little disapoonted.  Wiping her blade on a scrap of cloth, she sheathes it as she calls out.

 "Plenty more where that came from, if yer wanting a round two.  But We're here for dealin, not dualing, if yer boss is smarter 'en y'all....". . 

Looking back to the group, she Quietly says, "might need to see where they head.  Ill be back". 

She attempts to duck into the shadows, and follow the group, (9 stealth in log).  

Archael lets the storm abate and gives Vic a nod, then walking over to help the dwarven customs agent to collect himself and his scrolls. "Terribly sorry about that, such bad manners really. Who were those rascals anyway? Should we be worried they will inconvenience us any further on our visit here?" He asks calmly and politely, ready to go through the necessary administative customs procedures to have a smooth stay at the station.

Persuasion if relevant: 14