When the Master returned to the mansion, Trich felt like she could breathe again. One week passed since when, without leaving an inkling of information behind, he had disappeared; a week made of nerve-wracking doubts and tense waiting.

Trich felt confident that she was ready for independent command. She had matured quite a bit of experience after all: she had been giving orders and coordinating her brethren from the moment the Master appointed her as an Acolyte. By reason, she should have been ready, more than ready.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Not even a day needed to pass, only for the realization that she was in charge and there was nobody else but her to fall back to for her to start feeling out of breath. This isn’t about doing maintenance to the reactor. This is the entirety of the Master’s operations! If there was a failure, if the humans started to suspect, who knew how far-reaching the consequences could be? And whose fault that would be? Hers! Hers, and nobody else!

She found herself paralyzed by the horrible prospect of making a mistake; couldn’t think, couldn’t act, couldn’t lift a goddamn finger without shaking like a leaf and her mind turning blank. In hindsight, she could see that her demeanor was just silly - it was only about keeping a pleasant face and a cool head, for fuck’s sake. The Master trained her well enough! -, but in the thick of the moment, it felt like a mistake could bring the end of the world.

Simply, she couldn’t cope.

Thankfully, Krik - him of all people - was there. His brethren took to the massive responsibility like he was born into it. Laid-back, without a care in the world, he met the trickle of nobles that came to make their introductions with a large smile and not a mistake, making old ladies laugh and solemn nobles smile. He kept workers and guards in order, made sure that there was no leak or imprudence that could give them away and that the work continued as scheduled. Meanwhile, the best she had been able to do was to keep the accounting of the Guild.

There had been moments Trich felt like she almost could die out of frustration. This is so unfair! Krik lacked the rightful respect for the sacred task Master entrusted them with. For him, it was enough to do the bare minimum it was asked; in fact, the less he did, the happier he was. Even while keeping control of the mansion, he didn’t show an inch of the seriousness, the poise, the gravity that such a sacred task would require, no, that it would demand!. No, for him everything was like a joke!

She had been bursting her ass off from day one. When she wasn’t working, she was studying Master‘s lessons, so that she could be the best minion He could ask for. And even so, when the time came, she had fallen short and he had pulled through. It’s not fair! I work much harder than him! It’s not fair!

But she wasn’t just going to complain. This wasn’t about Krik being better, it was about she not being enough. She was going to do better! She needed to!

Trich promised to herself that she wouldn’t have failed like that ever again. I need to study more. I need to work more. I need to be more! Otherwise, if she couldn’t prove herself to be a good servant, how could she say to have really become different from the filthy, murderous goblin she had been?

Gorren acknowledged the three Acolytes with a quick nod as he briskly walked to the table. There was no need for any of the trio to speak a word for him to understand that his absence had been keenly felt. The empathic connection provided to him by the magical oath that enforced his servants’ fealty told him as much. Not in the least surprising, nor concerning. He was the linchpin of all of that. As long as operations continued as scheduled, the mental well-being of the Gremlins was secondary.

Still, what the connection told him about Trich was interesting. The once-female goblin kept on going above and beyond what the magical oath enforced, a passion fueled by her desire to prove herself and to leave behind her past. Mh, could turn useful. The shift in morals was part of the transformation; the goblins had left their savagery behind to adopt his ethics - a necessity, considering what environment he needed them to work in -, but that passion was a plus and as such could be harnessed.

Mph, we will see.

Gorren brought his attention to the objects on the table. Stacks upon stacks of papers were piled on its surface, so many that even the stout table looked to be straining to sustain the weight.

Gorren smoothed a hand over the paper at the top of a stack, long fingers flitting across tight scripture. That was his data-bank, everything he had written and collated about the new world. He had worked hard to put it together, passing weeks on the road and in the sky, in squalid taverns and busy ports, in sordid alleys and dusty caravans; he had chatted with farmers, artisans, merchants, fishers, vendors and, in a couple of occasions, even nobles; all to put together a picture as truthful as possible of the society that, at first glance, had seemed to be so backward.

Unluckily, none of the results had put the lie to that.

Truvia had been a highly developed society, where magic permeated every aspect of life and at least one-fifth of the population had the means and the possibility to reach tertiary education. Mana had been its fuel, powering the machines that sustained its economy and allowed output high enough to feed, cloth and satisfy the needs of a population of millions. It had had a rich cultural and societal life, with high living standards and impressive architectural traditions. Its army was the most powerful of the continent, unmatched everywhere.

The world after the catastrophe couldn’t have been more different. The population had dropped down drastically, scythed down by infrastructure failure and the resulting famine, pestilences and war for resources. Magitech had been completely abandoned, with a return to the muscular force or at best the energy provided by rivers and winds. Technology had regressed from the complex Truvian alloys to what iron and steel could be forged by blacksmiths. Magic, except divine, had been banned in all its forms and its users were actively hunted down and exterminated. Education had been replaced by ignorance and blind faith, hope by fear, ingenuity by idiocy and…

Gorren breathed in, taking rein of his rising emotions. Don’t get angry now. You need to keep your cool to figure this out.

With tools and knowledge being what they were, the greater majority of the populace was forced to work the fields just to produce enough food to feed society. Compared to it, only a small percentage could work in different economic sectors.

Gorren walked to a large map spread on the table between the stacks of paper. A region of land was reproduced on it with bold strokes. It was surrounded on both sides by mountains; a large forest covered its northern border, while at the south the land gave way to a gulf and the sea. The region itself was traversed diagonally by a large river and innervated by its affluents like a leaf by its veins.

Avurran, or like its people like to call it, the Free Cities.

Gorren didn’t doubt that the only reason why the scattering of city-states dotting the fertile plain and valleys hadn’t been already conquered by its neighbors was its easily defendable borders. That, and the fact that the two possible contenders were enough of a menace to each other to dissuade them from taking direct action.

Gorren moved his gaze to the west, where the map gave way to a large plain interspersed with smaller forests. The Sevelian Dominion. Elves. Untrustworthy and secretive, according to the populace, but they paid good coin and never left debts behind. He hadn’t been surprised to hear that elves had built their own nation. Apart from the isolationistic Sudrain, back in Truvia they were well-entrenched thanks to their inherently magical nature. But in a world where magic was banned… The line of thought didn’t conjure pleasant images. He could very well understand why they had chosen to form their own state.

Gorren moved his gaze to the east, where, after a series of valleys, the map surged into a large plateau. The Kingdom of the Flaming Light. That was where his enemy laid. It was clear by now that it was some kind of immortal, but that was just about what he knew. Who was he? Had he accomplices? It seemed likely, but if so, were they just as long-lived or something different? Who knew of the conspiracy to destroy Truvia? Was the Ecclesiarch part of it? Or this mastermind worked hidden even by him? Too many questions, too few answers. But there would be time to find them, oh yes, an eternity of time if necessary. He was more than ready.

Seveli and Flamelings squared off for Avurran and one didn’t need to be a genius to understand why. Apart from its defensive possibilities as a buffer, the region had rich soil, good climate, an advanced lumber industry and its position made it exceptionally suitable for commerce. Ships from Vujani, with all their loads of spices and exotic materials, were forced to pass for its ports; the Silver Road, with all its streams of riches from the far east, ran beside the coast and entered into Avurran from the east, shielded from the flamelings’ reach by the war-like orc tribes of the Wasteland, mortal enemies of the Flaming Light but not of the Avurrani.

Fattened by the commerce, the Free Cities were rich, as rich as they could be in that backward world, and that made them desirable. What’s more, they were divided. Nominally, the Cities were allies, with a Council to co-ordinate their military activities. Practically, each City was fiercely protective of its independence: the council was little more than a formality, summoned only rarely and even then only during the direst situations.

As much as they vaunted their “freedom”, the cities gathered around the most prosperous and powerful for protection and economic strength. It was these “Major Cities” that truly controlled Avurran, each the nexus of complex webs of interests, alliance, pacts and menaces.

Bickering and petty, it was only thanks to their neighbors’ antagonism and their inhabitants’ love for independence that the Free Cities had remained without a true master. Or at least that’s what the people he talked with had told him. There remained still many voices he was eager to hear.

Three coins of different size rested atop the map. Grabbing one, Gorren mused at the stalwart tower engraved on its face. To him, it was the emblem of a regressed time: in Truvia the golden coin, true and tested, was the main currency. That coin, the one that most widely circulated in Avurran, was made of a spoiled alloy of silver, just another proof of the crisis that had gripped those lands in the last century. But to others, that was the fuel of action and ambition. No matter the age, you still make the world turn. It was an oddly comforting thought.

Making the coin spin through his fingers, Gorren looked at the north, where the map showed a massive forest. The Eir Sen, the Great Unknown. Land of spirits and monsters. With the Catastrophe, the Mana had run rampant through all the continent, bringing a resurgence of magical creatures. While the northern Avurrani struggled daily with them, the rest of the region wasn’t spared from their predations. Mutants, beasts and more dangerous things made life difficult, forcing the populace to group together in large settlements for mutual defense. Small villages were rare and very far in-between, and always under the shadow of their larger cousins. The success that his Guild was meeting was a testament to the multitude of problems the populace met every day; and that not to speak about the mutations brought by Mana influence, or the magical sickness.

Opportunities to spread my reach. He wasn’t deaf to pain, but could recognize when a chance presented itself. The city militia and the Guard did what they could but their means were limited. His Guild was soon going to become an unreplaceable part of Blackstone. With importance, i will be able to gather information at the higher levels of society. From there, apart from being able to enjoy the protection afforded by the Avurrani to one of their own, he would have been able to better discern who the mastermind behind everything was. His thoughts kept going to the barrier surrounding the palace.

He would have preferred to keep to the shadows, but the task was too nuanced to trust it to anyone else. No, it needed to be him, close and personal. Only like that, he would be able to finally understand. That was why he had selected Avurran as his base of operations. The Flaming Kingdom was too close to his enigmatic enemy, and he knew too little of the Seveli. The Free Cities, on the other hand, were enough of a neutral party to allow a safer infiltration, and enough of a melting pot of problems to give room for entrenchment.

His own persona, Lucius Cartus, had been built keeping in mind the culture and knowledge level of the Avurrani: a man with coinage and more than ready to invest it, come from beyond the Wasteland, a tormented land from which the majority of the populace had heard of only in stories. He would use what he had learned of those lands during his flights, and of his past journeys, to compound his story and make it believable enough.

Gorren put a finger against the map, trailing it down to the Southeast, to a wide strip of land just under the Flaming Kingdom. The Wasteland. The land of the Orc tribes. The war-like creatures had been relegated there by the armies of Truvia. Ironically, their imprisonment had saved them from the brunt of the Disaster and now they were in the middle of a resurgence. They could have become a major player if not for their continuous bickering with each other. Exploitable. The Flaming Kingdom and the tribes were at mortal odds with each other, but the exact reasons still eluded him. Only the Avurrani were allowed, more or less, passage through their lands for their merchants. It was always a shaky agreement - the tribes were too problematic to make for steady partners -, but the prize was worth the risks. The commerce with and through the Wasteland brought great riches to the Cities.

And now we come to Blackstone. Gorren moved his gaze to the point of the map where the name of the city appeared in bold strokes, right at the center of a fertile plain.

Powerful, rich, influential; Blackstone was all of this and more; it was one of the major Cities, with a fiercely independent, large population and a strong military. A cluster of minor cities gathered under its banner, making it one of the great powers of the region, one that simply couldn’t be ignored, even if the interlopers were kingdoms.

Gorren slowly passed his fingers over the city’s name. It will make for a good power base. Power. It had become the objective of all his efforts. He needed power to unseat Quandar from his wretched fortress and he needed power to make an inroad for his vengeance. It was unbecoming, nothing but a speck compared to the glorious path of Knowledge, but he could live with it. It was only a mean to an end after all.

But enough of that.

Three powers ruled Blackstone: the Nobles, the Guilds and the Governor. Additional elements that needed to be kept in mind were the larger populace, the Guard, the militia and the underground. All of these will need to be approached and put under control as much as possible. Difficult, but with the resources he had at his disposal not impossible.

He beckoned, and the trio of Acolytes was quick to get close.

“We shall start immediately.” He said, handing the coin to Trich. The Gremlin received it like it was a holy relic.

Gorren’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Open the coffers.”

Two months after his arrival in the city, the agents of the Guildmaster - the name stuck quickly - started to buy. The coins they used were strange, but they were gold, of the kind that the poor hadn’t seen in a century. Few were ready to sell, but the prices the strangers were willing to pay were enough to loosen even the stoutest resistances. Small landowners, usually in thrall of the nobles, parted with their fields for figures big enough to redeem their debts and start anew; failing enterprises suddenly found themselves with a new owner and generous injections of money to steady them. Almost overnight, Lucius Cartus became a minor player of Blackstone’s economic landscape.

Lots of people had been helped by the Adventurers Guild by then, mostly very poor that were plagued with one of the thousand problems that were too small to bother the Guard with and lacked the money to bribe for help. These were more than happy to see their benefactor make way into the city but they were almost the only ones to think so. The rest, nobles and merchants and people alike, watched with suspicion at best and with overt hostility at worst toward one they felt to be an intruder in their beloved city.

Many players now followed with attention the moves of the so-called Guildmaster. Many decided to wait and see, but not all. These ones decided that the time had come to take action.

It was a slow day at the Gray Goblin. The job requests, that had been steadily on the rise, had suddenly taken a dive down. It was slightly concerning, but for the moment the transmuted Gremlins enjoyed the pause, relaxing at the tables dotting the communal hall of the Guild, chatting, drinking or just milling about. The only ones resenting the sudden lull were the five Warriors, each bored out of their minds.

It was almost a relief when a group of thuggish-looking men entered. Uncaring of the general attention pointed on them, they swaggered toward the desk, jeering and cursing as they passed between the Gremlins. Hands clenched around tankards’ handles and shoulders squared, but nobody made a move. For now.

The obvious leader of the men, a big brute with a stain on his blouse and a gaudy-looking armband, slammed a meaty hand on the desk.

Hiding his disgruntlement at having his attempts to nap interrupted, Krik smiled widely at the newcomer. “Hello! How can i help you?”

The man smirked, showing a mouthful of teeth. “Nice place you got here.” He mused.

Still smiling, Krik eyed the smirking men behind the first. He was fully awake now. “The statement of the day!” He said cheerfully. “If you‘re sightseeing, feel free to do it, like, away from me.”

A flicker of hardness passed over the man‘s expression. Putting both hands on the desk, he leaned forward, looming over the Gremlin. “Your prices. They are too low.”

Krik nodded slowly, smile still plastered on. “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t? That’s how the economy works. You see, if you sell low, people will buy. Instead, if you sell high…”

The man slammed a fist on the desk. “You’re trying to be funny with me?” He barked, whatever fake patience he had gone down the drain. “Your prices are too low! Raise them!”

“And we will do that because…?”

“Because Grimor says so.”

Krik gave him a flat look, smile melting. “Yeah, not happening.”

The wide smirk of the man faltered. Usually, throwing his boss’ name around was enough to cow people. For a moment, he was at loss. Then, he remembered.

“Oh, of course.” He said, finding back his cockiness. “You guys are new. You still don’t know how things work around here. Come on, guys!” He barked. “Let’s show these guys who is in charge in Blackstone!” He laughed, kicking the desk so hard that Krik had to jump back to avoid being hit.

Laughing and jeering, his men started to kick chairs and tables, and push any that dared to come too close.

“Hey, Figs! Look who’s here!” One of them had noticed the table where the Warriors were sitting. He grabbed Fret’s wrist, forcing the girl to her feet. “A pretty blossom! Come here, gal, tell me your name!”

“Oh no, i have been caught!” The girl whined. “What shall i ever do?!?”

Tad hid his guffaw in the crook of an elbow, while Huk just sighed and drank his mug. Sela gave a serious look to Tur, that just rolled his eyes and nodded.

The robust girl was on her feet in the blink of an eye; she grabbed her chair and smashed it straight against the offender’s head, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

“Oh, i am saved!” Fret exulted. “Sela, you beautiful beast! Tell me that you‘re free tonight!”

Snorting a laugh, Sela threw away what remained of the chair.

The thugs had frozen at the sudden attack.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” The leader barked. “Do you know who the hell you’re messing with?”

Recovering their courage, the thugs made to advance on the woman, expressions grim, but then they noticed the hostile crowd surrounding them.

“A quick advice.” The stupified thug leader turned to Tur. The Warrior chief was still sitting, but his eyes shone with the glint of steel. Beside him, Dara passed a bone comb in the fur of a chittering Dire Rat. “Don’t fuck with the Gray Goblin.”

“You damn idiots!” The thug turned around, searching for an exit. There were none, only grim faces and clenched fists. “Do you know who you’re putting yourself against? We work for Grimor! Grimor work for the Crow!” His words ended into a scream as the Gremlins rushed him and his thugs.

“Please, don’t break the furniture,” Krik called without much conviction while hiding behind the counter.

Looking impassively on the melee from the floor above, Gorren thought about those circumstances.

“The Crow.” He mused. “A name that has been popping up more than once. I will need to look into it.”

Instinct told him that small aggression wasn’t the true jab. Whoever sent must have known that his men were ready and able to defend themselves. We will probably receive a follow-up soon.

His expectations didn’t miss their marks. Half a day after having thrown out the thugs, a strong patrol of the Guard showed itself at the Gray Guild.

They came to arrest whoever had treacherously assaulted the “poor people whose only fault was to enter into the Guild to ask some information”.