Viscount Robert Trentwell sat in his office reading through reports. The office was sumptuously appointed. There was just the right amount of light coming through the southern window to allow each the rich furnishings to stand out without being too harsh on the eyes. The thick leather upholstery of the chairs was without blemish or crack. They sat in front of a desk that had to weigh four hundred pounds. Each of the feet on the desk and the chairs was expertly carved to match by one of the most well-regarded woodworkers in the capitol. It was his greatest, and last, work. The walls were adorned with tasteful trophies from past conquests.

On the south wall, where one’s eyes would be drawn by the large bay window looking out over the courtyard of the manor, was the banner from the wolf runner tribe of orcs. That was Viscount Trentwell’s first conquest, long before moving up from a mere baronet to the exalted title of viscount. On the opposite wall, to the viscount’s right was a display case containing a variety of weapons from the multitude of battlefields where he had engaged in that greatest test of skill and cunning.

Viscount Trentwell paid no mind to the expensive crystal decanter of dwarvish whiskey that sat on his desk, untouched since his manservant had poured it. In front of the Viscount sat two piles of paper. He didn’t have to look through each of these items himself, and in the grand scheme of things these items were relatively unimportant, but Viscount Trentwell liked to review reports randomly from his operations every day. Even the smallest lumbermill on the outskirts of his territory may be required to deliver a report directly to the viscount’s office one day. This, he found, ensured that subordinates were less prone to slacking or cutting corners. Even though he had been doing so for nearly two decades, he still had to hang some fool who thought he could skim more than was appropriate off the top. It was difficult to find individuals who were intelligent in their dishonesty, but the viscount persevered.

Viscount Trentwell’s ruminations on the difficulty of acquiring good help were interrupted by a brief knock at his office door. The viscount looked at the small time-piece on the corner of his desk, a gift from an [Artificer] of some skill who wished to set up shop in his city. The unfortunate [Artificer] was denied, Viscount Trentwell held a mild dislike of all of the tinkering and gadgets that artificers produced. If they could be trusted to stick to mundane items like timepieces it would be fine, but they all seemed pathologically incapable of refraining from trying to design a shrink ray or electro-mana hand-held grenade launcher. The time-piece showed three hours past noon, which was the exact time for his appointment.

“Enter,” Viscount Trentwell stated in his crisp baritone. The door opened and a man who could be the polar opposite of the viscount entered his office. Where the viscount was lean and hungry, the visitor was morbidly obese. The viscount had a hawklike visage, a sharp nose and sweeping forehead that lead to a head shaved of every scrap of hair every morning. The man entering the office had a face that could only be described as that of a pig, with an upturned nose and florid cheeks. He was overdressed for a casual meeting during office hours, wearing ornate robes, a thick gold chain necklace holding a ruby amulet the size of a child’s fist, and rings encircling each of his sausage like fingers. All that adorned Viscount Trentwell’s body was the emblem of office around his neck and a signet ring on his left pinky finger. If the viscount had any misgivings about the visitor, he hid them behind a businesslike mask.

“Your excellency,” said the man with a deep bass voice,“I was honored to receive your summons.”

“Mr. Sucro, I’m glad you could take the time to meet with me,” replied the viscount.

“Well, your man seemed to indicate that this was an opportunity that I’d be a fool to pass up.”

“That is correct. Would you like a glass of something? I have an excellent dwarvish whiskey, some elven wine, brandy from the isles, or tea from the east.”

The larger man didn’t hesitate. He had dealt with the viscount for many years, though rarely directly. There was no doubt that the man had a large file prepared on him by that [Assassin] masquerading as a manservant.

“I would love some tea, if you have any of the jade white from three years ago still,” the guest said. “Not to be rude, but I rarely imbibe in strong spirits.”

“As you wish,” the viscount replied. He then rang a bell on his desk and a few moments later his manservant entered carrying a tray with an ancient ceramic tea service. There were two small cups that each has a waxy sheen to them. In small box between the cups was a small wooden box that contained tea leaves worth far more than the jewelry on Mr. Sucro’s chubby fingers. The manservant quickly and efficiently rinsed the tea leaves, and cups, and had the tea steeping in the pot within seconds. The viscount and his visitor sat and spoke about the weather and the recent rumors from court for the two minutes required for the tea to be ready. Already the aroma of the jade white leaves was spreading pleasantly throughout the room.

The visitor could already feel the effects of the tea, making his thoughts clearer and sharper. For the next forty-eight hours after drinking this particular tea, he would gain experience three times as fast as normal. Already, he had mentally cleared his schedule for the next two days. If the whatever the viscount required would allow it, he was taking a portal to the nearest dungeon and hunting. Opportunities for him to gain experience were rare, and his class allowed him to gain experience just by being the leader of a group in combat far faster than it allowed him to gain experience from managing his many business holdings.

As soon as the tea was prepared and the two men were sipping quietly on the flavorful concoction, the manservant exited the office.

“The reason I called you here today,” said Viscount Trentwell, “was to extend to you an opportunity. I know that you have been working to become a member of the peerage. You currently have an excellent chance to have a baronet position in the next five years.”

Mr. Sucro didn’t say anything. The fact that his and Viscount Trentwell’s estimated timeframe for his receiving the baronet rank was disturbing. It indicated that the viscount knew far more about Mr. Sucro’s less legitimate dealings than Mr. Sucro was aware of. In order to buy some time, he added exactly two drops of beeling honey from the tray into his cup of white jade tea. Another reason for the ridiculous expense of the tea was that it seemed to magnify the effects of the beeling honey while simultaneously negating many of the addictive properties. Both items were so ridiculously expensive that it wasn’t likely anybody but the Emperor of Xian, where the white jade came from initially, could afford it with any regularity.

“You have me at a bit of a disadvantage, your excellency,” said Mr. Sucro. “It’s true that I’ve invested a great deal of time and effort into becoming a baronet. The right to vote in the house of lords, collect taxes, and form a military unit under the crown is not to be laughed at. I’m curious what offer you have for me that could be related to those efforts.”

The Viscount Trentwell didn’t reply immediately but waited until Mr. Sucro had taken a sip of his tea. “It’s interesting that you should put that particular honey in your tea while we’re having this conversation. Tell me, Mr. Sucro, what do you know of beeling honey?”

“I know that it’s incredibly expensive, gives vigor and energy, and can become addictive. It’s the primary ingredient in the most well-known Elixir of Youth,” replied Mr. Sucro.

“That is all correct, but not everything. Beelings are protected by crown law, so nobody is allowed to harvest them for parts, though the animals themselves are excellent material for several production classes. Currently, there are two places in the kingdom where beeling honey is collected. The hive dungeon near Norvos and the beast range on our eastern border. The two main collection points for the beast ranges are the city of Starke and a ‘village’” he said this last with obvious sarcasm, “called Emmit’s Lake. In order to purchase anything that comes through the beast ranges, one must go through the Norvos Merchant Guild, which grew to power by having a monopoly on beeling honey coming out of the dungeon in Norvos. When the beast range began producing the honey, they immediately set up outposts and received a writ to trade exclusively out of the city of Starke. Even the honey from Emmit’s Lake goes through Starke to the north before heading back west to civilization.”

The viscount waited a moment before continuing, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “I recently came into conflict with the Norvos Merchant Guild. They are powerful, but their monopoly on key resources has led them to believe that they can dictate terms to the nobility. That their money makes them just as important. I plan to teach them otherwise. This, Mr. Sucro, is where you come in.”

Mention of the powerful guild didn’t seem to bother the larger man. He quietly sipped on his tea and waited for the viscount to continue. He knew of the viscount’s trouble with the merchant guild and honestly wasn’t sure where he stood. The viscount was a frightening opponent on the battlefield but rarely engaged in political maneuverings. As far as Mr. Sucro was aware, the viscount just didn’t have the right mindset to engage in the type of backstabbing required to engage in a war of attrition with a merchant guild that had its hands in nearly every moneymaking enterprise in the city of Norvos, legal or illegal.

“What, exactly, would you like me to do, your excellency. I’ve been blessed to be successful in many of my ventures, but I don’t have near the resources nor the inclination to engage in a trade war with a powerful merchant guild,” Mr. Sucro stated.

“I’ll be blunt. You, Mr. Sucro, are the primary producer and supplier of fairy dust in the kingdom. You are a murderer, a liar, and a thief. You have a significant lack of morals, and each of your enemies eventually dies either from ‘accident’,” again the viscount emphasized the word with obvious sarcasm, “or with a knife through the heart.”

Mr. Sucro froze with the cup of tea halfway to his mouth. Just as he was reaching surreptitiously towards the amulet around his neck to make his escape, he felt the sharp tip of a weapon at the back of his neck and a small drop of blood roll down from where the blade had pierced the skin.

“Let’s not do anything we’ll regret, huh fatty?” whispered a voice in his ear. Mr. Sucro could tell that the man absolutely wanted him to do something that would allow the unknown dagger wielder to slide the weapon deep into his skull. Mr. Sucro tried to recall when someone else had entered the room, he had items that were supposed to reveal anybody hidden under magical invisibility and boosted his Perception against hidden individuals. He had done a thorough scan of the room when he entered and when the manservant, who was likely standing behind him with a dagger to his neck, had entered and left.

“Do not act rashly. I’ve known about you since long before you became the head of your own shadow guild. You grew to power because I chose you. While you may be the embodiment of everything I hate, you bring a level of order to the chaos that is the criminal underworld. You also keep your word, part of your class restrictions if I am not mistaken. Twenty years ago, when you received your first commission to gather the ingredients for what would become your core product, I was there. Ten years ago, when your primary competition was arrested, drawn, and quartered, I was there. Last night, when you referred to me as that ‘battle obsessed fop’, I was there. I have given you everything that you have, and I honestly do not begrudge you your noble title. You have worked well for me these last twenty years, even if you did not know it, and I reward those who perform well,” Viscount Trentwell stopped for a moment. He then reached into a drawer on his desk and pulled out a vellum scroll, sealed with the signet of his house.

“This is for you, if you choose to continue working for me. If you choose not to, there will be no repercussions. But I think this will be suitable reward for the work you have done for me and will do for me in the future,” he said as he passed the scroll over to the corpulent criminal.

Mr. Sucro hesitantly reached for the scroll, cognizant of the sharp tip of a knife mere inches away from taking his life. He used a fingernail to break the seal and unfurled the thick vellum. Emblazoned at the bottom of the page was the official, more stylized version of viscount’s crest and seal. Mr. Sucro quickly glanced through the scroll and struggled to keep his emotions in check. He was holding a writ of nobility in his hand that bestowed onto him the newly created Barony of Sucro which included the village of Emmit’s Lake and all lands from the easternmost bank of the Atrondul River to the west to the beast range to the east and for seventy-five kilometers north from the southernmost border of the Kingdom of Sterne.

This was far, far more than the baronetcy that he was expecting to receive in five years. For the lifetime peerage of a baronet’s rank, he had murdered or had murdered hundreds. He had destroyed families with the drug that he supplied to the kingdom, and spent a decade slowly working to wrap his strings around a count who could grant him the rank he so desired when the count’s office received its next opportunity to promote one in five years. Now he stared at a writ that granted him his own barony, not just granted it, created one for him and his progeny in perpetuity, and he wondered just what he would have to do to earn it.

“How? It takes a mandate from the crown to approve the creation of landed peerage and I have heard nothing of this.”

“You may not be aware, but the Viscount of Trentwell owes fealty to the Marquis of the Eastern Marches. Do you know who the Marquis of the Eastern Marches is?”

“I’m not certain, your excellency. I always thought that you answered to Count Horne,” replied Mr. Sucro.

“Most do, and in my capacity as Baron of Crowe I do report to the count. I owe my fealty to Archduke Ferdinand Leonid, who holds the title of Marquis of the Eastern Marches from his maternal grandfather. It took some effort to have him create a barony on the frontier with just a village instead of a true city, but this particular village has over a thousand residents and is home to a guild certified alchemist.”

“This is a great deal to process, your excellency. Even taking into account your relationship to the archduke smoothing the process, I’m not certain about whether I can deliver to your expectations for such a grand appointment.”

“I assure you, you will be able to do exactly as I want. Your primary task will be to initiate on my behalf, and therefore the behalf of the archduke, the collection and shipping of all resources gathered in the beast range and shipped out of Emmit’s Lake. You will work to build up the ‘village’ into a legitimate city. Emmit’s lake has not paid taxes to the crown since its founding due to its status as a village and an obscure law that exempts taxes for frontier settlements until they reach a certain level of prosperity. There have been increasing talks of reduced trade restrictions with our southern neighbor, and if that comes to fruition as I expect it to, then you will be one of the richest barons in the kingdom.

“Your secondary task will be to block any and all attempts by the Norvos Merchant Guild to increase their presence in your barony and in the beast range. You will need to recruit and train a force to fight against any ‘bandits’ that may suddenly begin plaguing the road to Norvos. In addition to that, I want you to begin training [Ranger]s and [Hunter]s to solidify your hold on the beast range. I want nothing coming out of that beast range that doesn’t pass through your city, and thus add to the coffers of both myself and the archduke,” the viscount finished his speech by taking a small sip of his tea.

“I’m honored, your excellency. Will I have autonomy to act as I need to accomplish your goals?” asked Mr. Sucro.

“Within reason. You report to me, any stain to your honor is a stain on my honor. One of the reasons you were picked was due to your discretion. The number of people that are aware of your less upright activities can be counted on one hand,” the viscount paused for a second and his eyes shifted to the man standing behind Mr. Sucro. “You’ve seen the carrot, I believe it only fair to show you the stick. Should you fail me, should you betray my trust in you, then I will end you. Your son will be made a eunuch and your daughter will be made a whore for the army. Your wife will be quartered. Your mistress burned at the stake. Your two sons in Norvos will be strangled in their sleep. Your parents will be poisoned. All that you hold dear in this world will be taken from you, but you will be left alive. I will have you placed on display with your arms and legs removed. Your tongue will be cut from your head. Your eyes plucked out. You will be a constant reminder for all to see why it is never a good idea to betray me.”

Mr. Sucro waited a moment. He knew that he had vastly underestimated the man in front of him. He also knew that the chances of him turning down this offer and not regretting it, of even living past the first utterance of the denial, were almost nonexistent.

“I’m honored and will gladly accept your offer, your excellency,” he said with very little hesitation.

“Good. Your title will be officially bestowed upon you this Freeday with the sword ceremony. You have four days to prepare. I would strongly suggest spending the next two days in the dungeon to take advantage of this excellent tea,” he said as he took the final sip from his cup. “Mr. El-Beyad will see you out, Baron Sucro.”