Woundwort — Roleplayer Guild

Hello. I am Woundwort.

I've been a member of the Guild for a long time, though frankly I hold my earlier work in some contempt. I have elected to return as it and try my luck again.

There are a few ground rules we should get out of the way:

I am only interested in writing with you if you are 22+ years old. This is not negotiable. Do not contact me asking for exceptions. 

I am not a stickler for length, brevity can be the soul of wit. I do insist on some wit however.

In terms of the bedroom, I can fade to black or write it out. If you are expecting constant smut, we will not be compatible. Such scenes exist at the service of the story. Not the other way around.

I only write gay romance in terms of pairings. MxM. Two men. And no. Yaoi doesn't count.

If you write ABO just...just go.

If you are interested in an RP, please PM me.

Right then. Have they gone? Let us get to brass tacks.

I come seeking tales with verisimilitude and depth. Be they heady stories of blood and glory or stories of simple folk with simple lives. You will find that I have much to recommend me as a partner. I am well educated in the studies of history and anthropology and apply my learning to my writings. I will take the time to craft the food ways of a culture, how they mint their coins, the tiny details that make a world a function and feel real. The details that often go unnoticed in favor of flashy magic or floating castles. I write about settings that feel real-and I write about people that feel real. I demand much of myself when it comes to developing a character. I will ruthlessly discard beloved concepts if I cannot make them feel authentic-to have that ring of reality to them.

I deplore nothing more then characters made just to fulfill some juvenile fantasy of power or sexual prowess.

I write under the conceit that what is produced by the endeavor matters. Writing is a craft, like any other, and if one is going to pick up the tools one owes them respect and effort. I ask much of my partners, I ask for investment, I ask for a level of care for details that is uncommon to say the least, and I ask for a level of restraint that is also uncommon. But I ask just as much of myself. I am an old soul in that regard. I will be honest with those I work with, often to what is considered a fault. If I am asked a question, you will get precisely what I think. I do not hide or play games. If I am not interested in an RP I will tell you. If I think a concept is bad, I will tell you. I would ask for the same level of honesty in a partner. I am singularly hard to offend.

I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood,
Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated,
Those who wade out into battle?
Wolf-skinned they are called. In battle
They bear bloody shields.
Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight.
They form a closed group.
The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men
Who hack through enemy shields.
— Hrafnsmál

In terms of setting and genre, I primarily partake of two. Fantasy and science fiction. As I've indicated, I greatly enjoy world building and crafting a setting and these two genres are excellent for that. I have written everything from an alien merchant managing a stall upon a space station promenade to brutal berserkers from the north, riding out for pillage. There are very few character types that are beyond me. Though I will be honest about the limits of my abilities. I cannot write young women well. I feel every attempt results in something that is less then authentic.

Now, to prove I am capable of matching my high-talk, I will provide you with some writing samples.

The moon hung low in the sky, almost seeming to brush the peaks of the pine trees before it. Red eyes traced over the canopy, plunging themselves into the darkness betwixt the trees. Pale hands tightened on a crumbling battlement. They would be here soon, of course. The royal and whatever entourage they had gathered. Brandt Von Rabenkopf's eyes narrowed at the thought. For centuries the county of Carpathia had been the rightful domain of his bloodline.

They had served faithfully down the years. Even after their rulers had abandoned the old ways for a glittering, star-filled illusion. He had served faithfully, for centuries. And this was the reward. A piece of his county, his good native soil, taken by the crown. Was this to be his fate? To watch his domain vanish piece by piece?

The old count turned about, gazing at the manor. It consisted of a sturdy central building, a small, ill-used chapel, next to a depressingly full family cemetery. An overgrown garden. Beneath it, he knew, a maze of ancient catacombs wormed their way through the earth. A remnant of older times. A legacy, from the ancient branches of the Kempf bloodline. Their only legacy now.

He would curse Aldrich Kempf for his toadying to the crown for many years to come. When he had been apprised of the will, told that the crown would the land...oh, the Count had been tempted, oh so very tempted, to raise his flag in revolt. It had been done before.

His eyes landed on a young man next. Blonde-haired, dressed in a breastplate, heled in fine steel and wielding a halberd. But all of these seemed secondary to the dark body paint he sported. Simple black slashes that started at the face. The count permitted himself a small smile. His faithful Arochi would have followed him into battle. They were an old people. A people to whom loyalty and honor still meant something. But no. He was a lord before he was a warrior. It would have been a war that he could not win.

He owed his people more than that.

So here he was. To watch as some smug royal from the capital took what was his by rights….

"You are troubled." A serene voice cut through the night. A silm, silver-haired man in dark robes walked delicately along the wall, blind-folded eyes fixed on the Count. Above him fluttered a raven, as black as the night about it.

"Your perception is as keen as ever." The Count growled back.

"Sarcasm is beneath you." Orin crossed his arms. "Ye invited me to your domain to counsel you. Let me counsel you."

Brandt sighed. Orin was right of course. "I worry, Seer. For my people. For this land. I have seen enough to know this is the only start. Men like this new King, they do not content themselves with little, when they might have all."

"Reminds me of someone." Orin cocked his head."It was not so long ago that you marched to war, eager for blood and glory. To take it all."

"A true war? A war worthy of the name? A century. Longer."

"Yet a warrior you remain."

The count waved his hand in silent acknowledgement.

"Endure this, o'Count. This is but a sliver of your domain. You have an advantage most men lack. Time. Time is your truest ally, your greatest friend. You will outlast them. This is a fact, o'Count. It is unseemingly to dwell on something ye cannot change."

Brandt raised an eyebrow. "Orin. Are you telling me to stop sulking?"

The Seer laughed. A sharp, unnerving sound. "Why yes, I believe I am."

Brandt considered this for a moment. It was a rare man who would dare address him so. It was a rarer one who could get away with it. Perhaps that was why he valued the Seer so. His gifts were doubtless a great resource, but he was one who knew how to say what one needed to hear...in the fashion one needed to hear it.

"Thank you, Orin." He said, somewhat grudgingly. He turned his gaze back to the forest for a moment, at it's shadows. At his land. Carpathia. They called it a cursed land. Perhaps it was. But he had slept in it's good grave soil for centuries. It hurt to part with even a...sliver of it. The county had been his responsibility and somehow, he felt as though he had failed it.

Then he turned his gaze away and began to walk back towards the manor. "I trust all is prepared for our...guest?" Brandt queried.

The seer fell into step besides him. "Yes. All is ready. At the very least, the prince will not have reason to speak ill of Carpathia's hospitality."

Brandt nodded grimly. He could faintly hear the sound of clinking kitchenware. Smell the roasting of meats in the chill air. Sounds he would have to get used too, nights at Raven's Head were quiet. The castle was large and ill-populated. To have so many scents in the air, so many sounds on the wind...it was..

"Strange days ahead, I think." Brandt muttered, a peculiar feeling stealing over him.

The northmen muttered amongst themselves. Nursing their cups of mead and platters of roasted meat. Someone new was amongst them this night, someone to be heard by the Jarl. Not one of the outlying villages, no. This stranger was lithe, small of stature, brown of hair and pointed of ear. An elf. One of the Fairfolk of the mountains. An uncommon sight….and always fodder for the ever-wagging mouths of the court.

Aeron could feel some eyes linger on him. Some curious, some drunk, some lustful. He had grown used to such stares in his time amongst the races of men.

The hall smelled of smoke, meat and man. Fires flickered in the pit at its center cracking and popping. Dancing shadows were thrown across the walls. Men, women or objects, they all had a shadowy double. There was a certain beauty to these shaded copies, that men, Aeron found, had difficulty appreciating. Not because of any lack of aesthetics….it was simply because they could not see so well in the dark as one of the old folk.

To Aeron, even those shadowed corners had a brightness akin to day. Every detail of the shadows, every line and contour, was easily distinguishable. There was a beauty to it, to the clarity and contrast.

With a contented sigh, the elf held his hands closer to the blazing fire. There had been a chill in the air, a sign of approaching winter. The warmth of Jarl Sune’s hall was most appreciated. Aeron’s ears twitched upwards as the Jarl dispensed another judgement. The last before he would be heard.

Aeron’s eyes lingered on Sune himself. The Jarl lounged upon his throne, he was strong of body, great in height and fair of hair like most of his people. His eyes though, they were like chips of hoarfrost. A just man, trader’s talk had it but Sune had also been a raider. His wealth and power was built on burned villages and great sacks.

“My Jarl.” Began a grizzled elder whose spindly legs seemed barely up to the task of supporting his belly. “That land is ours by rights, it has been for generations.” The man’s voice was like something like the croak of a frog. “Olin and his damned lot have no damned claim to those hills and no damned right to graze on them!” Spittle flew as the old man spoke and Aeron pitied anyone in range.

“That’s a lie!” A young man surged forwards, lithe and lean with his flaxen hair bound into a ponytail. “My family has had claim to those hills for generations! Since the time of my father’s father they have been ours. My Jarl, I beg you, give us justice!”

He assumed this was Olin.

The old man snarled, rounding on the younger. “Silence whelp! The Jarl has no interest in your lies!”

“Aye, you prefer he hears only yours!”

For a moment, Aeron thought this would end in blows. The old man had turned a particular shade of purple and the vein’s on Olin’s neck had began to bulge out. “Listen here you-”

“Enough.” The words were calm. Even pleasant. Aeron’s ears twitched in a fashion that normally came just before deadly storms. The jarl it seemed had had enough. “Egil. Olin. You come to me for judgement. I will give it. But I will suffer no man to spill the blood of my banners beneath mine own hall roof.”

The two men shrank back, cowed for the moment. “Olin. Those hills belong to Egil by rights, your kin sold them long ago.”

The younger man flushed. “For half of what they were worth.” He muttered. “It was that or starve. Now we will starve regardless.”

Sune frowned. “Do you not have other fields?”

Olin swore. “We did. Until the wolves came. None of my folk dare venture too close to the forest’s edge, and our herds bled daily. My brother ventured into the wood to drive them off...but…” The silence said all that had to be said.

The Jarl turned his chilly gaze to the old man next.

“...I….” Egil suddenly found the floor very interesting. “I didn’t know it was so bad my lord. The way the lad blusters-threatens-how was I too…to lose a brother...I….”

The Jarl waved his hand. “And you will be at each other's throats again in a month. Olin, you will acknowledge Egil’s claim to the hills. Egil, you will allow Olin and his kith to graze upon them until these wolves can be dealt with.”

Olin didn’t seem particularly happy if Aeron was any judge. Egil seemed more solemn than anything. If he was mourning the death of a rival or the intrusion on his land though….he couldn’t say.

Aeron took the judgement as an invitation regardless. He moved from the fire and weaved through the crowd, past feasters, drunkards, shieldmaidens and warriors. Until he stood before the Jarl and those formidable eyes had locked on him. The elf had lived fifty and three years and thought he might live another fifty and three before he met another man like this one.

“Aeron of the Fairfolk, I welcome you to my hall and my city, it is an honor to have one of elvenkind amongst us once more.” The contrast was marked. There was even a trace of warmth in the man’s voice now.

“I thank you, Jarl Sune. As do my people. You have ever been a friend to us.” He began, with an inclination of his head. “I come to you to seek aid in a quest of great import to my kindred. Do ye know of the blades of old, sung into existence by the smiths of yore? The Blades of Dawn?”

“I do, aye. Blades deadly beyond compare, if ye seek one here, you will be disappointed I fear. Much wealth flows through my city but alas, legends arrive upon our docks less often.

Aeron shook his head. “I seek not a whole blade. I am a smith in the old way and I have studied much and long one the ways of dawn. I believe I could remake such a blade, if I had the materials”

The jarl looked intrigued now. Aeron, encouraged, went on. “I believe I know the locations of the fragments of one such blade, it was broken and scattered long ago. But if assembled….they could be made whole. I speak of Silverstorm. Blade of the north forests.”

“And you believe these fragments lay within my realm.” The Jarl finished. “You have my permission to seek them of course. But there’s more to it then that, is there not Aeron of the Fairfolk?”

Aeron nodded, trying not to show how tense he was. If the Jarl denied him...it would be a long, hard journey. One he might not return from. “I believe they lay in the heart of the Shiverwood.” Aeron said. It was as if he had gutted the Jarl in front of all and sundry. The room went deadly quiet, with every trace of conversation vanishing into the ether.

“The Shiverwood.” Sune said thoughtfully, his hand upon his chin. “I would not have one of the Fairfolk throw his life away upon my lands. If you plan to seek this blade alone…”

“I...do not my lord. I must ask you for a boon. An escort through the Shiverwood. A guide.”

There was a pause as the ice-eyed man considered the request. A request he had clearly been preparing for. “I believe I know just the man...” There was something in the Jarl's voice Aeron couldn't quite place…

The fortress burned. The air reeked of ash and blood. Battle cries from three different races mixed together in an indecipherable cacophony. The screams of painted tribal warriors and legionnaires alike, the bellowing battle cries of orcs and finally, the squeaking chittering of the teeming mass of the ratmen. It was a song of war.

A song for wolves.

"My wolves." Lord Mordan whispered, his mouth pulling into a grim smile. He stood like an avenging god of war, staring down at the carnage that stretched on below his great tower. A tall man, lean and hungry like a beast of the wild. There was a feral glint in his blue eyes that made them resemble two chips of ice. His long blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, lending an element of discipline to his aspect.

He looked upon the twisting roads of the fortress, at the shattered outer walls and the inner walls that were still the scene of great carnage. There, a charge of orcish berserkers broke through a disciplined imperial line, his own loyal legionnaires following behind them. Here, wildmen charged forward, only to be cut down by a hail of missiles…

And behind the victors, ratmen suddenly surged from the sewers, laying into them with the desperate courage peculiar to their strange kind.

His force had fought hard. They'd fought well. They had burned and slaughtered their way across the empire-and now, forced to this last bastion, they had made the cursed Dragons pay for their victory in blood. But…but the play was drawing to a close. The end of the first act was in sight.

Soon the inner walls would fall completely. Then it would be war to the knife inside the twisting roads around the Black Tower.

There had only been one way this would end of course. He had known even when he'd thrown open the gates to Orc and Wildman alike. They would run wild for a year, perhaps, then they would be forced back. Forced to retreat and scatter. His allies would live to fight again.

But Lord Garrick Mordan was not meant to live beyond the close of the first act of this play.

Ah. But what a part. He had made the Dragons bleed-and who could say so much? Garrick turned to his companion, a great strapping rat that was almost man-high, clad in an odd mixture of chainmail and plate. Warlord Vilk.

"The end is near for me, brother." Garrick's smile turned warm as he regarded the queer creature who had become his warrior-kin. "I will ride out with the last of the calvary and I shall die."

Vilk nodded solemnly. Something like resignation playing across his features. "We all do what we must-must. I look for you in the great catacombs of the Nightwatcher, when my time comes to walk-walk.." The rat spoke with a chittering accent, repeating random words. The language of the rats was quick, skittish and breathless, with different words emphasized according to arcane rules Mordan could not even begin to understand.

All told, Vilk spoke the language of the empire well enough. Far better than most of his kin.

"I will look forward to it. Command the defense until the Tower is ready to fall. Then make your escape. I yearn to meet you in the honored halls of the Gods, but…perhaps not soon hm? You will be needed in the battles to come."

The great black rat looked like he wanted to say something, red eyes evaluating Mordan steadily. But then he nodded. "I will come with many-many scars and stories to say." A firm nod.

"I shall hold you to that brother. Now…to war. To slaughter. And to death." With those final words, he strode by Vilk and into the corridors of the Black Tower. The time for command was over. The time of the warrior had come.

Mordan no longer measured his life in years, months or even days. No. He measured it in hours. When man rode out against dragon…there was only one way it might end.

A roar sounded in the distance, shaking the stone of the tower.

The lord's grin turned wild. Savage. He'd make the great bloody lizard pay first.

Aset Ak’mor breathed in the sweet scent of redleaf tea, letting the soothing smell enter his body. Then the sunkissed Kharesh gently raised the bowl to his lips and took a sip. He relaxed as the warmth of the drink suffused his body. His pointed ears lowered themselves slightly as the tension of Aset’s body drained away. Violet eyes blinked open and Aset examined his surroundings once more.

Isek’s was a nice little tapcafe, all things told. Clean, nice chairs and good tea. The Forseti in charge of the place had even sprang for a planter or two full of sweet-smelling offworld flora. Aset’s ears twitched as he eyed the purple blossoms. Amethyst Spitelilies. A good choice-hardy little things, hard to kill. Then his eyes drifted over to the chrono on the wall. A small frown crossed his face.

His contact really should have been there by now. Then a shadow loomed in the doorway and Aset breathed out a small sigh of relief. A large, red-shelled Krel scuttled into the cafe. The Krel had eight limbs in total, four legs, fours arms. One set of the arms ended in huge, clacking-claws while another, smaller set sported digits suited for more delicate manipulation. One compound eye regarded Aset as the alien made his way over. The other was covered in a simple, black cloth patch.

The Kharesh couldn’t actually pronounce the Krel’s name-in fact, like most species he couldn’t even speak the language-so he’d taken to calling him Red. The Krel had never objected. Aset raised a hand in greeting. “It’s been a long time Red. Too long.”

“It has.” The Krel rumbled through his translation unit. It was a strange sound, half stones falling, half electronic monotone. “For a time, I was worried I’d lost my best customer.”

Aset grinned. “Not while there’s a single secret left buried in the galaxy.”

“Glad to hear it.” One of the Krel’s smaller arms dug into the pockets of his sash. “It took some doing, but…” Red withdrew a small chip. Aset felt his heart speed up. The logs of the ISS Aeris. An ill-fated vessel that had been part of the Matriarchate’s fabled fifth survey of the Ash Worlds.

The Ash Worlds. A fitting name for the graveyard of an empire. A headstone for an entire people. No one could say, just yet, what had happened out there-or even when. But countless ruins, floating hulks and abandoned stations gave testament to some great loss. And soon, he, Aset Ak’mor would have the means to add to that chronicle.

There was just one final sticking point. There always was with Red. “Alright. How much? And what denomination?”

The Krel’s claws clacked. “Ten thousand gilders. No less. I’m not going to haggle on this.”

Aset winced. He wasn’t surprised. No really. Adeex gilders were backed by some of the most influential merchant guilds in known space. If you wanted a currency that could travel, gilders were perfect. “Alright. Fine.” Aset brushed a silvery strand of hair from his view and brought up his datapad. “Same account as last time-or have the Republics finally shut you down?” The Kharesh raised an eyebrow, half in jest, half in challenge.

“You know everything I do is perfectly legal, Kharesh.” The giant crustacean muttered. “I think I’m insulted.”

Aset rolled his eyes. Right. Perfectly legal. He’d never asked the details, but he wasn’t some kid fresh from the temple creche. You didn’t dig up the things Red did while staying entirely on the right side of the law.

Thankfully for his conscience, law typically had nothing at all to do with morality. Especially where the Matriarchate was concerned. With that cheering thought, he cleared the transfer to Red’s account. Not for the first time, the young noble sent up a small prayer of thanks to the wise investments of the Ak’mor clan. His investigations certainly didn’t come cheaply.

“And cleared. Ten thousand gilders. Now if you’d be so kind?”

The Krel rasped out a laugh-or his species version of one. It was a rather disturbing mixture of clacking mouth parts and liquid respiratory noises. “Pleasure as always.” Red slide the chip across the table with a single deft movement. Aset snatched it before it could even come to a halt, depositing the electronic treasure into a small biometrically protected container on his side.

“So. Gunna stay for a drink, or scuttle off to the nearest pool?” Aset inquired.

Red shrugged elaborately. “I don’t see what it could hurt…”

Watching a Krel drink was always a treat. The translation unit meant they didn’t quite ingest liquids as a normal species might. Instead, they had to lace it into their gill breathers….quite literally drinking and breathing at the same time.

Honestly, the mechanics of it were just fascinating.

----

The Ash Worlds stretched before him as lumincient data-shadows. Holographic images projected by the Traveler’s shipboard computer. At a glance, he could tell that the Fifth Survey had been fruitful indeed. At least before it had met whatever bleak fate had waited for it within the black void of space. Dozens of different systems, hyperlane routes and even, wonder of wonders, the location of a dormant jumpgate. That alone would be worth quite alot to the Principate-and to the Ak’mor clan.

Nimble fingers manipulated the images before him, discarding some, marking others for investigation. The grave of a civilization stood before him, ready for exhumation. Who knew what wonders lay on these worlds? Who knew what waited to be discovered?

Some considered his chosen path grim. Akin to that of a grave robber. Aset hated them all. He was no mere robber, no disturber of graves. He was a chronicler of civilization. They do not cease to exist when all those who had made them up died. No, they lived still, in what they had built. In what they had left behind. These were windows to the souls of these vanished peoples.

Was it more respectful to leave them to rot to dust, so that none might remember them?

No. No. A thousand times no.

He was far from a grave robber. Aset was a memorialist. It was a calling as scared as any other he could name. His task was a holy one, a worthy-

The Kharesh froze in his ruminations as he took note of one world in particular. With a touch of his finger, he magnified it. With another, he brought up all the information the survey had acquired on it.

As his eyes scanned over the projected data, he felt his heart stop. He gasped.

A graveworld. A center of civilization. Perhaps even central to the lost human empire that had once mastered that sector of space.The Kharesh began to mutter a prayer of thanks to the gods and goddesses of chance, thanking each in their turn for guiding his hands.
                
Aset gulped against a suddenly dry throat. There were moments in one’s life when the stars aligned and the path was clear…and then…

“Nothing to do but walk it.” He muttered.

I've elected to detail a few different plots I have in mind. This list will be updated.

A cold war grips the sector. Fleets gather at the border of the neutral zone. The air is thick with the promise of war.

Two captains from differing civilizations with wildly different cultures and values find themselves posted along the same stretch of the border. Both are loyal to their own values, their own cultures, but find themselves respecting their opposite number. They will banter, discuss philosophy and develop a fascination with the other-to the challenge they represent to their own system of beliefs or simply out of the novelty of a truly worthy foe.

There will be quotations of Shakespeare, discussions of philosophy, under-handed tricks and fire on the borders.

If war is to come, let it come. Anything is better then this accursed waiting hm?

Heed the warning of the horned ones.

I envision a great warrior-a minotaur of prodigious size and strength, a champion amongst his people, devoted to the darkling gods of the forest. They wait there, in the forest, the wild ones. The beastfolk. Those of iron-shod hoof, braying war-calls and horned heads. This plot can take many forms-perhaps your character and this champion of the dark gods are at odds. Old foes who know each other better then any friend could.

Perhaps your characters comes to the beast of the woods for help-a truly desperate proposition!

Or perhaps they find themselves forced into a corner together, fighting to survive, back to back...

The lands of the north are hard and merciless. Monsters stalk the frozen forest. Dark gods lord over tribes of ruthless warriors. Mad sorcerers work their twisted magics. Men shed their skins and becomes wolves in heart and soul. Yet, for all their danger, for all their shadowed gods, the inventive cruelty of civilized men so often exceeds their own. I envision a warlord, or warrior of these people. Fanged of tooth and a wolf at his bones. A warrior whose sword has tasted blood-and grown to love the taste.

There are many avenues to walk here-perhaps a prince of the civilized south flees north out of desperation. Perhaps we could move the clock-perhaps two young warriors set on some great quest or trial.

Perhaps a treacherous noble allies with the men of the north, seeking a throne for himself....

I've completed the first part of my submission-the guild sheet, detailing the faction my character will head up.

Drinks are on the house here Sonny
You can't take it with you honey
A queen beats a jack here Sonny
Are you thinkin' red or black now honey?
Double up your stack now Sonny
Luck says don't look back now honey
Lay your money
Lay your money
Lay your money down!

Name: Rialto Merchanter Guild (Officially the Most Esteemed Company of Mercantile Brethren of the Serene City of Rialto...it’s...often shortened for understandable reasons) 

Race/Faction: The majority of the Merchanter Guild is human, but it’s doors are open to all species. The Merchanter Guild holds typically Verenzian views on the subject of race-talent is talent, no matter what skin it wears. Officially, the Guild is a neutral party in any and all political conflict outside of Verenzia-they’re here to make a profit, sell their wares, and build their gambling halls. That said, this neutrality will likely become untenable as the conflict escalates. The Merchants will be forced to choose a side. 

Age: Unknown, it claims to have roots going back to the foundation of the city state of Rialto. Well over four centuries ago. Whether this is actually true, or just some creative ‘enhancement’ of the truth isn’t known. Even to the merchanters themselves. 

Description: The Rialto Merchant Guild is best understood as a crossbreed between a traditional guild and an embassy. Merchants function both as tradesmen and as representatives of Rialto in general and Elector Prince Medevichi in particular. They’ll trade, with the clint of coin in their eyes, and then conduct important state business within the next blink of an eye. The head of the guild is traditionally the right hand of the Elector Prince, someone who is completely trusted and loyal. The Guild can also call upon more resources than a typical, non-Verenzian merchant guild might have access too. The state troops of Rialto make up a hardened core of sargeants, helping to tame and train the mercenary rabble that the guild often relies upon for protection.

The use of such arms and troops however, is incidental to the purposes of the guild. They are there, primarily, to defend the guild’s main aims. Profit. Be it gambling houses, bathhouses, vineyards, plantations, or any other number of money-making ventures. Like a vine, the guild spreads through the land. Always seeking a chance to make some more coin, to expand their reach. To send more and more back to their beloved home city, to ensure it can stand strong and proud against its native rivals. While it might be odd to an outsider, the Merchanter guild’s drive for profit stems from a bonedeep loyalty to their home. Everything they do is for her.

Motivation: Profit. The clink of coin. Their main objective is to send the fruits of their labours back to their home city, with some compensation for themselves of course, as is proper. Make no mistake however, Rialto has their first loyalty, and their labours go to her benefit. 

History: The foundation of the Merchanter Guild is shrouded in mystery. They claim to have been founded as the city state itself was founded, growing strong alongside it. Often, the two are compared to two siblings, who will defend eachother against all comers. Whether this fanciful tale is true or not is unknown, even to the Guild itself. The fog of history, unfortunately, hides all. And the chaos of Verenzia ensures records that could prove it, one way or another, are difficult to find. 

Whatever the truth of it, this much of the tale is true. The Guild and the City act as one, and are loyal to each other unto destruction and their dying days. For centuries, the Guild has acted as the hand of Rialto outside of Verenzia. Sending wealth, coin and resources back to their precious mother city. They have also, at times, fought for her. When the state troops of the city are unavailable or otherwise preoccupied, the Merchanters have dug deep into their coffers to hire mercenaries to fill the gap. They haven’t won any wars for the city, but they have often, quite literally, bought her time to bring herself back from the brink.

There have been times in history when Rialto has returned the favor-at times when the Guild is the target of a purge in foreign lands, the city and it’s people have marched to her aid, her men and arms marching proudly and boldly into foreign lands to rescue their sons and daughters. This wholly symbiotic relationship has endured through the ages, and seems set to continue well into the future. Whatever the mists of time hold, one thing can be held up as a certainty. The Guild and their beloved city will meet it together. 

Strengths: The Merchanter Guild is quite wealthy, having money and resources to burn. Their ties with their home city also ensures they have access to quality state troops, ensuring their guards are a cut above the normal rabble. They have a tendency to dig their roots in just about anywhere they can, ensuring they have a wide network of holdings throughout the land. Perhaps their biggest strength however, are their strong ties to their home city. If things grow truly dire, the Elector Prince will not abandon them to die. Rialto will always heed the troubled cries of her children, and act in their defense. This also applies in the reverse however, if Rialto should ever fall into troubled times, the Merchanter Guild will abandon everything to run to her aid. 

Weakness: Despite the quality of their guards, it would be a mistake to think of them as an army in waiting. Those troops and mercenaries function primarily as a protective force, and fighting a royal army on the field is simply not what they are made for. They don’t have the numbers to hold off an organized force indefinitely, simply put. They are also reliant on the patronage and tolerance of noble families within the kingdom to conduct their business, as the winds of change blow, their operations could suffer. The guild also tends to struggle to get along with local churches and priests-being the managers of various ‘dens of sin’ has that effect. 

What is the most important thing to know about your guild?

They are not only merchants, but representatives of their city. The two functions are completely wed to each other, in many ways, they bring the culture and norms of Rialto with them, wherever they go. 

What is your guild's greatest flaw?

They’re reliant on the good will and patronage of various noble families within the kingdom, unless they wish to go entirely rogue, a risky move in these uncertain times, these circumstances will not change.Their political situation, should their neutrality fail, could be summed up with “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

Why should your guild be in a position to influence an entire country?

They control an immense amount of wealth, and have connections to a powerful city state back in the home country. While they might not be the biggest player on the block, they have enough power and influence to have a say in how the future plays out.

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