KHAZUUL

You've spent a month on in the wastes on a caravan cutting through the bones of The Old Empire, heading for Khazuul. You barter for survival—food, water, a ticket to Khazuul—in return for your skills. Carving out a living, you fend off marauders, stitch up the hurt, and tend to the beasts. In the dust and grit, a bond takes root among the four, birthing a company of adventurers.



Khazuul's cliffs loomed on the horizon, appearing three days prior to your ascent. You made brief farewells to the Caravan masters, and then, you ventured forth with the labourers. Enormous hoists inch up, ferrying supplies and men skyward. Halted at intervals by vertical waystations, for chains can only stretch so far. The vast lands of The Old Empire lay below, resembling a sprawling graveyard, as you ascended higher into the sky, solitude your only companion.



You made it to the summit at last. The heat up here is blistering, the sun almost within arm's reach. Only the fierce winds keep you from drowning in sweat. A lizard team driver, master of horse-sized reptiles, loaded the supplies, ready to ferry you across the arid ridge to Vanguard Bastion—the lone outpost in this wild expanse, civilization's solitary sentinel for a hundred miles.

From its vantage point, the Bastion surveys Khazuul, and as you draw nearer, the expansive, lush jungle within the cliffs materializes before your eyes.



The driver hollers toward the fort as they roll in, the gates grinding open, pulled by a massive, tusked beast. Urging his lizards past the yawning gates, you cross into Vanguard Bastion.

Inside, it's a lively boom town. The driver has to shout to part the crowds, mostly armed men wearing grim scowls. Thankfully, the scent of many unbathed humans and their industries is (almost) overshadowed by the aroma of nearby spiced meats sizzling on open fires.

A cacophony of conversations in a dozen languages mingles with the raucous chorus of drunken laughter. Somewhere in the distance, dogs bark incessantly. Yet, a constant backdrop is the racket of unoiled gears screeching and grinding—the great winches lowering men and supplies in and out of the jungles of Khazuul.

Scattered across the grounds, maybe two dozen proper buildings stand. Some repurposed stone ruins, others newer timber constructions - these comprise the barracks, smithies & tanneries, and administrative offices. In between, a maze of tents, yurts, and makeshift lean-tos sprawl from wall to wall—housing everything from private shelters and merchant stalls to field hospitals and gambling dens.

You dismount from the cart and gather you packs. You've made it, at last!

"So I says to him, ‘Quit that squirming, less you want to nick something that really don’t want nickin’." Cutwell goes on with one of his stories, to everyone and no one in particular. "What’s got him so nervous anyhow, you ask? Well, that’s what I asked him, ain’t it? And I says ‘A man don’t cut his arm off at the shoulder, less he’s supremely aware of the limitations of his own talents’, ain’t that right?" he snorts humorously, inviting others to laugh along. He rubs his metallic shoulder, inviting eyes to marvel at his work.

"Well, he didn’t make it, that one didn’t. Too fiddly a job. Shame…" he says with a sigh, before rallying. "… but that’s just how it goes, ain’t it?"

They’d all heard the story before. Cutwell was a man with surprisingly few stories to tell, but tell them he did. As if suddenly surprised by the scene before him, he stops talking for a moment. He takes it all in, before dismounting.

"Right! This’ll be us, won’t it?" he says, stating the obvious in the form of a question. "Busier than I expected, ain’t it?"

Sow merely nods at Cutwell, by now used to the man's busy tongue, and his jokes and jabs. Everything the young woman owns in her life is slung over her shoulder in a worn leather pack, or she's otherwise wearing or carrying it. Her brigandine armor, her axe, her boots. The narrow-faced girl grew up an orphan and was put to work on farms quick enough, but something about her was unpleasant, and it was more than her smell. The other planters, pickers and tillers didn't complain when she decided to don the badge of the Fieldwarden and take up arms to protect the harvests from the predations of bandits and worse.

"Aye," she says simply to Cutwell, taking it all in with her dark eyes. She's never seen anything quite like it.

The girl has her collar high, her sleeves down, and her hood partly up, all to hide the signs of the withering. No one yet knows what spreads 'neath the teenager's skin; no one need know. It's private, and it's something Sow doesn't fully understand.

Stepping from the carriage and stretching his long legs, the fine-looking marchguard stroked the goatee on his prominent jawline. Surveying the town, his dark brown eyes sparkled with delight. Gregarious by nature, the ex-convict was delighted to see the bustling crowds hurrying to and fro. He made friends quickly with his unerring charm and gift of the gab, but unlike Cutwell, he told a tale only once, and tall tales they generally were which explained his telling them only once.

Looking forward to some drink and ribald conversation later he looked to his compatriots and nudged Sow, addressing her and the others.

"Fascinating place, eh?" He considered the girl a challenge as she had so far managed not to fall prey to his charms. Truth be told he didn't try that hard. The quiet and mysterious girl had an odd aura about her and a rank smell.

Glad to see that Freki was as happy as he was at the throngs of town inhabitants he observed, "Freki you don't look so good, but nothing a good drink won't cure eh?"

Looking more carefully, you do notice a lodge made from stacked, rough timbers with a crudely emblazoned symbol of a red tea cup. Strange smokes waft out of through the rafters.

"Ha! This heat is killing me!" he chuckles in agreement with Thorn, "A drink would really hit the spot!"

"Otherwise, pretty soon I'll smell as bad as you, Kiddo," he adds to Sow with a wink to show he's joking ... although, he continues with, "Ever thought of bottling up that teen spirit? There's probably a Gurkish market that would pay good gold for it." He sounds genuinely curious, referencing the stereotype that foul smelling perfumes were common in Gurkhul.

With his livery jacket hanging fully open, he works his fingers through his thick hair to pull it away from his neck and suggests to Cutwell, "I'd get you to take a little off the top, but I know it'll be a full pelt again in a few days, so probably not worth the effort ... or the risk, ha ha!"

"How 'bout that place with the tea cup over there? It might have some grog ..." he says to Thorn, "... and other activities," he adds with a smile wondering about the smoke.

Cutwell snorts along humorously, as it’s clear his story was a hit with Freki, at least. Thinking he ought to do something to repay the kindness, he looks at the man struggling with the heat.

"You’re hot, ain’t ya? I can take some of that off you, if you like?" he says, indicating the hair and beard.

"I do a nice trim, so they say. Could tidy you up, couldn’t I? Get you ready for the heat and all that!"

His eyes follow the crowd, until they reach the sign for the lodge.

"Can have a drink throughout, if that’s what you like. Though it does make it more likely that I’ll nick your ear mind, don’t it? All that moving about. S’up to you!" the man says with a shrug.

Upon hearing that Freki thought it not worth the risk, Cutwell isn’t insulted in the slightest.

"Cutwell-until-he-dont-cutwell, that’s what they say, ain’t it?" he snorts again, at his own dark moniker. "Suit yourself!"

Entering the building marked with the red tea cup, you find a well-decorated den of iniquity. Oil lamps set at tables cast a dim light through a haze of smoke. Colourful tapestries of scarlett and mustard are hung from the walls, and intricate Gurkish rugs adorn the floor. Sweet, cloying vapours mix with earthy, bitter tones, creating a potent aroma.

There are quite a few patrons seated on cushions. Some drink from red lacquer cups, others smoke flavoured tobacco from hookahs. In the back, a clump of dazed people lay on sofas, asleep with their eyes fixed open. As outside, everyone is armed. A burly proprietor stands behind a bar, clinking coins between fat fingers and surveying all with watchful eyes.

At a nearby table you can't help but notice as a Gurkish nobleman dressed in sweeping white robes abruptly rises. He shouts, in the common tongue, at a plain-clothes workman "I have buyers waiting at every port in Kanta! Your excuses are costing me dearly." As he storms out, the workman replies, in an exasperated Midderlands accent, "Then bring me more men, Murad! We must press ever deeper to find your plants, and the jungle is not as docile as it once was." The noble brushes past you as he grasps for the door.

Outside

Looking sharply first at Thorn for his nudge, and then Freki for his rudeness, Sow merely wipes her sweaty brow with her sleeve, then leads the way towards the tea house. If they have baths, the girl won't be too soon into one. Coin is precious, and she's in Khazuul to make it, not spend it.

As she walks, the young woman's eyes are all over, taking in the bustling sights. "This whole place is here," she wonders aloud with her broken, scratchy, slightly squeaky voice, "to support the exploration of the old city?"

Sow hates her voice, and as a result doesn't use it much.

---

Inside

Seeing the state of many of the patrons, Sow amends her comment. "Or perhaps they are here for... other reasons."

She steps aside to allow the nobleman a clear path to the exit.

"S’always like that, ain’t it? You can’t go half a mile without some old bint telling you the next bits more dangerous than ever.

Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. How am I to know, I suppose? Y’never hear them say the opposite though, do ya?"

The man feels for his coin purse. The inheritance has served him well thus far, and he had a tidy sum left.

"Right!" he announces. "I’ve got this one. But keep it to yourselves, alright? I ain’t spending coin willy nilly! Still, don’t be shy! Drink up!"

"Well hello," Thorn says to no one in particular as he raises an eyebrow. "That's a heady scent if I ever smelled one." As the scene unfolds through the smoke and haze, it is clear that far more is available in the establishment than a mere drink.

"Other reasons. Yes." he repeats back to Sow, his head cocked playfully. As Cutwell orders drinks and reminds the group to keep mum about his wealth, Thorn smiles. "I don't need to be reminded about drinking. I'm naturally good at it. Comes from years of deprivation."

To Freki he says,"A fine choice, this establishment! I'm glad we are here and it looks like that exasperated workman over there could use some help."

Outside
Freki laughs and gives the barber's shoulder another friendly squeeze as they head inside, "I'm just pulling your leg, big guy, sounds like fun. What do you think would look good, what's in style in the royal courts these days, or is there a 'Cutwell'-do that's your standard go to?"

---

Inside
Freki gives Thorn and Sow a knowing look and rubs his fingers together in the gesture for "coins" as if to say What was I just saying!?! in reference to the Gurkish market comment he made outside.

The argument between the lord and workman causes Freki's eyebrows to raise, and his hand comes to rest on the coiled whip hanging from his belt. He relaxes once it's clear the disagreement isn't turning violent, but he's not polite enough to look away.

Responding to Cutwell and Thorn's reactions to it, he adds, "More men, eh ... wonder how much it pays? Buyers in every port sounds promising."

When Cutwell offers drinks, he smiles and says, "You're a good man Cutwell!" He steps up to the proprietor, "Hello! We've just arrived in Vanguard and would love something to quench our thirst after the long journey. What do you have on the menu? And any news or advice to a group of newcomers?"

The proprietor greets Freki and any others who approach with a flourish. "Welcome, travellers from far away lands. Indeed, you have the looks of those who spent the last month in the wastelands! Allow me to recommend a delightful infusion of Khazuul's exquisite yellow tea—known for its ability to bestow clarity of thought and strength of character. It's just the thing to set you back on a harmonious course."

He adds at the end, "I will give you a discount for this being your first day in Khazuul. One gold for the pot to share." As he begins to assemble a mix of dried leaves from various earthenware pots, he responds to Freki's request for advice.

"Ah, you wish to understand the workings of Vanguard Bastion? I have been here for three years and know it well. At the pinnacle, you'll find the Expeditionary House—the architects of this place. Every transaction, without exception, funnels through their hands. It's a steadfast rule: your obligations must be met with the Expeditionary House without fail."

"Then, there are the Hunters, the ones who descend into Khazuul and bring back its bounties. Some have become wildly rich, their names immortalized in songs, but others ..." he gestures to the sofas of dreaming men at the back "are less successful. Some Hunters work independently, selling their finds directly to the House and its authorized buyers. Others work for other Hunters, working for a wage while honing their skill. Regrettably, there are sinister gangs that have turned to hunting other Hunters, robbing them of the hard-won spoils upon their return from the jungle."

"At the base lie us unassuming shopkeepers, tending to the diverse and often poignant needs of all. Our stories weave a tapestry of varied experiences and sorrows. Once, I served as a tea master in the esteemed court of Emperor Uthman-ul-Dosht, may his soul find eternal tranquility in the shaded realms of paradise."

He hands you the pot of tea and four red lacquer cups on a wooden tray. "I think you will find my story is undeniable after you take your first sip."

Sow ignores all comments about her scent and instead listens intently to the tea merchant, making particular note of the fact that there are bandits in the jungle who rob treasure hunters. She allows someone else to pay and accepts the yellow tea with a warm nod. Drinking deeply, she wonders if there are medicinal teas that will help with her... condition.

"Standard you’re after, is it? Well, the standard is to shave em clean for surgery most of the time. Guild of Physicians says it’s meant to give ‘em a better chance of healing right, don’t they?

Who am I to disagree with all that?"

He looks the man’s hair over.

"If it’s fashion you’re after, I’m told the King favors the mushroom-cut these days. Very trendy, so they say!"

---

To the keeper, he taps a single gold coin against the counter top, before passing it over. Four cups of tea for a gold coin, a bargain supposedly but it still felt steep.

"Makes you drowsy, does it?" he asks, searching around and beyond the proprietor for hard liquor.

As Cutwell hands over the coins, the watchful Emir notices his metal arm. "A most impressive mechanical appendage, friend. Drowsy? No, this tea will rejuvenate you from your travel-weariness."

Cutwell finds no signs of alcohol behind the man, but the number of glass jars containing tea and other plants is impressive. The watchful Emir notices his gaze, and comments "Are you looking for a smoke perhaps? Khazuul's tobacco plants are most potent."

Freki thanks Emir and says, "Well, if I'm one of the ones that gets rich, I'll send a big tip your way for your kindness today."

Sitting down with the his companions, he has a long drink of the tea, "Oh yeah ... that really hits the spot!" Although, Freki was so thirsty he might have said the same if given horse piss.

When Cutwell has finished chatting with Emir, Freki decides, "You know what, I don't want to look like a mushroom. Give me your standard cut, fully shaved! It seems like the best idea in this heat."

As Cutwell prepares, Freki asks the group, "So what do you think we should do? Subcontract ourselves, or go looking for something on our own?"

Watching Cutwell's arm with interest as she sips at her tea, curious about its workings as he prepares to shave their companion, the sullen girl with the cracking voice considers Freki's question, then looks to Emir. Her voice is weak and seems to pain her a little to use, but she raises it loud enough to be heard over the din of the Crimson Cup.

"If the hunters are working for an employer, sanctioned by this Expeditionary House... does that afford some protection from the robbers you speak of?"

Thorn has been quietly taking it all in; the banter, the atmosphere in the tavern, the tea, and the finer points of haircutting.

"The Expeditionary House seems to have a pretty good setup going for them I'd say. How does one become a member of that layer of society here? And one has to wonder how many hunters have really become wildly rich. Maybe they've become wealthy by plundering the other hunters! Hah!" he exclaims, slapping the back of whoever is nearest to him. Then he takes the red cup and rather than sipping it, knocks back a few gulps while his eyes widen at the mention of a smoke.

"Oh? Potent you say? I might try that."

As his compatriots discuss the merits of ways to make coin, he curiously awaits the answer to Sow's question. The girl seems too weak to hunt anything with her sweaty forehead and creaky voice, and something about her is just off. He can't put a finger on what exactly but he wonders what she is hiding behind those furtive eyes.