Session 12 - Copilot

The Pewter Shield and the Northwest Tower

Riatavin. City of rain-slicked sandstone and crumbling spires. Used to be 120,000 souls in this place. Now it’s a husk, 70,000 rats scrambling over the ruins. They’re dressing it up for a wedding—a gilded mask over a rotting face. The Rhinduan family will forgive debts, host a feast. Nine days till High Harvest Tide. Nine days till chaos.

We surfaced from the Grotto, stomachs full and blades ready. Had our eyes set on a dwarf—Farnar. Tough bastard. Whispered to be tied to Armitage and his schemes. Gavin sent word to Rowan: danger was close. We set course for The Pewter Shield, a ghost of a tavern in the abandoned quarter.

Sunlight stabbed through the storm-clouded sky. Posters plastered every street corner, shouting about the wedding of Ottillie and Etienne Auttencort. Yellowed streets gave way to darkened alleys, where we found two symbols stabbed into a paper. Hugh and Radovan stumbled back to us, eyes sharp. The game was afoot.

Outside the Pewter Shield, we picked up a stray—Kincaid. Tall, sharp, and reeking of too much bravado. Said he was hunting Francesca, the one-eyed broker of retail rare goods. We let him tag along, partly for his blade, mostly because we had nothing to lose.

Inside the Shield, ghosts of smuggling operations hung in the air. Floorboards creaked underfoot as we found our way to the basement. Secret rooms revealed secret lives—maps of the undercity, a stash of weapons, coin enough to buy a kingdom (or burn one), and a ledger of dirty deals. Farnar had been busy—layers of smuggling, cooked books, and payments from the Del Veign and Auttencort families. A cipher pointed to dates steeped in blood: 1347, the start of the Tethyrian civil war, and 1501—this year.

Then came whispers from the streets. Guards muttering about a “shitshow” at the Northwest Tower. Blood and chains on the statue of Zharanda Rhinduan. We followed the scent of trouble.

The Tower stood like a silent judge in the night. Barrick sweet-talked a guard while Kincaid ghosted past the patrol. A name emerged: Helene. A goth wraith in a woman’s guise. Her eyes bore a glint of steel as she condemned us outright. Words turned to blades.

The fight was brutal. Guards moved like puppets on strings, shadows whispered of vampiric hands pulling them. Captain Arsene, bald and vile, emerged from the depths to meet us. His power echoed the undead curse. We dealt heavy blows, but he slipped into the darkness—gone, but not forgotten.

Deeper in the Tower’s belly, despair reeked from the cells. Among the prisoners were Orazio, an ancient Eladrin, caged and scarred, and Farnar—beaten, bloody, and barely clinging to life. Francesca’s lifeless body lay in a side room, her blood stolen for some purpose unknown. Kincaid found a scrap of paper:

• “The Widow (Francesca?) - 1”
• “The Dwarf (Farnar) - 2”
• “The Old Man (Orazio) - 8”

Orazio spoke like history incarnate. He claimed to predate Calimshan, a relic meditating through ages. He was property of the Duchess Auttencort, a pawn in the growing storm. Farnar gasped his final truths, his words painting a picture of betrayal, secrets, and blood-soaked plans.

Nine days till High Harvest Tide. Nine days to stop a war.