The small female struck the young man across the face again, sending spittle flying. Her rage was barely controlled, and his fear was similarly about to take over.

“How could he fail?” she shrieked. The young man quivered in fear.

“You said he was the best! That he had a perfect record! He could not fail you said! And we paid! she ranted, stomping around the small room.

The young man was starting to shake, but this didn’t come from fear. Rather, it came from the fact that he hadn’t had any time with his pipe in two days, and he was starting to ache for it. The growing sense of hunger and ensuing desperation didn’t marry well with the ass-chewing he was getting. He glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings yet again, looking for an out, or at least a distraction. The woman was there with her bodyguard, the room had some storage boxes in it, no window, and only one door, to the rest of the cellar. It was deep enough underground, and positioned under the building such that no sound would escape from it – a perfect place for meetings where secrets were discussed.

Smack! went his cheek. “You’re not listening to me!” the woman shrieked again. “You will, dammit! You will! Take a few days down here and think about what failure brings, boy!” she raved ash she turned and pulled at the door handle, which stuck for a moment, provoking her to kick the door and shriek some more. Finally, it opened and she and her thug left, locking the young man in alone, with only a small lantern for light.

“What can I do to fix this? What am I supposed to do down here to make things right?” he called out, suddenly coming to terms with the possibility of being locked in there with limited…supplies.

A moment passed before he heard a distant voice shriek once more: “suffer!”

“What will you do with me?” asked the recently-resurrected assassin. His tone was grim, and his eyes betrayed the small amount of fear he was grappling with internally as he considered his situation. Tied to a table, naked, cold, and aching in ways and places he’d never thought possible, he tried to think clearly through a pounding headache, and see the room and people around him through blurred vision. Coming back to life was no picnic.

The gnome spoke.

“We will determine that, and our decision will be based mostly on your behavior over the next few minutes. Death would be an easy release, it seems, as you tried to show me.” The others – kings Anton, Zion, and Reg, stood around the table and looked down on the elf. Anton’s jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed, righteous rage burning in his eyes, his chin turned down somewhat. Zion wore a quizzical and serious look, one eyebrow arched, his head back slightly and turned, considering the elf as if he were some sort of lab experiment. Reg flexed, cracked his knuckles, and generally looked very threatening, feeling once again like his old self: a strong man with a clear mandate for action.

“So we’ll see, won’t we?” the gnome stated flatly. The utter lack of emotion or tone in his voice unnerved the elf more than anger or shouting could have. “Who sent you?”

The elf hesitated for a moment, and Reg, noting the delay, stepped forward, casually slamming his right fist into the man’s abdomen, knocking the air out of him. The half-orc followed this swiftly with a gloved left to the junk. Pik motioned him away after the second blow, and stepping close to the prisoner’s ear said, “I think you should start talking.” The elf could not seen Pik’s hands under the table as they held the king’s holy symbol.

“I don’t know exactly who hired me, but I was contracted out of Daggermark through a broker I know. He’s very discrete…only gives me the name of the target and the details of timing and such. I never meet with my clients. It’s better that way.”

“Not good enough,” Pik stated, shaking his head ruefully. Reg again stepped forward and went to work, looking for ways to motivate the elf into providing more details.

Some time later, the elf lay bruised and slightly bloody, and Pik began his questions again. This time, the elf provided more clarity.

Although he was obviously a professional, and took his job very seriously, he’d decided to break with his typical methods in this job by doing a little intelligence-gathering on his client, given that the target seemed so powerful. He’d been told that he was to kill a snooper who used disguise and magic to look in places he wasn’t supposed to. He was told what sorts of magic and other powers this individual had, and the different disguises he was apt to use. He was told where this individual could be found snooping, and around which specific individuals. He was not told his target’s actual identity, however, and while he charged extra for that level of secrecy, it concerned him, and so he himself snooped a bit upon arriving in Misthaven.

It was a rampant and well-organized drug trade that his client wanted shielded from this spy, and the types who ran it were exceptionally low, even by his standards: apparently cultists, or at least a priestess, of Gyronna, were involved, along with a local underworld leader, name of Saul. Given the power and secrecy of the clients, and the stated abilities of the target, this individual was either a powerful criminal or someone in government. Mollarnam was able to eliminate the former – he knew of the most powerful leaders in the crime world throughout most of the River Kingdoms, and although these Mistmarches were new and a little wild, there was no one that high on the totem pole around here, aside from this shadowy ‘Caretaker’ person, and the description of his target didn’t match that one.

And so, he reasoned, it was someone from the other side of the fence. Taking what he knew of the local leaders, he quickly eliminated Sir Akiros and others, and settled on the gnome king – it had to be! And genuinely interested in the notion of regicide, he went after his target, and unfortunately failed. It was clear that Mollarnam was frustrated that he’d failed, and a little irritated at his clients for not giving him more useful information in advance. Still, he accepted that he’d failed. He was, after all, a professional.

Mollarnam came to with a start, gasping in deeply as his body jerked, every muscle tightening simultaneously as if being shocked. Straining against the restraints on his wrists, ankles, and across his waist and neck, the elf held tight and still, back arched, for a long instant, and then collapsed again, totally limp on the table. The elf now looked only slightly less dead than it had a few moments before, aside from the eyes, which were half-open, and the mouth, which moved slightly as if mouthing silent words. He breathing was shallow and swift, and quickly his entire form was covered in a patina of sweat, and be began shivering – either from the cold or the ordeal.

Pik, Anton, Reg and Zion stood around the table, preparing to interrogate the would-be assassin, in hopes of learning enough facts to track this killer to his employer.

Meta
Please discuss what you’d like to ask him as comments, and I’ll follow up with answers once your approach and goals are established.

The elf had on him the following items:

• +2 Studded Leather armor
• Belt of Incredible Dexterity
• +1 dagger
• Masterwork heavy crossbow
• 7 +1 bolts
• 2 +2 bolts
• Several vials of different, very deadly, poisons
• +1 Ring of Protection
• +2 Cloak of Resistance
• Potion of Cure Moderate Wounds
• Potion of Invisibility

Zion’s slightly slurred yelling echoed against the walls of the great hall within Tuskwater Castle. A small handful of retainers stood outside, fearful of what might come next, and at a loss as to what to do. The king went on at length about his claims, rights, honor, and the future of the kingdom. His arguments were virtually indistinguishable from one another, truth to be told, and he was at an impasse with the image in the mirror. His belly full of drink and that didn’t help, either.

Zion wanted to develop other parts of the kingdom, namely Silverstep (meta: it’s named after the lake aside which it sits, folks!) and couldn’t get the Council to vote on it. His massive ego generated so much noise that he neither heard the commotion in the antechamber, nor the doors opening.

It took a few moments for the tipsy rooster to even see the three short figures moving toward him: Gurple and “The Boulder” flanking and mostly carrying an obviously injured Pik.

The gnome king had several bandages around his shoulder and midsection, through which some amount of blood was seeping. Along with this his skin was ashen and he was covered in a sheen of sweat, and winced with each step.

“Into the protected room, my friends – we must talk!” the gnome blurted out, obviously with great effort.

Zion looked at Pik and the others, then at the mirror, and rushed forward to offer support, the grog clearing from his mind as adrenaline surged through his system. Some small piece of his past self woke up for a moment: the piece that had felt danger while half-starved in the great Narlmarches years ago, or out in the Kamelands, hunting some beast or another…the piece of him that knew camaraderie over comfort and status, and spent time planning for how to assault bandit camps rather than what gaudy costumes to wear to the next festival.

The anti-scrying room that they’d had installed last year could be accessed through a secret door in the small chamber behind the thrones, and it was through this door that they quickly retreated, leaving the great hall suddenly empty, the solid click of the latch echoing only for a moment.

The room wasn’t that big – about 10×15 feet – and outfitted with only a simple rectangular table and several plain chairs. The walls were adorned with maps of the kingdom, while a shelf held additional maps of the cities and some of the surrounding countries. Another shelf held ledgers, which were regularly updated with population, financial, economic, and other important details.

Shutting the door behind him, Zion watched as Anton and the others gently propped up Pik in a chair. The two standing kings glanced at each other and nodded in silent agreement: Gurple and Boulder would stay, despite the fact that neither was ‘cleared’ in any way…clearly they were involved, and Pik trusted them enough to seek their help.

Pik gasped for air as he settled into the chair, his partially glazed eyes betraying whatever alchemical painkillers he’d been given, and that whatever they were, they weren’t enough.

“Where is the queen? Is she in the castle or city?” he asked as the others gathered around, Gurple dabbing his forehead with a soft cloth. He had a desperate look in his eyes.

“I’ve not seen her since she left on her inspection tour last month,” stated Anton, reflexively projecting an air of confidence and certainty, even though he really had no idea where she was.

As Anton spoke, Zion concentrated, weaving a spell around himself and reaching out to find the druid, if he could. “I cannot locate her,” he said after a moment, his brow creased and a frown crossed his face. Thinking to himself, ‘either she’s blocking me or I’m getting rusty…gotta be her…no way I’d blow a spell like that.’

“Is Tessara in danger as well? Is she in trouble?” asked Anton, breaking the moment of silence.

All eyes were on Pik as he gathered enough strength to speak. “No, I believe she is the trouble…only you and she knew of my undercover work, and the elf who almost killed me this evening was a professional…knew who I was and where I could be found. The picture is a lot clearer now, if at the price of a great deal of pain…”

The night wore on and the moon over Misthaven was steeped in thick, dark clouds. The bitter cold seemed to add to the oppressive darkness. Only the hardiest of drinkers were out this night. There was the years-old contest the ’Yeti’s crawl’ in which participants prove they’re stout enough to make the trip from one tavern to the next at regular intervals.

One Halfling, smothered in furs, staggered out the door and into the snow and slush covered streets with his group. Not unusual as the night progressed, one from the group would sway his way to an alley and empty its contents before continuing. The Halfling passed a building and wandered toward a nearby pile of broken crates behind a shop. As the group meandered on, the little one appeared to wretch and puffed clouds of fog into the night.

Looking over his shoulder, the group had rounded the corner and left him behind. He moved further into the alleyway behind the shop. The waterfront was becoming a maze of crooked streets and back roads. During the war with Pitax, the kings had allowed the city to grow faster than their cartographers charting.

Stopping at a corner the Halfling carefully glanced up and back then put his back to the wall and slid down between two heaps of refuse and into the shadows. He pulled a whiskey flask from his coat and uncorked the spirits.

Just as the bottle began to pour its liquid fire, he felt a presence within the alley. His senses screaming, he lowered the flask and listened intently. His curved, elongated ears offered him nothing. A soft click, followed by searing pain shot through the Halfling’s shoulder. The sensation prickled his skin and instantly he began to mutter in muted whispers as he set the flask in the snow beside the crates. To his eyes, his magic began to weave itself in the air before him. The searing pain cut through his concentration and a cold numbness started to web its way outward from the right side of his chest. He stood and peered into the darkness. Muttering a quick prayer, he felt divine power flow warmly over his wounded shoulder. Numbness began to retract momentarily then reversed its course once more. Chills crept up his spine. This was an unusual turn of events.

The shadows seemed to coalesce into a man-sized form and advance toward where he crouched. Something was wrong. ‘What sort of poison is this that overcomes powerful magics?’

Desperation crawled up his back and reflexively he invoked aloud, “Irori, send your power to aid your servant. Multiply me.” 4 more halflings sprang into being all around the alleyway. The shadowman, muttered what sounded like “as expected” under his breath and without hesitation, stepped forward with twin blades. The first blade bit into the Halfling’s numb shoulder, the second whipped harmlessly through the neck of the image beside him causing it to wink out.

Illuminated briefly, the face of the attacking shadow snarled, an elven visage, just before two of Halfling images disappeared from view.

One reappeared directly behind the elf with its hands gesturing, one slowing as it articulated its divine symbols. A roaring column of divine fire started in the sky and erupted down into the alley. The elf, as if in precognition, sprang into a diving roll. Steam rolled off his dark cloak as he came directly out of his roll advancing once again toward the Halfling. Undaunted, the elf even chuckled and said “so soon?” as he strode confidently back.

His magic came more slowly with each gesture, time, it seemed now, also stood against him.

The blades cut into the image beside the Halfling and, it too winked from existence. Again, by divine means the real Halfling appeared behind his attacker. Though slower to complete his casting, magic grasped the elf from the inside, wracking him with pain, and caused him to shudder and halt half way through his spin.

He stood for a moment wracked in pain, a gasp escaping his lips, he croaked “Oh that was… unexpected”. Then, with sheer force of will, the attacker shook off most of the effects and started forward once again. This time he came more warily, arms close to his sides. Foaming blood frothed from his mouth.

At that moment, the Halfling was sure of two things. First, that he himself was weakening rapidly. The second thing of which he was sure was that the blood gave away that the elf’s bone structure had been damaged, but unfortunately, it appeared, he only had broken ribs and a punctured lung.

Already muttering once again, the Halfling stopped in mid-sentence. Hot blood sprayed onto his lips as air was forced from his lungs. The numbness was spreading, the alley was beginning to spin, and he was now gasping for air. The images that danced around him faltered and disappeared. His vision swooned and the edges of his sight began to dim. His legs went weak and he slumped backward off of the elf’s swords revealing the blades. One dripped blood into the snow and fogged the air, while the other seemed to throb with a life all its own.

The elf dropped his weapons into the snow and withdrew a length of wire from his wrist. He half muttered, half croaked “Halfling you are appear, but Halfling you not truly be!”

Struggling to breathe and weakening quickly the Halfling thought to himself, ’I have survived battles and wars, fought great monsters, and at times been the only of my fellow kings still on his feet. Now I am to die in an alley that smells of fish in my own town. This cannot be!’

The cold of the wire around his neck itched with a prickly sensation as the pressure increased sharply, and the Elf muttered “You be Gnome, soon to be dead Gnome”.

Reflex brought his hand upward to stop the elf, his hand made contact with the elf’s. While his body failed him, his mind clouded, his eyes bulged, and only words of divine inspiration burned in his mind. A weaving to slay the living danced on his bloody lips and a coldness flowed through his chest, down his arm, and crossing over to the elf. Breath rushed from his elven lungs and his skin aged unnaturally. The Halfling thought he heard the Elf say “oh that’s unfortunate”, but he could not be sure. The Elf fell forward onto the Halfling, the two lay in the snow bleeding red into the white as the world faded to black. The Halfling grasped at thoughts, was his mind racing, or was it slowing, he could not tell. He was bleeding out, and he could not bring himself to stop death’s grip. Reaching with his mind, calling out in the loudest whisper he could muster a whisper that was carried to the only person on his mind. A whisper floated magically on the wind like a flake of snow, and drifted away from him into the night…

The winter festival in the heart of the Kingdom of the Mistmarches the time of year is heavily celebrated. Mainly because there’s not much else to do with the thick white blanket hanging over everything. This year however was different. The war with Pitax was finally over and the hardy people of the Mistmarches were celebrating with a fervor rarely seen.

Five thrones were set up on the dais in the town square in preparation for the kings to watch the festival and preside over the midday ceremonies of the third day of the party. The kegs were tapped and the fires were lit. Food was out in abundance and the townsfolk had gathered in anticipation of the music and frivolity.

Right on schedule the kings and queen rode out from the castle on horseback. The procession paused in front of the thrones to dismount. Pages walked the horses off to the stables. The cheers of the citizens rang through the cold winter air of Misthaven until the kings sat down upon their thrones.

Anton, as Voice of the Council, stood to begin the ceremonies and instead of the traditional opening words he grew solemn, “I ask you to indulge us as we make a recognition long overdue.” A hush fell over the crowded square as they all wondered what was about to happen.

Sir Anton made eye contact with his former squire standing to his right upon the dais, Lady Jeyo de Iomedae. She nodded, clanked her metal encrusted fist against her breastplate and proceeded to walk from the stand into the crowd with a smile upon her face. The crowd parted around her as she made her way through the crowd with a slight limp. Meandering through to keep up the suspense, she came up behind Captain Devon T’Shea of the Tuskwater Dragoons and began pushing him forward toward the kings.

Mounting the dais the captain stood before Sir Anton with an expression of humility. The king turned slightly to his wife and accepted the hilt of his greatblade. He purposefully withdrew the 6 feet of steel slowly from its scabbard that the metal hiss may hang in the cold air. Fire sprang from the blade with a crackle. The kings stood in front of their perspective thrones and Sir Anton spoke into the hushed silence, “Captain Devon T’Shea…kneel before your kings!”

The crowd went wild with cheers and whistles as he did as ordered. One of their own, a commoner, would be elevated to peerage. When the people had quieted once again, Anton pronounced his meritorious service before and during the war with Pitax, his exemplary leadership, and his unflinching loyalty to his commander and the crowns. “It is therefore the will of this crown that you be elevated to the rank of Knight of the Kingdom of the Mistmarches. I would ask of you if this be your will, without being compelled, that you would accept knighthood from my hand this day?”

Captain T’Shea, head bowed and solemn, answered, “Yes, your majesty. I have long dreampt of the accolade, but never dared to hope I’d ever attain it. With humility I accept the honor you give me.”

A smile crossed the king’s face and the flames flared brighter and then extinguished with a whoosh as the blade descended to the captain’s shoulders and head gently tapping each.

“Do you swear by all you hold sacred to protect the weak, scorn the ignoble, defeat evil, and, should this crown so command, that you sacrifice both life and limb in defense of the Kingdom of the Mistmarches?”

“Yes, your majesty. I do so swear by all that I hold sacred.”

“Then I dub thee, Sir Devon T’Shea, Knight of the Kingdom of the Mistmarches. Rise.”

Clearing his throat, Sir Devon said, “Your majesty, while I am upon my knees, might you grant me but one request?”

“Make your request.” King Anton said raising a quizzical eyebrow.

The knight turned on the dais to face his commanding officer, Lady Jeyo. “Commander Jeyo, I kneel before you as just a man. Would you do me the honor of becoming my lady?”

Jeyo paused before the man that had served her so faithfully and tirelessly. During the war, in the line of duty, she’d had to put her feelings for him aside, never knowing if they would ever be returned. Now that the war was over the feelings came rushing back in a flood all at once. With tears streaming down her cheeks she nodded slowly at first and then faster, sobbing out yeses as they embraced before the populace and crowns.

Anton raised his arms and the crowd burst into cheers anew as the new couple clung to each other. Devon lifted her off her feet and spun slowly as they kissed.
The beer flowed and the food vanished as the celebrations continued. And there was much rejoicing.

Learned by Pik as a result of his undercover work:

• Overhears bawdy stories in the taverns of townsmen having affairs with pretty women
• Sightings of pretty women in Misthaven and Tatzylford that no one knows

From the Marshall:

• Akiros has been receiving complaints from women in both Misthaven and Tatzylford that their husbands have not been coming home every night and they are worried. Although this is not something that would be handled by his office, he is concerned that the frequency has risen over the last several months. 7 reports within 5 months.

From the Tessara, by way of the Mistborn Rangers:

• A report comes in from Sly (who now has a purely administrative assistance role) that a team of Mistborn Rangers has gone AWOL. The 3 man team was later discovered in a shallow grave between Misthaven and Tatzylford. Their bodies were shriveled and emaciated and almost mummified in appearance. It was determined that they were not slain by martial means as there were not wounds present and no sign of struggle. The only significant finding was that all three were in varying stages of undress from the waist down. The effect, therefore, was of a magical nature.
• The lizardfolk are inquiring about “dead magic.” Apparently there have been instances of lizardkind found in an almost mummified state out and away from their territory. They are inquiring about information about such instances- almost implying that the events are somehow caused by the humans. They are frustrated and anxious because, if their information is correct, the body count stands at 12 and two of their young are currently missing.

Starting Stats: Economy: 197, Loyalty: 178, Stability: 183, Unrest: 0, BP: 118, Consumption: 34, Control DC: 172

Upkeep

1. Kingdom control: successful roll=+1 BP. 119BP
2. Consumption: 34= 85BP remaining in treasury.

Improvement

1. No change in leadership
2. Anti-scrying Room added to Tuskwater Castle (24BP)
3. Exotic Craftsman shop built in Silverstep (5BP, +1Econ, +1Sta)

Magic Items Locally Available

1. Minor: 53
2. Medium: 11
3. Major: 3
   3 majors and 8 mediums sold = 84BP generated

Military Affairs
The Misthaven Regiment and Tuskwater Dragoons were still on the active rosters, although both units were divided into smaller elements to spread their utility around the kingdom. 1st Battalion (“King’s Own”) was on station in Pitax; 2nd Battalion (“Stone Shield”) was split into companies and spread between Freeton, Burmovton, and Tatzylford. The Tuskwater Dragoons were intact, and on extended patrol along the southern and western borders of the kingdom.

Ending Stats: Economy: 198, Loyalty: 178, Stability: 184, Unrest: 0, BP: 169, Consumption: 34, Control DC: 172

Building Projects
January, due to the harsh winter, was a relatively calm month, with projects either halted, in the case of the repairs to Misthaven’s waterfront, or continued in smaller venues, as in the opening of a exotic craftsman’s shop in Silverstep. The anti-scrying room in Tuskwater Castle was completed and tested during the month, as well, and the foosball table arrived later in the month, so that room’s all set.

Events
Somebody tried to kill Pik. More on that later!

The following stories are printed in the third volume of the weekly newspaper in Misthaven:

• Trade with Mivon has picked up considerably, despite the heavy snows and frozen rivers. Several influencial trade houses in Misthaven have signed contracts with various consortia and factors in that River Kingdom, many with the improvement of river infrastructure being planned, and the opening of storefronts for companies from Mivon in Misthaven.
• Food prices have gone up more than normal for the winter, with produce being especially hard-hit. The heavy snows have made travel from the south difficult, and fishing on the Tuskwater and Candlemere has been less productive due to the bad weather and thicker ice. While shortages are not expected, it will likely be a lean winter for other sectors of the economy as people tighten their budgets to put enough food on the table.
• A traveling drama troupe, ‘The Penultimate Players,’ that had been on contract at the Orpheum Theater during the fall has decided to stay on for the winter and is putting on two new shows: a comedy about the political strife in Brevoy, and what they’re calling a ‘pocket epic’ about the founding of the Mistmarches. The latter piece promises to pay respect to the men and women who settled the realm, while offering some satire to lighten spirits during the long winter.
• Three people have turned up dead in Old Water (the first set of piers, now a rundown part of town) over the last month. While murder and other crimes aren’t rare in this seedier part of the city, the victims had not been robbed or beaten. Their causes of death are currently under investigation by the Watch.
• The reconstruction of the waterfront, partially destroyed early in the War with Pitax, will not be fully restored until spring, due to the weather. The local 38th of the United Brotherhood of Avistani Carpenters has petitioned the crown for continued payment on their contracts despite their inability to work. They see it as a good faith investment of the spoils of “a war of shared sacrifice” that will enable them to not seek work elsewhere, thus preventing work from getting underway immediately upon the first thaw.

Meta (because it’s easier to describe that way!)

I blended September through December together for kingdom-building purposes and adjusted the cities, armies, and open spaces along the lines of what you guys proposed and have written. The following key points & events came into being during those months:

1. Aside from the Misthaven Regiment and Tuskwater Dragoons, the entire army was mustered out. Those two units cost a combined total of 32BP per month to keep active – that’s a pretty big drain on the treasury – but since you’re still establishing order in the new territories, they’re still active. By way of comparison, with your massive Econ score (197), you’re earning about 40BP per month in general revenue – so 32 toward those two units is pretty significant.
2. The costs of repairing the waterfront in Misthaven and the walls around Pitax have already been accounted for, along with the construction of walls around your other cities.
3. You added about 30 hexes to the kingdom in the area east and north of Pitax (your armies’ line of approach) and the city and hexes around it. Some of this was farmland, which was incorporated into the kingdom to help produce food. Roads were taken, as well.
4. There was an undead uprising in Pitax on the new moon during the month after the city fell. Your clerics believe that it was some kind of dead-end booby trap. It took about a week to completely quell, and stymied reconstruction work for a period of time.
5. After a taxing war, and the new fiscal burden of expanded territory, the kingdom has 118BP in its treasury to start the new year. That’s a lot of money, and with the sale of magic items (confirmed: at this point you can sell up to 9 items per month, which means we try to sell the major ones, then the mediums) you can earn more beyond monthly general revenue. In general, you should earn somewhere around 100BP per month if you don’t roll 1s on the checks.
6. These numbers do not take into account any new construction in any city – only repair of existing structures and walls.