Penny Square woke like a drunk shrugging off a hangover.
"Thanks for coming with me," Stump was saying as he trudged through the mud.
Morg waddled aggressively beside him. "Don't mention it. To anyone."
He was clad head to toe in black, with a cowl over his head and a monstrous black and silver mask covering his face. He had been a member of Shields of Dusk up until he was kicked out a month ago, and had hopped around a dozen other companies frequenting Penny Square over the last several years and didn't want to be spotted by old acquaintances, friend or otherwise.
It was also the first time Stump had seen him sober.
They'd left the inn early, before Reema and Jin woke to set up for breakfast. The stalls in Penny Square were less lively than Stump remembered and were visited by fewer prospective clients. Everyone milled about with a disagreeable disposition.
The clerk in the tree was no different. He yawned and looked up at the two creatures making their way inside. He noticed Morg first, or more accurately, the layers of fabric concealing the dwarf known as Morg.
"Can I help you?" offered the clerk.
Morg stopped short of the desk. His heavy breathing hissed through cracks in the mask. "We're startin' a company," he declared.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I have everything I need this time," said Stump, from the shadow of the desk.
The clerk leaned forward for a better view. In a blink he seemed to age several decades. "Of course. I remember you," he droned.
Copper exchanged hands, account books were combed through, and ink was scrawled across important documents.
"And your witness?" said the clerk, once the formalities had been taken care of.
Stump craned his neck to indicate his masked companion. Morg removed his disguise, revealing the scowl of a man who hadn't had a drink in several hours.
The clerk deflated. "Really, Morg? Again?"
"Shut yer hole."
Stump described the logo he imagined for his company—a small goblin carrying a helmet and shield, but his shadow extended far longer than he did and took the shape of an armoured knight, whom he modelled after his recollection of Garron. He was explicit about the colouring, the shading, the composition of the whole scene. They even gave him a wide selection of fonts. Gobletica was the clear winner.
The Nobodies.
The name was a short one, and less stylish than many of the other penny companies, but the clerk assured him it would stand out on the badges.
"There's an extra charge for those," said the clerk. "One silver for design. Three copper per badge, though if you buy in packs of five its two per copy."
Morg grumbled. Clearly he'd seen all this before.
"I don't have any more coin," said Stump.
"Not to worry, many of the penny companies go without badges," the clerk said in his best I-don't-care-about-your-struggles tone. "And it's one silver per week to have a stall erected in the square. Oh, I almost forgot, it's another two silver for the commission of your logo."
Morg and Stump blinked at each other.
"The account book, at least, is free." The clerk bent under the desk and hauled a battered, leathery tome onto the table. "Magical in nature and entwined within the system, it will serve as an easy means to keep track of financials, jobs, and membership."
There was that word again. "The system?" Stump inquired. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded positively bureaucratic.
"The system," the clerk repeated more slowly. "Congratulations on becoming a mercenary company at the rank of penny." He forced a soulless smile. "Any questions? No? Good day."
 

 
"Two silver… one silver weekly… one silver… three coppers, no two coppers?" Stump used his fingers to count as he and Morg navigated the deceptively winding curves of Crooked Cranny.
The dwarf had already slipped the cowl back over his head and the mask over his face, and held the account book tightly under an arm. "Ye don't want to set up in that hawk market," he spat. "Best to work outta the inn."
Stump sighed. "I'd have to ask Reema and Jin. They're already against the whole idea. And I'll have to pay them for that, too. And I still have to pay them back for the food and time I've already spent there. And I have to pay for all this to start up the company." His ears curled. "How does anyone make it?"
"Ye pick up a quest," Morg said evenly. "Ye do the quest. Ye make the glimmer. Then ye pick up another quest. If you've got even a little more talent than the trash heap o' the square, ye claw yer way up to copper."
"You make it sound so easy," marvelled Stump. "What about bronze? I hear that's a big deal."
"Ye hit bronze and ye can get officiated. Means yer not independent no more. Ye get a hall in the city and a say on the council. Y'agree to a percentage of yer earnings as income for the city, but it's the jobs ye get access to that's the good part."
They walked together in silence for a while, forking onto Backalley Bend and then back onto Crooked Cranny. Morg insisted it was somehow faster.
"Do you know Wasptongue?" Stump asked as they ducked under a partially collapsed stone archway spearing out of an apothecary and into an opposing bakery.
Morg snorted. "Aye. Why're y'askin?"
"I'm interested in meeting her."
This time he laughed. "She's not interested in meetin' ye."
Stump blinked up at his swathed companion. "I was hoping she'd teach me about Lumenurgy."
"Not likely. There's a reason she's got her operation out in the Spits, with a slice o' sea 'tween her and the the Downs."Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Stump's ears lowered, but he quickly brightened again. "I learned something at the tank that might help her, if I can get there before the Ocelots."
"Yeh?"
"I just think I'd be in real danger if I went by myself. The isles are haunted, I hear," Stump said with a hopeful gaze.
Morg was slow on the uptake. "Ye mean for me to take ye?" he said, surprised. "Think I'll pass on that one, gobby."
"Are you afraid?"
"Aye, but not o' the ghosts."
"Is she really that scary?"
The leather concealing Morg sighed when he looked down at Stump. "I'll help ye get yer company up 'n runnin' with yer fame 'n quests 'n whatnot. As for 'em haunted isles 'n granny brewmaster, yer on yer own."
 

 
Even when she was in an argument, Reema was as precise in her profession as ever. One arm flailed to accentuate her protest while the other scrubbed away the beer stains from a table.
Stump assured her it was the best possible outcome. Having his company operate out of her establishment would mean rising popularity for one could lead to the same for the other. Jin, having argued Reema's side the night before, agreed he had a point.
She sighed heavily and threw a rag over her shoulder.
From there it was just a matter of haggling.
Stump would occupy the cellar, they agreed, not the main floor or one of the upper rooms. The benefit was more space, the detriment was more dampness. He could commandeer one of the more rickety tables as his desk and set up shop how he liked, but he would have to do so among the crates and casks and not once complain if she or Jin interrupted his meetings to haul up supplies.
He would pay a weekly rate of one silver to occupy the space—a steal when compared to the muddy quagmire of Penny Square—and would have to pay for meals, but at a discounted rate. In exchange, his signage could hang out front, next to the inn's logo.
Stump shook Reema's hand, and their enterprise was sealed.
Much of the rest of the day was spent arranging his new office. Jin and Morg hauled down a round wooden table so gnawed by time that Stump feared if he sneezed it might crumble to dust. They doubled back for some chairs while he splayed a bedroll behind a horizontal cask draped in cobwebs. Even Reema came down to help out after breakfast. She swept the stone floor and affixed glowcap beds to the wooden pillars, content at least to finally organize the place.
When the work was done and Stump was alone, he sank into his chair and sighed. The uneven floor was a little less dirty, the corners glowed a little brighter, and his set up in the middle of it all felt a little more professional.
It was cramped, it was dank, it was cold.
But it was home, far and away an improvement over the dwellings of his cave-inhabiting past.
He threw open the book the clerk had given him. The slightly yellowed pages were all empty, he realized, as he flipped through them. He did say it was magical.
Sure enough, ink swirled on the parchment like smoke. Words took shape. It was only half a page, but Stump found himself staring at the first arcane recordings of his small company.
 
The Nobodies
Unofficiated
"Insert company words here."
Penny
Cellar of the Knight Inn
Founded by Stump "Ergul", the shortest of Goblinkind, 1st level Lumenurgist
 
It had been such a whirlwind of a morning he hadn't even considered what the words of his company might be. His mind kept coming back to the motto of the Iron Fleece. From thread to thread we defend. The Midnight Ocelots evoked a very different feel with Silence is golden, contracts are platinum.
He shelved the idea for the time being and read the next patch of words emerging from the page, as if floating to the surface of a still pond.
 
Membership - 1
Active Quests - 0
Completed Quests - 1
Avg Income (weekly) - 0
Expenditures (weekly) - 1 silver
Net Gain/Loss - 1 silver
Treasury - 0
 
Location - Fame
Grimsgate - 0
Hogg's Hollow - 0
Guttershine - 0
Brinetown - 0
Aubany - 0
 
A giddiness arose in him. It wasn't much to look at, but it was his, and it was the start of something. Something good. Something that was his own.
The system, the clerk had called it. It was a strange sort of magic, like the Words From The Sky, but scrawled in a book rather than delivered by thought. Are they one and the same?
He flipped to another page, waiting for the magical ink to swirl and coalesce into the words Mercenary Roster. Beneath it were the names of a number of sellswords on the market, sorted by rank and unaffiliated with any company. The list was so long it spilled through the next twenty pages.
Stump filtered it to only see the lower rung mercenaries, and spotted the profile of Thurm One-Eye.
Thurm One-Eye was a copper mercenary, previously of Backalley Bastards. His profile expanded on further investigation, revealing his status as a level thirteen Orc. Four of those levels fell under the heading of Trade - Smithing, while the rest were dedicated to Martial - Simple Weapons.
A short blurb, apparently penned by Thurm himself, filled the rest of the space:
"I am Orc of Bloodwood tribe. I hold axe since two. I kill since three. Very good at killing. I like glimmer, but I like killing more. Please hire me if you need killing. I make axes to. Thank you."
His rate seemed surprisingly low at four copper per week.
Ren the Wolf of Greyhollow was even more impressive—a bronze mercenary with sixteen levels, twelve of them distributed between Martial - Simple Weapons and Martial - Expert Weapons (Ranged), with another four in Trade - Hunting.
"Looking for a serious man leading a serious company with eyes on the bronze prize. I will raise you singlehandedly from your lowly rank of penny or copper and bring you to official company status. Must be willing to offer a high position and first-choice on quests. Willing to stay short-term, not looking for long-term commitment."
Stump's eyes glazed over at the demand of three silver per week for his services.
Bad Buck Barlem was another copper sellsword with ten levels to his name, while Jamis lingered at penny, despite nine levels, eight of which fell under Trade - Carpentry. Surran of Gullwind rivalled Ren as a fellow bronze mercenary, but his rate was only one silver per week, maybe because he was three levels lower.
Morgish made the list too, wedged alphabetically within a long line of company-seeking fighters and craftsmen. His section expanded at Stump's silent inquiry, revealing his penny status and… seventeen levels. Eleven fell under the Martial domain, six in Simple Weapons, four in Unarmed Combat, and one in Expert Weapons (One-handed). The remaining six levels made up his skills as a Trade - Sailor.
"I enjoy a good drink, games of dice and card, and being near the sea," his description began. "I spent most of my life in and around Borovic before making my way to Aubany. Not looking for much, just a place to rest my head. I work at the Knight Inn and sometimes the Tackled Hack."
Morg's real name is Morgish?
Three copper a week was his price. He was a penny mercenary with more levels than most under copper, and some under bronze, yet charged less than a third many of the others did. Why?
The trapdoor swung open and a pair of heavy boots descended the steps. Stump recognized the dwarvish swagger before Morgish made himself known. He grabbed the wooden pillar at the bottom and leaned around it.
"Cozy," he observed.
"I like it," said Stump. "It's nice and quiet. I could read here."
Morgish gave him an odd look, then sauntered around the pillar, thumbs in his belt. "Well, easy part's done. Now ye got to let 'em know o' yer existence."
Anxiety twanged in Stump's belly. He leaned back in his chair. "Right."
How was he going to do that? His sign would help, when it was done, but he had no glimmer for badges and no upcoming quests in order to make that money in the first place. Even if he did, most of it would go to Reema for rent.
If he was lucky enough to run into a member of the Iron Fleece he could return their badge for a reward, but the idea brought a frown to his face. It was Garron who gave him the drive to trek through the Shadowlands, the inspiration to search for a new home. But coin was coin, and he needed some now more than ever.
Stump fished the Midnight Ocelots insignia from his pouch and pondered its grooves and arcane glow. What can I do with you? he wondered. Germott wouldn't reward him for returning it, and Daggan wouldn't even let him back in the tank to begin with. The dwarf must've been almost as afraid of goblins as he was of the Ocelots…
Stump turned the small metal piece over in his hands, and after a musing long enough to cross his eyes, he looked up at Morgish.
"I think I have an idea."
Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (9/5)