Rocky Creek Trade Company - Rumors & Roleplay

[Genuinely Spurious]

A messenger arrives at Hammer Hall. He arrives on horseback with a bone scroll tube clutched in his hand. He enters the tavern and hands off the tube to the Bartender with the instructions that it be handed to Mr. Marks and Mr. Marks alone. Closer inspection of the wax seal would reveal a rearing stag on a shield. The messenger would tell the man behind the bar that he will be staying at the Greenest Inn for the next few days, but before he leaves he orders a meal.

[BDobolina]

Jackard sat at his desk, the ink drying on his response to a proposal received. The contact had been a welcome surprise in a week of monotony. A drop of coin in an empty purse. Nonetheless, the yearning still pulled.

Surrounded by piles of papers and ledgers, he couldn't help but feel a sense of disquiet. His deity, Waukeen, had been silent since the end of the recent 'godless calamity'. His partner, Solomon, was still in Berdusk - urgent business had kept him there for an extended period. Malakai had nearly disappeared after announcing his intention to find his destiny to the South. Saksi, Daigon, both virtuous men, hadn't been seen in some time. He found himself feeling lost, lonely, and uncertain about the future.

Typically, Jackard tried to find solace in his work and the sense of purpose it provided him. But on this particular day, as he had toiled away at his paperwork, he couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He had called out to Waukeen again, as he had done countless times before, but there was no response.

Despite his doubts and fears, however, Jackard refused to give up. Waukeen had been his guide since his youth, and he had faith that she would guide him through this difficult time as well. So he pushed aside his doubts and focused on the task at hand, determined to do his best despite the challenges he faced.

As the sun began to set and the room grew darker, Jackard finally put down his quill and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. He had a lot more work to do, but for now, he needed to rest before getting his response to this 'knight of the stag' at the inn. Despite the emptiness he felt, he knew that he had to keep moving forward, trusting in his goddess and the path she had set out for him.

As he relaxed his neck and shoulders, looking up at the ceiling, he let out a sigh. Just then, a small draft of wind blew through the room, causing the candle on Jackard's desk to flicker and a few papers to stir. It seemed a small, insignificant event...

[BDobolina]

The day had faded into twilight, the last vestiges of sunlight swallowed by the encroaching night. The modest marketplace of Hammer Hall, at times a symphony of sights and sounds, had surrendered to the quiet murmur of evening.

Jackard sat in his office, situated above the hum and bustle of The Lucky Coin. Through the open door, he could smell the tantalizing aroma of meals being prepared below, the scent weaving in with the musty fragrance of parchment and ink.

Bathed in the warm, flickering glow of a single candle, the room was a tableau of shadows dancing on piles of papers scattered across his desk. As a seasoned merchant, this desk was his command post, a seeming mess of ledgers, parchments, and wax-sealed letters — all meticulously placed.

A soft breeze stirred, causing the papers to rustle lightly, their impatience mirrored in their slight flutter. He leaned back, rubbing his temples, the strain of the day echoed in his weary bones. From the solitude, he could hear distant laughter and music from the tavern beneath him, a stark contrast to his solitary vigil.

His fingers instinctively sought the golden coin that hung around his neck, feeling the familiar weight and texture of the token — a testament to his faith and his devotion to a goddess who remained deafeningly silent.

He sighed, a sound that filled the room, bouncing off the walls before being swallowed by the encroaching silence. His gaze landed on the leather-bound journal that lay on the corner of his desk, a silent custodian of his thoughts and struggles.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his quill, dipping it in the well of black ink. A moment of hesitation, a deep breath, and then he began to write. His hand moved steadily across the page, the scratch of the quill against parchment the only sound in the otherwise silent room. His words flowed, a cathartic release of his inner turmoil, and his struggle to hold onto faith in the midst of divine silence.

30th of Kythorn, 1359 DR:

The past six months have descended into an indistinguishable haze, each day a carbon copy of its predecessor. The ceaseless struggle to keep Rocky Creek solvent, to ensure those in my charge are provided for, dominates my existence. I have become a mere cog in life's relentless wheel, lost in the quotidian grind. Work serves as a balm, numbing the ache of silence, providing a fleeting sanctuary from the void that gnaws at my soul.

Amidst towering stacks of parchments, ledgers, and letters unending, I find distraction. The rhythmic echo of quill on parchment serves as my lullaby, while the murmur of Greenest's villagers whispers from afar. I am surrounded by people counting on me, trusting me to be their compass. Yet, I feel like a blind shepherd, navigating through the darkness of divine abandonment.

Nearly twelve years ago I survived the fall of humanity in Tethyr during the Black Days of Eleint. The sheer insanity and savagery born of mortal pettiness tore away all I held dear. Yet in the aftermath of such profound loss, my faith became my haven, a beacon illuminating the path through the darkest nights. Faith in Waukeen, witnessing her power, instilled a true hope of a new golden age on the horizon.

Then last year.. the great calamity. The fall of the gods. Suddenly, they, too, seemed to descend into the same pettiness that had destroyed Tethyr. Now, again, I stand amidst the ruins. Not of a kingdom, but of my faith. Once again alone. Waukeen, my cherished goddess, remains conspicuously absent. I still cry out into the cosmic abyss, but the only answer I receive is the disquieting echo of my own voice.

In the hollowness of my once sacred communion, I've now turned to Shaundakul. The prayers fall from my lips, empty words desperately trying to fill a void. Yet they lack the sacred warmth, the profound connection that once rendered prayer a solace rather than a burden. I struggle. I despair.

In the heart of my melancholia, I can't help but compare the fall of Tethyr and the fall of the gods. Once, it was mortal avarice that ignited the flames of destruction; now, it seems divine rapacity has mirrored that destructive dance. Each prayer feels like a betrayal to my service, each unanswered plea a cruel reminder of Waukeen's silence.

Still, despite the suffocating disillusionment, I press on - for Rocky Creek, for Greenest, and perhaps most of all, for myself. Each step feels heavier than the last, each decision a monumental effort. The golden coin of Waukeen around my neck, once a symbol of divine blessing, has turned cold. Yet I clutch it tightly, a grim testament to survival.

I weathered the storm of mortal ambition once; I can weather this silence of my goddess. I've come to understand that faith isn't merely about divine grace, but about resilience, about our capacity to seek light in the direst of circumstances.

As the day yields to dusk and my quill finally rests, I confront the chilling silence. Maybe Waukeen is truly gone. Maybe she has retreated into a deep, indifferent slumber, leaving us wandering on this path. For the sake of a world that continues to revolve, I must forge ahead. In the end, faith is less about the deities we venerate and more about the inner strength that enables us to persist, no matter the odds.

[BDobolina]

In the quiet corners of Greenest, a gentle murmuring hints at something stirring. Those hardy folk of Rocky Creek, well-known for their ceaseless efforts to better the village, seem poised on the precipice of some fresh enterprise. The details of this venture remain veiled, shrouded in speculation, yet the prevailing sentiment likely tips towards optimism. This hope would stem from Rocky Creek's commendable history of assistance to the village.

Rumors flutter through the dirt lanes of Greenest, carried on the wings of whispered conversation. Whilst some townsfolk likely suspect an endeavor to bring new trade to their village as they've done in the past, others might hint at possible enhancements to local infrastructure, as they did strengthening the main gate, or helping fund the militia. The older villagers might remember previous discussions at funding a school of arts and music, while one may have overheard talk in the Lucky Coin of potential job opportunities. Though the exact nature of this enterprise remains unknown, there has certainly been more traffic near Hammer Hall.

In the shadow of a tumultuous year, marked by divine upheaval and ensuing disarray, Greenest has been tested. Yet, much like an ember refusing to fade, the village spirit persists. As does Rocky Creek.

[BDobolina]

Rumors may circulate in hushed tones from Baldur's Gate to Nashkel, from Greenest to Soubar, about lucrative work with the Rocky Creek Trade Company. Carried in the whispers of those that have used Rocky Creek's caravans, the rumors say that Jackard Marks, the company's esteemed leader, is seeking skilled foragers and scouts to retrieve exotic plants from lands near and far. The company's years-long history in trade of both flora and fauna lends some credence to these rumors.

Intrepid souls are called to muster at Hammer Hall in Greenest — those that hold knowledge of local flora, perhaps this call is meant for you. But be swift! For such chances are like the morning dew, here but for a moment before they vanish with the rising sun.

===================

Those that take the Rocky Creek caravans near and far would also notice a parchment tacked inside the wagon:

Hidden: show

Hidden: show

Rocky Creek Trade Company

Work Available

Seeking hardy foragers and intrepid scouts, versed in the ancient arts of herblore and wilderness survival. Must maintain honourable conduct and a respect for the delicate balance of our world’s flora. Must be willing to traverse realms as varied as the lofty peaks of Amn, the shadowed forests of the Coast, the hallowed Fields of the Dead, and beyond.

We Offer

Bountiful gold in exchange for rare and precious flora. A lasting fellowship with our esteemed trade company, for those whose contribution proves valuable.

Present yourself at Hammer Hall in Greenest for counsel and enlistment, or dispatch a message to my person, Jackard Marks, for further discourse.

[BDobolina]

With the last day, and within The Lucky Coin, Jackard Marks, known for his sharp business acumen and generous nature, may have been spotted with an intriguing pair.

Tongues might wag about the two women – one, a striking red-haired bard that may be known in local circles for her talent, and the other, an equally impressive companion whose presence alone sparked curiosity. The trio was seen emerging from the private quarters of Hammer Hall, their expressions hinting at a meeting that was both cordial and possibly significant.

The exchange of warm, yet purposeful farewells suggested plans of collaboration, perhaps a new venture or alliance that might soon ripple through the village of Greenest. The nature of their discussion, however, remains a mystery, shrouded in privacy.

As they parted ways, with promises of future engagement, Jackard was seen watching them leave, a determined yet tired look on his face. What this meeting means for the Rocky Creek Trade Company, and for Greenest, is yet to be seen, but it's clear that something is brewing in the corridors of trade and tale.

[BDobolina]

As dawn breaks over Greenest, a hive of activity stirs within the walls of Hammer Hall, the stronghold of the Rocky Creek Trade Company. Those passing by could not help but notice the unusual bustle emanating from within, a clear indication that something more than the usual day's work was underway.

At the heart of this orchestrated chaos stood Jackard Marks, directing his men in what appeared to be a meticulous inventory of the company's vast stock.

The men moved with purpose and precision, tallying goods, cataloging items, and verifying stock. The clinking of metal, the rustling of fabrics, and the soft murmur of counting voices filled the air, weaving a symphony of industriousness.

Stacks of crates were opened and inspected, barrels were checked and sealed again, and scrolls of inventory were updated with careful strokes of the quill. Every item, from the smallest vial of exotic spices to the heaviest sack of grain, was accounted for under Jackard's watchful eye.

Amidst this bustle, there was an air of speculation among the onlookers. While some pondered if this was routine diligence, others whispered about a possible connection to the recent influx of refugees from Amn, now camped near Greenest. Could this be Rocky Creek's preparatory step to aid these displaced souls, or perhaps an anticipatory measure for potential trade shifts caused by this sudden demographic change?

Jackard himself moved among his men with a demeanor that was both concentrated and thoughtful. His interactions were precise, his inspections thorough, but his eyes occasionally drifted towards the horizon, perhaps mulling over the implications of the refugee situation on his beloved Greenest and his company's role in the unfolding scenario.

As the day waned and the inventory drew to a close, the sense of purpose within Hammer Hall was palpable. Jackard's final review of the tallies and his contemplative stance hinted at strategic planning already underway.

In Greenest, where the ebb and flow of commerce are keenly felt, the meticulous efforts of the Rocky Creek Trade Company were not just a testament to their commitment to excellence, but perhaps also a foreshadowing of their involvement in addressing the challenges and opportunities presented by the recent events.

[BDobolina]

The morning chill clung to Hammer Hall, creeping through the cracks in the brick walls and seeping into Jackard Marks’ bones as he moved through the manor. The place was always cold these days, its fires struggling against the weight of autumn. Hammer Hall was more than just a house; it was a battleground of daily survival of late, its wooden beams groaning under the strain of too many promises and too few hands to keep them. Nestled within the hall sat The Lucky Coin, the cozy tavern that once thrummed with the life of traders and travelers, but lately, the place felt hollow, echoing with the ghosts of what it used to be.

The smell of old wood, ale, and the faint aroma of roasted meat greeted him as he stepped into the tavern’s main room. Benjermin, the old caravaneer turned cook and barkeep, was at his usual post, wiping down the long, scarred bar. His gray hair was flying in every direction as he hustled, his face lined with years of hard roads and even harder choices. Benjermin’s eyes flicked up as Jackard entered, and the old man gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Mornin’, Jackard,” Benjermin greeted, his voice gravelly. “We’ve got a stew going. Not much in the way of meat, though. The boys have been grumbling, but they’ll eat what’s put in front of ‘em.”

Jackard leaned against the bar, glancing at the sparse crowd of travelers and the few regulars who filled the tavern’s tables. “We’ve fed worse. We’ll feed better again. Could use a man who knows his way around a kitchen, though. You’re too valuable to be stuck behind a pot all day.”

Benjermin chuckled, shaking his head. “And who’ll tend the bar if I’m back in the kitchen? Not Ahmet, that’s for damn sure. He’d have the place in ruin within the week.”

Jackard smirked, imagining his cousin Ahmet surrounded by broken bottles and spilled ale, more interested in haggling over goods than serving a proper pint. “No, not Ahmet. But we need men, Ben. For the kitchen, but for other roles as well, to keep our opportunities coming and our own larders stocked. We can’t rely on luck forever.”

The old barkeep nodded, his gaze drifting toward the window where the faint sounds of wagons creaking and men shouting drifted in. Outside, Jackard could hear the clatter of goods being loaded and unloaded—the daily grind of trade that kept Rocky Creek alive. He knew every sack of grain, every barrel of ale was a gamble in these times.

Jackard stepped outside into the crisp morning, feeling the cool bite of autumn on his skin. Ahmet was at his stall, already deep in negotiation with a pair of traders over a bundle of spices and a crate of dried fruits. His cousin, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, had a knack for finding value where others saw none. A rare gift, but not one that could fill their pantries.

“Ahmet,” Jackard called, drawing his cousin’s attention away from the traders. Ahmet flashed a quick smile, his eyes bright with the thrill of the deal.

“Jackard! Come to join the dance? These bastards think we're a charity. It’s all coppers and promises with them.”

Jackard approached, adjusting his heavy fur cloak against the morning chill. “Just turned a good profit on those gemstones from Beregost—sold them for nearly twice what I paid. But it’s all going to patch holes and fill gaps. We’re low on food since we helped those refugees from Amn, and our foragers are coming back with less and less.This harvest had better be a strong one.”

“An we need more hands,” Jackard said quietly, leaning in closer. “Not just swords, but men who know the land. Someone to forage what our scouts are missing. A cook who can make something out of nothing. Staff to manage the library and that dusty laboratory before it all goes to waste. Entertainers on the stage. And the market—someone to keep things moving while you’re out-wrangling traders.”

Ahmet nodded, tossing a dried apricot into his mouth, chewing loudly as he savored the sweetness. “Good on you for the stones. Still, it’s a short gain, isn’t it? Every time you fill one pocket, another’s got a hole in it." He shrugged. "There’s always someone looking for work. But not always the right kind. You want a kitchen boy or a market runner, I can find them. But decent men? Men who know what they’re doing? That’ll take some coin—and more than a little luck.”

Jackard stared out at the market square, bustling yet quieter than it had been in better seasons. The refugees had taken a good share of their stores, but it was the right thing to do. The company always did right by their own, and by those who found themselves in need. But right or not, it had left them lean.

“I’ll find the coin,” Jackard said, more to himself than to Ahmet. “And I’ll find the men. We’re not starved, not yet. But we’re not far from it if we don’t plan ahead. Winter’s a clever thief, and it’ll take what we don’t guard. We can’t fight this war alone, Ahmet."

Ahmet grinned, a thin, razor-edged smile. “Always a war with you, cousin. But I’ll do my part. Just don’t expect miracles. Even the gods have turned their backs on us lately.” He patted the holy symbol of Waukeen still worn around his neck.

Leaving Ahmet to his haggling, Jackard made his way toward the garden, past the cold forge and the nearly empty training yard. A few of the younger men sparred half-heartedly, their blades clanging more out of habit than any real drive. There were too few new recruits to toughen them up, no veterans to show them the hard truths of a fight. He thought of Saksi and Daigon. They were missed.

Jackard paused at the edge of his apiary, where the wooden hives stood in neat rows, buzzing softly with life. The bees, ever diligent, worked their endless task, heedless of the world’s troubles. He found solace here among the hum and the simple order of the hives. The bees worked as they always had, gathering what little they could, turning it into something sweet and sustaining.

Jackard watched them, lost in thought. Hammer Hall had always been a place of hard work and quiet rewards. And like his bees, he would keep at his own labor, gathering what he could, finding strength in small victories. Winter would come, and they would be ready. But first, he needed to find the hands that would help him hold it all together.

He exhaled, the cool air mingling with the scent of honey and woodsmoke. “We’ve weathered worse,” he muttered to himself. “And we’ll weather this too.”

Turning away from the hives, Jackard set his mind to the day ahead, knowing that whatever came, Rocky Creek would endure. So long as he did.

[BDobolina]

The market in Greenest seemed quieter than usual, the crisp autumn air carrying the scent of fresh harvests and woodsmoke. Jackard nodded in greeting to a few familiar locals as he made his way to the small message board near the edge of the market circle. With a practiced hand, he pinned the fresh notice to the weathered wood, stepping back to check his work.

A passerby paused, eyeing the parchment. "New ventures, Jackard?" they asked.

Jackard smiled, dusting his hands off. "Ah, just shoring up what we have, in fact. We've got work for those looking, if they’ve the skill for it."

He cast a final glance at the notice, the faint rustle of the fall breeze tugging at its edges. Satisfied, he nods and spoke mostly to himself, "Our ware's are displayed, lets see who comes bidding", giving a wink to the passerby before turning back toward Hammer Hall.

[BDobolina]

The Lucky Coin was alive with laughter and the clinking of tankards, the warm glow of torch light spilling out into the market courtyard, all buttoned up for the night. The tavern’s wooden beams creaked with the weight of its many patrons, and the air was thick with the scents of roasted meat, spiced ale, and the faint hint of pipe smoke. Jackard Marks stood near the bar, one hand resting lightly on the polished oak, his fingers tracing the smooth grain as he surveyed the room.

That gem deal had paid off, he thought. They were ok. Winter was quickly approaching, but with the gold turned on this deal he was able to secure their future and hold some in reserve.

At the far end of the tavern, a bard stood upon the stage, plucking a lute with nimble fingers. He wasn't the finest musician Jackard had ever hired, but tonight he didn't mind. Rumor even had it that the man may have had a bit of a past back in Baldur's Gate, but he was enough to turn the room's bustle into a shared experience. Good enough to keep the crowd entertained, Jackard thought. The bard's eyes flickered about the room as he launched into his next song.

"Oh, the Gate, the Gate, what a place of fate,
Where shadows dance by the moon,
Whispering lies beneath starless skies,
In alleys dank and strewn.
They call it the city of fortune's grace,
Where gold is the prize to win,
But beware the smile, the slithering guile,
Of the serpents curled within."

Benjermin, the old caravaneer turned barkeep, moved with practiced ease, pouring drinks and sharing gruff jokes with the regulars. Ahmet, Jackard's cousin, was just stepping into a side booth, likely wrapping up another sale or arguing over the price of silks. The hum of the crowd and bard together reminded Jackard of the hum of his bees, a relaxing drone, a symphony of voices that mixed joy, business, and camaraderie into one living, breathing night.

Jackard allowed himself a rare genuine smile. This, he thought, is what life should be. After everything—the days of loss and ruin in Myratma, the years clawing his way back up through trade deals and merchant lanes, the quiet moments spent nursing old wounds and darker regrets—it all felt worth it. He had built something here, something solid. His gaze swept over familiar faces, each one a brick in the fortress he’d crafted against his own troubled past.

Rocky Creek thrives because of them, he mused. His thoughts drifted to Solomon, away in Berdusk, and how proud he was of the work being done there.. and Malakai, riding in the wind somewhere south. He thought of Saksi, Daigon, Albert, and the rest of the crew that had followed him through thick and thin. He saw in his mind's eye the walls of Greenest they’d rebuilt, the allies he had made for these people, the trade and wealth he brought to Greenest. These people who called him a friend, a leader. Life has been good to me, he thought. Despite everything, it’s been good.

The bard's voice rose again, sharper now, cutting through the warmth of the room like a cold wind:

"It's a pit of vipers, a nest of lies,
Where silver tongues will hiss,
They'll drink your trust like poisoned wine,
And leave you in the abyss.
In Baldur’s Gate, where honor dies,
The truth is hard to see,
For those who rise on venomous ties
Will never again walk free."

He glanced at a couple of travelers at the corner table, sharing stories of far-off lands. Jackard remembered his own wild youth in the festhalls and ballrooms of Myratma, before ambition and loss had sharpened him into something harder, leaner. He'd left that city a different man, and yet... part of him would always be that young dreamer, hoping for a life grander than his father's trade.

Unnoticed by most, the tavern door opened, and a chill swept into the room. Two figures entered — Calishite men, their steps measured and purposeful. They wore loose, flowing robes of deep indigo and crimson, trimmed in silver, with sashes wrapped tightly around their waists. Their skin was the color of burnished bronze, and their eyes held the gleam of moonlight on steel — cold, calculating. At their hips hung wicked-looking daggers, the kind of blades meant for quick work. The hilts were adorned with dark, intricate designs, like serpent scales, hinting at their owners' deadly precision.

"They feast on dreams with forked-tongue schemes,
In darkened corners and dens,
Their laughter drips from blood-stained lips
As they turn upon their friends.
They’ll bow and scrape with a serpent’s grace,
And charm you with a sigh,
But trust your soul to that wretched place,
And the light will surely die."

The men scanned the room quickly, their gaze cutting through the crowd like a falcon searching for prey. They seemed out of place in this humble tavern, as though they belonged more to shadowed alleyways or the midnight sands of Calimshan. But no one noticed. Their eyes settled on Jackard, their focus narrowing to a point as they began to move toward him.

The bard's voice carried on, some of the crowd now sang along, others lost in the buzz of drink and conversation:

"Oh, Baldur's Gate, your name now stained,
With lies and spite and woe,
For those who played their wicked games,
Will reap just what they sow."

Jackard didn’t notice the Calishites either. He didn't see them glide through the crowd, around the patrons as if they were the smoke that hung in the air. No, he was too lost in his own happiness, too wrapped up in the warmth of the room, the joy of seeing his work come to life. He thought of his legacy, of the future far brighter than anything he’d imagined for himself back in those early days. He reached for his tankard, lifting it with a smile to take another drink, oblivious to the pair of men drawing nearer.

The men closed the distance, their faces unreadable masks, their hands never far from their sashes or the hilts of their deadly blades. They were almost upon him now, their approach silent and sure.

And then—

With apologies to David Chase