Session 2.4: Nightmarket
Session 2.4: Nightmarket
The Jessek boys go out on the town. Emma sees trouble coming.
Last episode, Aldo made a play on behalf of the Jessek Family — now that the ring of corrupt Bluecoats in north Crow’s Foot has been taken down, our PCs want to move in and take over that territory — a bit of turf that their current overboss, Chael of the Crows’ Teeth, has been coveting.
Now, they know Chael is out for revenge — a state of cold war exists between their two factions, with Chael looking to retaliate against them while not running afoul of Boss Roric’s mandate of peace between his gangs. This is both a natural outcome from the fiction as we’ve established it, as well as the results of the game’s system — specifically, the Entanglement we rolled during the last episode, Show of Force.
Now we need to follow through on that — if we rolled show of force, Chael needs to make a show of force! I thought it’d be interesting to make the next Score cover that show of force — Chael sets some sort of ambush for the crew, and they have to think, fight or charm their way out of it.
Before we dive into the fiction, I want to make a slight change to one of the PC’s character sheets. What follows is some in-the-weeds system stuff, so if that’s not what you’re here for, you can safely skip to the beginning of the fiction below.
Character Tweaks
The change I’m going to make is to Rian’s special abilities, which you can review in the crew’s character sheets, here — currently, he has the two Slide abilities Cloak and Dagger and Subterfuge. We are going to drop Subterfuge — it pertains primarily to resisting consequences, and we haven’t been doing much of that due to the nature of solo play. To replace it, we’re going to take the Spider special ability Functioning Vice. This allows Rian to adjust the results of his Indulge Vice rolls by up 2 in either direction, preventing overindulgence and maximizing its efficacy, and it allows him to share this ability with someone who joins him in indulging his vice. I want to give this change a try, as I realized I didn’t take many special abilities that affect downtime or that target other players, and this one, in particular, is useful for creating opportunities for characters to share the spotlight.
Setting the Scene
To close out the session and set up the next, I wanted to set two scenes — one with one with the Jesseks , and another with long-lost sister Emma, to move her story along and give her an opportunity to perhaps rejoin her lost brothers.
For the Jesseks, I’m looking to take Rian’s new ability out for a spin — Aldo didn’t actually clear much stress when he indulged his vice last episode1, and Rian has yet to make his indulge vice roll.
Rian’s vice is Luxury — when he was a boy, he was fascinated by the lifestyles of his father’s wealthy clientele, and coveted their fine clothes, rich food, and air of ease and leisure. During Rian’s character creation, I envisioned a vice purveyor named Quentin, a butler to wealthy households in Whitecrown and Brightstone, who acts as a fixer for scoundrels on the side, selling them castoff or stolen garments and arranging entry for them into private clubs and other exclusive establishments.
We’ll place Quentin’s greymarket salon in a new district in Duskwall — Nightmarket, Duskwall’s mercantile district. It’s situated in the northwestern quarter of Duskwall, near Gaddoc Rail Station, which brings goods and peoples from all points in the Empire, and is the home to Duskwall’s rising mercantile elites.
Scene 7: Rigney’s Tavern
Aldo flicks another card at the battered black stovepipe, and Carver’s eyes follow it as it arcs toward its target. At the last moment, it falls short, the eight of knives striking the brim and fluttering to the floor, to join the growing pile of failed throws. Carver gives a weary chuckle and then returns to honing his cutter to a razor’s edge with a strap of old boot leather.
Even in the best of times, the back room of Rigney’s makes for spartan accommodations—the table and beat-up bar stools that the Jesseks have planned a dozen scores at are crammed against one wall to make room for three threadbare mattresses. There, Rian sits, boots up on the table, his face buried in a lurid pulp novel that still has a whiff of Nyryx’s perfume about it.
He looks up. “Seem to have lost that snap in your wrist, brother,” he says, his voice edged with stir-craze. “And if we stay here too much longer, Carver’s knife will finally be sharp enough to cut Rigney’s mushloaf.”
His brother shrugs. “Not much for it. I sent word to Lyssa that we’re eager to repay Roric’s gift. She said they’d be in touch soon. So we wait.”
Rian gets up and begins to pace — he makes it a few steps before he has to turn back. “If we’re so afraid of Chael that we can’t leave this fucking tavern, we can’t run our protection game. We can’t pound the cobbles looking for more scores, either.”
“Once Roric puts us under his wing, Chael won’t dare move on us. Until then, there’s no call to swan about the streets where we could run into the Crow’s Teeth. We’re still in funds from the Molino Job; we can afford to lay low.”
“And that’s another thing — the Molino Job was the biggest score of our lives, and we haven’t spent a bent slug of that coin. What is the point of all this hustling if we never enjoy any of it?”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Rian. Don’t be a fool — it’s not worth the risk.”
Rian snorts. “Risk is our trade, brother. We can outrun the risk. What we can’t do is sit here til you go mad. You’ve been running us ragged, and yourself besides. You’re barely sleeping, and when you do, you toss and turn and mumble so much it wakes me and Carv.”
Carver grunts his agreement. Aldo growls. “We’re in the thick of it, Rian. It’s only natural things might be a little… strained.”
Rian grins in his brother’s face. “You know what cheers me up when things get ‘strained,’ Ali?”
“What’s that?” Aldo asks, his voice heavy with reluctance.
“A cut of prime beef cooked rare — pink and bloody, not grey like Rigney’s boiled goatflesh. Roasted potatoes with butter and rosemary taken from some aristo’s greenhouse. And a double shot of blackjack that fills the inside of your head with warm honey.”
Carver nods approvingly. “I wouldn’t mind a bit o’ that. What else cheers you, Rian?”
“Putting on clothes so fine that no one will make us for some poor bastards from Jessek House and strolling down Paper Street while the hawkers and barkers doff their caps at us and invite us into their fine establishments.”
“No one will make us, eh?” Aldo asks, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Not a soul. Certainly not any of Chael’s sorry lot. And thus attired, we’ll wander Nightmarket and take in a bit of the evening’s offerings — maybe a burlesque, maybe a music hall. Maybe we’ll spend Baszo Bas’ hard-stolen coin2 on some of that silver wine with the little, tiny bubbles,” he says, holding up his fingers to demonstrate precisely how tiny.
Rian waits on his brother expectantly. Aldo, in turn, looks to Carver. “Big man? What d’you think?”
“I don’t know about all that, but I’d like to stretch my legs.”
Aldo pauses and sighs. “I suppose...”
“Don’t tease me, brother,” Rian says with a grin.
“Let’s go. Lead the way, Rye.”
Montage: The Nightmarket
In less than an hour, the three of them are shouldering their way through the bustling streets of Nightmarket beneath the many-colored lanterns and buzzing electroplasm signs in a neon rainbow of colors, advertising all manner of nighttime delights: Dueling fortune tellers and soothsayers, claiming exotic methods taken from the ruins of Tycheros, the deserts of Iruvia, and the swamps of the Dagger Isles. Bawdy music halls with the names of heartthrob entertainers in glittering lights, dance odeons with performances both traditional and outre. Massage parlors, Skovish bath houses, and numberless coffee houses, winesinks, and tea rooms.
Their first stop is on Bell Street, where Rian ushers them down discreet stone steps into a private salon. There, they are graciously welcomed by Quentin Coalford, a pale, slender man who looks like he was born in his immaculate black butler’s suit. Lining the walls of the dark wood salon are open wardrobe trunks showcasing Master Coalford’s wares: the finest attire cast off by and stolen from the aristos of Whitecrown and Brightstone.
Aldo and Carver grumble a bit as Rian takes charge of their attire, though they cannot complain about the final product—Carver looks fearsome in a long coat fringed with a pale Deathlands wolf pelt, and Aldo seems rakish in a sleek, midnight blue evening jacket. For himself, Rian selects a black-and-gold robe in the Iruvian style and a pair of scholarly copper optics with plain glass in place of lenses.
“If I’m going to dress like the lover in one of your tuppenny novels, I need to be a little drunker,” Aldo grumbles. So, clothed in a finer class of fashion, the trio bid farewell to Quentin and make their way through a succession of lusheries3. They end their crawl at the Golden Hive, a meadery and the usual haunt of a family contact: Rothko Kellis4, an often-broke fourth son of a shabby aristo household.
Kellis is there, standing on a table, surrounded by likeminded, feckless aristo spawn. The Jesseks watch for a few minutes as he loudly declaims a coming uprising. “Mark my words, comrades — a shattering of the great hegemony is coming. The contradictions inherent in the paradigm of the ruling class are becoming ever more heightened, and everywhere, there is revolutionary fervor! Take a walk on the Docks, comrades, and listen to the workmen there — they speak of naught else. Unionist pamphlets are hidden in every coat pocket!”
“When’s the last time you sullied your dancers at the docks, Rothko?” Aldo calls over the mead-hall din.
Rothko spots him and grins. “Why, whenever I’m looking for a scoundrel like you!”
He hops down from his bar-table rostrum and embraces Aldo and Rian before turning back to his revolutionary brethren. “Comrades, this is Al…” he begins before he’s cut short by a sharp elbow from Aldo. “Al… Alphonse. A gentleman-about-town, connected with all the right people, if you catch my meaning. If you’ll excuse me, we have some personal matters to discuss.”
Rothko leads them to a private booth and calls for another bottle of mead. As he pours the thick, golden liquid, Rian ribs him gently. “I didn’t know you were a revolutionary, Rothko.”
Rothko grins. “I came to it recently. These young Unionists tend to split the bills quite equitably on our nights out, and the ladies among them have very modern notions about all that tedious Akorosi modesty and moralism. All things considered, I find these philosophies quite appealing.”
“What’s your next stop?” Aldo asks.
“The Dreamlight Odeon. They’re hosting a dancer there who goes by the name Salome. Rumor has it she had to flee U’dasha when two of their underworld barons started a bloody feud over her affections.”
“Sounds enriching. Room for company?”
“Anything for my favorite scoundrel and his brothers. But see here, Aldo: I wasn’t just pissing into the wind about that personal matter. I’ve an opportunity for you. Some easy winnings at the flats5, savvy?”
Aldo nods encouragingly, and Kellis continues. “This winter, my insufferable cousin and a gaggle of his hangers-on have been meeting fortnightly to play at cards. They think themselves quite the sharks. We could concoct a premise; I could make an introduction,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial mutter. “Aldo, if you’re on your game, I have no doubt you could shear that pack of goats and be home in time for a late supper. I’d ask twenty, no, fifteen percent of the takings.”
Aldo leans in, interest peaked. “How much coin is at the table most nights?”
Rian smiles. “You two talk business. I’m going to fetch us another bottle. Is your tab open, Rothko?”
“My comrade-in-the-revolution, Darcie Bowden, is paying tonight,” he replies with a vague wave. “From each in sufficiency, to each in want!”
Scene Breakdown
A few things are happening here. First, we’re spending Rian’s downtime action and triggering his Indulge Vice roll, which we recorded last episode — Rian cleared four stress, leaving him with five remaining. We also take this opportunity to adjust Aldo’s stress total — his Indulge Vice roll cleared an underwhelming 2 stress, so Rian will use his new Functioning Vice ability to increase that to 4, leaving Aldo with 2 stress marked. Rian also benefits from this, allowing him to further reduce his Stress by 2, down to 3 marked.
Second, we’re laying some track for future scores. The crew may or may not pursue Rothko’s lead, but it’s good practice to always be giving the party opportunities to make coin and rep.
And finally, we’re about to set up the next score — not Rothko’s opportunity, but something a little more iminent and dangerous. The gang won’t have much time to prepare, but Rian has a chance to see trouble coming with a quick Gather Information roll:
Rian rolls Study (Gather Information)
Dice Pool: 1d (Attribute Rating)Result: 6, Full Success
Good news for Rian. He spots the coming danger with a bit of time to make a plan with the others.
He leaves Rothko in the care of his brothers, and knowing full well that Carver and Aldo have only so much patience for the aristo’s sense of humor, he makes haste to the bar. As he charms the barkeep, a fit Tycherosi with yellow, slitted eyes, he notices watchers out of the corner of his eye. With an easy laugh at the young man’s flirtations, he turns to steal a glimpse at them.
To Rian’s sharp eye, they stick out like broken bones among the more refined crowd at the Golden Hive. Their too-heavy coats of somber grey wool conceal steel beneath, and the red-and-black scarves around their neck mark them as Billhooks: A gang of bloody-handed bravos whose territory straddles the Docks and Crow’s Foot, often at odds with Roric and his barons.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Rian’s mind races as the barkeep whispers in his ear. “They’re a long way from home. Maybe they’re just here for the mead?”
As he watches them, he sees one of them point directly at Aldo, still nodding along to Rothko’s pitch in their private booth. The two bravos hold a brief, whispered conference before one of them heads for the door.
Where there’s one Billhook, there’s more. Shit, this is getting worse fast. Quickly, Rian makes his apologies to the eager barkeep, composes his face to a mask of carefreeness, and slides in next to his brothers.
“Aldo,” he hisses urgently. “I’m afraid I’m about to say my three least favorite words.”
Aldo’s face falls. “Shit. What was I right about?”
We’ll leave the Jessek boys here for the moment and close out the session with another interlude with Emma. Last time we saw her, she was angling for another opportunity to commune with the Burnt King.
Setting the scene: Emma’s interlude
So far, we’ve left the details of Emma’s cult vague — in the few scenes she’s been in, we haven’t really established what exactly she knows about her cult and its designs. We’ve established a few concrete things:
Emma has successfully communed with the Burnt King, and he has assisted her in escaping the grounds of the Dalmore School at least once. We have not established how much she knows about him — in the scene with Madame D., she didn’t even say his name, referring to him only as ‘the King’ or ‘his Grace.’
Madame Dalmore has a plan for Emma, which involves placing her in the household staff of a noblewoman, the Marchioness Bowmore, and Emma’s escape jeopardized that plan (presumably if Emma was caught aiding her brother, being arrested by the Bluecoats would have made employing her at a aristo household impossible).
Madame Dalmore seems uneasy, and a little jealous, of Emma’s contact with the Burnt King.
After her last escape, Emma has been confined to her quarters, save for meal times and prayer times. Further, Madame D. has demanded that if the King gives her another vision, that she bring that information to Madame D. at once.
So, thinking about this scene from the GM’s perspective, we want to accomplish two things: One, establish more detail about Emma’s position at the Dalmore School, and two, give Emma an opportunity to affect the action in the core Jessek storyline, even while she’s separated from them. To that end, Emma needs an ally to speak with — at the table, the GM could use this NPC to let Emma’s player explore and establish some of his or her character’s motivations and goals.
For this purpose, we’ll tap Flint the spirit-trafficker, an NPC that we envisioned during the campaign pilot as part of the same step in character creation that gave us Rothko. When we first envisioned him, this is what we established: “One of the players in the sub rosa — the supernatural underworld of Duskwall. He trades in alchemicals, trapped ghosts and spirits, and other arcane paraphernalia. Emma sought him out for training, and he became fond of her, reminding him of a long-passed daughter.”
For the purposes of Emma’s story, we’ll further establish that he’s mixed up in with the Dalmore School and the Cult of the Burnt King. The cult’s activities require trapped spirits, and Flint provides them. He’s more-or-less loyal to Madame D., but he’s (perhaps foolishly) sticking his neck out for Emma.
Scene 8: The Dalmore School
The old grandfather clock in the hall is chiming nine, and on the final chime, there is a sharp rap on the heavy iron door of Emma’s chambers. She waits a beat. All likely visitors to her room wouldn’t wait for her permission to enter — all save one.
“Come in, Mr. Flint.”
There is a rasp and a scrape as his key turns in the lock, and the door swings open, and Emma meets Flint’s sad eyes. The old ghost-seller stands in the doorway, stooping over his carved redwood cane, though Emma knows very well he can move with startling speed if pressed.
“Miss Ridley,” he says. “Madame bid me to take you below, to beseech his Grace.”
She nods demurely and rises, smoothing her black skirts and taking her place by Flint’s side as he leads her through the halls of Dalmore House.
Emma reaches out to the ghost field, seeking any movement or vibrations that might betray a watcher-spirit sent by Madame to spy on her, but the unseen world is quiet 6in Dalmore House tonight.
“Are we being watched?” Emma asks, unwilling to trust her own senses.
Flint’s cloudy eyes go pure white for a moment as he looks beyond the veil. “No. We have time.”
“Did you bring me an offering for Him?” Emma whispers as they walk.
“Yes, against my better judgment. Madame bid me deny you and let you petition His Grace empty-handed.”
“Why?” Emma asks.
“She meets with the Marchioness Bowmore on the first of next month to secure an introduction for you. If you attract the attention of the Bluecoats, or worse, the Spirit Wardens — as you almost did the last time I helped you — then you will be useless to her. What are you playing at, girl?”
She shakes her head helplessly. “I had another vision of my brothers, Mr. Flint — tonight, men in grey coats with bloody hooks are hunting them. I need to speak with Him, and ask for his aid again.”
“Your vision? But you told Madame it was the King who showed you your brother’s peril.”
“I lied. I knew she would forgive me if it was His Grace who granted me the vision.”
Flint sucks in his breath. “This is a dangerous game, Emma. You have seen what happens to girls who cannot obey.”
“I have to try to help them, Flint. I always hoped they never forgot me, even after all these years apart. When I saw Aldo that night, I knew that he never did. Please, give me the offering.”
He shakes his head sadly. “I am sorry, Emma. If you leave the grounds again without permission, Mr. Seek will find you, and Madame will not stay his hand this time. You are her favorite student, but many are eager to replace you. Do not give them the chance.”
The two fall silent as another pair of ladies pass them in the hallway. They both avert their eyes from Emma, and she can hear them whispering as they receed down the hall.
“Flint, something is not right with Madame’s schemes. When I ask the King what he wills of me, he does not show me the Marchioness’ house. I see my home — I see Crow’s Foot. If Madame is wrong, and she sends me into that den of lions without his blessing, I am as good as dead. Please, you have to help me.”
They walk in silence for a moment longer before reaching the iron door that bars the way to the house’s holiest of holies. Flint looks at her face, his eyes cloudy, before he assents and draws the spirit bottle from his dark coat—the ghost trapped within dances under the glass, fighting vainly to escape from its prison.
“It’s not much,” Flint whispers apologetically. “A captain in the Imperial Service. Noble blood would be better, but still enough misbegotten power to beckon His Grace into the pyre for a few moments.”
She takes it and slips it beneath her jacket, her fingers brushing his wizened hand. “Thank you.” The old man nods sadly and unlocks the door with a key from around his neck, making way for Emma to descend the long dark stairway towards the sanctum of the King.
The ritual chamber below has nothing of the modern refinement of Dalmore House—it is an ancient, graven stone from a time long before the world was broken. A shattered set of shallow stairs leads up to a throne-altar—burnt-down candles surround a kingly seat of carved basalt, on which rests a pile of charred remnants. One skeleton is still discernable, though it rests on a jumbled pile of bones from offerings long past, blackened and charred by countless pyres.
Slowly, summoning up all the reverence she can sincerely command, Emma approaches the throne and kneels at its feet, placing the spirit bottle in the center of the circle of candles.
She waits for a sign until the room’s chill seeps into her bones, and her knees grow sore against the stone. Then, finally, she feels His presence, by the smell of smoke in the air and the taste of ashes on her tongue.
Slowly, carefully, she unstoppers the spirit bottle. Like a bird freed from a cage, it flits out and up, a shapeless cloud of ectoplasm, seeking to manifest the form it once had in life, but, like a freed bird, it is quickly set upon by a hungry predator. Its shimmering form is snatched by an unseen force, and its half-formed face twists in pain, crying out wordlessly. Hanging there in the air, it seems to catch fire all at once from the edges, burning like parchment held in a candle’s flame, twisting and rising as it is consumed and burnt to spirit ashes. The heat in the room seems to rise, and the circle of snuffed candles flare to life. Emma can see beyond the veil through her mind’s eye, and there, in the unseen world, the flames rise high, engulfing the chamber in a roaring inferno.
And there, at the eye firestorm, sits a regal figure with a charred crown, his strangely elongated fingers clutching the arms of his burning throne.
Emma swallows, pressing the knot of fear in her throat down her gullet. “Your Grace, I am your base and humble servant. Once again I entreat you for your blessing to save my brothers.”
His voice comes from the flames, roaring and bringing with it a burning wind that feels as though it will sear Emma’s very flesh, though when she looks down, she is untouched.
“TONIGHT YOU WILL NOT SAVE YOUR BROTHERS, BUT AVENGE THEM.”
“What? No, please! They can help me serve you, my King. Surely that is why you helped me save Aldo!”
“WITH OR WITHOUT THEM, YOU WILL SERVE.”
“Please, Your Grace, my brothers…” Tears well in Emma’s eyes, falling to the floor where they boil into vapor on the burning stones, but the King does not hear her.
“THE CARRION LORD WHO ORDERED YOUR BROTHERS SLAIN WILL BE YOUR OFFERING TO ME, THE FIRST AND THE LEAST. LEAVE MY ABODE THIS NIGHT AND BRING ME HIS SOUL.”
“What about Madame Dalmore? What about the Marchioness Bowmore? Please, reveal your designs to me so I can better serve you!”
“HEED NO OTHER WORDS BUT MINE.” The circle of flame roars still higher, looming over Emma as she kneels before the King’s pyre-throne. She feels as though her skin is cracking in the fire, though still she is unburnt. “OBEY, AND I WILL MARK YOU FOR ALL THE FAITHFUL TO SEE.”
“Please…”
“DO NOT FAIL ME. THE KING MUST DIE.”
With that, the last of the spirit offering is consumed, and as quickly as they grew, the candle flames gutter and die, taking the King’s burning eidolon with them. The unseen world falls as silent as the world of the living, leaving Emma alone. She sobs once before mastering herself. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees a sharp, dark shape in the ashes of the pyre. Still on her knees, she reaches for it and closes her hand around the hilt of a long, black-bladed dagger — the King’s blessing. Unconsciously, her hand darts into her jacket pocket and closes around the skeleton key that appeared the selfsame way the night she saved Aldo.
In the quiet, she hears the scrape of boots behind her. She turns, and Flint is there, his face pale and drawn. “What did he say?” he whispers. Emma shakes her head and shoulders past him, beset by doubt.
We’ll close the session out here.
Emma has a choice before her. The Burnt King has given her a task: Go out into the city and claim the life of Chael as her first offering to Him. She doesn’t yet know at whom the King has sent her, but no doubt he will guide her steps. If she obeys him.
Of course, she doesn’t have to obey him. She could, instead, come to her brothers’ aid as they contend with the Billhooks, whom Chael has apparently convinced to do his dirty work — no doubt in an attempt to avoid violating Roric’s peace. If she does so, then she risks angering her divine patron, as well as running afoul of Madame D. and her relentless hunter, Mr. Seek.
If she obeys the King, then the Jessek boys will have to get out of trouble without her help, and she in turn will do a little mini-Score where she makes an attempt on Chael’s life. She doesn’t yet know that Chael is her target, though at the gaming table it would be fairly straightforward for the players to guess, given what they know from Aldo, Rian and Carver’s perspective.
Emma has a lot to balance here — so far in her young life, loyal service to Madame D. and, in turn, the Burnt King, has been her only path to power, independence, and safety. But she still loves her brothers, and hopes to be reunited with them somehow — which she certainly can’t do if the Billhooks leave them bleeding to death in a Nightmarket alley.
We’ll leave her choice up to you all. Does she serve the King, and trust her brothers can fend for themselves? Or does she put family above all, and seek out her brothers in the Nightmarket? Mash the button below to make your choice, and I’ll see you in your inbox next week!
Fictionally, it tracks well. Aldo blows off steam by playing cards, but he misses business with pleasure and uses his vice to get an angle on Roric, which probably limits how much relaxing fun he actually could’ve had.
Rian’s ability, “Functioning Vice,” requires that the characters indulge their vices alongside one another. I decided to interpret this loosely, with Rian helping Aldo spend his winnings from the card game as an in-bounds use.
This is real-world Victorian slang for a place that serves alcohol. “Lush,” was the term for an alcoholic beverage, and “Lushington” for a habitual drunkard.
Rothko Kellis was established as Aldo’s contact during the campaign pilot—you can refresh your memory of him here.
“Flats” is real-world Victorian slang for cards.
Mechanically, this is Emma using Attune to receive premonitions of violence from the Ghost Field. In our version of Duskwall, we’ll envision that she can access limited clairvoyance, clairaudience, and prediction using that ability, and that Whispers like her can do similarly.
I figure her brothers can handle themselves, and I would love to see Chael burn (plus more fun magic stuff). And I bet the Jesseks can snag a little more territory after he’s out of the way. Win-win, really.
The brothers got this, go get Chael. I'm excited to see what the vote results are.