Session 39: The Arrival at Grizburg
The River
Sko runs black and bitter toward
Grizburg, its waters thick with the dreams of dead foundries. Dawn crawls reluctant over the seventh day as the
Rustleech pushes through acid mists that paint the air in poisonous rainbows. The crew works with the tight efficiency of mortals who have tasted blood and found it wanting—the massacre at
Greenglade still fresh in their memories like a brand upon the soul.
Captain Malista Tinmaw stands with
Kurgan on the foredeck, their voices low as conspirators in some grim liturgy. The city approaches not as salvation but as judgment, its towers rising from the southern horizon like the ribcage of some primordial beast.
Kurgan speaks of surveillance and secrets—how in
Grizburg even the ravens carry reports, how every whispered word becomes currency in markets built on betrayal.
Keep your voices down. Be careful of what you even think here. But especially what you say out loud. Any given creature, any given bird, even an insect could be a spy of any given house. Anything you say out loud can and will be held against you in the courts at Grizburg.— Kurgan
The approach through the Under-Docks reveals the city's true nature. Here prosperity is a cruel jest, and the river gorges
itself on industrial waste until the very water becomes a sacrament of decay. The first sounds to reach them are not celebrations but the mechanical hymns of a city that never sleeps: foundry-choirs singing in tongues of hammered steel, cable cars rattling like chains of the damned, barges clanking through culverts carved from necessity and desperation.
From miles distant, the
Clockwork Titan watches with eyes that some swear have lit before—a colossus of gears and ancient purpose that has not stirred in centuries yet seems to breathe with the city's toxic rhythms.
Dreadmil crouches in its shadow across the water, a factory-fortress where
Slazgar Two-Eyes works his dark crafts in service to powers that demand no names.
Masks and Departures
The city wears its filth like royal vestments. Iron gates tower stories above the water line, their surfaces stained with oils that spread in patterns too deliberate to be accidental. Here acid is not merely hazard but artistry—the corrosion follows designs that speak of intention and malice. Fish with scales of beaten metal knife through chemical slicks, their mutations bearing witness to centuries of industrial worship.
Masks become mandatory equipment rather than mere comfort. The air cuts with edges invisible but deadly, promising slow death to those who breathe freely. The crew straps filters that taste of copper and mold, knowing they will wear them until magic or death frees them from the necessity.
Grizburg demands payment for every breath, and the price rises with each passing hour.
At the confluence where the rivers meet, Scout Knock announces his departure with the weight of prophecy in his voice:
I've seen worse. Just bits in my time Grasberg. It's just louder about it stink. Kerrigan is going to burn the claw down sooner, sooner or later, rather than later. Maybe not with fire, maybe with paperwork or with blood. Either way, it falls to me and Valencia to pull what routes we can before the walls collapse.— Scout Knock
He speaks of the city's nature with the wisdom of one who has seen empires rise and fall:
Don't got the blood for cities, not where metal grounds metal grinds louder than spirits whisper. Grasberg eats folks like me, shaves them clean, folds into the factory gears and stamps them with rust.— Scout Knock
Before departing, Scout Knock presents
Thronn with a necklace—something religious, something shamanic, carrying the weight of their shared past and the promise of futures uncertain. He speaks of dreams and nightmares, of destinations that already know their names and await their arrival.
You're headed for something that already knows who you are and already knows you're coming. It's going to make the Green Glade massacre look like child's play. I wish you the best and hope to see you on the other side. But if not, maybe the Dead Gods take it, maybe they don't.— Scout Knock
Valdin the dragonborn departs with diplomatic ceremony, handing BöötMóöntch a steel scroll tube sealed against the city's corrosive touch. Within lie official papers granting the group diplomatic status in
Grizburg—not immunity from every scrape, but protection from lower-level authorities, guards, and city watch.
This isn't going to get you out of every scrape, but it could get you out of a few. At least some lower level authorities will respect this.— Valdin
As he speaks, a raven with an iron anklet settles upon his shoulder—a living symbol of the surveillance web that encompasses the city. He departs to fulfill duties that cannot accommodate witnesses, promising reunion when the gears of diplomacy align with the needs of their mission.
Dorn and Lasha also choose departure over the city's embrace. Lasha's tale emerges like blood from a reopened wound—a father murdered by
Greenglade hands, a mute companion whose scarred throat tells its own story of survival and resurrection. They step away from the urban nightmare, choosing the uncertainty of the road over the certainty of the city's toxic embrace.
Revelations and Hidden Knowledge
As conversations flow around past mistakes and future preparations,
Fouk's street-sharpened mind pieces together fragments of overheard conversations, rumors, and whispered intelligence. His natural 20 on an intelligence check reveals a truth that even
Kurgan and Tinmaw may not fully grasp:
The Eyes of Tezra have a strong and secret presence in Grizburg.
Those Beholder princes whose geometry bends reality around their malevolent will have established themselves in a city that already warps space like a bad habit. The revelation strikes
Fouk with the force of certainty—through his Shadim connections from distant
Vorcia, his accumulated street knowledge, and the pattern of conversations he has absorbed, the truth crystallizes. These creatures of angles and alien mathematics have found comfortable residence in
Grizburg's twisted architecture and impossible districts.
Fouk shares this knowledge with
Thronn alone, understanding the weight of what he has uncovered. For
Thronn, raised in the blood cult that worshipped these entities as gods, the news carries special significance. The
Bloodclaw's reach extends far beyond the Kunos region—the terrible mathematics of the Tezra have found new angles to explore in this city of gears and poison.
When
Fouk attempts to probe
Kurgan's knowledge of the Tezra through careful conversation, the tavern keeper's deception proves absolute. With a roll that could not fail,
Kurgan presents complete ignorance while revealing nothing of what he might truly know. His mastery of secrets remains intact, leaving
Fouk to wonder what other truths hide behind those practiced lies.
The City's Vertical Domains
As the
Rustleech navigates the canal system, the crew glimpses the vertical stratification that defines
Grizburg society. The wealthy inhabit glass hives high above the smog line, their private ecosystems a mockery of the poisoned world below. Here the
Rust Barons keep climates as pets and breathe air that has never known the taste of furnace smoke. Meanwhile, the waterways carry the city's true blood—a mixture of commerce, desperation, and the dreams of mortals who have forgotten what clean water looks like.
The gates themselves require no challenge—corruption flows more freely than the poisoned river.
Captain Tinmaw's bribes and House
Ironwake's influence smooth their passage into a city where law belongs to the highest bidder and justice is a commodity sold by the pound. The bureaucratic machinery runs on oil mixed with gold, and their documentation passes inspection without question.
The journey continues through grinder rows and vertical slums where chimneys rise like accusatory fingers pointing at heaven's failures. Above, the districts climb toward cleaner air and clearer consciences, each level a monument to the philosophy that wealth elevates while poverty drowns. The
Rustleech passes through the portions of the map that cartographers leave blank—not from ignorance, but from wisdom.
Then
Dreadmil reveals
itself in full—not the sanitized portrait they were shown, but the reality of industrial ambition made manifest. The factory-manse slams against the riverfront like a fist through silk, its own docking facilities speaking of independence and isolation. This is no mere workshop but a sovereign state of steam and steel, answerable to no authority save profit and the demands of whatever contracts
Slazgar has signed in blood and brass.
Oppression radiates from the walls like heat from a forge—not mere discomfort but intentional malevolence mixed into the very mortar. The workforce moves with the coordination of a single, coughing organism, their individual wills subsumed into the greater rhythm of production.
On the dock,
Slazgar Two-Eyes approaches with the confidence of one who owns not merely the ground he walks upon but the very air above it. His voice carries the marriage of dockhand pragmatism and artisan precision—a gravelly tone refined by workshop wisdom. The old portrait fails to capture the sharpness that survival at
Grizburg's highest levels has carved into his features.
Good to see you, Kurgan. I heard lots about you, Fouk. Kerrigan has been talking.— Slazgar Two-Eyes
His manner surprises—somewhat jovial, approachable, a straight-shooting craftsman who seems more interested in capability than ceremony. The scarification covering his body tells stories in languages of acid and flame—some marks appear haphazard from industrial accidents, others follow deliberate patterns that speak of ritual and intention. Under his wristbands, brands resembling chain links hint at connections that bind him to purposes larger than mere commerce.
When
Fouk attempts to impress with displays of knowledge, his words find receptive ground.
Slazgar's response carries genuine interest:
Good, good some. Always looking for interesting people. I don't doubt it.— Slazgar responding to Fouk's claims of chemical and magical expertise
Quarters and Promises
Above it all, the
Clockwork Titan maintains its eternal vigil. Stories claim it will rise when the worst hour strikes, though other stories suggest that hour has already passed unnoticed. The Titan's eyes have lit before—whether in judgment, warning, or simple reflection of foundry fires, none can say.
Dreadmil exists in its shadow like a factory cathedral worshipping a god of stillness and secrets.
Captain Tinmaw announces shore leave for the crew as cargo transfers begin. The
Rustleech will remain docked for two weeks while its holds are emptied and refilled with whatever contracts House
Ironwake has negotiated in the city's steel-and-steam markets. The party faces a choice: continue using shipboard quarters or accept
Slazgar's offer of rooms within
Dreadmil itself.
Slazgar speaks of missions ahead—tests that must be passed before trust can be fully established:
I'll be honest. You guys have got to pass a couple of tests before I know you're right for the job. But from what Kerrigan tells me, we should be good. We've got some contacts to make and some connections to build. A couple of items to obtain by any means. We'll talk about that later.— Slazgar Two-Eyes
The phrase "by any means" hangs in the air like incense—the universal translation that transforms merchants into murderers and heroes into thieves. The work awaits, official and unofficial, the kind that pays in favors pressed into metal and secrets written in scars.
Beneath their feet, the land remembers uglier ages. Here stood the palace of a dead god before the
Matrix of Earth failed and taught the world to rot in colors that have no names. The
Whispering Depths below are the ossified remains of that theological catastrophe—catacombs of a faith that never needed priests because its god was real enough to murder. This is why
Slazgar works in
Grizburg, and why
Grizburg works at all.
The Great Game Begins
BöötMóöntch watches the smokestacks like augurs reading the future in steam and soot.
Sherman's jaw sets as his twin's ghost breathes heavier in cities that hate fresh air and clean consciences.
Thronn counts alley mouths with the instinct of prey entering a predator's den, while
Fouk studies
Slazgar's mismatched eyes—one flesh, one craft—calculating where a rogue fits into a machine that asks questions with hammers and answers them with gold.
Somewhere above, cable cars ferry mortals who never smell the river's rot or taste the air's metallic kiss. Somewhere below, the Depth Wardens map whispers with the precision of butchers understanding bone.
Grizburg is a kiln fed by the dead hours of the world, and the
Rustleech's people step into it wearing masks and carrying plans that may not survive contact with the city's reality.
Kurgan and
Slazgar exchange the recognition nod of mortals who have both sold pieces of their souls and kept careful receipts. Work awaits—official, unofficial, and the kind that pays in favors pressed into metal and secrets written in scars. The crew feels new chains being measured for their wrists, but they also understand that chains can be repurposed as weapons if wielded with sufficient conviction.
Orders flow like oil through machinery: shore routines, inventory checks, masks secured, voices lowered to funeral whispers. They bypassed the gate's challenge through gold rather than steel, but the city won't forget to test them in ways more subtle and more permanent.
Slazgar speaks of quarters nearby and items that must be acquired through methods that transform honest folk into whatever the work demands.
The barge settles into its berth with the finality of a coffin finding its grave.
Dreadmil doesn't tolerate idleness any more than it tolerates weakness or mercy. The factory's hunger demands constant feeding, and those who cannot provide value become value themselves, processed through mechanisms that waste nothing and forget less.
They came seeking work and passage to the
Whispering Depths. Instead they have arrived at a mouth that speaks in contracts written in steam and signed in blood. The session ends with moorings secure, lungs burning slightly from air that costs more than gold, and the growing certainty that the city has already begun an interview none of them remember agreeing to attend.
The great game of
Grizburg has new pieces on its board, and the rules are written in languages that predate mortal speech. Whether they emerge as players or pawns remains to be seen, but one truth crystallizes like frost on furnace glass: in this city of beautiful toxins and profitable poisons, survival requires more than strength or cunning. It demands the willingness to become something other than what they were—and the wisdom to remember what they once hoped to remain.
Treasure & Items Found
Valdin's Official Diplomatic Papers - Contained within an acid-resistant steel scroll tube, these documents grant the party diplomatic status in
Grizburg. While not providing immunity from every legal entanglement, they offer protection from lower-level authorities, guards, and city watch.
Scout Knock's Shamanic Necklace - A religious artifact of shamanic significance given to
Thronn before Scout Knock's departure. The item carries weight from their shared history and connection to the spiritual practices of their homeland.
Consumed Items
- Deezle fuel expended during final canal approach and docking procedures (standard ship operations)
- Filter masks deployed for toxic air protection—standard breathing apparatus required for survival in Grizburg's polluted urban environment
- One day's rations of food and drink consumed (standard daily consumption)
XP Awards
- Major Story Progress: Successfully reached Grizburg and established first contact with Slazgar Two-Eyes at Dreadmil — 200 XP each
- Operational Security & Covert Operations: Maintained proper voice discipline, surveillance awareness, and operational security protocols throughout the approach and docking — 100 XP each
- Consequences & Party Management: Successfully handled the departure of multiple NPCs (Scout Knock, Valdin, Dorn, and Lasha) while learning crucial operational lessons from the Greenglade aftermath — 100 XP each
Total Recommended: 400 XP per PC
Notes to Transcript
- Literary Atmospheric Integration: Incorporate urban texture and paranoia elements from "The Horror at Red Hook" and decadent corruption themes from "Diary of a Drug Fiend" into future Grizburg scenes
- Obsidian Vial Viability Check: Note instruction for d100 roll to determine glass container survival/acid storage compatibility—maintain consistency for future rulings
- Surveillance State Atmosphere: Emphasize ravens with iron anklets, voice discipline warnings, and ambient surveillance motifs throughout all city scenes
Time Tracking
Session Start: Pre-dawn of the 7th day, approximately 5-12 miles south of
Grizburg's gates while navigating the River
Vo's southern approach through the Under-Docks and Prosperity Flats.
Session End: Same morning;
Rustleech successfully docked at
Dreadmil's private wharf with initial meeting with
Slazgar Two-Eyes completed and shore arrangements established.
Additional Treasure Assignment
None this session due to the absence of combat encounters or defeated foes. The session focused primarily on travel, character departures, diplomatic arrangements, and initial contact scenarios. Treasure opportunities will be reassessed when
Slazgar's acquisition missions begin in subsequent sessions.
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