Marchrise

'A Moment in Marchrise'

Plentasonte just avoided being sideswiped by the heavy cart. Its driver seemed heedless of people in his path. Plentasonte shouted a couple of reckless oaths at the driver. The driver could be working for somebody important. Shouting at anyone like that could mean some bad news later. Plentasonte stared at the muck now decorating her left side.
“Might as well forget about any decent place letting you inside.” She said. She traveled alone so there was no reply. She spoke to hear her voice because she’d decided being alone could be a worry. She often went most of a day without talking to anybody. Saying words out loud to herself felt better than just thinking them. She caught herself wondering if she might ever be part of a family again. Thoughts like that could make her doubt the choices she’d made. Not good and not very enriching. She shrugged her shoulders more to adjust her pauldron than any physical comment on life. Pain regaled her with the tale of her fight two nights earlier. She’d been careless in getting into the fight but careful in leaving it. She’d been battered but in one piece. Careful because she’d also made sure to leave the medallion guard in one piece. No point disabling a man just because of a disagreement. She’d seen fighters who’s wounds had forced them into other work. She didn’t want to be responsible for that. She’d probably cracked his ribs but nothing the man would find too fearsome to deal with. Leaving him able enough to continue his duties might mean she’d not suffer a problem if she ever needed a lend of some money from the medallions. Plentasonte wasn’t too sure if the medallions-croupier shared details that specific but they definitely knew a great deal. Small personal details seemed to be important to them. Were these things shared between different bankers in other cities? Plentasonte shrugged again and winced.


She’d come to Marchrise from the south. She’d worked for the Bank of Medallions-Croupier off and on all the way up the Road to War. Things had gone fine to begin with. The city of Bracks would welcome her return. Things had gone south the further north she’d traveled. When she’d left Quarried and decided to see how far the Road’s spur had made it to Cloister, things went wrong.

She looked across the plaza. High up, she could see a man hanging out an extremely long tapestry. Small flakes of the wall it hung from pattered to the street. The tapestry probably wasn’t for sale. Who’d have a wall tall enough for that? He was probably just airing the thing. The afternoon didn’t threaten rain so little chance of it being ruined. She glanced toward one of the plaza’s exits. The opening and the street beyond were partly covered by awnings. She liked the yellow ones best. They added a flash of much-required colour to Marchrise. The city was a drab enough spot to live. Most of it was grey or almost grey. What might have been painted and bright before she’d lived, had long since faded. Painted buildings were mostly peeling if they had any paint left. Few in the city bothered to make the effort that the medallion quarter’s merchants did. She didn’t really know why nobody seemed to make the effort. The medallion quarter definitely was the busiest bit of the city. If others took the time... a lot of work though. People who might want to make that effort had likely left for some city more important. She couldn’t blame them. Still, would it hurt to liven up your building with some paint?A bit of colour could work wonders.

She moved out of the way of a palanquin. She needn’t have bothered. It came to a standstill before reaching her. A loud voice came from inside, “You lost? I can suggest a route but then you’d be losing money. I’m not paying for a half-thrown pot.”

Plentasonte smiled. Must be a potter going somewhere important. No, that didn’t make sense, what would a potter be doing in a sedan chair? They cost helms and more than a fair few. Running a palanquin wasn’t easy. They were hard work, not to mention the upkeep. That meant the runners who owned them charged by weight. Plentasonte wasn’t heavy but she’d never had the money to ride in one. She’d never wanted a ride in one regardless.

Curious, Plentasonte tried to get a look at the palanquin’s occupant. All she could see was a pair of legs protruding out the window. They owned a man’s boots to look at them. She could see the heels were worn but the soles were new. Someone who valued his boots enough to keep them repaired. Knows about making pots, takes rides in a sedan chair and a traveler who walked a lot. Interesting.

Plentasonte wondered why the two porters would be lost. Palanquin-runners didn’t just take up the job. It was something you had to want to do. It meant they normally had a fair knowledge of the city’s streets. Maybe this was some kind of a set-up? Runners could be bought. Maybe the runners had their own reasons for delaying their passenger.

She looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The people in the streets seemed unconcerned. Other carts were approaching or receding still. The man hanging the tapestry was gone. All looked typical — Plentasonte stopped, thinking. There was a figure on the tapestry. She’d almost missed it because the figure was cloaked in similar fabric to the tapestry. She was pretty sure that even getting closer wouldn’t make the figure much easier to notice.

“Say, woman? Girl?” Plentasonte realised the passenger was speaking to her

“Yes?”

“Tell these two where the Ascir Common is from here? They seem lost.”

The passenger’s face was open and friendly.

“Just down there. About two hundred paces.”

One of the two chair-runners nodded. They started off but not very quickly. Plentasonte nodded back. There was something very off about this situation, she decided. The Common would be close to as well known as the Road to War. Why would the runners pretend to not know where it was? The palanquin jostled a fair bit. They weren’t giving the fellow inside a very smooth ride. As they were still walking, there really wasn’t a good reason for that. There wouldn’t be too big a tip from the passenger. She watched the sedan chair move along, then it accelerated, swinging hard to the left. That wasn’t the way to the Common. It would lead them under the tapestry though. Plentasonte felt her stomach somersault. Her feet moved without her telling them to. The bearers tipped the palanquin forcefully. The door on that side didn’t swing open but did break away from its hinges. The passenger fell to the street. She was closing on the palanquin, when the man above dropped from the tapestry straight down on to the passenger.

A dull thump came from the fallen passenger, as the aerial attacker hit him. Plentasonte saw the arch-Knife strike home. A heavy hit judging by that sound. The passenger might never stand again. Her sword took her hand and led it forward to the assailant. Plentasonte wasn’t worried about getting in trouble for her attack. This wasn’t the kind of thing she ever worried about. Her sword acted as an upright prosecutor. Caught the man right above the elbow, and deeply. That’ll sort him, she thought.

Something nasty whispered to her. She threw her body into a forward flip using the passenger as a support for her back so that she’d land on her feet, past him and farther from whatever weapon had spoken to her. The passenger oofed. She was a little surprised. He’d taken a killing strike for sure. She’d heard the blade strike deeply into bone. Tough one. She might get some helms out of this... if she could get rid of these men. The two palanquin-runners were moving to get at least one behind her. The ‘tapestry man’ was holding his arm but seemed to be recovering. Two and a half to one wasn’t the best odds she’d ever got and she wouldn’t bet on her fighting, even if the odds were in her favour. She wasn’t strong enough to win a brawl. The closest man, facing her, swung to distract. Well, that worked she thought. She was in trouble, surrounded and nobody heroic coming by the look of it. Heroic! That would do.

Plentasonte whirled her sword in quick circles. A whirring came from her blade. Small, angled holes pierced the sword’s metal. It was the holes that caused the high-pitched sound. She doubled the speed and the sword responded even more loudly. She called out, “Hail, Riders of House of Tear! Hail, Windswords!”

Her attackers looked about. The wounded man swore and raced off. Plentasonte spun to the man behind her. He was still poised to hit her. She winked at him. He glared, lips puckered in thought.

“Getting ready to kiss the world good-bye?” She asked.
Her confident tone seemed to decide the man’s thoughts. He said, “I’m done with this. Do as you please.” He raced off. The other man barged past her trying to get anywhere quickly. Plentasonte raised her sword and then lowered it. She was in no shape to continue the fight. Her shoulder was angry enough at her for spinning her sword so hard. The second runner soon passed his partner, turning the corner of the street at least three seconds before the other, despite that one’s head start.


“Thank you for getting here so fast. Definitely helped.” The passenger said.

“Plentasonte.”

“How’s that now?”

“It’s my name?”

“Yes, it’s a name. Are you saying it’s yours?”

“What? Yes.”

“How odd... Uncommon name. I know it’s origin... That’s right, you sang out just then about Windswords and the Houselands Tear family. You’re from the Houselands. You don’t look much like it but with that name —.

“I don’t think I’d forget that, if it was true. I wasn’t born in the Houselands, sorry. Never been there, even. Just a song’s chorus I heard when I was in Quarried. Nothing more. It worked though.”

“ Yeah, it did. My name is, Twada. Twada Jhuevone.”

“Here, get up. I thought you were dead for certain.”

“I live. It’s my journal that died.” The man indicated a small but thickly paged book. The Arch-knife still protruded from the book’s leather cover. “Stuck too fast to remove it.”

“It’s a fine enough blade. Best to lose it though. Arch-blades come at a cost. They also come with attachments. Not the warlogue kind either. That blade will mean you’re supposed to die. If you’d been wounded but managed to survive, nobody sensible would have treated your hurts. The blade would be warning not to. Valuable things, arch-blades. He’ll be after it pretty soon. You might be able to get somebody to identify him by it. He won’t trust that you won’t. Besides the fact he was entrusted with it by somebody high up... Yeah, I’d be leaving it down a well or something... As someone wants you dead, why not give him an extra reason to kill you, eh? Speaking of which, what was the first reason? It was an open attempt. You must have been expecting it?”

“ I was told to expect it. I was told that three years ago. There have been eight — now nine — attempts. I am a victim of mistaken indentity. The Stalkers want me dead. They think I took something from them. Do I look like a thief? If I was a thief would I pit my skills against a city run by thieves? I’d be mad or the greatest thief alive and if I was he, wouldn’t Cloister know me? It’s too ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous — except for nine attempts. The tenth would make me think there had to be some basis in fact.”

“You actually think I’m some sort of master thief? Look here, Plentasonte, I am not trained in the thievish arts. If I were, I’d simply pick-pocket enough helms to have the charges dropped.”

“I’m kind of surprised they wouldn’t want to talk to you first. Dead, you wouldn’t have been able to tell them where the thing you stole is.”

“Probably think I had it on me.”

“Why would they think that? Is it too dear to be parted from?”


“You’ve got me. I haven’t been able to ask the people I’ve escaped from. Running at speed makes conversation with people chasing you a bit difficult.”


“Sure... You better get off the plaza. Too open. Here let’s go this way. The Trianglers isn’t far. Best shaudz around. You drink right?”


“More importantly, I can pay for drinks.”


“Good! I can’t imagine why’d anyone would want you dead.”

Demographics

99 % - Human


01 % - Other (Cleftyck Veer, Rogues)

Human Origin Cultural Breakdown

• 47% - Marchrise
• 17% - Urshonn
• 12% - Elqyn
• 06% - Other Coaseth nations
• 03% - Cloister
• 02% - Spansis
• 02% - Other Mirantian nations

Government

Founded in a time when the city was a strategically important location, the earliest governments were formed from the militarily minded. The building of the walls and other defences were a priority in extending Marchrise's influence. The leader was titled the Maioreign (alt. Majoreign). The officers all took up roles in the governance of the city. These city-officers were called, Officiates.

Presently, the governance of the city is apparently the same as it was. In truth the Maioreign has become an office filled by anyone willing to face the nearly overwhelming tasks of seeing to the city's decaying sites and economic malaise. There is the following structure within the city:

Position	Title	Setting	Responsibility
Leader	Maioreign	Blested Keep	Overall Command
1 Officiate	Woodseer	Axerton	Timber Supply
2 Officiate	Norseer	North March	Deepbore Wells
3 Officiate	Ascirman	Commons	City Walls & Gates
4 Officiate	Westman	Shop Lanes	Merchants & Goods
5 Officiate	Plazaman	Plazas	Funding & Taxes
6 Officiate	Nobleman	High Residents	Buildings & Edifices
7 Officiate	Clayseer	Walkington	Earthworks & Clay

Defences

Marchrise's walls are still redoubtable. This is due less to the efforts still being made to maintain them, than the original expertise in building them. The 'white-clay' bricks used for the construction have proved their resilience. Durable and equally as good at moderating the temperature of any buildings close by the walls in both winter and summer, the walls are admired by the inhabitants. Properties near the walls that gain this advantage tend to be more expensive than similar buildings near city-centre.

The triple thick layers of clay bricks in the walls grant the city excellent defensive strength. Some of the walls are showing their age, collapsed in previous sieges or through negligent removal of certain supports by heedless foreign groups. This illegal activity wasn't sanctioned and would have been the result of bribes being paid to officiate and guards alike. Nonetheless, these damaged areas of the walls still create issues for any attacker. The bricks in these spots have stabilised in their jumbled way. Loose as they are, rams and bombards can't deal as much damage as they are designed to do. Any invaders will find the loose brick treacherous, providing dubious footing and poor handholds.

There are several gates that provide access to the Marchrise citadel. The gates are maintained rigorously by the Ascirman Officiate. Gates provide this officiate with a sizable income. Beyond this, it is clear to everybody that the gates cannot be left to themselves as the walls might be in places. The four gates differ in slight ways due to the particular nature of the cliff face where they each are located. Two grant access to trails and two access the Road to War. All gates defence's are campaigned for by the various squads of local guardsmen.

There are five guards groups. The fifth group being the eventual loser for guarding one of the four main gates will be granted control of the interior gate called, Reigngate. This gate leads to Blested Keep, official home of the Maioreign. Some in this position of leadership choose not to live in what is for the most part a ruin. The gates are named:

• Highsgate - to/from Walkington & parts south-eastern
• Unfinished Gate - to/from North March & parts north-western
• Treachery Gate - to/from Main Fields & parts southern
• Axegate - to/from axerton & parts north-eastern
• Reigngate - to/from Blested Keep

All gates are crowned by at least two ballistae. These are the responsibility of the guards that earn the right to house themselves at each gate. This includes general upkeep as well as ammunition replenishment, rope oil, timber repair and the like.

Infrastructure

The Nobleman Officiate is responsible for the scaffold-works that are almost outnumber the buildings of the city. Most of them are kept in good repair. Some have been in place so long that most don't remember the building they support without them.

Older sets of scaffolds can be rickety. This is meant to be addressed but the sheer scope of maintaining them, means some are missed. Reporting a scaffold's state of repair can be rewarded but it can result in harsh treatment, depending on who might be responsible for the neglect. The people that erect the scaffolds are called, Riggers. These are expert climbers, users of ropes, beams, posts, saws, hammers, spanners and other tools. Riggers are respected members of the city.

Another group that are well-regraded are the Borers. These people are responsible for the upkeep of the well's that are vital to the city's survival. With no source of freshwater near the city, Marchrise relies on the water drawn from the deep bored wells found throughout the city. Daily collection of water is an important aspect of the city's life. The borers work under the instruction of the Norseer Officiate.

Assets

Much of the city's former grandeur and resources have been plundered or seen to fall into disrepair and rot.

Many objects of real and historically cultural value were removed by thieves. Others came through the city and seeing things they'd want, removed them. There was an industry that formed to remove wall paneling, furniture, statues and other things desired elsewhere. This is no longer as large an enterprise as it was immediately after the construction of the Road to War but there are still limited groups that make a living in exporting architectural features to those looking for certain antiques.

Architecture

The original important citizens, all had military training. They saw the value in having homes that were defensible. Given the limitations of building broadly on the heights, these men and women elected to go upward. The result are the many tall towers of the city. These are square and made of the white clay bricks that are famous for creating the look of the city.

Geography

The harder stone that forms the Marchrise citadel's base, is an anomalous extrusion jutting upward from a plain that is predominantly comprised of heavy clay. This clay is white in colour making it unusual and a popular choice for making items from.

Natural Resources

The region surrounding the city is generally flat. Wooded areas might once have dominated up to the base of the citadel but centuries of logging have seen these woods retreat to the north. The city has managed their resources well. The woods continue to meet most of the city's needs.
The 'Riseclay' found in abundance at the base of the city, is its greatest exported resource. Its white colour has become prized across the world. Any tablewares that can be designed can be made at the potteries in the city.
There is a portion of the plain at the city's base that have proved arable. The fields make the city less susceptible to requiring all its food supplies from elsewhere.

Alternative Name(s)

the Pale City

Type

Citadel

Population

65000

Inhabitant Demonym

Marchers, Arisers

Location under

Marchrise

Included Locations

• Marchrise

Related Reports (Primary)

• A C H: Session 00 -- Organising the Campaign's start/Character provisioning Report