The Air and Scour

 From the subterranean vault of cold basalt and dwarven steel, the senior goblin clerk escorted the Vanguard up a private spiral staircase, away from the main counting hall and into the highest sanctuaries of the Southern Merchant Bank.

They were ushered into a private parlour reserved exclusively for Sovereign-tier clientele - a sprawling, luxuriously appointed suite that felt entirely detached from the bustling commerce of the city below.

The walls were panelled in deep, polished mahogany that reflected the warm, golden glow of a quiet hearth fire. High, arched windows lined with heavy velvet drapes offered a commanding view of the Middle Ring’s sweeping limestone towers. In the centre of the room, arranged around a low table of carved dark walnut, were deep, plush armchairs upholstered in supple, full-grain brown leather.

After weeks of sleeping on limestone shelves, frozen mud, and barn hay, the sheer comfort of the room was striking.

Dashiel sank into a leather armchair, letting out a long, contented sigh as his small boots dangled inches off the floor. His brass goggles rested loosely on his forehead, his grease-stained hands relaxing on the padded armrests, stubby fingers drumming the leather. Beside him, Shierra unslung her deadwood staff, resting the wrapped Antithesis focus against the mahogany wall before easing into a seat, taking in the room’s quiet elegance, despite being decorated in deadwood. Morohtar, ever vigilant, chose a leather seat near the shadow of the curtained window, his silver eyes lazily watching the avenue below while Reis sat upright, his massive frame comfortably accommodated by the heavy leather armchair.

The brass double doors clicked open, admitting a young goblin servant girl dressed in a neat, starched linen uniform. Carefully, she carried a heavy silver tray bearing an exquisite set of bone-white porcelain cups, matching saucers, and a steaming porcelain teapot.

As the servant girl approached the walnut table and reached for the teapot to begin the pour, Lady Hannah Vaelen offered a gentle, reassuring smile.

"It's okay, dear," Hannah spoke softly, her high-born cadence warm and clear in the quiet room. "Let me have the honour of serving my companions."

The servant girl blinked in surprise, then bowed low, setting the silver tray down on the walnut table before stepping back respectfully, shutting the door close as she departed.

Hannah unfastened the silver clasp of her charcoal traveling cloak, letting it drape over the back of her leather chair. Her white linen shirt allowed her a fluid, unencumbered grace as she reached for the teapot.

She lifted the silver-trimmed porcelain lid, letting a plume of fragrant steam rise into the air. Instantly, the parlour was filled with the aroma of a delicate bouquet carrying distinct notes of dried apricot and toasted wood.

"Golden-leaf sun tea," Hannah explained softly, her dark eyes lighting up with a rare, relaxed warmth as she skilfully poured the amber liquid into the porcelain cups. "Imported. Harvested exclusively from the terraced valleys of the southern rim. Before we departed Nadaran, I used to enjoy a cup every evening in my quarters at the High Spire."

She handed the first cup and saucer to Reis, who gingerly accepted the delicate porcelain with his large, calloused hand, holding the saucer with practiced, steady decorum.

"Thank you, My Lady," Reis rumbled, taking a slow, appreciative sip of the steaming brew.

Hannah passed a second cup to Shierra. The half-elf cradled the warm cup, breathing in the sweet scent of apricot before taking a sip.

"It smells like sunshine," Shierra admitted, a genuine, soft smile gracing her features as the warmth settled in her chest. "A world away from the soot of Fieri."

"And miles ahead of burnt oats," Dashiel chuckled, blowing gently on his cup before taking a long, unreserved gulp. He let out a smack of his lips, adjusting his spectacles. "By the Cogs, Lady Hannah, if this is what the high mages drink while plotting coups, at least they have good taste in leaves!"

Even Morohtar accepted a cup from Hannah with a subtle, wordless nod of respect, taking a slow sip near the window, the rich amber tea a rare luxury for a rogue who usually inhabited the damp alleys of the Undercity.

As the Vanguard enjoyed the warmth of the hearth and the exquisite tea, with a knock, the brass doors opened once more.

The senior goblin clerk stepped into the parlour, carrying a heavy, velvet-lined leather folio under his arm. He bowed so low his long, pointed nose nearly touched his polished shoes, the earlier arrogance completely gone, replaced by absolute, obsequious devotion to their nameless, Sovereign-tier patron. A junior associate stepped inside, bowed to the party, but stayed by the door.

"M’lord," the clerk squeaked respectfully, stepping up to the walnut table with the folio. "The transactional account has been formally opened and credited with your Capital Gold deposit.”

The senior goblin clerk dipped his gold-nibbed quill into a crystal well of fresh iron-gall ink. He smoothed the thick, gold-leaf parchment of the new current account ledger across the dark walnut table, looking up at the big knight with an eager, grovelling smile.

"The account is ready, Sir," the clerk squeaked, hovering his quill above the header line. "I just need a name to pen it in. May I have the honour of penning your good name on the title of this ledger?"

Reis set his delicate porcelain cup down on its saucer with a soft, resonant click. He looked at the goblin clerk for a long, quiet second, his dark eyes unreadable beneath his scarred brow.

Across the parlour, Shierra and Lady Hannah held their breath, while Dashiel paused his tea.

"Anvil," Reis rumbled, his gravelly bass cutting clean through the quiet room. "Put the name Lord Anvil."

The goblin clerk blinked, his beady eyes shifting to the giant knight's face. For a brief moment, the clerk searched his vast mental registry for an aristocratic family bearing such a title within the high rings, finding only blank air. But looking at the massive frame, the dark border-mud on the boots, and the sovereign stack of pure gold resting on the tray, the clerk wisely asked no questions.

"Very well, m’lord Anvil," the clerk murmured respectfully. With a swift, elegant flourish of his quill, he inked the cursive letters across the parchment header:

Lord Anvil

Reis leaned back into his full-grain leather chair, the taut leather creaking under his broad shoulders.

"I am interested in purchasing property within the Middle Ring. Tell me which estates are currently available."

The goblin’s pointed ears twitched violently upward. His beady eyes lit up with a sudden, fiery brilliance as his sharp mind instantly calculated the staggering percentage of his personal real estate commission on a Middle Ring transaction. He scrambled to his briefcase, fished for the document and brought it to the table. He unrolled a velvet-backed property vellum roll across the walnut table, his clawed fingers trembling with excitement.

"Ah, an imperial acquisition!" the clerk gushed, his voice pitched an octave higher. "A most magnificent choice, Lord Anvil! The City Registry currently holds several extraordinary titles in probate, each fitting for a discerning patron! Allow me to highlight the crown jewels of our listings!"

The clerk tapped the first architectural schematic drawn on the vellum roll.

"First, we have the High Spire Crest Manor," the goblin proclaimed enthusiastically. "It is, without doubt, the most luxurious estate in the entire Middle Ring! Built from pristine white marble, expensively furnished, it commands the absolute highest elevation in the sector, offering a breathtaking, unobstructed panoramic view of the White City's sweeping outer plains! Truly a palace among the clouds!"

He quickly slid his clawed finger down to the second listing.

"Second, for the patron who appreciates the natural majesty of the heavens, we have Solarium Heights! Situated upon a sweeping eastern ridge, its grand colonnades and glass arcades are uniquely positioned to capture both the golden brilliance of the morning sunrise and the deep amber glow of the evening sunset across its private marble porticos! Magnificent light, all day long!"

The clerk’s grin widened, revealing a row of sharp, needle-like teeth as he tapped the third map.

"And third, m’lord, the grandest of them all, the Pavilion Estate! It boasts the single largest private manicured garden in the entire district! Acres of velvet lawns, white rose arbours, and sprawling stone pavilions specifically designed to host hundreds of noble guests for high-society banquets and imperial galas! A stage worthy of an emperor!"

Reis listened patiently, his hands folded over his lap, completely unmoved by the clerk's grand flourishes.

"Is the property of the late Baron Lucian still available?" Reis interrupted quietly.

The goblin clerk's theatrical pitch cut out instantly. He froze, his quill hovering mid-air, a look of profound, bewildered confusion pinching his long, leathery features.

Internally, the clerk's mind frantically tried to make sense of the request. Why would a client possessing a sovereign-tier fortune - a lord who could comfortably buy the most breathtaking, sun-lit, high-spire palace in the capital - be interested in a quiet, unpretentious estate tucked away in the shadows?

The clerk cleared his throat nervously, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"My Lord Anvil..if memory serves, it is indeed still available," the clerk stammered, pointing a clawed finger toward a modest, unadorned square marked at the very edge of the registry map. "However..it lies at the furthest, most secluded boundary of the Middle Ring. It is quite isolated, and its grounds are modest - meagre, even - compared to the grand manors I have just presented. It lacks the grand pavilions, and it carries no high view of the plains. Perhaps if I could interest you further in Solarium Heights or–"

"I want to purchase the Baron's manor," Reis cut him short, his gravelly bass dropping like a falling iron anvil that rattled the porcelain cups on the table. "Done. Right now."

* * * *

The senior goblin clerk swallowed hard, his clawed fingers quickly dipping his gold-nibbed quill to mark the finalized deed with the official seal of the City Registry. The real estate commission alone was staggering but looking at the stone-faced giant sitting across the walnut table, he dared not delay.

Reis leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against the leather arms of his chair.

"How soon can I move in?" Reis asked, his gravelly bass low and measured. "Indulge me in the process of the acquisition, for I have been on the road for quite some time."

The goblin quickly capped his inkwell and smoothed his velvet coat, eager to demonstrate the absolute efficiency of the bank's property services.

"A most practical query, My Lord Anvil," the clerk squeaked, adjusting his spectacles. "Because the late Baron Lucian passed without wedlock or heirs, the estate was placed directly into neutral probate under our caretaking protocol. The late Baron left the manor and all its contents entirely intact."

The clerk raised a long, clawed finger to detail the preservation process.

"Upon his passing, our appointed caretaking team executed the standard preservation protocols," the goblin explained. "Every piece of fine wood furniture, the carved oak tables, and leather chairs were draped in heavy, unbleached linen dustsheets to shield them from moisture and light. The chimneys were capped, the window shutters pinned shut to prevent sun-fading on the tapestries, and all pewter-ware, silver trenchers, and brass lamps were polished, wrapped in oiled felt, and locked inside special protective cedar boxes in the pantry."

The goblin paused, leaning back slightly with a professional, measured expression.

"To make such a property liveable after sitting in shadow, the manor must undergo what we in the trade call ‘The Air and Scour’," the clerk continued. "A crew must throw open every shutter, light fires in every hearth to drive out the stale humidity, strip and wash the linen covers, scrub the stone floors with vinegar and lavender, beat the rugs in the courtyard, and trim the overgrowth in the garden. Under normal circumstances, a standard team of four or five domestic workers would require roughly seven to ten days to make the estate fully ready for a lord's household."

Reis listened in quiet contemplation. Seven to ten days was a luxury the Vanguard did not possess. Magister Kathor’s assassins were already recalculating their failed ambush in the Chalk Hills. Every day spent lingering in public inns or open streets increased the risk of discovery before they could present the stolen transit manifest to Lord-Paladin Brennen.

Reis reached into the heavy leather utility pouch at his waist.

He selected a single coin from his supply - a smaller denomination of the old Capital Gold. Though smaller in size, it was struck from the same ancient gold - thick and gleaming with an absolute yellow purity that modern imperial mints could not match.

Reis leaned across the dark walnut table. He took the goblin's clawed hand and pressed the heavy gold coin directly into the clerk's palm, folding the goblin’s thin fingers securely over the metal.

The goblin’s beady eyes went wide. He felt the staggering weight and pure, unblemished warmth of the ancient gold pressing against his skin - a personal payment worth more than three months of his wages at the countinghouse.

Reis looked down into the clerk’s startled face, his dark eyes firm, calm, and absolute.

"My good man," Reis rumbled, his gravelly voice carrying the usual gentlemanly authority. "Can I entrust you to personally oversee the process of getting the manor ready to be moved in? Can it be done in two days?"

The goblin clerk stared at the gold in his palm, then up at the Field Marshal. The sheer purchasing power of the token dissolved every bureaucratic obstacle in his mind.

"Two days.." the clerk whispered, his throat working as he swallowed hard. Then, a sharp, fiercely energetic grin spread across his leathery face, revealing his pointed teeth. "My Lord Anvil..for a patron of such magnificent discernment and generosity, it shall not merely be done - it shall be a masterclass in domestic haste!"

The clerk stood up from his high stool, bowing so low his nose now nearly touched the walnut table.

"I shall personally contract the Guild of Domestics and the Gardener's Charter before the hour is out!" the goblin promised excitedly, clutching the gold coin tightly to his chest. "I will deploy thirty workers in double shifts through the night! They shall scour the walls, beat the tapestries, trim every vine, and stoke every hearth! In forty-eight hours, My Lord, you shall turn the iron key in the gate and step into a home fit for the High Crown itself!"

Reis leaned back into the supple leather of his armchair, with a look of calm, stoic satisfaction.

"Wonderful," Reis rumbled, his gravelly bass carrying the quiet weight of a commander whose logistics were finally aligning.

He picked up his porcelain cup, finishing the last amber drop of the expensive southern sun tea before placing the saucer back onto the dark walnut table. Seeing their commander finish, the rest of the Vanguard - Shierra, Dashiel, Morohtar, and Lady Hannah - quickly finished their own tea, watching the high-tier transaction unfold in quiet awe.

"While your teams execute the scour, I shall also require a liquid withdrawal from my new transactional account," Reis instructed, gesturing to the gold-leaf ledger. "In addition to a sealed packet of the bank’s official Promissory Notes, I require five separate purses - each containing exactly one hundred Capital Silvers."

The senior goblin clerk’s ears twitched with absolute delight. Dividing a large sum into five distinct, manageable pouches was a brilliant, practical arrangement for a travel party - far lighter, far more discrete, and far easier to distribute than a single, dangerously heavy iron chest or a massive five-hundred-coin sack that would drag at a man's belt.

"A brilliant, highly sophisticated arrangement, M’lord Anvil!" the clerk squeaked, dipping his quill to record the withdrawal. "Five purses of one hundred minted Capital Silvers each! Light to carry, effortless to distribute among your retinue, and far less conspicuous on the streets! Along with three sealed books of Bank Promissory Notes in increments of fifty and one hundred Silver marks! Recognized and accepted just about everywhere in the Realm, backed by the Bank’s official seal!"

Reis inclined his head in a single, stoic nod.

"Furthermore," Reis continued, his dark eyes locking onto the clerk, "I require your assistance with immediate accommodations. Point me toward one of the finest, most secure establishments in the Middle Ring, and make reservations for two nights while we await the manor’s preparation."

He gestured around the leather armchairs at his four companions.

"There are five of us in total," Reis specified, his voice leaving no room for compromise. "I require secure, private rooms for my party, with all services rendered - hot baths, private dining in our suite, and the finest care in their private stables for our mounts. All expenses billed directly to Lord Anvil’s account."

The goblin clerk practically radiated joy. He snapped his clawed fingers, and the junior clerk waiting near the mahogany door instantly scurried forward with a silver tray and a directory of the city's premier hospitality guild.

"For a patron of your absolute distinction, good Sir, there is only one choice," the senior clerk proclaimed, pointing a clawed finger at an embossed golden emblem in the directory.

"The Royal Arch Sanctuary. It sits a mere three avenues from here in the high administrative quarter. Built from the same white limestone as White Keep, it caters exclusively to visiting provincial dignitaries, High Spire diplomats, and foreign ambassadors. Its perimeter is patrolled by private, oath-bound guards, and its master stables feature heated floors and imported alpine hay. Experienced hands"

From his briefcase, the clerk took a heavy brass stamp, and a wax seal heating set. He lit the little candle, and while the wax was melting, he quickly drafted a formal, Bank Voucher of Accommodations.

"I shall dispatch a swift runner immediately to secure the entire upper terrace suite!" the clerk squeaked excitedly, pressing the bank's heavy brass seal stamp into hot crimson wax at the bottom of the parchment. "Your rooms will be fully garrisoned, the hearths lit, five copper bathtubs filled with boiling lavender water, and a private six-course evening feast prepared by their master cook before you even cross their threshold! The Royal Arch Sanctuary shall bill everything directly to the Southern Merchant Bank under the title of Lord Anvil!" The goblin gathered the documents and took the papers with him as he rose from the table.

“If you would excuse me, m’lord,”

Reis nodded with a faint smile. With a curt bow, the clerk and his associate left the parlour.

Across the table, Dashiel set his empty teacup down, his brass goggles clicking as he looked at Shierra with a wide, bright grin.

"Boiling lavender water and a six-course feast, Shierra," the gnome chuckled, rubbing his grease-stained hands together. "I do believe our Lord Anvil here has elevated the art of the 'tactical detour' to an absolute science."

Shierra smiled softly, adjusting her charcoal cloak over her shoulders.

"After the mud, and the Chalk Hills, Dash, I think we’ve earned two days of hot water..if not more"

The senior clerk returned moments later, his associate holding a silver tray carrying five supple deerskin purses, each heavy with the quiet, clinking weight of one hundred pure Capital Silvers. Also on the tray was a velvet-lined case containing three books of crisp, parchment Promissory Notes, each stamped with the bank's official seal.

He laid the purses, the notes, and the accommodation vouchers onto the table, bowing until his long, pointed nose nearly touched the walnut grains.

Before the clerk could rise, Reis leaned forward across the dark wood.

The Field Marshal’s stoic expression hardened into a posture of grim resolve. His dark eyes narrowed, piercing straight into the goblin's soul with a cold, terrifying intensity that froze the clerk mid-bow. The air in the private parlour grew instantly heavy, the quiet warmth of the hearth fire suddenly feeling distant.

"My final requirement, clerk.." Reis rumbled, his gravelly bass dropping into a flat, heavy tone that made the goblin's long ears droop in sudden, instinctual fear. "...is that every single transaction that occurred within these walls today remains kept under the uttermost discretion."

Reis let the silence stretch for three heavy seconds, his gaze holding the goblin in an iron grip.

"Not a word of the name Lord Anvil," Reis added, his voice like grinding stone. "Not a word of the Elum Key, the new account, or the acquisition of the Baron Lucian’s estate. Else, I will personally hold this desk accountable."

The goblin clerk went completely pale, his wire-rimmed spectacles trembling on his nose. He pressed his clawed hands flat against his chest, bowing so low this time his forehead struck the walnut table.

"M’lord!" the goblin choked out, his voice a terrified, obsequious whisper. "By the Primal Charter of the First Age and the Sovereign Oath of the Southern Merchant Bank, your secrecy is as absolute as the vaults beneath our feet! On my life, on my blood, and on the honour of my thirteen children - no soul outside this room shall ever hear a breath of what transpired today!"

Satisfied by the absolute terror and binding oath of the clerk, Reis let the cold tension dissolve from his frame.

He reached out, gathering the five deerskin purses and the case of Promissory Notes, and stood up. His towering, iron-clad frame dominated the luxurious parlour as he handed four of the purses directly to his companions - one each to Lady Hannah, Shierra, Dashiel, and Morohtar - and buckled his own to his belt beside the arming sword.

"Let us go," the Field Marshal rumbled, his voice firm, calm, and absolute. "We rest for forty-eight hours in the Sanctuary. Then, we take the keys to our home."