Northgate Haven sprawled beneath the looming shadow of the Northern Checkpoint like a festering wound beneath a rusted gauntlet. The town pulsed with a frantic energy, a squalid carnival of vice and vice barely redeemed by necessity—the last ragged frontier before the checkpoint's authority. Through its churned-mud thoroughfare surged a discordant tide of travelers: merchant caravans with oxen straining under smuggled goods, mercenary bands nursing old wounds alongside fresh grudges, and ferret-faced hucksters hawking everything from "guaranteed" love potions to weapons pried from dead men's hands decades prior.
The air itself seemed thick enough to choke on—a miasma of cheap pine-tar ale from the ramshackle breweries, animal fat dripping onto street vendor coals, and the ever-present clammy embrace of moorland fog creeping between leaning timber buildings. Beneath it all lingered the sharper tang of desperation, the metallic whisper of concealed blades, and that peculiar musk of unwashed bodies crammed too long in makeshift lodgings. Every laugh from the alehouses carried a frayed edge; every transaction at the open-air stalls involved hands hovering near hidden weapons.
This was no mere town—it was an ecosystem feeding on the checkpoint's corruption, where guards on the take turned blind eyes for the right coin, where information brokers traded in coded phrases near the public well, where even the stray dogs had learned to assess a newcomer's threat level before begging for scraps. The Northern Checkpoint might dominate the horizon with its grim battlements, but Northgate Haven thrived in the shadows it cast, a festering monument to all that authority could not—or would not—control.
Rhyse observed the chaotic bustle of Northgate Haven with a calculating gaze, acutely aware of how perfectly this lawless sanctuary served his immediate needs. For now, he would let the town's rampant corruption fester—every smuggler's den and black-market alleyway provided critical cover for his own operations. The very lawlessness that made decent merchants avoid this place ensured no inconvenient questions would be asked about a noble heir quietly assembling forces.
His fingers traced the familiar weight of sovereign coins in his pouch as the Synkar Core interface hummed in his peripheral vision. [Estimated Liquid Assets: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Gold Sovereigns] pulsed in steady azure glyphs only he could see. The numbers translated into possibilities—hired blades, information networks, perhaps even subtle infrastructure improvements once they controlled the checkpoint proper.
This cesspool town represented nothing more than temporary scaffolding in his greater architectural vision. Once the Northern Checkpoint stood firmly under Synkar banners, razor-toothed reforms would follow. He envisioned proper guard patrols replacing crooked checkpoint sentries, sanctioned trade routes displacing back-alley deals.
His lips curled as a brawl erupted outside a nearby gambling den. Let them brawl. Soon enough, every fistfight would carry Synkar consequences, every backroom deal would owe Synkar tariffs, and every blade drawn without authorization would answer to Synkar justice. This chaotic ecosystem would either adapt to civilized order or be scraped clean from the checkpoint's shadow. Northgate Haven wouldn't recognize itself in a year's time. Neither would the Dukedom.
Rhyse's party of eight made their way through the crowded streets like a procession of misplaced royalty, drawing sideways glances from every cutthroat and cutpurse lining the muddy thoroughfare. Between Rhyse's too-straight spine, the weight of his fine woolen cloak (mud-spattered but unmistakably noble in weave), and Wyon Ashworth's tendency to glare at any who lingered too long with assessing eyes, they might as well have worn gemstone-studded signets proclaiming their highborn status. The combat-readiness of their entourage didn't help them blend in—Vance's glaive was oiled to a predatory gleam, Flint's knuckles white where they rested near her throwing knives, and Bellweather's swordhand rest on its hilt back like an executioner's promise.
Trailing just behind Linyive strode her own contingent—two muscled veterans in Gentlewell livery, their weathered faces and scarred forearms speaking of a dozen border skirmishes. One carried an axe notched from parrying sword blows, while the other kept a hand near the weighted cudgel at his belt, his gaze methodically dissecting every alleyway shadow. Linyive herself moved with the unshakeable assurance of someone raised amidst merchant caravans and mercenary camps, her boots kicking aside refuse without breaking stride. When a burly scavenger lurched too close from the gutter, it was she who stepped forward first, her voice cutting like a lash: "Try your luck elsewhere, friend." The man recoiled as if scalded, retreating into the anonymity of the crowd.
"The tavern you want is The Broken Glaive," she said, her voice cutting through the din. "It's run by a retired pit fighter named Marga. She breaks bones for unpaid tabs but keeps her establishment neutral ground. If you're looking to hire muscle, this is where you'll find it."
The Broken Glaive lived up to its reputation—rough laughter, clashing tankards, and off-key drinking songs that spilled into the cobbled street before they even pushed through the heavy oak door. Stepping inside was like walking into the belly of some great beast, the air thick with the sour tang of spilled ale, the acrid bite of cheap pipe weed, and the underlying musk of unwashed bodies crammed too close together for too long.
Mercenary companies dominated the central tables, their raucous presence marked by faded banners draped over chairs and the glint of well-used weaponry propped against benches. Some wore remnants of military surcoats, the stitching altered to fit new allegiances, while others sported the eclectic armor pieces of veteran sellswords—pauldrons scavenged from different battlefields, greasesmeared brigandine with obvious repair work, and tabards bearing crests long since rendered meaningless. Their laughter rattled the pewter tankards lining the bar, each booming jest punctuated by another round of drinks bought with freshly earned silver.
In the shadowed alcoves between flickering lanterns, solitary figures huddled over half-empty mugs—exiled duelists turned bounty hunters, down-on-their-luck mage hunters nursing anti-magic collars at their belts, scouts with telltale wilderness pallor who kept fingers resting on throwing knives as insurance against the room's shifting tides.
Near the shattered remnants of what had once been an actual broken glaive mounted above the hearth, a cluster of Synkar checkpoint guards in their distinctive blue-and-silver livery held court, their voices deliberately loud as they recounted exaggerated tales of shaking down merchants. The other patrons gave them a wide berth, not out of respect, but the wary distance afforded to venomous creatures—recognizing the uniform's authority while silently calculating how quickly those same smug faces might bruise under a barstool's impact if coin were involved.
"Stay sharp," Vance murmured, his hand never far from his glaive.
Linyive guided them to a relatively clean table with a good view of the room. "The large group by the hearth," she gestured subtly with her chin, "That's 'Grak's Iron Hounds.' Mostly ex-military. Disciplined, for mercenaries. But they fight for the highest bidder, and only the highest bidder."
Rhyse followed her gaze. A massive half-orc with a braided beard, presumably Grak, was laughing loudly, his arm wrestling a brawny human across a table littered with empty tankards. His men looked tough and professional.
"And the woman in the corner," Linyive added, "the one with the twin daggers. They call her 'Whisperwind' Esabel. A Rank 3 Rogue. Fast as a viper, but takes contracts based on whims as much as coin."
System, activate Sensory Enhancement Suite.
Glass-smoothed clarity settled over Rhyse's senses as the Synkar Core System processed his purchase. A subtle vibration hummed through his temples—not unpleasant, like the first sip of perfectly chilled wine—as the 1,200 Gold Sovereigns vanished from his accessible assets. The System's confirmation appeared in his periphery:
[Sensory Enhancement Suite (Rank 1) Activated: Duration - 2 Hours. Auditory/Visual/Tactile Acuity +35%].
The tavern's clamor unraveled before him like a complex musical score—each drunken bellow, clinking tankard, and scuffing boot now distinct threads in the tapestry. To his left, the Synkar checkpoint guards nursed ale-stained grudges; "...Marek's got us inspecting every damn cargo manifest now," one grumbled, knuckles whitening around his mug. Three tables away, Grak's mercenaries dissected a failed caravan escort—"...would've taken that eastern ridge route, Sarge. Damn client insisted on the valley ambush zone..."—their professional critique undercut by belches.
His enhanced vision caught flickers of movement in the periphery: fingers tapping hidden blade pommels, narrowed eyes tracking his party's positioning. When Esabel shifted in the corner, he didn't just see a glint of steel—he heard the whisper of dagger leather brushing against thigh, counted the precise half-second delay before her gaze recalculated the tavern's exit vectors.
Most dangerously, he felt the weighted pressure of dozens of gazes like physical touches—the predatory patience of Grak's warhound stare, the checkpoint guards' lazy contempt, Esabel's detached evaluation. Each look carried its own price tag, its own unspoken contract. The enhancement even revealed subtler details—Grak's left thumb worrying at a chipped tusk (nervous tell), the slight tremor in the youngest Iron Hound's ale-holding hand (withdrawal symptoms suggesting recent battle injuries).
Rhyse exhaled slowly, the sensory overload stabilizing into strategic insight. Every scrap of overheard conversation, every microexpression, every shifting stance became datapoints for the System to process. The tavern wasn't just dangerous—it was a living ledger of debts and opportunities, and he'd just purchased the finest quill with which to write his terms.
This was no place for subtlety. He had a five-day limit.
"Wyon, Lady Linyive," Rhyse said, his voice low but firm. "Remember. We present ourselves as a newly formed scholarly consortium, 'The Golden Group.' Our purpose is to investigate the ley-lines ion the Krellian Deeps. That requires dealing with the 'bandits' who on the North." He met their eyes. "We are not hiring guards. We are raising a small, temporary army for a single, decisive strike."
He then focused his intent on the most promising group. System, Rapid Assessment on Grak.
[Activating Skill: Rapid Assessment (Personnel - Rank 1). Target: Grak. Cost: 400 Gold Sovereigns.]
[Assessment Complete: Target - Grak. Rank 3 Berserker. Attributes: Strength (Exceptional), Combat Skill (High - Unrefined), Leadership (Moderate). Integrity: Low (Mercenary Standard). Motivation: Profit, Reputation. Weakness: Pride, susceptible to bold offers that enhance his reputation.]
Perfect. A man motivated by gold and glory. Rhyse stood, his Basic Leadership Aura a quiet, steadying presence around him. He walked directly towards the Iron Hounds' table, his own small but formidable retinue following a few paces behind.
The laughter at the table died down as they approached. The half-orc Grak looked up, a single scarred eyebrow raised in challenge. "Well now. The little lordlings have wandered far from home. Lost?"
"Not lost," Rhyse said, his voice clear and carrying over the tavern's din. "We're looking for professionals. We were told the Iron Hounds were the best sellswords this side of the Krellian Deeps."
Grak's chest puffed out slightly at the compliment. "The best cost, boy. What does a lordling want with swords like ours?"
"I am Master Elian. Our scholarly consortium, 'The Golden Group,' intends to invesstigate the ley-lines north right away," Rhyse stated, projecting confidence he didn't entirely feel. "But we have a problem. There's aways well-armed, well-fortified group of bandits operating out there who have been plaguing this road. Their 'leader' extorts legitimate travelers."
A few of the off-duty checkpoint guards at a nearby table suddenly found their drinks very interesting, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
"I need you to bolster our numbers and facilitate a negotiation," Rhyse continued, his gaze locking with Grak's. "If things go south, we will fight. If I change my mind and lead you somewhere else, I want you to follow my orders no questions asked."
Grak let out a loud laugh. The way the boy put things it almost seemed he had a problem with the Synkar Checkpoint, "No questions asked, uh? You're either mad or incredibly wealthy, boy."
"Perhaps both," Rhyse replied coolly. He signaled to Vance, who stepped forward and undid the ties on a heavy leather sack. With a thunderous clang, Vance upended it onto the table. A river of gold sovereigns cascaded across the rough wood, shining like a miniature sun in the tavern's gloom. At least five hundred coins. Gasps rippled through the room.
"That is your retainer," Rhyse said plainly. "Double upon successful completion of the objective. An additional five hundred for you, Captain, for your leadership. What say you, Captain Grak?"
The entire tavern had gone silent. The offer was staggering. It wasn't just generous; it was outrageously so. Grak stared at the pile of gold, then at Rhyse's unwavering, serious face, then at the powerful Vanguard standing behind him. This wasn't some naive merchant's boy; this was serious business.
"Fifty of my best," Grak finally growled, a wide, toothy grin spreading across his face. "For that price, lad, the Iron Hounds would march into the Abyss for you. You have a deal."
As hands were shaken, a figure detached from a shadowed corner and approached their table. It was the woman Linyive had pointed out, 'Whisperwind' Esabel. She was lean, with sharp eyes that seemed to see right through Rhyse's carefully constructed facade.
"Your offer is loud, 'Master Elian'," she said, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge. "But your target is just. The curs at that gate impounded a relic I was transporting for a client last month. I have a personal score to settle."
She looked at the gold on the table, then back at Rhyse, and whispered. "I am a Rank 3 Rogue. I don't need your gold, but I will lend my blades to your cause if you guarantee me first pick of any 'confiscated' goods recovered from the checkpoint's corrupt officers."
Rhyse assessed her. She clearly saw that their target was the Synkar Checkpoint. A Rank 3 Rogue specializing in infiltration could be invaluable for find evidence. It was a bargain. "Your terms are acceptable, Mistress Esabel. Welcome to the Polaris Group."
At that moment, as the alliances were forged in the dim light of the tavern, the System chimed triumphantly in Rhyse's mind.
[System Task Completed: Recruit Temporary Mercenary/Adventurer Support (Northgate Haven)]
[Rewards Dispensed: Temporary Manpower Acquired: Mercenary Band "The Iron Hounds" (50 Members, Rank 1-2), Mercenary Leader "Grak" (Rank 3 Berserker), Independent Ally "Whisperwind Esabel" (Rank 3 Rogue). [Reduced Risk to Core Team: Confirmed]
[Passive Skill: Basic Leadership Aura (Rank 0) -> Upgraded to -> Passive Skill: Leadership Aura (Rank 1) - Effect enhanced, range of influence increased.]
[New Skill Acquired: Summon Basic Combat Golem (Rank 2)]
The warmth that spread from his Synkar Core was more potent this time. His Leadership Aura felt stronger, a more tangible sense of presence settling over him. And a new summon – a Rank 2 Golem! A significant upgrade from his fragile Rank 1 bodyguard. The System had rewarded his bold expenditure and successful recruitment with a major power-up.
He had his temporary army. He had new, powerful allies. He had the backing of two noble houses, however limited their direct forces.
Grak, the half-orc captain, clapped a heavy hand on Rhyse's shoulder, making him stumble slightly. "Alright, Lordling Scholar. You bought our swords. What's the plan now?"
Rhyse looked at Wyon, then at the pragmatic Linyive, at the loyal Vance, Flint, and Bellweather, at the greedy but capable Grak, and the vengeful Esabel. The pieces were all assembling.
"Now, we will arrest some thieves," Rhyse said, a genuine, confident smile touching his lips for the first time. "And if they resist, we'll teach them a lesson ."