The mogul works quietly in his bank chamber. Gems ordered into baskets sparkle flawlessly on the shelves, bundles of glyphs in gossamer-fine wrappings are stacked untidily on the floor, their magic quietened… for now. Potions, elixirs and flasks, images swirling within their cloudy confines, are arranged row upon row back into the darker reaches of the vault. Vellums and inks too; so many bottles that they get underfoot. Skins, ores, bars, fine cloths of every description and above all gold, chest upon chest overflowing with gold – he breathes peacefully in the quiet vault.
Outside he hears the bustle of the market place and from farther away the clang of the auction-house gong. The deals, the intoxicating draw of commerce – closing his ledger he gets to his feet and walks towards the heavy vault door, anticipating new trades and new markets.
Securing the vault behind him the journeyman mogul is drawn towards opportunity… and gold.
The slow decline of a guild
1 hour ago