To: Warlord Grumbold
Royal Foot Guards
Noble Grumbold,
May I please seek your wise advice? As you may have heard I recently came into the possession of a considerable amount of coin, courtesy of the Lunar Empire and I now have the hefty sum of 2300+ lunars stashed away here in a secure chest within my campaign tent. Overjoyed that I am to be the owner of such a fortune - by the Gods, we Dungshuvlers have barely ever had more than a few lunars to scratch our ars*s with and I never knew such wealth existed - this has brought it's own dilemma in the form of another one of those letters from the one-legged self professed King, Broar Hofarson. Allow me to divulge the contents to you -
"My Dearest Friend and protégé, Torben
I hear you've conducted yourself well during the current Campaign against the Lunars, got yourself in Battle Songs, led your troops to glory AND amassed a most handsome amount of monies, very impressive dear fellow, very impressive.
Now, as it so happens, this couldn't have come about for you at a better time because I've only this very week come into contact with a tribe of Aldryami who have taken me in to their trust after all the expert medical help I have provided to them, saved the wife of the Chief Elf and all that business. So happy with my medical administrations were they that they've only gone and said I can be party to their 'secret money tree', yes, you read that right.....a money tree!!
Apparently what happens is they allow people that they trust to plant a bag of money in this special soil, add a magical bean to the contents of the bag, get an Elf priest to say a few spells over it and, within the space of just one or two seasons, a tree grows with money instead of fruits!! How great is that eh!! You literally get handfuls of lunars rather than a load of, say, apples PLUS, and this is the best bit, the more money you initially plant the more fruits aka lunars you get as a yield.
No-one else knows about this except for me and the Aldryami but, what with our special connection and the fact that I feel you're like a brother to me, I'm prepared to cut you in on this because I'm that kind of fellow. There is just one slight drawback at the moment, I would have planted a tree for you myself but my funds are presently tied-up with a Mostali Diamond Mine venture and I can't use the funds for another few seasons BUT what with you having that fat pile of cash available now if you were to send it to me I can arrange things with the Chief Priest here and we can have a tree in the ground for you as soon as the monies arrive.
Looking forward to helping a dear friend out and all the best for the remaining campaign season, maybe you will get more loot and we can plant more trees? Actually I also have another nice little earner, if you fancy spreading your cash, that involves a tribe of Morokanth and we can discuss that when your next haul comes in.
All the best to you.
Your friend and mentor,
Broar Hofarson
Assistant Rune Lord of Chalana Arroy
Former King and Diety"
So, Grumbold what do you reckon, should I reply?
May Orlanth bless you,
Torben Dungshuvler
Hundred-Thane Free Philosophers Regt
Grumbold, I've had another one of those letters!
Grumbold, I've had another one of those letters!
Torben Dungshuvler
Hundred-Thane, Free Philosophers Regt
Initiate of Orlanth / Lay Member of Lhankor Mhy
An unfortunate pawn in the hands of the Gods
Hundred-Thane, Free Philosophers Regt
Initiate of Orlanth / Lay Member of Lhankor Mhy
An unfortunate pawn in the hands of the Gods
-
grumbold99
- Posts: 216
- Joined: Fri May 19, 2023 11:07 pm
Re: Grumbold, I've had another one of those letters!
My dear Torben,
Congratulations on your first successful military action, and to come out of it with so much of value from raiding Lunar lines has surely put a noticable dent in their campaign as well as enriching yourself handsomely. I hope to hear more tales of your military exploits as the summer continues.
My first bit of advice would be to learn from the failings of your correspondent and pay off any debts you owe. From my perspective, the slippery slope that led to his departure from Boldhome all began with accumulating debts that he could not repay. It was only as the debts rose and the deadline drew closer that he began concocting ever-more bizarre schemes to enrich himself.
After that, perhaps invest in a modest property? There are many fine houses for sale in Boldhome at the moment. And indeed many fine companions in need of a good wooing. I expect you will find some amenable to your approaches, especially now that you can show yourself a man of some means.
After all that, well, hmm. Investing a sum you can afford is, in principle, a good idea. Sadly, there are many rakes, charlatans, mountebanks and rogues out there who look upon the moneyed as marks to be fleeced. I've not heard of this particular tribe of Aldryami, but it does put me in mind of a tale of caution I learned from great-uncle Festus when I was a child.
He sat me on his knee and spun a marvellous tale about the silver-leaved shrubs of Mubh. The village of Mubh was well maintained and the villagers surprisingly well dressed, their homes richly furnished. None of them bore the customary signs of enduring hard labours in fields or mines to maintain their prosperity. They were very secretive about the small mountain vale that the village protected the only access to, but on occasion a wealthy traveller might ply them with gifts and be let into the secret after swearing great oaths to the gods not to speak of it to anyone. They would blindfold the visitor and lead them by a bewildering path to a small glade, where oh! the splendour! a row of shrubs stood, gleaming silver in the sunshine as the younger and more attractive villagers, dressed in fine silks, strolled among them singing gently, sprinkling a little mountain spring water from finely wrought salvers and occasionally, after much attention, plucking a full grown silver leaf or two and laying them in a basket. They would explain to the newcomer how each shrub had to be carefully tended and responded only to beauty and loving care. All things ugly or upsetting would ruin the crop, so every harvest had to follow the ritual precisely or the bush would wither and take years to bloom once more. Yet, with care and love, they furnished such wealth that no villager need exert themselves and could retire at thirty, lest any sign of wrinkles, sun spots or other aches, pains and blemishes that come with age offend the sensitive silver shrubs. They would lay a single delicate silver leaf upon the palm of the visitor, to take away as a memento.
Naturally, on returning blindfold to the village, the visitor would be overwhelmed with avarice. How could they persuade the villagers to let them have a bush of their own? A seedling? Or perhaps just a cutting? The elders would hum and haw, the women's conclave would huddle, frown and throw sceptical looks. Finally, they would tell the visitor that it had been tried before and no attempt to transplant the bushes elsewhere had succeeded. Their emotional state was so fragile that being torn away from their kin and journeying to a land with unfamiliar soil and different sunlight inevitably led to them withering away. Yet, it was possible - only possible, mind - that as a great favour to their new found friend, they could manage to tend another shrub or two. It would be a risk, of course. The villagers would have to work a little harder, a little longer, to manage it. The sensitive shrubs might struggle to thrive should any strain taint the atmosphere. But perhaps, perhaps.
Naturally, the merchant would be drawn in. How could they perusade the villagers to do this for them? After much haggling, with long intervals in between bouts lest the unseemly emotions taint the atmosphere, a sum of money would be agreed. Let us say it was ten thousand lunars. The visitor was led back (blindfolded) to the glade to witness the ritual of unsurpassed grace and beauty that took place as the young maidens of unsullied purity planted two new seedlings in the grove and sung to them for hours. Months would pass and the village would write informing them of every little progress. A few inches of new height. An unfurling leaf bud. A most successful singing session where the shrubs could be seen to quiver in delight and the first hint of silveriness be seen on the emerging leaves. At last, after a year, the first, small silver leaf would be presented to the eager recipient, with the promise of many more to come, but not to expect too much until the shrubs reached their fullest growth.
Over time, the investment would seem to be paying off. Over three years, a yield of five hundred, a thousand and finally fifteen hundred lunars of purest silver would have been recouped. The guest, driven by ever increasing avarice at the thought of limitless wealth, would press for more bushes to be planted. Could the village not manage another two bushes? Four? Six? Handsome young children could be found elsewhere in need of good homes if it would help? Always the elders would warn of the risks, advise them to think again, but ultimately concede to tending more bushes for more investment money, though not the offer of outside help. But some years later, disaster! The trembling outsider would be led by distraught villagers to the grove where every bush lay wilted, blighted and dying, with the worst effects radiating from their bushes and only the original bushes furthest from them showing signs of any vigour. Everyone would be ushered away with haste, lest their sorrow further damage the remaining plants.
The experiment was over. The villagers would now be struck with poverty due to their reckless actions trying to do favours for the visitor. None of the villagers that had seen the grove in its time of beauty could go back again, for they could hardly sing with gladness in their hearts when looking upon the wreckage that remained. They would have to train their youngest carefully at a distance, then perhaps in a year they would be able to look upon the grove calmly, having never seen it at it's best, and begin the process again, bush by bush. But it would be a generation before they regained what they all had lost. They would have to sell their possessions and learn to work in other ways to maintain themselves through the lean times to come. The visitor must go! No good could come of them staying here any longer!
With the visitor departed, the villagers would gather and toast their success. Another outlander fleeced, with only sixteen thousand lunars of silver recouped from their final investment of forty thousand. And only two months left before they expected their annual visit from the next mark and could extract more investment from him. That gave ample time for the skilled silversmiths to craft the requisite number of leaves for the annual "harvest" while the rest idly tended the several groves scattered in the mountain vale. There would be plenty of time for feasting and relaxing in the sunshine, too.
Well, now. I seem to have rambled on quite long enough , but I do so enjoy recalling that story from my late grand-uncle. Truth or cautionary tale? I am no longer sure. Yet I do suspect that anyone drawn in enough to search for such a legendary village where money grows on trees is just the sort of person to be persuaded to "invest" when they arrive. The elders will only be too keen to inform them that stories of it being a scam are surely just told by the successful investors (sadly breaking their oaths, but what can you expect of greedy men?) to keep the secret of their success out of the clutches of potential rivals.
Write to Broar if you wish. Personally, I would save yourself the courier costs and buy something more useful with it, like a modest plant in a pot of rich earth to adorn your campaign tent. It may not grow a money harvest, but it is unlikely to tempt you with tales of get-rich schemes and will be a pertinent reminder of the way you have left the family profession behind and begun to flourish.
MAy Orlanth strengthen your sword arm and Issaries bring you further prosperity,
Grumbold Rahlefson,
Warlord, Royal Foot Guards
Congratulations on your first successful military action, and to come out of it with so much of value from raiding Lunar lines has surely put a noticable dent in their campaign as well as enriching yourself handsomely. I hope to hear more tales of your military exploits as the summer continues.
My first bit of advice would be to learn from the failings of your correspondent and pay off any debts you owe. From my perspective, the slippery slope that led to his departure from Boldhome all began with accumulating debts that he could not repay. It was only as the debts rose and the deadline drew closer that he began concocting ever-more bizarre schemes to enrich himself.
After that, perhaps invest in a modest property? There are many fine houses for sale in Boldhome at the moment. And indeed many fine companions in need of a good wooing. I expect you will find some amenable to your approaches, especially now that you can show yourself a man of some means.
After all that, well, hmm. Investing a sum you can afford is, in principle, a good idea. Sadly, there are many rakes, charlatans, mountebanks and rogues out there who look upon the moneyed as marks to be fleeced. I've not heard of this particular tribe of Aldryami, but it does put me in mind of a tale of caution I learned from great-uncle Festus when I was a child.
He sat me on his knee and spun a marvellous tale about the silver-leaved shrubs of Mubh. The village of Mubh was well maintained and the villagers surprisingly well dressed, their homes richly furnished. None of them bore the customary signs of enduring hard labours in fields or mines to maintain their prosperity. They were very secretive about the small mountain vale that the village protected the only access to, but on occasion a wealthy traveller might ply them with gifts and be let into the secret after swearing great oaths to the gods not to speak of it to anyone. They would blindfold the visitor and lead them by a bewildering path to a small glade, where oh! the splendour! a row of shrubs stood, gleaming silver in the sunshine as the younger and more attractive villagers, dressed in fine silks, strolled among them singing gently, sprinkling a little mountain spring water from finely wrought salvers and occasionally, after much attention, plucking a full grown silver leaf or two and laying them in a basket. They would explain to the newcomer how each shrub had to be carefully tended and responded only to beauty and loving care. All things ugly or upsetting would ruin the crop, so every harvest had to follow the ritual precisely or the bush would wither and take years to bloom once more. Yet, with care and love, they furnished such wealth that no villager need exert themselves and could retire at thirty, lest any sign of wrinkles, sun spots or other aches, pains and blemishes that come with age offend the sensitive silver shrubs. They would lay a single delicate silver leaf upon the palm of the visitor, to take away as a memento.
Naturally, on returning blindfold to the village, the visitor would be overwhelmed with avarice. How could they persuade the villagers to let them have a bush of their own? A seedling? Or perhaps just a cutting? The elders would hum and haw, the women's conclave would huddle, frown and throw sceptical looks. Finally, they would tell the visitor that it had been tried before and no attempt to transplant the bushes elsewhere had succeeded. Their emotional state was so fragile that being torn away from their kin and journeying to a land with unfamiliar soil and different sunlight inevitably led to them withering away. Yet, it was possible - only possible, mind - that as a great favour to their new found friend, they could manage to tend another shrub or two. It would be a risk, of course. The villagers would have to work a little harder, a little longer, to manage it. The sensitive shrubs might struggle to thrive should any strain taint the atmosphere. But perhaps, perhaps.
Naturally, the merchant would be drawn in. How could they perusade the villagers to do this for them? After much haggling, with long intervals in between bouts lest the unseemly emotions taint the atmosphere, a sum of money would be agreed. Let us say it was ten thousand lunars. The visitor was led back (blindfolded) to the glade to witness the ritual of unsurpassed grace and beauty that took place as the young maidens of unsullied purity planted two new seedlings in the grove and sung to them for hours. Months would pass and the village would write informing them of every little progress. A few inches of new height. An unfurling leaf bud. A most successful singing session where the shrubs could be seen to quiver in delight and the first hint of silveriness be seen on the emerging leaves. At last, after a year, the first, small silver leaf would be presented to the eager recipient, with the promise of many more to come, but not to expect too much until the shrubs reached their fullest growth.
Over time, the investment would seem to be paying off. Over three years, a yield of five hundred, a thousand and finally fifteen hundred lunars of purest silver would have been recouped. The guest, driven by ever increasing avarice at the thought of limitless wealth, would press for more bushes to be planted. Could the village not manage another two bushes? Four? Six? Handsome young children could be found elsewhere in need of good homes if it would help? Always the elders would warn of the risks, advise them to think again, but ultimately concede to tending more bushes for more investment money, though not the offer of outside help. But some years later, disaster! The trembling outsider would be led by distraught villagers to the grove where every bush lay wilted, blighted and dying, with the worst effects radiating from their bushes and only the original bushes furthest from them showing signs of any vigour. Everyone would be ushered away with haste, lest their sorrow further damage the remaining plants.
The experiment was over. The villagers would now be struck with poverty due to their reckless actions trying to do favours for the visitor. None of the villagers that had seen the grove in its time of beauty could go back again, for they could hardly sing with gladness in their hearts when looking upon the wreckage that remained. They would have to train their youngest carefully at a distance, then perhaps in a year they would be able to look upon the grove calmly, having never seen it at it's best, and begin the process again, bush by bush. But it would be a generation before they regained what they all had lost. They would have to sell their possessions and learn to work in other ways to maintain themselves through the lean times to come. The visitor must go! No good could come of them staying here any longer!
With the visitor departed, the villagers would gather and toast their success. Another outlander fleeced, with only sixteen thousand lunars of silver recouped from their final investment of forty thousand. And only two months left before they expected their annual visit from the next mark and could extract more investment from him. That gave ample time for the skilled silversmiths to craft the requisite number of leaves for the annual "harvest" while the rest idly tended the several groves scattered in the mountain vale. There would be plenty of time for feasting and relaxing in the sunshine, too.
Well, now. I seem to have rambled on quite long enough , but I do so enjoy recalling that story from my late grand-uncle. Truth or cautionary tale? I am no longer sure. Yet I do suspect that anyone drawn in enough to search for such a legendary village where money grows on trees is just the sort of person to be persuaded to "invest" when they arrive. The elders will only be too keen to inform them that stories of it being a scam are surely just told by the successful investors (sadly breaking their oaths, but what can you expect of greedy men?) to keep the secret of their success out of the clutches of potential rivals.
Write to Broar if you wish. Personally, I would save yourself the courier costs and buy something more useful with it, like a modest plant in a pot of rich earth to adorn your campaign tent. It may not grow a money harvest, but it is unlikely to tempt you with tales of get-rich schemes and will be a pertinent reminder of the way you have left the family profession behind and begun to flourish.
MAy Orlanth strengthen your sword arm and Issaries bring you further prosperity,
Grumbold Rahlefson,
Warlord, Royal Foot Guards
Grumbold Rahlefson of Princeros
Skinny tow-headed beanpole of a man; usually complaining about the weather when not praising the virtues of his wife.
Proprietor of Silks and Sapphires. Conspicuously buy your apparel here!
Warlord of the Royal Foot Guard.
Skinny tow-headed beanpole of a man; usually complaining about the weather when not praising the virtues of his wife.
Proprietor of Silks and Sapphires. Conspicuously buy your apparel here!
Warlord of the Royal Foot Guard.
Re: Grumbold, I've had another one of those letters!
Noble Grumbold,
Well.....blow me down and pick me up again, that was a most detailed reply and gave me great thought as I read it while sat here, at the Front, last evening.
May I thank you for the detail and content, I know now my bets course of action and hope I may be able to repay your kindness in the near future.
May Orlanth bless you,
Torben
Well.....blow me down and pick me up again, that was a most detailed reply and gave me great thought as I read it while sat here, at the Front, last evening.
May I thank you for the detail and content, I know now my bets course of action and hope I may be able to repay your kindness in the near future.
May Orlanth bless you,
Torben
Torben Dungshuvler
Hundred-Thane, Free Philosophers Regt
Initiate of Orlanth / Lay Member of Lhankor Mhy
An unfortunate pawn in the hands of the Gods
Hundred-Thane, Free Philosophers Regt
Initiate of Orlanth / Lay Member of Lhankor Mhy
An unfortunate pawn in the hands of the Gods