Burning Wheel: Cold Plunder

Far in the untamed north, strange things are brewing. Stories carried back speak of all sorts of black miracles and glinting treasure being released by a retreating glacier north of penal colonies and indentured mines. But the north is ice, and far, and cruel, and ‘stories’ is just another word for lies.

Until the coins.


Silver treasure, minted with images and writing that no scholar can decipher, are starting to appear in the markets and purses of the over-citied south.  Coins from the cold, carried for long months aboard creaking ships and by madmen of the sea converted to payment for sex and cups of wine and other indulgences and treacheries. You have seen these coins, squeezed them between calloused fingers. These are not 'stories'. They are real.

What other of those lies are real?


You are the first band of desperate men to risk the way north – the first to do so without being condemned to it. You go for filthy lucre, for indulgent and cryptic answers, or perhaps for a black miracle of your very own.  Even though the sea is long and treacherous.  Even though the only law in the cold north is the law you can force into being.  Even though the last ships back – heavy with ore and timber – spread the news:  That their children have vanished.

 

Burning Wheel: Cold Plunder

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