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Sheamus kicked and wriggled through the water, squinted his red eyes against stinging brine. A pouch trailed from his neck on long straps, floated beside his scaly tail.

The mouse pushed through curtains of slick, rubbery stalks. Tiny, fluttering creatures flew beside him, propelled by writhing flagella. A reddish fish of considerable size emerged from the swaying weeds, crossed his path. It viewed the mouse with a cloudy, steady eye, as if deciding whether he would fit past its thick, gulping gums. The fish kicked its tail, swam on.

Sheamus pulled aside a wad of weeds, surveyed the valley before him. A brown and moldy hulk sagged in the soft sand of the crevasse. Shafts of light fell from the glittering ceiling of the sea, dappled the algae-crusted bulk with dots of white. From a crooked mast head, a Firlish flag fluttered in the current. Sheamus lifted his paw in wry salute. 

With a few swift kicks, Sheamus crossed to the hulk. He hurried through the open void, lest he be spotted by something hungry. Sheamus pulled himself through a gap in the broken hull. The moldering wood was soft and crumbly beneath his paws. Inside, all was cloudy and dim, save for a pillar of light which lit the sunken hold's center. 

In that light, little red fish flashed above a chest. Something shiny dribbled from the cask's split side like thick blood from a wound. Sheamus wriggled closer, plucked a shining dot from the pile spilling from the chest, slipped it into his pouch.

In a flash, the little red fish scattered into darkness. Sheamus froze, saw a long and muscled shape shift in the hazy dark. Bronze, coruscating scales slipped lithely through the water. Bright white teeth twitched beneath hungry, walleye orbs. 

Sheamus gave an inaudible squeak. Bubbles slipped from his snout. He turned and bolted through the gap in the hold. The mouse didn't stop kicking till he reached the surface.

"Well" said Caemus, peering from the dock at his brother. "Anything?"

Sheamus wrinkled his snout, showed his blocky incisors in a grin. "Aye" he said, rummaging in his floating pouch. He produced the treasure he'd snagged: A disk of gold, bound in iron, wide as his padded palm. A heart wreathed by a twelve pointed crown showed on the coin's face.

"Gold, brother. Hundreds of old pounds."

The yellow metal floated, a liquid reflection, in the mouse brothers' red eyes.



The Pound

For a thousand years, the economies of the North have been driven by the golden pound. The coin's value is associated with its glittering composition; a true gold standard.

Since 2.481, the pound has swayed little from its original design. The weighty coin is composed of a half ounce of gold. Its circumference is bound in iron. This binding serves to protect coins from debasement. It also dissuades thieving Ã¦lves.
The pound's obverse face shows a shield bearing the layered scales and plump outline of a fir cone. Around the shield is graven the Firlish motto: "Fast is the shield against night." The reverse face displays a stylized heart nestled in a twelve-pointed crown. 

Other coins, minted from bronze or silver cut with cupronickel, circulate alongside the pound. Though their value is not intrinsic, it is also set in the value of the golden coin itself. 

Below, the pound's value is listed in relation to its sister coins. For ease of comprehension, values are given in silver pence.

Golden crown = 100 pence
Golden pound = 20 pence
Silver shilling = 5 pence
Silver tuppence = 2 pence
Silver penny = 1 penny
Bronze haypenny = 1/2 penny


Superstition

The Firlish, though largely atheistic as a culture, are incredibly superstitious. They hold a deal of traditions regarding the currency of their realm.

Those with a bit of gold to spare will leave coins on their windowsills. Doing so is thought to enhance the likelihood of more gold entering the home. Whether this practice works or not is debatable. "Sill pence," are, however, a sign to thieves that some degree of surplus cash resides within a home. Other traditions suggest the iron binding on pounds prevents Ã¦lves from entering a home via its windows.

Pounds found in shipwrecks, like those raided from Tombs, are regarded as free for the taking. The dead, Northerners believe, have no use for money. 

Coins are always minted on full, white moons during the spring. Doing so is thought to limit the influence of the Otherworld on new objects of wealth.

Historical Variants and Significance

Every line of minted pounds carries with it a slight variation. Newer pounds carry the year of their manufacture embossed beneath the heart on their reverse face. Older pounds carry subtler historical markers. 

Coins minted before the establishment of the Ward Rangers† display a fir cone on their obverse face with no shield outline or motto. These coins are auspicious items, and are thought to protect their bearer from the Other.   

Pounds minted before the change to the Royal Weal†† display a crooked, ancient crown instead of the modern twelve-pointed version. These are lucky, said to bestow the bearer with enhanced skills of reason.

For a brief time, pounds were minted in the Firlish vassal state of Lothrhaim. These coins bear a rose pixie within their crown instead of a heart. They are said to bring affection upon the bearer. When wrapped with copper wire and worn on a chain, they are an overt indication that the wearer is sexually available. 

Many Northerners will carry a second purse or pouch (worn about the neck) filled with lucky coins and other items of superstition. Rare coins, like those above, are carried in "hex pouches" alongside iron filings, grisodate grains, and wort leaves for luck and protection from Ã¦lves.

Author's Note

Mechanically, hex pouches could be quite fun. Allowing special coins (very rare, mind) to actually convey a (non numeric) benefit upon a character could be rather interesting. This could lead to competitive coin collecting among players (or stealing hex pouches from the dead.) Either way, fun.

This article was made possible by Incunabuli's generous supporters on Patreon. To join them and read articles available only to supporters, support Incunabuli on Patreon.


Footnotes

† The Ward Rangers are a military organization who stand guard on the Plains So Sere. They protect Firlund from the terrors of the Wilderness beyond.

†† The Royal Weal is the name of the current, physical crown which Firlish monarchs wear. It replaced the Crown of Gram II, a item of headgear who's toxic metallurgical disposition caused a dynasty of Firlish royals to go mad.



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A cigarette wobbled under the clerk's scrubby mustache. "Next," he said, voice level, bored.

A young woman stumbled to the counter, shoved by the queue. Mousy brown bangs curtained her face, brushed in an attempt to conceal the veiny, wine-red blotch around her left eye.

The clerk fixed her with a rheumy stare. "Have you worked with the company in the past?" he said, dully. Dusty doxbells buzzed around his balding head.

"No," said the woman. She clutched a beaten, sheathed sidesword. Her thin hands worried at the worn leather scabbard.

"Name?" said the clerk, plucking up a pen.

"Mel Binder, of Fir Reach."

Behind his iron grille, the clerk scribbled in a ledger. Little sheets of smoke dripped from his mouth. "License?" he said. Ash dribbled from the smoldering straight pinched in his lips. 

"I haven't got one," said Mel, tugging hair over her eye.

"Two crowns."

Mel grimaced. She rummaged in a pocket, dropped a jingling pouch on the wooden counter. The clerk swiped it behind the grille, emptied it. He divided coins with a bony fingertip: A pile of copper halfpennies, sixty silver pence, four shillings, and a single, scratched golden pound. For a laborer, it was a month's wages. *

With a small scale, the clerk measured the pound's weight and diameter. He harrumphed, tipped the coins into a till. From a stack, he took a small leather fold, stamped its inner page, and slid it over the counter. "Sign this and keep it," he said. "And see the photographist, once you're done here." He coughed. "Now, you signing on to a venture?"

"Yes," said Mel, taking the leather fold.

"Leader's name?" said the clerk, producing another ledger and beginning to scribble.

"Marcazy Hadocland, of Norole."

The clerk quit scribbling, removed the cigarette from his lips. He blinked slowly at the woman with watery, cynical eyes. "Hadocland's leading the venture to Lieudepur Climb," he said, inclining his head. "It's the third attempt."

Mel shifted, clutched at her sword and license fold. "I know," she trembled.

"It's your skin, lady," said the clerk, shaking his head. He pulled the smoldering straight back to his mouth, produced a document, and began to read aloud. 

"The share for a cutter with no standing with the company is point two percent of revenue gleaned, if any. Share increases commensurate with fatalities. Tiber and Fellowes provide no assurance to the safety of this venture or the nature of the tasks which you may be required to perform. Do you agree to these terms?"

"Yes," said Mel.

"All right. This copy's for you," said the clerk. He slid an envelope over the counter. Mel took it. "Thank you," she said. The clerk didn't meet her gaze. She turned from the counter.

"Lady," said the clerk, suddenly.

Mel looked back.

"Good luck."


Buried Gold

Gold is both the specie and standard of Coastal currency. Millions of golden coins circulate through pockets, vaults, and hoards. It is, above all other goods, supremely desirable. It is also scarce. 

The gold mines of the Coast are long ago abandoned. They are either entirely depleted or dug so deep as to be infeasibly close to the dreadful Underworld. New mines are rarely constructed by those with the means to do so. Prospective locations are either too meager or too wild to safely and profitably excavate. As a result of these risks, the banks of the Coast have turned to other methods of obtaining fresh capital.

Gold yet lies beneath the surface of the world. It was buried by ancient hands, interred in the dark and elaborate depths of Tombs. These are occult places defended by ancient sorceries and hungry monsters. For the task of raiding Tombs, banks acquire the services of cutters: Errant specialists and adventurers for hire.

Cutters

The word "cutter" is a relic of naval privateering, in which independent parties licensed themselves as freelance combatants and raiders for war and security. Such privateers frequently commanded small, fast ships known as cutters. A hundred years after the decline of privateering, the name remains.

Cutters are mercenaries, burglars, madmen, and thrill seekers. Charmed by visions of treasure, they embark on ventures to the darkest places built by ancient humankind. **

They do so by the behest of hungry banks. These organizations organize and dispatch expeditions from Eastern wilderness settlements. On these dangerous fringes of civilization, there is no shortage of Tombs to sack, and no lack of folk brave, foolish, or desperate enough to raid them. 

The occupation of raiding Tombs under a cutter's contract is known as "venturing." Hopeful cutters traveling East are said to have joined the "venture rush."

When a would-be cutter arrives in a wilderness town, their first stop is the local consortium. Any settlement of reasonable size will have such a place, where all the present banks and mercantile powers hold offices. Here, a new cutter may buy their venturing license. 

At the price of two golden crowns, such a document is a major purchase. It serves as a cutter's mode of identification with a bank. With it, they track their standing with the bank, their specialization, and the number of successful ventures which they have embarked on. Higher standing is awarded to more effective cutters, who are granted a higher decimal share of any profit yielded from a venture.

The dangers encountered on a venture depend on the variety of Tomb to crack. Agadese tombs are likely layered with all manor of traps. Idran ruins are unspeakably old, but yet hold a quantity of gold. Naussian crypts are among the most terrifying to raid; they run the risk of connecting to the near-inescapable Underworld. 

Many cutters are discharged soldiers. They find it easy to continue a life of danger. Some are criminals, fleeing to independent fringe settlements to escape prosecution. Many more are foolish, idealist farmhands or bored nobles blessed with too much coin and no great deal of sense. 

Some call cutters heroes, paragons of bravery, skill, and romance. Others know them as woeful wretches, folk willing to indenture themselves to the deadliest of tasks out of desperation, boredom, or greed. In reality, no cutter is the same. They are united only by the danger of their shared profession.


Author's Note

This article has been the starting place for many tales. It also happens to be the first to feature a Patron anagram.

I have been asked why more cutters don't just raid tombs on a freelance basis, taking 100% of acquired loot. In my games, freelancing is doable, but carries the risk of encountering bank-hired competition. The competition have license to kill, and are as tricky as a party of player characters.

Thus, when discovering an uncracked tomb, it's worth a ponder whether someone knows of it before giving it a delve. In some areas, there’s a great enough plethora of tombs that competition appears ⅓ of the time. In the deepest wilderness, the chance reduces notably.

In my experience, competing cutters tend to become a plentiful, memorable font of recurring villains and PC-character death.


This article was made possible by Incunabuli's generous supporters on Patreon. To join them and read articles available only to supporters, support Incunabuli on Patreon.

Footnotes

* Most folks have a shilling at their disposal per day. Most of this goes to rent and food.
** Or even of inhuman construction.
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