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Pov of Rutger Breeke
Nachexen- 29-32th,2488 IC
Honestly, I don't know which of the two Barons of Reinsfeld is worse.
The father terrified me. He was enormous. His gaze was that of a predator who had hunted too many times—someone who, if he wanted, could kill me with his bare hands. But at least he was predictable. Brutal, violent, but not subtle.
His son is worse.
He's got the same eyes. That damned cold, hunter's stare. Except he's just a boy of eleven summers. I don't know what makes him different from the rest of the children, but the seriousness on his face... the way he looks at you, as if measuring your worth—dead or alive. He's already larger than boys of fourteen or fifteen, and his aggression feels far more dangerous than his father's.
But what unsettles me most is that he knows how to talk. He knows how to lead a conversation. And more importantly, he knows when to stay silent. That tension, those eyes fixed on you... especially on my nephew, who can't shut his damned mouth.
I had no choice but to serve this noble, no matter how much I detest them.
With his father, I managed to land a contract transporting iron to the forges of Nuln. Back then, I only had one cart and two horses… not the most efficient setup for hauling ore. But after a few trips and a few crowns earned, I went back to Marienburg and convinced my brother to sell off some of our fishing boats. With the money, we bought more wagons and expanded the operation. As terrible as the old baron was, I was confident I could keep that contract for years.
But the day I returned to Reinsfeld to renegotiate, disaster struck. Damn orcs. Luckily, I was traveling with a large trade caravan heading to Helmgart and Bretonnia. I was only stopping at the barony along the way. When I saw the banner of the baron riding to our aid, it was a relief. But it didn't last.
The giant baron wasn't there. He was dead.
And with him, my contract—verbal and worthless.
I thought everything was lost. But to my surprise, the kid—because that's what he is, a kid—turned out to be far more politically shrewd than his late father. He knew full well the imperial courts would side with a noble over a Marienburg merchant any day. With a large chunk of my savings sunk into carts and draft animals, I was stuck. He knew it. So did I.
So he offered me a new contract: to transport and sell everything produced on his lands. I accepted. What else could I do?
And truth be told… life hasn't been bad. I make more money than I did hauling ore. But I also work harder: finding buyers, walking marketplaces, knocking on doors, walking half a day through cities to sell his damned soap, his tools, whatever comes out of his workshops. His goods aren't for everyone. They're specific. That means good margins, but also more effort.
I work more. I earn more. But I'm still his servant.
Then one day, they stopped producing tools . The business collapsed instantly. For some reason, the baron decided all his peasants should "live like decent people"—with their own homes and even sewers. He poured a fortune into that project. Rumor has it only Manann knows where the money came from, because it sure wasn't cheap… the imperial architect charged 500 crowns just to inspect the land. That was it. I wasn't going to throw that much gold at something that didn't benefit me. Now, with no tools, only the soaps remain. My earnings dropped again, and I started thinking about grabbing whatever I could and seeking a new deal elsewhere.
But today, while I waited to load the last batch of soap before heading to Altdorf, the baron summoned me.
That caught me off guard—he's the type who vanishes at will. You don't see him often unless it's for some show of charity, and even then, he's best known for barking at his workers to stay busy.
We spent what felt like an eternity locked in some sort of staring contest. The kid had one hand on his chin, staring at me, and it was starting to wear on my nerves.
"Rutger…" he said suddenly.
"Yes, my lord…" I answered, forcing the best smile I could.
"You're a competent merchant, aren't you?" he asked, placing both hands flat on the desk, eyes still fixed on me.
"Of course I am. I'm good at my trade," I said through clenched teeth. That he would question my skills burned me.
"Good…" he murmured, without any emotion, toying with his blond hair. "I like my servants to believe they're good at what they do," he added, pressing his index fingers together over his lips.
Silence crept back into the room like a heavy fog. That damned silence.
"What have you summoned me for, my lord? I need to prepare the shipment to Altdorf," I said, forcing another smile while those cold blue eyes drilled into me.
"You're impatient, aren't you? Especially since I haven't given you much work lately..." the baron mused, glancing down at his desk, then back at me.
"I wonder…" he said, reaching under the table. "Can you sell this?"
He pulled something from beneath the desk: a wooden bowl filled with dark blue powder. Then, some cloth dyed in a deep, almost hypnotic blue, and several paint balls of the same color.
"W‑where did you get that...? Lapis lazuli...? That stuff is… insanely expensive…" I stammered, unable to take my eyes off it.
"Does it matter?" the baron said, offering a faint smile
"Of course it does…!" I said—too quickly, maybe. I cleared my throat. "Something that costly, any buyer will want to know who made it—where it's from—to be sure they're not getting low-quality goods. Araby? Cathay?" I asked, real excitement creeping into my voice. My fingers were already twitching, counting imaginary coins.
The baron didn't reply. He just stared. That damned look, now amused. He leaned an elbow on the desk and tilted his head slightly.
"I discussed this with the priest of Sigmar…" he said, face as unreadable as stone. "I had a dream. In it, the comet crossed the sky and struck the white-stone hills near the old forest. I felt compelled to go there. I dug through the rocks and found a dirty, brittle blue mineral… but when I ground it and processed it the way I felt I should, it became this pigment. The priest said it was a gift from Sigmar—for my loyalty and purity in defending the Empire."
I swallowed hard. I didn't know if I was standing before a lucky man, a madman… or a prophet.
"I see…" I murmured, reaching for the bowl and scooping a bit of the blue powder. I watched it sparkle under the candlelight. "I don't know if this is high-purity lapis lazuli, but even if it's low-grade… it'll sell. And high. In Altdorf, painters, dyers, and—above all—nobles will kill for something unique. A cloak dyed in this color could become a status symbol… something elite among the courtly circles."
The baron gave me that calm smile that always makes my skin crawl.
"Please, Rutger… use your Marienburg tricks. When you return, I'll have much more. So find me clients."
I gave him a slight bow—more out of habit than respect.
I quickly gathered everything he offered me. A generous amount, probably a full pound of pigment, several dyed cloaks, and a bunch of paint balls. I transported them with extreme care.
Only Manann knows how much this whole batch is worth—but if anything happens to it, I might as well kiss my head goodbye.
As usual, my journey to Altdorf began the next morning, this time followed by a larger group of the baron's guards—protecting his investment more than ever, especially since we were also carrying several days' worth of mint-scented soap production.
It took two days, but we finally reached the great city of Altdorf.
I chose to enter through the southern gate instead of the eastern one. If I was going to run into a massive crowd of Sigmarites pouring out of a religious ceremony, at least from the south, the route to the merchant guild was more direct.
We had to wait. There was a long line of carts and traders, all queuing while the guards collected their tolls.
"Are you carrying pickled turnips?" one of the guards asked, eyeing the wagons.
"No… soaps, for sale," I replied, resisting the urge to mention the pigments. A coin earned could easily become a fortune lost if I spoke too freely—but this wasn't my merchandise, so I had to be honest. "And pigments and dyed cloth," I added in a neutral tone.
The guard adjusted his belt and tunic.
"Dyed cloth pays two pennies per piece. Pigments, a shilling per pound." He nodded toward another soldier who had a wooden box where everyone was dropping their coins.
One of the baron's guards stepped forward, exchanged a few words with the gatekeeper—too quietly for me to hear—then casually dropped a mix of silver and copper coins into the box. We were waved through.
Inside the city, I made several stops—mainly at clinics and medical offices—to sell the soap at the highest price possible. I took advantage of the fact that the Cult of Shallya had begun openly recommending the baron's soap. According to them, it was the safest option, with consistent quality that didn't vary from batch to batch—unlike most soapmakers who produced inconsistent goods: sometimes solid, sometimes watery, with unpleasant smells or too harsh on the skin.
In fact, the Cult of Shallya itself was one of the largest buyers. Not for personal use, of course, but to distribute to the poor, wounded, and sick. The price for them had to be lower, though—there was a formal agreement between Baron von Reinsfeld and the temple: a fixed rate per load destined for the cult.
I spent nearly an hour moving from buyer to buyer—doctors, merchants, shopkeepers. I had a long list of clients. Some were already waiting for the shipment when I arrived; others just wanted to see what new batches I had brought.
And as always, every time I told the baron we could increase production—that demand was exceeding supply—he gave the same cold, calculated response: that he couldn't buy more pigs per day without jeopardizing the future, and that he flatly refused to import them because prices would spike and net profit would drop.
If there's one good thing to say about him, it's that he calculates profit margins better than most merchants in Marienburg.
Now, with the pigments, cloths, and paints, I was a bit more puzzled. I had never worked with materials this expensive, and I didn't have contacts who'd be willing to spend a generational fortune on dyes. So I wandered around the city, visiting artist workshops and asking if they were interested. Most already had a decent stockpile of lapis-based paints. I asked around at tanneries and dye houses, but while interested, they lacked the clientele to justify a purchase.
So I kept looking, searching for a potential buyer who might be interested.
I entered one of the artists' studios near the Imperial Palace and began speaking with an apprentice who was practicing his brush strokes.
"Blessings of Sigmar, my good craftsman. Would it be possible to speak with your master? I've come across a lot of lapis lazuli-based paints that may interest him," I said with the friendliest tone I could muster.
"Oh… the master is busy working and—" the apprentice began, before a booming voice echoed from the back of the workshop.
"Let him in. I still haven't received my order, and it's two weeks late."
The apprentice stood up quickly. "This way, please," he said, guiding me inside.
There, I found several artists immersed in their work. The studio smelled of oil, wood, and aged cloth. In one corner, a gray-haired man was painting a massive portrait of what looked like a stern-faced noble.
Wasting no time, I opened the wooden box carrying several balls of deep blue pigment and showed it to the master. He took it without saying a word. Didn't even ask. He simply chose one of the balls, sliced off a piece, and started working it into his palette.
"Impressive…" he murmured, drawing lines with his brush. "Whoever made this knew how to evenly capture the pigment in the mix. The problem is they had no idea how to make a usable paint. It's very tough. Requires a lot of work to become usable. Probably mid-grade lapis. I'd like to see some lighter tones… but I might be able to get something decent out of this. Where did you get it?"
"From the barony of Reinsfeld. According to the baron—and the priest of Sigmar—this stone was shown to him in a dream featuring a comet. He followed the vision, extracted it himself, and processed it personally," I repeated in a neutral tone, as he had told me.
"Really?... Well, if the Cult of Sigmar says so, it must be true," the master said with a sarcastic smile. "And clearly, he doesn't know the first thing about preparing paint. How much for the balls?"
"Eighty crowns for the six," I said, throwing out a number blindly, having no idea what the real value was.
"A bit low... I assume you have more, don't you? Don't come at me with that old Marienburg merchant trick: sell a little to hike the price of the rest. I know that game," he said with a grin as he kept mixing lighter tones on his palette.
"Yes, I have more. Let me fetch them."
I left the studio and returned with eleven more boxes of paint balls, along with the glass jar containing the pure pigment.
I placed everything in front of the master and showed him the full jar. It was exactly one pound of milled pigment.
"This will last me months," he said, inspecting the contents. "How much for the jar? I prefer to work it myself. That way, I can soften it from the start."
"There's a pound in here…" I said, mentally calculating the weight of each paint ball. "With this, you could make around forty more, maybe more. I'd say… 530 crowns."
"Fine. I prefer the pigment. I like how it behaves. Give me a box of balls too, just in case. I like the tone's consistency."
I nodded. Soon after, the master disappeared into the back of the workshop and returned with a chest full of coins. 610 crowns. He counted them in front of me without shame, and I handed him everything.
Now that I had a rough idea of the pigment's value, everything became easier. Even selling a single ball to individual painters, or passing the product to Marienburg merchants who were also heading back home to resell it to final buyers. Just in paints, I earned close to 900 crowns between artists and merchants.
Then there was the cloth. I finally managed to sell it to a Marienburg merchant for another 800 crowns. I handed him the entire shipment.
In total, over 2,300 crowns just from selling the pigment the baron had found in his hills… and I walked away with just over a hundred in commission.
Far more than I'd make in a month selling soaps.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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