The Armory Under Graywatch

Graywatch is half in ruins; its impoverished lord lives in the only wing that still has a roof. At the dungeon door, his steward sits beside a dusty fee ledger whose last entry is six years old. "Thirty silver to go down, though I wouldn't risk the dark myself." Below the keep wall, however, village children are hauling water from a deep stone well that connects to the same undercroft.

The underground armory is bone-dry and racked to the ceiling with oiled boarding cutlasses, untouched for forty years since the household disbanded its marine company. Against the far wall, something much heavier sits beneath a canvas dust sheet. With daylight fading, your crew only has time to haul up one load.

Your crew climbs back up the well rope carrying enough oiled cutlasses to arm the entire ship—only to find the steward sitting on the stone rim with two tired guards. "Poaching without a dungeon permit," he says dryly. "The penalty is double the entry fee—sixty silver—or forfeiture of the blades. Personally, I'd rather take a cut of the steel; my lord is months behind on my wages."

When you return to your ship, the dismissed man-at-arms who sold you the tip—Dane Orrick—is waiting by your ramp with his kit bag packed. "So the racks were still full. I maintained that armory for nine years before the lord turned me out with two years' wages unpaid. I don't want a cut of the steel—just give me a berth on your crew, or twenty silver to take the road to a hold that actually pays."

The brick partition behind the steward's chair is only a single course thick. Having wondered what lay behind it for six years, the underpaid steward watches without complaint as your crew knocks it down. Inside sits the marine company's reserve storehouse: crates of ballista bolts, a rack of boarding axes, and a company pay chest with silver still inside.