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Jun 03, 2009 Prophesy of Pendor 11 points 5 years ago Having 10 in leadership for the reduction to paying wages is a must. One of the greatest ways to get money is ransoming lords and kings, you get around 30k for a king. Unlike the other Pendorian lords, you can be a friend to both your fief and yourself by building improvements. All fiefs start at least somewhat developed, and their improvements are random in every game. The skill levels are taken from your steward's skills, since he is the one overseeing the development of the improvement. You may schedule a meeting with the steward (all your companions. Trade is a skill available to the player and NPCs. By default, there is a trade penalty on the items you buy and sell, which is 15% for commodities (i.e. Trade goods), and 100% for buying and 80% for selling everything else (Weapons, Armor and Horses). Points in Trade skill will reduce these penalties, thus reducing the difference between purchase and selling prices. The reduce factor is 1%. Prophesy of Pendor 1 point 5 years ago There is a trade guide on the floris wiki but it doesn't really work anymore because floris seems to really decrease profits from trading, it isn't really worth the time.

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Mount and Blade: Warband

The Kings of Pendor, by Keltiones

Chapter three: The dawn of opportunity

The sun rose early, as it had the day before. Fewer birds sang here in the city, away from the hardy forests and fields of the wilderness further north. The brilliant rays shone in through the single four-paned window in the tavern room; Arthur couldn't help but rise with the sun. Strapping on his sword belt and hefting his saddle bags over his shoulders, the young man strode through the sleeping establishment to the bar on the ground floor. The tavern keeper was the first waking man he encountered; he stood scrubbing the bar in anticipation of the day's customers. When Arthur reached the bar, the man looked up and furrowed his brow. 'Ye wouldn't happen to be Arthur Barclay, would you?' the publican asked with a thoughtful look on his face, as if trying to remember something. Arthur frowned and nodded.

'Ah, I thought ye might have been. Here, a delivery came late last night for you. A bag full of silver, mind – the messenger said that it was from the Guild master. He said that it was payment for your protection, something like that.'

Nodding and expressing his thanks before taking the offered pouch, Arthur walked out of the sturdy oak door and across the courtyard to the stables – constructed of the same sturdy material as the tavern's door – where he recovered his horse. Affixing the saddle bags to the animal's rump, he led it out of the gate and onto the apparently underpopulated streets of Ravenstern.

The streets were virtually abandoned at such an early hour. Arthur could still hear some noise from the general direction of the market district and considered heading there to acquire some further provisions, but instead decided to familiarise himself with the residential area of the town. As he grew further from the bustling centre of the town a cloak of silence fell across the landscape, almost oppressive in nature. Not a single resident had yet stirred, and this fact remained as he travelled further towards the outskirts of the town, by the wall surrounding it. As he travelled, the houses became smaller, ill constructed, close together. It reached the point where the area he was in looked almost like a slum, with the dwellings scarcely remaining upright on their rotten timbers.

He reached the end of the road, a dead end with the city wall on one side and shacks on two others, the only way back being the way he came through. The young man briefly looked the wall up and down, in its entire enormity, before turning around to head back to the market. However, upon turning, he discovered his way blocked by four scruffy, bedraggled men – each with a sword hanging conspicuously off their belt. One stepped forward. 'You're a foreigner, ain't ye?' he sneered, looking down his grubby nose at Arthur. 'I can tell. No local man would set foot in this part of town, for fear of having his purse and his throat cut. Lucky for me, ye were stupid enough to come strolling in here.'

Arthur's eyes darted about, taking in the situation. Running would be futile, as they were blocking the narrow path almost entirely. If he tried to mount his horse, they would cut him down before he had the chance to build up any speed. Fighting his way out seemed to be the only option, unless he tried to cry for help – which, given the man's statement, did not seem as if it would to him much good. Seeing that combat would be his only option, he drew a deep breath to steady himself. He had never killed a man, nor did he particularly want to; he constantly vowed revenge on the soldier who had murdered his father, but that seemed different, almost childish. This was very real indeed, and demanded his immediate attention. Letting his breath out, the youth's hand darted swiftly to his sword and drew it. He stood in a stance of readiness and watched as the other men drew their weapons, attempting to gain an inkling of their skill with the blade from the way they handled it. From what he could tell, the only particularly skilled swordsman among them was the man who had spoken first. Unfortunately, he would have to fight them all at once, so it looked like skill wasn't going to matter. He stopped himself from coming to the realisation that he might die here and instead steadied his nerves.

The first man came at him with his sword raised high, bringing it crashing down upon the young man's parry. The sheer strength and animosity behind the swing nearly staggered him, and he failed to regain his balance before the sword came slicing towards him once again. While he was able to deflect the blow and make a short swing towards the man's torso, he did not have time to avoid the fist which came hurtling towards his face, and he was knocked on his back.

It had happened in less than five seconds, and he was already flashing back to the night his father died. He had been in the same position, helpless to prevent that horrible fate which befell the man who raised him. Spurred on by the willpower he held deep within him, the utter determination to avoid that very same helplessness, he cut upwards with his rusty arming sword and caught the side of the man's leg before he jumped back with a cry. Adrenaline pulsed through Arthur's veins; he sprang up and tensed, preparing for the next onslaught. Unfortunately, at this, the remaining three men advanced on him all at once. His primal confidence was at once gone, the chemical drive fading. Futility once again overcame him, the fleeting moment of resistance over. He parried a blow from the right and jumped away from the man on the left, scarcely avoiding a thrust from the man in the middle. He just kept jumping, dodging, parrying, before he found himself pressed up against his ancient saddle horse, forgotten in the commotion. The thieves recognised the position their enemy was in and closed on him, easily knocking away his desperate blows. Arthur's sword was knocked to the ground and he was grabbed by the two men flanking their leader, forced to his knees.

'I would like that tunic of yours for myself, so I don't want some bloody hole in it from where I ran ye through,' he said with a maniacal smile. He raised his sword above his head. Arthur stared defiantly upwards and held his chin high. He would meet death as his father had, with true resolve.

Before the thief could move his arms, however, a small metal point sprouted out of his throat. His mouth worked, bringing up blood. More flowed from the wound in his throat. He slumped over sideways making small choking noises, coughing up more blood to stain the frozen road. Behind him stood a figure clad entirely in black plate mail, bearing an empty crossbow. The hilt of a great two handed sword was visible over his right shoulder, which he gripped and drew with little ceremony as he dropped his other weapon onto the ground. The two remaining men, recovering swiftly from their shock and horror, both ran towards the mysterious figure. The first and closest was cloven nearly in two with one effortless swing from the huge sword. The second man found a gauntleted fist around his throat, slowly cutting of his life. The action was pitiless, merciless, and utterly efficient. As soon as the thief stopped kicking, the man in black armour dropped the corpse, leaving it in a lifeless heap at the base of the wall. He stepped towards Arthur, who shrunk back into the corner, fearing on quite legitimate grounds for his life. However, the man simply offered his hand and hauled the youth off of the floor.

'Are you hurt? Bastards don't know what's good for them. This is the third group this week…' The tall figure continued muttering darkly to himself about the evil that plagued the land, and how it had to be crushed. Arthur shakily took a closer look at the man, noticing his carefully combed hair and shaven face. His neat appearance was utterly contradicted by his crazed slurs, directed at his past and future victims.

'Ah, quite all right, th-thank you…' he managed to stammer over the man's angry grumbles, dusting himself off and trying to act as if it had all been no big occurrence. However, he was not as good an actor as he had hoped, and the black-clad bandit hunter took note of his shaking hands.

'Why don't you come back into town? The dead bodies tend to scare off the others, but you never know when the bastards will attack.'

'I suppose I will – and thank you,' Arthur replied, trying to maintain his composure by taking a shaky, deep breath. 'I would have been dead by now if not for you.'

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'There are plenty of people that could say that about me…' the man said under his breath. Arthur couldn't tell whether the comment was intended for his hearing or not, so he simply decided to ignore it and fetch his horse, standing nonchalantly across the road.

'I guess I should introduce myself,' said the large man as the two of them started walking. 'The name's Sigismund Sinclair. I'm a freelancer – I hunt down bandits wherever they happen to be, and bring them to justice.'

'So you're a slaver?'

Sigismund stopped. 'You ever seen a slaver carry a sword like mine?'

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'Well, no, I suppose not…'

'Listen, there's things in this world more worthy of attention than money. There's an infestation plaguing this land, and someone has to deal with it.'

Arthur noticed the seriousness with which these words were spoken, and decided not to push the matter further. During the very same moment, he realised that the bandit he had wounded was nowhere to be seen. He said as much to his companion, who seemed relatively nonplussed.

'He has nothing left now, chances are. I suspect we'll be seeing more of him soon; revenge is a noble cause to many.'

The young man shivered, acutely aware of the older man's cold intent to kill. He watched with mixed fear and awe as Sigismund loaded a bolt into his crossbow in anticipation of the attack. However, no attack came. They ambled along, gradually making their way further away from the slum-like abodes which clung to the city's skirts. They passed alleyway after alleyway, expecting the man to jump out, but still nothing happened. Arthur began to suspect that his escort had misjudged the thief, and he was not as experienced as he let on. Of course, he was wrong. Waiting for them at the final junction before reaching the main thoroughfare in town was not just one, but seven haggard, blood lusting bandits, each bearing a blade of a similar quality to Arthur's – a blade which was already sitting in his hand, though he didn't remember drawing it. He tensed in anticipation of the inevitable charge, but Sigismund had already taken the initiative, if it could be so called. The closest thief crumpled to the ground with a bolt in his chest, and the grim vigilante reloaded as calmly and effortlessly as seemed possible. Their attackers seemed shocked for a moment at the abrupt end of their comrade's life, but swiftly overcame whatever minute particles of grief they might have felt and ran at the two men. This was one thing which was, in a very twisted sense, commendable about bandits; their detachment from emotion made them remarkably efficient warriors. However, this did not mean they were in any way decent judges of situations in a tactical sense – another of them was felled before they reached their would-be prey. After this, it was simply a matter of which of them was furthest from the hulking, dark man. Looking on with reverent awe, Arthur stood transfixed by the grisly game which played out before him. The bandits danced around and slashed at the plate mail which rang like a bell whenever a blow struck. The man that inhabited the armour would dispose of whichever of them was unfortunate enough to be nearby.

It was all over in a minute. The maimed, collapsed bodies of five criminals slumped down in a haphazard heap around Sigismund. The other two were in a similar state of undignified slaughter slightly further away. The larger man turned to Arthur.

'You should have a look around; maybe find yourself a better blade. And they're sure to have some gold on them, too – you can help yourself to that as well.'

The young man looked mortified. 'Loot their bodies? That would make me no better than them!'

'I'd rather someone honest like yourself was in possession of it than some cut-throat who finds them later on. Besides, you'll need it. By the looks of things, you're not too familiar with the way this land works: if you have honour, courage, a sense of duty, then good for you, but that's not going to keep you alive. If you have gold, weapons, strength, then you at least have a shot at survival. The strong live, the weak die. That's just the way things are.'

Shrugging in acceptance of defeat, Arthur began picking through the men's pockets and sword belts for something worth taking. He resolved simply to take all of the weapons and evaluate their worth later on, or better yet, get a talented smith to do it for him. With the small amount of coin he found as well, he ought to be able to equip himself more appropriately.

With this in mind, the two of them continued the trek back to the tavern in silence, both mulling privately over their own issues. Upon arrival, Sigismund bought them both a flagon of ale and began to explain how the younger man should go about living in Pendor.

'You'll want to find at least one person to travel with, if not more. Travelling on your own, as you found out, is not unlike signing your own death warrant. As well as this, you'll want to get used to death. There's plenty of it in this fragmented kingdom, and chances are you'll be the cause of some of it before too long. Think that through, and resign yourself to it. I recommend taking a trip to the training fields north of here; you can get some tutoring there. Apart from that, keep your blade sharp, your mind sharper, and never trust a soul who isn't willing to risk his life for you.'

With that parting comment, the mysteriously sagely man drained the last of his ale, stood up and left abruptly, affording Arthur a brief nod of farewell. Pondering this, the remaining patron sipped at his own bitter drink and began to survey the relatively sparse crowd around him. Before long, his eyes fell on a young woman – slightly older than himself – in the corner of the room with red, puffy eyes and a vacant, dead look about her. Intrigued, he decided to investigate, and made his leisurely way over to her table.

'Good morning! May I ask what's the matter?' Arthur was straining to be as polite as possible, lest he somehow offend her and upset her again. To his surprise, she looked up brightly and responded cheerfully.

'A good morning to you, too! Nothing's the matter, I was just waiting for my…' She trailed off and sniffed, drawing a shaky breath. Clearly, she was putting up a shallow façade, which crumbled before Arthur's eyes; she resumed her weeping. 'In truth, I don't know what I'm doing… Or what I'll do. My only family is gone, and I've nowhere to go. I thought I could just carry on, but I simply don't know…'

Arthur, struggling to take the sudden outburst in, slowed her down. 'Hold on, hold on – take a deep breath. What happened?'

The young woman complied, and began relating her story. It was a sad one. She had come with her brother from, coincidentally, the same kingdom as Arthur, of which (as the son of a sworn man) he bore the name; Barclay. She and her brother were merchants-turned-treasure hunters, and had traversed the land looking for artefacts of the last bastion of the old elven races, the Noldor. There were all sorts of rumours about them, and they would reliably fetch a handsome price on the market, usually going to some arrogant adventurer who thought it would bring him luck, or long life, or some other bafflingly foolish theory. The two siblings had spent over a year searching the land for the artefacts when they finally found one in the forests north of Laria, clutched in the hands of a southern knight who had fallen victim to a stray arrow; an engraved kite shield constructed of a silvery material similar to steel, but with a brighter shine and a more durable constitution. Jubilant, they resolved to travel north into Poinsbruk to find a buyer. That was where it all went wrong. Within sight of the bridge which crossed the river south of the city, a band of Jatu raiders rode down their party. Their guards were felled in an instant, some before they even drew their swords, but the brother and sister's first instinct had been to run. They rode hard for the bridge and safety, but the young woman's elder brother did not have luck on his side. His horse's hoof caught on a loose stone and toppled to the ground, landing on top of its rider. The girl did not realise until it was too late. A Jatu Battle Raider dropped off of his warbeast and approached the struggling merchant menacingly, scimitar drawn. The young woman turned away as the sword came flashing down and connected with the man's neck. There was no noise but the dull thud of horse hoofs and the pulsing of blood in her ears.

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'From there, I travelled straight to Ravenstern. The shield was in my brother's saddle bags; I didn't know what to do besides go back to the only town I really knew… So here I am.' The woman had composed herself significantly by this point and told Arthur she was feeling much better. He sat and contemplated her story for a minute or two before remembering Sigismund's words.

'You wouldn't happen to be looking for someone to travel with, would you? I have just arrived and would appreciate someone with knowledge of the kingdom to guide me.'

The young woman laughed bitterly. 'I'm not much of a guide, nor can I fight, but I can teach you the basic trade routes and how to exploit them… though if we are to travel together, I feel I have the right to know your name.'

He cursed himself for his rudeness. 'My name is Arthur Barclay. What's yours?'

'I'm Leslie. Were you the son of a soldier?'

'Of sorts… My father was a guardsman and trainer – that is why I bear the name I do.'

'Well, Arthur Barclay, it is a pleasure to meet you. I suppose I ought to start by telling you where we are headed next.'

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The pair sat and talked together for a good hour or two, Leslie explaining the most profitable trade routes and plotting them out on a small map she produced from her pack. She pointed out that the wisest course of action from their present location would be to travel to Senderfall and purchase iron, selling it on at Rane or back in Ravenstern. This was a method which was frequently overlooked by merchants of the south because of the lure of spices and velvet to be bought and sold for great profit, but in small quantities. The advantage of iron was that it was constantly in demand; not only did blacksmiths need it for steel, but masons needed it for tools, and nobles needed it for armour. It was a product which was constantly in demand, and therefore could always be sold. Additionally, the central hub of all iron production lie only a few short miles away from them, and the trip could be made in a day on horseback.

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Arthur was enthralled by the concept of trade and profit – it was something foreign to him, as the son of a guardsman. Enthusiastically, he agreed to accompany Leslie to Senderfall to seek what appeared to be the fortune which stood to be made in the business of merchandising, and so they set off as the sun reached its peak at the short summit of the Northern provinces' winter days.