The city of Sablearne, squatting beneath the black granite cliffs at the neck of the Grand Estuary, known for thousands of miles as the Green Jewel, the Capital of Capitals, and the seat of the formidable Triumvirate, plays host to perhaps the world's most impressive array of cheats, criminals, conmen, and swindlers. It is one such individual of questionable renown who plays the role of protagonist in this Tale, a man who marketed himself as Illuvio Spelt. He bore the fair hair, bright eyes, and characteristic pointed ears of the Moonlit Isles, and spent his time flashing a winning smile around the interior of many an up-and-coming card-house. Dressed in cheap and glittering finery, Spelt was as typical a lower-echelon gambler as one might possibly find, of the sort to be heedlessly passed in droves on a trip across Sablearne's bustling causeways.

However, as the altogether unremarkable Illuvio goes about his business, we must turn our attention to those sheer and towering cliffs which loom above the city. Bored into the solid stone sprawls a network of tunnels and caves, the very first thought to have been hewn out from natural formations by an order of ancient fanatics doggedly pursuing some obscure purpose. Though their cause has been lost to history, their work appears to have been continuously undertaken for roughly the past four and a half thousand years; the very oldest passages are narrow and crude, yet a lineage of progressively more refined stonecraft, punctuated by distinct stylistic evolutions, can be traced from those most ancient warrens to the breathtaking halls of the modern era. One thing that has not been forgotten is the name those first carvers gave themselves: Dwarves. The folk who continue to chisel away deep below the clifftops still bear the moniker of their ancestors-in-spirit, and though they are now made up of countless ancestries and heritages, each one remains fiercely proud to call themselves a dwarf.

Having developed largely independently over millennia before being rediscovered in the aftermath of the Churn four hundred years ago, dwarves have a complex and insular culture which stands almost wholly apart from the vast city on their doorstep. Though Sablearne's fingers have begun to worm their way into dwarven society, the city-state's influence remains fairly limited, and as such the dwarves' many traditions stand entirely intact.

Perhaps the most famous of these is their system of blood feuds. The dwarven economy, unlike those found across most of the known world, is not built upon coin or barter, but sits on a foundation of enduring spite as hard and tangible as the granite of their halls. Families maintain vast ledgers of those they bear grudges against and to what degree, as well as those who bear grudges against their house, a practice based in mutual aggravation which sources indicate has existed roughly as long as the dwarves themselves.

Originally, it is believed that these grudges were very loosely codified, though quite sacred, and represented a vague amount which the offending party was bound to later pay in restitution. The same grudge might have been reconciled with a basket of mushrooms or a tiara set with clearest diamonds, and dwarves would settle any discrepancies between the expected and received gifts in informal and often violent manners. If the histories are to be believed, one particularly axe-happy dwarf briefly owned over half the colony's wealth, before of course being mobbed by the angry clanmates of her unfortunate supposed debtors. For a great span of history, this system remained in place, forming the foundation for barter among the dwarves based on both real and imagined debts.

In more modern times, however, the system began to evolve. With the ever-increasing size and complexity of the dwarf economy, these ill-defined and highly personal arrangements became restrictive to the flow of commerce. A successful merchant or money-lender, for instance, could hardly afford to maintain thousands of individually-tailored grudges across an array of customers each one of whom had their own ideas about how much they owed him. Thus from several places began to steadily arise the idea of a codified unit of spite: families would issue tokens with a certain firmly established value as payment for goods, and these objects themselves each entitled the holder to a grudge equalling this value. Though each family, and indeed each individual as the trend caught on, crafted their own tokens ranging from stamped copper discs to wood-block vignettes to strings of beads, a group of entrepreneurs quickly founded what would become the First Pecuniary Court to determine their relative values.

The Court, an authority which now administers a combined bank, stock-exchange, hall of justice, and temple to the Bronze God, stands in our times as the foremost institution of the dwarven world. It holds the power and responsibility of fairly weighing the wealth of each dwarf's spite against every other's, mediating disputed grudges, and keeping uncannily precise records of the cost of wronging any house based upon their deeds and reputation. Such it has become that the dwarven world is said to have ten thousand currencies, yet only a single tender.

Our ostensible hero Illuvio had experienced very little contact with dwarves throughout his life, owing to their distaste for the world above ground, until shortly after our meeting him he encountered a particularly unlucky one in a pokey backstreet casino. This unfortunate dwarf had been on a run of bad luck all night, and when Illuvio seized upon his table his fortunes plummeted somewhat from there. Though no expert in cards, our protagonist handily cleaned the dwarf out of what little coin he had. The dwarf, dogged desperation in his eyes, placed a small square of rune-carved bone on the table.

"Double or nothin'."

Illuvio took but a second to decide that whatever this token was, he might as well win it, and this he promptly did. Minus one dejected dwarf and among the company of some petty cash, Illuvio pondered the token before him: he'd heard of such things, the currency each dwarf minted for themselves, and seen them on occasion mixed in by accident with city coin or worn as trinkets. That dwarf, however, had said "double"... counting his cash, he realised this small piece of bone could supposedly buy a night's stay at an upmarket boardinghouse. He was hit with a flash of inspiration. How much, Illuvio asked himself, might all those misplaced coins and trinkets be truly worth - and how many in the city know it?

From that encounter onwards, the old Illuvio, who had drifted between gambling parlours like an autumn leaf blown haphazardly about, was gone. His immediate successor dedicated himself solely to the hunting down of forgotten dwarven wealth throughout the city of Sablearne, drawing on his savings to spirit him from street to street and inn to inn. For a fortnight Illuvio scoured the streets for any sign of dwarven tokens, but found nothing.

As he traipsed back toward his lodgings to end the fourteenth day of his search, however, he came across a haggard-looking satyr, grey and worn, plucking out a sombre tune on a dented zither. Illuvio had no temperament for charity, yet was possessed of a keen eye, and after just passing the satyr turned on his heel and fixed them in his gaze. Laid across their legs was a rag of burlap littered with change - and something else. Sat among the minor coins of three or four imperial mints was a small jade disc, its face scored with a rough, angular mark. Having no real idea whether or not this was dwarven tender or simply some other trinket did not for a moment deter our gambler in attempting to pry it from the satyr's ownership.

"A copper for that cat's eye in your lap?"

The satyr's song abruptly stopped as they looked up to reply.

"Eh? Oh, that? The fella gave me it said it was jade, oughta be worth more than a copper piece."

"Alas, were that the case it would indeed be valuable. I'm ashamed to say that the gentleman misled you, for he has paid for your song with naught more than a gaudy pebble. I offer you a coin not in payment for the stone, but as recompense for this deceit, and so that I may sequester it where it cannot again be used for trickery."

Stumped by the flowery words and fine dress of the man before them, the satyr sighed in defeat.

"Go on then, if it's that much trouble," they replied, and tossed the piece of jade to Illuvio.

The gambler, turning, flicked a single copper coin their way, and headed back towards his feather bed with prize in hand. This exchange marked the beginning of a change in Illuvio's fortune. Throughout the next seven months, he hunted down and appropriated all manner of trinkets and tokens predominantly from the poor folk of the city, posing as various respected professionals from metallurgists to historians, gradually amassing a sizeable hoard which he took to carrying on his person in a large velvet drawstring bag. Steadily, he burned through his reserves of coin, calling in old favours and petty debts to keep up his hunt, sifting through mountains of Sablearne's detritus for anything that seemed likely to pay out, as his bright fine clothes became patched and faded. Eventually Illuvio's dwindling lifelines ran out, and the search was brought to a close; there was now only one thing left to do.

...

With an orchestral creak, the door to the Pecuniary Court's fourty-third claims office yawned open. The clerk on duty within was presented with a dark and shabby silhouette framed in the doorway, the flaxen glow bouncing off the marble wall behind it gnawing at its outer edges, while the rest of its features lurked in the shadow from the lintel. Out from this brief pocket of darkness stepped an exhausted Illuvio Spelt, who messily decanted himself at once into a likely-looking chair. Without a half-silver for the lift fare, he had been forced to scale the thousands of narrow steps cut into the cliffs, them being his only form of passage to the dwarven domain.

"Can I help you, sir?" the clerk inquired curtly, letting slip a hint of derision.

"Yes, I..." Illuvio caught his breath, "I would like to settle some grudges."

He slung his sweat-stained purse onto the desk between them with a jangling thud. The clerk, frowning, tugged it toward herself, before making a valiant if ultimately doomed attempt to somehow open the neck without touching it. Objects of all kinds spilled forth in front of her like fruit from the mouth of a cornucopia, some glittering metal, some rune-scored bone, some thick paper inked by a spidery hand, each bearing seals and emblems and messy signatures, filthy and polished, from the size of a barley grain to a saucer. If not impressed, the clerk at least seemed interested and, dipping her quill in a pot of emerald ink, began one by one to inspect, then mark down the value of, each token.

As she worked, she remarked "Most of this, you understand, is not legal tender. It'll have to go to the furnaces."

After over half a year of running himself into the ground, Illuvio was spent.

"Oh," he replied.

It took some time, but the clerk meticulously tallied every odd piece of shrapnel in the purse. Scanning the rows of figures, she marked a final sum, and with a small satisfied sigh laid down her quill.

"Well sir, it appears you're owed quite the amount."

Any inkling of disdain had vanished from her manner.

"If it pleases you, I can calculate the total in Sablearne gold?"

The bleary Illuvio caught on, and gave an affirmative. After a few flourishes of the quill, she slid him a piece of paper with rather a lot of digits written on it. Illuvio craned over the desk, and was struck dumb with such a blow by the figure that he looked for a moment like a grubby gargoyle, hunched over as he was with eyes bulging and mouth agape.

"It will take some time to collect the requisite materials to cash you out. If sir may come back tomorrow morning and let the front desk know he's here, we'll have everything sorted," she smiled, "In the meantime, please allow us to board you in a suitable lodging-house for the night."

She poised to take a note.

"Do you have a preference for gold, or gems?"

"Gems...?" offered a still-stunned Illuvio.

"Very good. Oh, and the wagons are complimentary, of course."

...

The Drake's Fang, an upmarket inn with sweeping carved walls, stained glass windows, and an impressive filigreed bronze name-plaque, seemed at first glance to certainly fit the bill of "suitable". As Illuvio stepped inside he was greeted by a spirited hum of conversation, and a waft of fine food and sweet mead mingled with the scents of the flowering plants which spilled from pots and trellises throughout its oak-panelled interior. He wound his way through the booths and tables to the bar, an enormous slab of raw tree surfaced with a bronze sheet, and handed a signed piece of paper to the surly-looking bartender who had been staring at him incredulously since his entrance. Upon its receipt, the man nodded and tossed him a numbered key from below the bar. Illuvio mounted a leather-topped stool and began, slowly slipping into deep thought, to consider his future.

An ear-splitting scraping sound to his left, and then a voice:

"One of ale and a shot of dragonsbreath, please!"

Illuvio sat up and turned to investigate this distracting cacophony, which turned out to be visually loud to match. A figure, dressed in colourful chequered clothing and a brigandine set with gleaming studs, perched upon the stool next to his. He watched in bafflement as she rocked it, inch by inch, closer to the bar with her bodyweight, until having not quite recouped the distance she lost by pulling it out so noisily in the first place, she seemed content with its position and rested her elbows on the bar. As though sensing his gaze on her, she suddenly whipped her head around to meet it.

"Hello!" she grinned, and spun around on her stool, revealing the handle of a messer at her waist.

She looked Illuvio up and down, taking in the details of his stained and derelict attire, before leaning closer to him.

"Sorry, but you won't have much luck begging in here." She gestured to the rest of the room, and pulled a face. "Tight-pursed lot and make no mistake."

"Oh, no, I'm not-"

Before Illuvio could stammer out a reply, she slapped him forcefully on the shoulder.

"Don't worry though mate, I'll spot you a drink," she said with a conspiratorial wink, "Barkeep, one more ale while you're at it!"

Having for the second time that day been treated with an apparent respect he had never before experienced, Illuvio surmised his luck must have finally turned.

"Thank you very much," he smiled wearily.

"Oh, but we have to follow the custom! Here, you got anything for a token? We're s'posed to have a grudge and all that, or they get all funny about it."

She elbowed him slightly too hard and rolled her eyes.

"Ask me how I know."

After patting down his empty pockets, Illuvio, lit up with inspiration, wrenched a button free from his already-disintegrating coat.

"Will that do?"

She shrugged.

"No idea, but it's good enough for me."

At this point the bartender returned with two frothing ales and a tiny glass filled with something dark and faintly smoking. The brightly-dressed woman quaffed her ale with shocking speed, spilling not a drop, before throwing back the shot. As Illuvio reached over to take his own mug, he watched twin wisps of smoke spill from her nostrils and reach lazily up towards the ceiling.

...

After entertaining his ale for a while, our protagonist retired to his room, which turned out to be quite lavish, and enjoyed the first good night's sleep he'd had in months. He made an attempt that morning to beat some of the dust and grime out of his clothes in front of the full-length mirror, before giving up and setting off for the Court. As he approached the building's vast ornate facade, Illuvio was forced to push through a steadily-denser crowd to reach its doors, and wondered what they could possibly have assembled for as he made his way across the bright and spacious foyer to the looming granite front desk.

"My name is Illuvio Spelt, I'm supposed to let you know I've arrived."

"Of course, sir. You are most hard to miss."

The Court employee rang a handbell at their side, and a set of grim steel doors across the room groaned open. Across their threshold issued forth a sight unparalleled by any our gambler had ever witnessed: a steady stream of ox-drawn wagons, every one of them brimming with gleaming gold ingots, barrels of silver coins, bundles of fine fur, bolts of brilliant cloth, and heaps of gemstones both cut and uncut. They wheeled out across the foyer, through the building's front doors, and down a hastily-constructed ramp which had been placed over its steps.

"If you could sign here please, sir."

Illuvio penned his name in a distracted scrawl before heading back outside to somehow master the wagons. Upon his exit he found himself face to face with a now substantial throng of people, who all seemed to be looking expectantly past him into the Court. He turned in curiosity but saw nothing behind him save for the empty foyer, then ventured down the steps to inquire of the nearest Court employee exactly what he was supposed to do with this veritable horde now he had received it. But, as he attempted to get the attention of one of the uniformed guards keeping the crowd in check, there came a rippling disturbance from the back of the group. Amidst cries of protest and sounds of scuffling and shoving, a colourful figure pressed their way through to the front of the crowd, just ahead of Illuvio: the mercenary from the inn, who gave him a cheery wave.

"I knew it must be something good! Just look at that, eh? What quilted bugger's cashed out, d'you reckon?"

"In fact, you look upon him," was our gambler's slightly haughty reply.

"You? Ha! You're a right laugh, mate."

At that, a Court clerk hurried up to Illuvio.

"May we ask if you require any assistance with transportation, sir?"

A low whistle escaped from the colourful woman.

"By the black pits, it really is you... What d'you think you're playing at, begging off honest folks when you're as rich as the Coinmaster himself, eh?"

"I did, in fact, make several attempts to inf-"

Following a full two seconds of consideration, she produced the previous night's coat button from a pouch on her belt, and thrust it an inch from his nose.

"As the bearer of this grudge, I wish to settle!" she yelled, above the din of the crowd, "I claim as recompense all the riches before me!"

The congregation suddenly hushed, and Illuvio turned to the clerk with fear and confusion wrought upon his face.

"Can... can she do that?"

"Well," replied the clerk, "If you refuse to pay her, only if she-"

Having left a suitably dramatic pause, the mercenary continued: "I invoke my right to trial by sacred combat."

The crowd roared. Illuvio's luck, it seemed, had indeed turned. All colour fled his face, as though he had been petrified to match the marble of the edifice behind him.

"But I have no weapon," he pleaded weakly.

There came a shout from the crowd, and a sturdy black-steel axe landed at his feet. Bodies shifted all around him, and he found himself trapped along with the mercenary in the centre of a wide circle. As he gingerly picked up the axe, she smiled at him, and drew her sword.

"Don't worry, this won't take long."

Illuvio braced himself. He'd seen a few tournament matches, and met his share of veterans at the card tables. They seemed oceans away now. He wrenched his mind into focus, and attempted to recall any mite of combat knowledge. Perhaps if he could-

With a deft forward step, the mercenary brought her blade sweeping down towards him. Illuvio raised the axe in a desperate guard, but suddenly the messer was gone - until it manifested in a blink beneath the axe's head. It swept upwards, bearing the axe neatly aloft from Illuvio's grip to arc steeply above the shocked crowd. The mercenary lowered her weapon and, with a wink, caught the plummeting axe from the air not a finger's width above her head. Illuvio, for his part, succeeded meritously in his own brief battle against sudden cardiac arrest.

"I... forfeit?" he essayed.

From the throng rose a deafening cheer, the guards struggling to hold the gathering's members back as they verged on frenzy. The mercenary turned to the crowd and took a deep bow before bounding through them up the steps to where the Court clerk had retreated.

"So, where do I sign?"