September 2nd, 973
You descend two narrow flights of stone stairs, the torches on the walls getting noticeably older—and smokier—as you make your way down. By the second sub-basement, it’s clear that this part of the Ministry has been largely forgotten. The air smells faintly of parchment, damp wool, and regret.
Across from the rusted plaque reading Department of Owlbear Population Control, you find a small frosted window with a label stenciled:
M. Crezia
First Associate Deputy Assistant to the Third Assistant Undersecretary
of the Eighth Deputy of the Minister of the Interior
You knock. A soft voice inside calls, “Yes? Yes, do come in—but gently, please.”
Inside is a small, tidy stone office that looks as though it was last renovated during the reign of King Harold I. A magical sconce flickers overhead almost in synchrony with a couple of other lamps in the office. The walls are lined with tall stacks of books and neatly bundled paper, each tied with twine and labeled in obsessively small handwriting. A battered wooden desk dominates the room, behind which sits a middle-aged man with spectacles and a pen held in one hand. His shirt is clean but fraying; his demeanor, somewhere between nervous librarian and overworked civil servant.
“Ah!” he says, putting the pen down and rising to greet you with genuine warmth. “The adventurers. Yes. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. You’ve no idea how relieved I am. When week after week went by without anyone signing up, I began to think I had accidentally posted something that’s going to turn out to be a suicide mission. But you’ve signed up, so that’s not the case after all!” He laughs—a little too quickly—and gestures to the several guest chairs, which look structurally compromised in a number of different but equally exciting ways.
“My name is M. Crezia. Please don’t ask what my official duties are. No one’s quite sure anymore. I do whatever I can to keep this place running in the vague direction of ‘functional.’ Which brings us to why you’re here.”
He pulls open a drawer and withdraws a small leather folder marked Private – Recovered by Capt. Arbuckle from which he recovers a bundle of letters, tied with a red ribbon. He sets them reverently on the desk between you.
“These letters—these troubling, encrypted, frantic letters—were sent by a Captain Alistair Nelson stationed in Manchester, the capital of Cambria. They came to my attention thanks to the dogged concern of another officer, Captain Arbuckle, who found them after the tragic death of Nelson’s intended recipient, a Captain Monpierre. Arbuckle tried to bring them to High Command. They ignored him. So he brought them to the Ministry. We ignored him too. Or… some of us did.”
Crezia leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
“I retrieved them from the trash myself. And when I wrote to Nelson, the reply I received made it clear that something is very wrong. His words were… evasive. Fearful. He said to contact him no further—for my safety as much as his.”
He sits back, folds his hands, and gives you a sheepish look.
“I’ve no authority. No budget. And no illusions. But I’ve seen too much to ignore it. So I posted that notice at the Adventurers’ Guild. And here you are. I need you to go there and talk with Nelson in person and find out what’s going on and help him fix it.”
He gestures to the letter bundle. “You’re welcome to review them. I can provide you with transport to Cambria—guard duty on a small caravan heading for Manchester. Food and passage in exchange for your swords. Beyond that…” He spreads his hands. “No coin. Just the hope of answers. And maybe, if the right people start asking the right questions, a way to help Captain Nelson—and Archea itself—before whatever is happening out there spreads too far.”
He pauses.
“Oh, and should you need to fund your stay while in Cambria,” he says, half-apologetically, “there are always options. Hunting feral orcs for the bounty. Or selling them alive to the slavers—Abigail’s Compliant Slaves, Inc. operates quite efficiently out of Manchester. Not my recommendation, of course, but… some take it.”
He grimaces faintly. “There’s a pest control office up there as well that pays by the ear for koblods and such. That may be more palatable. Or perhaps you might find gigs at the local Adventurers’ Guild.”
He clears his throat, then perks up. “So! What would you like to ask me? I’m happy to help in any way I can.”