A narrative science-fiction RPG about bad intelligence, good company, and the consequences of being needed. Set in Tidemeet, a damp estuary port where tradecraft is conducted over long breakfasts, borrowed favours, and diplomatic hospitality.
After ten years of undistinguished service, Graham Hamilton has finally been given what every intelligence officer dreams of: a station of his own.
His new assignment is Tidemeet, a prosperous port on the shared world of Hariyal. Relations are friendly, the restaurants are excellent, and the intelligence office has been closed for years.
With a little help from his uncle at the Defence Ministry, Graham has acquired a respectable title, a quiet posting and the prospect of several thoroughly pleasant years.
There are minor inconveniences. His office contains patio furniture. The consulate's employees answer to someone else. And headquarters takes weeks to respond to his reports.
Still, Graham has always been good at making arrangements.
Unfortunately, someone in Tidemeet is about to make arrangements of her own.
Built where the great river canopy meets the open sea, Tidemeet belongs to two empires and obeys neither. Kakeshvar claims the riverbanks, Eblaarth governs the water, and everyone in between spends their time arguing over docking fees.
The damp, salt-soaked edge of the city. Deep-water barges tie up against limestone piers, while aquatic Lahar crews drink below the waterline at Mother Gant's and land-dwellers argue over bowls of hot peppered noodles on the docks above.
Established local slang for rising rents and commercial displacement pressing from financial rows into Charter Hill.
The long-running civic dispute over dredging the estuary channel versus protecting the delicate coastal canopy groves.
The turning of the current between ebb and flow; also an established Lahar cultural observance for settling obligations.
The living dialect of Tidemeet, blending maritime terms, trade jargon, and cross-species courtesy idioms.
A damp, living estuary governed by tides, tea, and municipal bureaucracy.
Strong chicory coffee and fresh peel-fruit on Graham's terrace overlooking the canal mists. Listening to the distant bells of the tidal barrage while reading the morning marine arrivals gazette before official consulate callers arrive.
Sharing a steaming ceramic pot of ledger tea with merchant notaries in a cool stone vault beneath Counting-House Row. Untangling conflicting cargo manifests over bowls of spiced braised lentils and pickled tubers.
Sitting at a half-submerged wooden bench in Lower Harbour, ordering fried estuary fish and safe-mark noodles. Aquatic Lahar dockhands rest in the chilled tidal current below, debating shipping drafts and winch maintenance.
Watching Parinda pouch-pilots catch the evening thermals above the basalt promontory. Sharing dry salt-biscuits with Kree beside the iron signal brazier as thousands of harbor lanterns kindle across the water below.
The people Graham meets in Tidemeet aren't looking for a hero; they're looking for someone who can sign a customs waiver, settle an invoice, or listen without judging. The trouble is, every favor comes with a bill attached.
Around forty-five, rumpled, self-deprecating, and possessing ten years of entirely undistinguished service. Graham arrived in Tidemeet expecting pleasant weather, patio furniture, and minimal interference from Geneva. His tradecraft relies on buying lunch, listening carefully, and making modest arrangements.
A junior clerk in House Vaelen's grain division. When she approaches Graham with a stack of disputed cargo manifests and tears in her eyes, she looks like someone out of her depth. But in Tidemeet, even the junior clerks know which doors to knock on.
Veyla stops by Mercer House most mornings with a tin of fresh tea and an appetite for quiet gossip. Officially, she's an Eblaarth trade liaison; practically, she's very good at noticing when a human diplomat's collar is three seconds stiffer than usual.
A courier pilot based at the windswept High Stack roosts. Kree carries Graham's sealed pouches up into the high thermals and has zero patience for consular paperwork, though he never turns down a bag of dried fruit or a game of dice.
Brenn speaks for the divers and cargo hands down in the wet berths. He doesn't care much for foreign consuls or grand imperial treaties; he cares about keeping the sluice gates oiled, the pumps running, and his crews from getting crushed under unmoored barges.
Pell runs the Fourth Acoustic Line in Charter Hill, keeping the municipal telegraph relays clicking while training her apprentice Kip to take over. Her people live only fourteen to sixteen years; she doesn't have the time or the inclination to listen to Graham hem and haw.
The Consul-General at Mercer House. She manages twenty-four diplomatic staff, negotiates municipal river tariffs, and considers Graham's desk a harmless favor owed to an influential uncle—provided his quiet inquiries don't embarrass her at dinner.
A prominent merchant factor who finances the estuary freight syndicates. He isn't interested in diplomatic drama; he keeps the shipping lanes solvent, collects on his investments, and expects agreements to be honoured to the letter.
There are many ways to gather intelligence. Graham prefers the ones that involve a comfortable chair and something to drink.
Graham has no gun, no badge, and no authority to detain anyone. If he wants an answer, he has to buy the tea, listen to someone complain about their landlord, and find something useful to offer in return.
Alien locals communicate through scent rings and acoustic vibrations that human ears and noses miss completely. Graham has to rely on portable sensors, careful observation, and an embarrassing amount of guesswork.
Nobody in Tidemeet lies out loud if they can help it; they just leave a line blank on a cargo manifest or quietly lose a berthing permit behind a desk.
“The harbor commission released the quarterly berthing manifest this morning, Graham. House Vaelen's grain barges were granted priority at the third sluice.”
Clear-headed and attentive. You notice the manifest date precedes the commission's public notice by four days—someone in customs slipped them an advance schedule. But pressing too firmly right now will put Veyla on guard.
With sensory filter active: a faint scent of dry cedar from Veyla's sleeve indicates formal courtesy and guarded reserve. Her teacup remains untasted.
Between diplomatic dispatches, dockworkers and clerks pass the time rolling bone dice in the cellars of Charter Hill. Roll the die, push your score to fourteen, bank your points, and pass the poisoned gift before you bust. Play a few rounds against Kip, Pell, or Brenn right here in your browser.
In Tidemeet, Slack Tide is a time for farewells, settling grievances and renewing obligations.
For House Vaelen, it is also the occasion on which an aging matriarch intends to settle the future of her family.
Graham has no particular interest in the succession of an alien banking house. He has enough trouble keeping his reports in order.
But a promising source, a collection of suspicious shipping papers and a few badly judged favors have left him rather closer to the family's affairs than he intended.
And when everyone involved begins asking him to take a side, Graham discovers that doing nothing is also a decision.
A narrative science-fiction RPG about bad intelligence, good company, and the consequences of being needed.