“Gold may change hands, but power never leaves the table.”
— Athkatlan proverb
Athkatla thrives on a balance of greed and grace.
Five mighty institutions — the Factions of Coin — rule not by crown or council,
but by influence, wealth, and belief. Together they shape every street, law, and ledger.
Each guards its dominion, yet none can stand without the others.
When Athkatla first emerged as a trade hub along the Wyrmtale, its leadership consisted of a Council of Merchants — a small assembly of the city’s wealthiest families. These merchant dynasties oversaw early trade, taxation, and diplomacy, treating governance as an extension of their private enterprise.
Over time, power drifted from individuals to institution. The Guilds and the Temple of Waukeen grew so influential that they replaced two of the family seats outright. The remaining positions shifted gradually as well, reflecting the city’s changing economy rather than bloodline inheritance.
A century ago, the Caravaneers were granted a seat after ending long-standing disputes among their competing routes and companies. They now elect a single retired caravaneer to represent them on the council — a position seen less as honor than as obligation.
The Arcanists were admitted shortly thereafter, a move intended to maintain northern diplomatic ties and to keep the growing population of itinerant mages under civic oversight.
The fifth and final seat fell to the Shifting Sands, whose influence in information and commerce had become too significant to ignore. Their rise marked the end of the city’s hereditary governance — from then on, factions rather than families would rule Athkatla.
Keepers of the open road and the Wyrmtale’s flow, the Caravaneers bind the city to the world beyond.
Their wagons and ships form veins of commerce through desert and sea, bearing silks, salt, and secrets.
They decide what reaches Athkatla — and what does not. Theirs is the power of passage.
The city’s industrious heart. Smiths, sailors, and artisans toil beneath their banners,
their workshops filling the Southern Docks and Old Town alike.
They prize mastery, profit, and reputation — measuring worth in the gleam of a finished craft.
To join the Guilds is to gain stability; to defy them is to vanish from the market.
Oldest of the factions, radiant in gold and promise.
Its priests proclaim that profit is prayer, and that every deal is a sacred act.
Beneath the Goldspire’s domes lie vaults and schools, hospitals and banks — all fed by tithe and trade.
The temple’s wealth keeps the city alive… and under watchful divine audit.
Scholars of the Weave and stewards of unseen power.
Their Collegium crowns the northern quarter, a tangle of towers and laboratories humming with light.
Each school of magic claims its archmage and agenda, yet all serve the city’s need for wonder.
They sell enchantments like others sell n and grain, their wards protecting the city as much from itself as from outside forces.
Whispers made flesh. The Shifting Sands trade not in goods, but in knowledge —
rumors, debts, and desires move through their hands like fine dust.
They are the city’s shadow brokers and informants, ensuring that no secret remains buried for long.
To outsiders they appear fractured — couriers, courtesans, and coin-counters —
yet every whisper serves a single purpose: to keep Athkatla unstable enough to profit from its tremors.
Their motto, spoken only in private halls: “The wind remembers.”