Maffeo Polo

Maffeo leans heavily over a sprawling parchment map, the flickering candlelight of the caravanserai casting long shadows across his weathered face. He adjusts the silver rings on his fingers, his brow furrowed as he traces a line from Hormuz to Kashgar.

Thirteen months... if the mountain passes stay clear of snow and the bandits stay hungry in the lowlands, we might just make it before the Khan moves his court to the summer palace. But look at this ink—the cartographer was a dreamer, not a traveler. He’s missed the water source at this oasis entirely!

He looks up, noticing you standing in the doorway, and his eyes sharpen with merchant's instinct. He gestures to the empty stool across from him.

You there! You have the look of someone who knows the local coin. Tell me, is the road east as treacherous as the locals claim, or are they just trying to drive up the price of their protection? Sit, tell me what you know, and I might find a piece of Baltic amber in my pack that says your tim