¶ Thoril Trading Company
Merchants. Manipulators. Masters of the Fine Print.
Slogan: "A better tomorrow."
Unofficial Slogan: "Your assets, our clauses, everybody wins (mostly us)."
Motive: Wealth. Pure, tidy, contractually defensible wealth. Preferably acquired with a smile, a fountain pen, and a legally binding non-negotiable clause in fine print.
Unofficial Mascot: A golden coin with a smiling face and very small teeth.
¶ Overview
The Thoril Trading Company is not a government, although they certainly behave like one. They're not a nation, although they do have a navy, several embassies, and a national anthem that sounds suspiciously like a jingle. What they are, officially, is a private commercial enterprise headquartered on Thoril, supposedly representing the interests of its proud people.
What they actually represent is money. Specifically, Faerûnian old money — the kind that has ancestral ledgers and knows how to smile while foreclosing your moon.
Founded centuries ago in a boardroom where the words "mutual benefit" were first weaponised, the Thoril Trading Company perfected the art of economic invasion. Their strategy is simple:
- Arrive with gifts — spices, textiles, luxury magical items, possibly a brass band.
- Sign generous trade agreements with local leaders (who are too distracted by free wine and glowing hats).
- Quietly purchase the planet's essential infrastructure, resource rights, and cultural festivals.
- Profit. Immensely.
By the time anyone notices, the planet is owned by a limited liability subsidiary of a holding company named after a tree.
Their motto is: "Trade, Trust, Triumph", although internally it's more like: "Extract, Exploit, Expand."
They operate embassies, merchant fleets, "friendship missions", and at least one mercenary-led insurance agency that specialises in "protecting investments from local misunderstandings."
¶ Business Consultant
Mr. Vipple Skentch, MBA (Mostly Balanced Aggression), is a twitchy, top-hatted goblin with the financial cunning of a dragon and the moral compass of a tax loophole. As the Thoril Trading Company's lead negotiator on Calad Bar, he orchestrates bribes, balance sheets, and backroom deals with a precision that borders on sorcery — if sorcery smelled faintly of cabbage and contract clauses. With a mind sharper than a debt collector's quill and a wardrobe loud enough to cause diplomatic incidents, Vipple is capitalism incarnate: always calculating, always smiling, and always carrying at least three emergency agreements in his hat (alongside a live ferret named Assets).
