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New to NW, and I dislike the random free-for-all nature of public servers.

I'll be honest, I don't know where to go, and I'd love to participate in the line-battles. If you happen to be an old-head from TWC, you should recognize since this was my old name over there, Dayman now, but hardly post.

Can you guys help me get some access to the Napoleonic glory I so voraciously crave?

Preface:I know it's been nearly half a year since I last wrote this, and that in terms of the internet is about 20 years. I apologize, I let life get in the way of writing, I've had two deaths in the family with a month of each other, my own bout of melancholy, and a string of romantic failure, so anything non-reality based got pushed to the side. However things are going well, and I have the itch to write again. I used Ian's character in some other places and some other times, and it didn't feel as right as this story right here. I hope to put out a new update once a week, but this week I'll try and get out at least three, since 1) the writing bug has caught me, and 2) you guys deserve it after my hiatus. This update is mostly exposition, so please forgive me, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 4: The Merchant's Business
Drums beat loudly, loud enough to jar Ian awake from his sleep. The featherbed that the merchant Victor was far too comfortable and Ian slept well into mid-morning. The sun had not woken him up today, because Victor could afford decent curtains. Decent meaning thick Veluca velvet. Drum beats, trumpet calls, and yells came in through the open window at the far end of the room. Brushing the sleep from his eyes and wiping his lips on his arm, he reluctantly got out of bed and walked over to the window. He peeked through the curtain and was temporarily blinded by the sun. The day was beautiful, blue skies with a few high clouds, the warmth of the late March sun helped reduce the chill of what was a cold morning. The noise was being produced by the Jelkalla watch drilling in the square, of which this room faced. "Victor has a house on the center square of the town," thought Ian, "He must be filthy rich." He watched for a few minutes, the watch Captain barking cadence. He looked fearsome, even from this distance, wearing a mail coat, covered with a green tabard embroidered with Graveth's bear on it. His helm reflected the sun off of it, his entire kit was resplendent. "He must be special," thought Ian. The watch on the other hand, was a little more roughhewn. Most of them had some sort of armor on, be it mail or leather, and all of them had the Bear somewhere on their clothing, but many wore simple tunics, others had no shoes, and only a few had helms. Nearly all of them were armed with a large shield, spear, and short sword. The Rhodoks fancied their armies to be the heirs to the Calrad Empire's, however their famous legions were always depicted in full mail, all well disciplined, and all ate wood and **** charcoal. "This ragtag bunch are not so much the legionaries they wish to be," said Ian to himself.

Breakfast was a feast. The servant brought in beefsteak, eggs, and turnips and honeyed milk to wash it down. Ian got dressed and washed his face. Before he met Victor to discuss his job, he looked in the mirror. He had recovered his color, a peachy tone, but the patchwork shave he gave himself yesterday was ugly as sin. He called in the servant, who gave him a quick shave with a straight razor, and Ian, clean-shaven for the first time in 15 years since he first sprouted facial hair, walked down the hall to meet Victor in his study. The servant, whose name was Castor, opened the door and led him in. Victor was dressed in a simple robe with a plaited belt, he had the appearance of a penitent monk, not the richest merchant in Jelkalla.

"Ah Ian, you look much better than I found you."

"You found me crying and covered in another man's blood, I wager cow **** would have been an improvement."

"Not so, because **** smells far worse than blood. But I see you've regained whatever humor you've had before as well. How is your resolve?"

"Waxing, but I am still anxious about this job. I don't know if I have the mettle for it."

"You made it this far. Tell me, how did you get here?"

"I swam."

"Ha!" Victor laughed. "I'll take that as 'mind your own business'. I mind others' business Ian, you don't gain wealth through indiscretion."

"I am still not clear," said Ian, getting to the point. "What am I to do? How to find your brother? I need guidance."

"And guidance thou shalt have, as the Church likes to say." Victor ushered Ian over to his lectern. "Can you read?"

Ian gave a terse, "Yes."

"Good," said Victor as he produced a piece of parchment from his pocket. "Here are your instructions. They are vague, so I will tell you what they are now, but the vaguery is so that if an illiterate brigand gets his hand on it, he can't give it to someone who can read and have this lead back to me."

"You think there are good odds that some brigand will get this off me?"

"If I thought that, I wouldn't be trusting you. I need you to go around, find a few men you can trust. Five to ten should do. Not too many, we don't need to attract too much attention. If someone asks, you're helping train militia. That should be a good enough excuse."

"Who would ask?"

"Well Ian," said Victor, "You may run into Graveth's men, his levies, or one of the officers of his army. Or maybe the aldermen of the village may wonder why you're taking able-bodied young men away from their jobs digging ditches or carrying pails of water."

"I see, armed bands attract attention," said Ian.

"Yes, and some may take you for bandits. It's essential that these men be of somewhat wholesome character - no reputation of banditry, of theft or anything of the sort. No one with any brandings."

Ian laughed, "Where do I go to find a wholesome man?"

"Outside of the city. Villages. The Selver valley is full of innocent young farmhands who haven't had the pleasures of Jelkalla ruin them yet."

"I see. What then after that?"

"Report back to me, and we'll go from there. Take this purse, 300 denars, and find your band. Make sure to get yourself food to feed these men. I'll lend you a horse and a few donkeys to carry your supplies."

"Anything else Victor? Or I'll be off."

"Yes Ian, yes. The Rhodoks are are war, as you may be aware. With the Sultanate. Jelkala and the Selver Valley is safe, but any further east and you risk running into raiding parties, I don't want you getting caught. A man with a bunch of armed Rhodok youths smacks of militia, and you'll likely be run through."

"I'll be careful."

"Oh, and watch yourself on the roads. This time of year there are few bandits, but in a few weeks caravans start moving, and so do the bands of looters, river pirates, and brigands. You won't be safe by yourself, don't travel by night, and make sure you always watch your back."

"I will," said Ian as he turned out the door, pocketing his instructions and his purse. "And Victor?"

"Yes Ian?"

"Thanks."

"It's my pleasure. Just find those men."

Those were Victor's last words to Ian for month. Castor led Ian to the stables, where the horse, an ugly old black beast, and a few stubborn looking asses awaited him. Some bites of salt fish and bread were stuffed into the saddle bags, and Ian led his train out of the stable and into the street. He kept his profile low, to avoid trouble, and left the northern gate of Jelkala. He reached the crossroads, and at the middle he stopped and looked around him.

"Geroia couldn't hold a candle to Calradia," thought Ian. The valley sloped gently up both sides, covered in farms and small towns, roads cris-crossing the fields. Far off the ground grew steeper, and covered in wood, until in the distance blue hazy mountains rose covered in snow. Beautiful country, under a sun midway through its course, at a gentle angle. Ian drew in a breath of green smelling air, and felt joy for the first time in four months.

In the next chapter Ian REALLY tries to find men who he can trust to take on the dead man's gang...


Ian's appearance:

I like everything except the fact that the armors are all darkened, and the silly combat animations.

I'm back, and I'll probably be writing a new chapter soon.

It'll probably be a week or so until my next post - semester starts Tuesday.

Avoid this thread then until you finish them all.

You don't need to start a new game to see the changes in troops.txt.

I think the ladies are randomly assigned those headdresses though because in troops.txt they just have boots.

All 5 because learn to make a poll

Be that as it may I didn't like them. I changed the cleaverman to a 2H swordsman. My rhodoks look like the badass rhodoks on the loading screen (sergeants have kettle hats, bascinets, surcoats). I did also make sure not to give armors that have more points than the ones originally assigned to avoid unbalancing it.

I don't like them? I thought they looked too much like uruk-hai. I really spent a lot of love on the Rhodoks as you can tell.

I got rid of the cleavers!

I'm actually playing my own amalgam of mods. If anyone wants it I'll PM the people for permissions. It's got item packs, the pike & blade troop tree w/ armor diversity that I added myself, names for all of the lords and ladies. I figure this is the best time as any to explain the politics of Ian's Rhodoks.

The Rhodoks, despite their reputation as insular creatures content to play mountain goat in their highland , are actually a mix of three cultures. The first dates back to the days of the old Calrad Empire, when Jelkala was a fishing village on the Selver and and the golden gardens of Veluca were but a gleam in the eye of its inhabitants. The original peoples, of which they derive their name, the Rhedocks, were a hardy mountain people. Their legacy lives on in the tradition of banditry in the mountains, but they were also democratic and provide the basis for modern Rhodok freedoms. The second people were those from Geroia, who came to settle the land during the War of the Five Duchies two hundred years past. The Calrad Empire was weak and had retreated to Praven as its sole enclave, and neither they nor the Rhedocks could stop the foreigners. The Geroians assimilated and brought love of wine, velvet, and fine linen to the land. The most recent culture was Swadians, who attempted to conquer Calradia one hundred years ago. They succeeded in subjugating the Rhodoks, some of the Vaegir Princes, and the city of Tulga. While the Swadian cavalry was not suited for the highlands, the concept of heavily armed infantry and crossbows was.

Grunwalder's Rebellion pushed out the Swadians and the Rhodoks formed their Confederacy. This was a free association of member towns, castles, and villages. Originally each place elected an representative, known as an Alderman, to the General Council. The Council then, on the Field of June outside of Jelkala, would elect a Steward. The Aldermen were in charge of the defense and execution of the law in their locales, the Steward was meant to be the same, albeit for the whole of the Confederacy. He was to serve for life or until the Council elected a new one.

This arrangement quickly devolved into a less democratic one. One of the major issues was that of the castles of the land. Many of these lay dormant or taken over by bandits. A few were kept by the local alderman as a safe haven for a nearby village. However the Steward had the Council pass a law stating that since the defense of the realm was the Steward's responsibility, that all castles be turned over to him. He then appointed Castellans, from his friends and allies, to watch the castles for him. By this his power was secure. After that, the cities of Jelkala, Veluca, and Yalen were proclaimed special locales who should have special leaders. Mayors would be elected from the aldermen of the town. The Mayors came to have a greater say on the General Council, where if 2/3 of the Mayors agreed to, they could veto anything. An office of Marshall was created. This man was appointed by the Steward, who would be delegated the task of overseeing the army. The Steward and the Mayors essentially rule the Rhodok Confederacy. While the people of the realm still enjoy freedom, dissent has been rebuked sharply, especially during times of war. The current Steward, Graveth of Jelkala, has been in power for five years. He was elected after the Battle of the Field of June where the latest Swadian offensive to retake the highlands was turned back. He has been the most powerful Steward in years and rumors are that he seeks to expand his dominion.

I've developed my own "fanon" regarding Georia in my story here. What I like about is that its a name that is mentioned a few times yet there is a death of details, which makes it ripe for exploitation. I have Geroia set up similar to Calradia, except it's five dukes who live peacefully, until one of them (the duke of Geroia proper) decides to reunite it by force. I also set it west across the ocean from Calradia.

But like I said it's my own envisioning of the place. In original M&B I always thought it of that bit of land to the northwest across the sea.

The morning of the 23rd of March was a cold one. I felt the chill creep through my blanket as I laid there halfway awake halfway in some long forgotten dream. I fully woke when the sun crept in my window and decided to blind me. I got up, shivering, and closed the shutters. They were of shoddy construction and blocked half the sun and less than half of the cold. I got dressed, put on my sword, and secured my purse to my hip. I had 300 or so denars left, and I needed to make that money last until I could find some work. I had come to Calradia to seek out a new life and now that I was here I wanted my old one back. In Geroia I had choices, but none as monumental as this. There it was a decision whether or not to allow my wife to guilt me into buying her a new horse or what sort of sword I would forge this time. I went downstairs into the common room and found the innkeeper’s wife and two assistants, perhaps her sons, about to make breakfast. The daylight revealed the place to be much shoddier than I had remembered last night, but it still looked clean and respectable. She heard me walk down the creaky staircase and preempted my greeting,

“Fair morning sir, innit?”

“Yes, it is, milady.”

“Oh no don’t go calling me lady, I won’t have it, I’m no proper ladylike figure”, she said, giggling. “My name is Sarah. Call me that. Will you be having breakfast with us?”

I debated whether or not I should have. I wanted to stew in my own depression and debate myself on what I would do next, not be engaged in conversation with a jovial woman. There was no one else around to talk to.

“I guess I will, Sarah,” I said as I walked over to the closest table.

“I’m glad,” she said, “you looked as brooding as we’ve ever seen last night, although I can’t say you’re much better this morning.” She gave me a weak punch on the shoulder, and pointed at my head, “As roughhewn as you’ve,” she paused as she imitated scissors, “it you still go do with a barber's. Although I do have to say it’s an improvement. I was never a woman for a man who looked like he lay with bears.”

I stared at her for a minute…I’d never in my life been made the object of sport! Her boys looked at me – not sure whether I was about to run their mother through – and I looked at them and back to her. She stood there and I snorted a chuckle. I laughed – I was so amazed at myself for doing so that I had to tell her, “That is the first time I have laughed in four months.”

She was quick to respond, “And that’s the first time a man as surly as you have laughed at my sport. Most of them either get angry and turn a table over or just look at me with a cold death-stare.”

“Well I’m glad to not have intimidated you this day, although I wager I gave your boys a fright.”
“Ah, don’t worry about them. Cowards. They would have bolted the moment you went for your sword. They can cook bacon but won’t even take it off the sow’s belly themselves.”

“Well I think they have the right idea, violence is not something to welcome with open arms. I’ve had enough of it in my life.”

“There you go, trying to turn a lovely breakfast into a melancholy sob. I’ll let you be, I need to round up the boys and finish cooking. I’ll be back to annoy you again in a bit.” She left and I was left alone, confused about what just happened. I envied her a bit, to be able to make light of whatever problems walked in the door. This being a port city, I’m sure she’s seen her share of sob stories like me, men coming to a new land for a new start. Maybe that is her way of dealing with people like me.

As I continued my thoughts I decided to try something new. I told myself that I was done with weapons and armor. I would make tools, sculptures, things of beauty. I just needed to find a place to craft my wares. I resolved that I would do this after breakfast. I felt energized and excited. Jelkala was a nice town, with good clean air. Maybe I could trade around Calradia as well, selling my own wares in all the towns, getting to see the sights. Should I settle down so easily then? My 300 denars would not go far though, and I needed to make money lest I end a beggar at a poor house. As my mind was storming Sarah returned with my breakfast. Two fried eggs, and a king’s share of bacon.

“I see you bring me two man’s share, Sarah.”

“I’d share it with another but there’s no one else around. So I’ll have you fattened up instead.”

I did not realize how hungry I was – I devoured the meal in record time. I didn’t talk, my mouth was full and Sarah waited for me to quaff my small beer and was handy with the refills. After I had stuffed myself I asked,

“Sarah, what would you say is going on in Jelkala these days? You can tell by my voice and my dress that I am new here.”

“I can tell that you’re new here since you came to our ratty shamble instead of somewhere nicer. Are you from Geroia?”

“Yes,” I said, and then realizing that I hadn’t told her my name, “I am Ian of Geroia.”

“Well then Ian, what are you good at?”

“I was a smith.”

“Well the smiths here could always need help, I guess. You’re not a warrior sort but you could always find an easy death in the wars as a mercenary.”

“I came here to live, not to die, Sarah.”

“That’s typically the opposite of what happens with your sort, although I think many of them wish to die. What are you going to do?”

“I think I will seek work with the smiths. I want to walk the city first though.” I got out a few denars and handed them to her. “Thank you for the meal and the company.”

“Ha, don’t let my husband hear that I’m being paid for my company now!”

I walked out of the tavern and into the streets of Jelkala. I had not noticed it last night, but there certainly was some seediness to the town. That comes with all port cities, but this seemed to be brought on from poverty. Berasad, in the land of the Caliph had seedy areas but they were concentrated around the docks and were safe enough, especially for the average sailor or fisherman. I walked around the walls of Jelkala and felt that there were less people here than should be. It dawned on me that Jelkala was at war and that in wars people die and never come home. It was still early so I figured that any brigands that would attempt to rob me would be asleep as loathsome beings are want to do.

I was wrong. In the east end of Jelkala I walked under a catwalk which connected two buildings. In the shadow there I did not see a man loitering; I was too busy taking in the sights. I was a block away when I noticed that he was following me. I did not get a good look at him, I tried to make my way back to the market and lose him amongst the stalls. As I turned a corner I saw that he was gone. I kept walking and heard running, when I turned he was in front of me, about fifteen feet away – he must of cut through a back alley – and had a rusty, nicked sword out.

“Your money or your life mate. And your sword too. It’s fancy-like.”

I was not about to give up my last possessions in the world to some back alley scum. I could give him my belongings and become a pauper (without my sword I could not prove my craftsmanship) or be run through. As I was thinking my options over, he stepped closer, cautiously. 

“Peaceful-like mate, I won’t stick you if you hand over your things.”

I decided enough was enough. I must tell you now that I had only sparred with a sword as a man is want to do – never with a sharp blade and never in anger. I did not know how to fight, nor have I ever hurt a man, not any more than a closed fist would do. I slowly unsheathed my sword, bringing it up in front of me, guarding against any thrusts.

“That’s how it’s going to be mate?” he said as he lunged at me. I swept down and blocked it. I kept backing up, my eyes focused on the pointy end of his sword. He could tell I was no swordsman and came at me again, this time in a sweeping cut. I got out of its way quick and we were standing off yet again. Before I could react he charged me, pommel out, ready to cut.

I blocked the blade and he fell into me, hitting my chest with his shoulder, knocking us both to the ground. I dropped my sword behind me. Pushing him away, I rolled over and grabbed it, and stood up. He was already up. I decided to try to attack. I swept it out at him and he blocked it easily. We were both sweating and the dirt from the ground mixed with it to make mud on his forehead. I lunged and he blocked. He grunted, lunged forward and swept wide at me, I stepped back and he was swinging at air. I saw an opening, and took it. I swept my blade down and cut into his shoulder, sending blood into the air. He screamed in agony, his arm nothing but red.

“You bastard, I’ll get you!” he screamed as he came at me again.

He was clumsy, and swung high overhand. I caught his shoulder with my left hand and with all my strength ran my sword right into his gut. He screamed a scream I will never forget. He was pale and leaning against my shoulder. I looked into his eyes, blood and tears ran down his face and onto my body. His breathing labored. I felt his blood drain out onto me. As I twisted the blade his eyes rolled back into his head, his tongue hung out, and he went limp. His dead weight slunk to the floor. He was bleeding profusely and my blade was inside him. I pulled my sword out and ran away. I ran a few blocks down, to some field on the edge of the city, and sat down. I did not know then if anyone had seen.

I sat there for what seemed like hours. I broke down. My hands shook and I felt shivers. I cried the man’s death throes still in my head. I cried more than I ever had in my life. His blood and gore were all over me. As I sat there sobbing I heard a kindly voice. I did not know what he said but at first I thought it Gerald. When I looked up it was a well-dressed man, clearly wealthy. He was in his forties, had short blonde hair and a blonde mustache, all kept neat and trim.

“Up off your feet lad, you’ll have his friends looking to pay you back.”

“What?”

“The man you ran through. I saw the whole thing. He was lowly scum and tried to rob you but his friends will find you and return the favor.”

“Oh…” I said meekly. “I, I don’t know what happened.”

“Yes you do lad, don’t act like you’ve never seen blood spilt before.”

“I have, but not by my own hand.”

“Well then today is your christening into the noble order of life-takers. Quickly lad, a man covered in blood will attract attention, either from the watch or from that dead man's comrades.”

I got up. He threw a cloak he was carrying over me and hurried me through the streets. We didn’t go back past the body and I was glad. We were nearing the market and after thoroughly making sure that we were not being followed, led me into his house. He had me wash up and take off the bloody clothing. A servant threw it into the fireplace and gave me a set of new clothes to wear, a linen tunic and a coarse jacket. I washed my boots off, and cleaned the gore off of my sword and out of my scabbard. The same servant came in with a goblet of wine, a hunk of bread, and a bowl of stewed rabbit for me to eat. I ate, thinking. I had no idea who this man was or why he tried to save me.

The servant had crept in again while I was pontificating. “My master wishes to see you now.” I turned around and saw him walk out. The man walked in and sat down across from me at the table.

“What is your name lad?”

“Ian.

“Of Geroia no doubt, your accent marks you as a foreigner.”

“Aye.”

“My name is Victor; I’m a merchant here in Jelkala. In fact, it’d be appropriate to say I am the merchant of Jelkala. There are many others but none so successful. Now, do you wonder why I brought you here instead of letting Graveth’s men come and hang you as a murderer?”

“I did not murder that man.”

“I know you didn’t. But you were in a bad part of town. People here are going hungry and the man you killed, well many considered him a regular Roger of Braganca.”

“Take from the rich and give to the poor? I’m no rich man.”

“No, but the maxim is more appropriately, ‘take from the unfamiliar and give to the familiar’. Now I know that his gang will be looking for you. And I just so happen to be looking for them.”


“Why not just wander about the slums like I did?”

“They don’t want that kind of attention from the watch. But they have mine now, through other actions.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother, Lucius, was taken hostage by their gang.”

“Why?

“For ransom, he’s a degenerate who enjoys whoring in the slums. They find him in bed with some working girl and stick a knife to his neck, and absconded with the bastard. They want ten thousand denars for his release, and I’m not of mind to pay.”

“He’s your blood!”

“He is, but he’s yet to prove he is worth ten thousand denars of ransom. Besides, it’s on principle. No one steals from me and expects me to pay to get it back.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because that man, Hector, was in the same gang. They will want you dead.”

“And?”

“Don’t you not see it? You go after them try to find where they have my brother. You find their hideout, slaughter them, and suddenly they no longer a threat to your life. And I’ll have my brother back.”

“What if I feel I have more pressing engagements?”

“Fine, leave now. And when they come and find you in whatever rat-hole you scurry into and cut your throat as you sleep, unmourned and buried in a pauper’s grave with the other foreign trash that washed up on shore this week.”

“I’m no mercenary. I’m a smith.”

“Well today is a day of firsts for you, first man killed and your first job as a mercenary. What do you say?”

I had no choice, and I told him that. He was pleased and left me be, he said that I was to stay here tonight and that we would discuss the matter again in the morning. Weaseled into being a mercenary! At least I would have one night again in front of a warm fireplace and with food in my belly. I tried to fall asleep, but in that halfway state I felt a kick and saw Hector’s bloodied face appear briefly before me. I jumped awake and scrambled for my sword but saw no one was there. I shouldn’t feel guilt, I told myself. The man had tried to kill me. He deserved it. And that justification let me ease off into sleep. 

In the next chapter Ian tries to find men who he can trust to take on the dead man's gang...

Mid twenties.

Archonsod 说:

I'd disagree there. The first book starts slow, but soon picks up. The nautical language is heavy across the first few books yes, but it's not exactly over heavy. For me I think the lull is Clarissa Oakes & The Wine Dark Sea, though it picks up again and ends on a high note.

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I can't speak with complete authority since I just finished The Ionian Mission, but if I had to pick a worst one that would be it. But that's why it's in quotation marks, because I've loved every single one.

Thank you guys for your compliments.

My stable mod-base has almost been achieved - so barring anything crazy in my life the wait for Chapter 3 should be shorter.

I have to second the Aubrey-Maturin series (the first of which is Master and Commander). I wouldn't characterize it as dry - it's painfully authentic, and the first book is the "worst" of the series, with the most sailing terminology. Once you get past the language, the books are brilliant.

Also, A Song of Ice and Fire is absolutely brilliant.

It was late November when we left Brevet. I was quartered in a small room midships, just between the crew quarters and the officer’s cabins. The table was bloodstained, my cabin must have been a surgeon’s space in another time. My night on board, before we set sail, was sleepless. The apathy and pessimism I felt remained, yet a small fraction of my being felt hope, guarded optimism. This is the first I became aware of the spirit of adventure within my soul. It would lead me to many places in my life, but first it would lead me away from home. I realized, laying there listening to the sea lap against the hull and the creak of the timbers, that once we left these shores I would be free. My family would forever live in my heart, but outside of Geroia there was no trace of my past life. I would be a free man, and I wanted that. I felt like I once did as child on the eve of my birthday, anticipating the gifts I would receive the next day.

I was woken up in my sleep by the master tugging at my shoulder. I could not tell what time of day it was, my cabin being windowless, so I asked, groggily,

“What time is it Master Ian?”

I could not see it for the shadow of my room obscured his face, but I knew he smiled at what I called him.

“At’s early mornin’. The tide’s ebbin, figur’d you’d like ter see us warp out o’ the dock.”

I sat there for a few seconds, contemplating whether I should see Brevet one last time.

“Give me a minute or two Master Ian; I’ll be on deck shortly.”

I laid myself back down for a few more minutes. I sat in the dark scratching my face. My beard was at least two inches long, my hair growing to keep up with it. I didn’t care to shave. I sat up, put my sword belt on, and got out of the cabin and up to the weather deck; where the oars lay. It only had eight oars on each side: not a large vessel by any means, but she was low in the water and full of goods. 

The sun was low on the eastern horizon, the west still dark blue and the faint pinpricks of the brightest stars remained. The moon hung overhead, showing a waxing quarter. The wind was from the west and brought the smell of snow with it. The tide was running out and we had the wind. We set sail – no need for the oarsmen to light us off – and I saw Brevet for the last time of my life. I had gotten used to seeing the last of things. Within two weeks we passed the southern reaches of the duchies. We landed ashore at nights if we could find a site to land, and we heard news of infighting between the former allies over what to do with the Duchy of Geroia. I no longer cared, and when I found myself alone I wept, wondering how many more families would be killed in the pursuit of land and glory.

We passed by the Holy County, the personal demesne of the Church. I was at one time a devout believer in my youth, I prayed to the Gods with all my earnestness. I lost my faith as I grew older realizing that if the Gods existed, they certainly did not answer my humble pleas. My mother taught me to read and I had read some works of philosophy. Before the war I had assembled quite a library. A small one, to be sure, not even twenty books, but I was proud of them. Natural philosophies, medicine, logic and thought, and the histories – oh how I loved the histories. I had no schooling so all the education I had was from the books I read. A few I had bought as an adult, a few others were donated to me over time, but half of them I had stolen when I was a child. As I grew older, and my prayers went ignored, I read more and more philosophy. Their arguments seemed to confirm what I had concluded, that if the Gods were real that they had taken no more part in the world. The parables that explained how early men corrupted the world of the gods seemed more to me excuses for greed and violence. In the duchies, my irreligion was tolerated, but I was sure to keep my mouth shut among the crew, who were highly superstitious and sacrificed nightly to the God of the Deep. The further south we went the more influence the Church had, and so the dryness of the lands increased too. I had taken to drawing the landscapes I saw in my journal, which took my mind off of my family. I also helped the galley’s blacksmith – I forged a sword for the master, and taught the smith himself how to make stronger cleats, shackles, and pins.

The weather cooperated, for the most part. Early in the journey we encountered snows, but no storms. The master said that the winter storm season didn’t start until February, and that we would be farther south, and out of reach of winter, by then. We passed the Haverset Confederacy and then the dry scrub of their hinterlands, then the Balion Empire and its cedar lined shores. It was January, and I could stand on deck, in the wind, with no furs on. It was pleasant and balmy, and the crew was happy and content. As we approached the southern apex of our journey, a curious thing happened. Not something unusual to me but unusual to this part of the world. The wind shifted and came out of the northeast. The master called it a “Khudan’er” because the wind grew on the steppes of the Vaegir taiga and swept southwest across the Bezan Sea. This was a strong one – stronger than any on board had experienced before. The waves whipped up foam that carried along, their crests tall as the galley. We pitched and rolled, the oarsmen tried to keep us pointed towards the waves but their strength gave out. Even I took a turn at the oars, my hands raw and useless for a week afterwards. We had thrown out a drogue but it broke off – we only had one choice, and that was run before the waves, and hope that the lee shore was not rocky. Two days the wind pushed us, bringing snow and ice. No one slept because if you tried you would fall out of your bunk. My legs ached from the effort of staying upright. One of the men had pressed himself straight against the bulkhead of my cabin, trying to stay upright, but doing so he locked his knees and passed out.

Luckily for us the winds let up and the wind again came from the west during the night. The sunrise revealed a beautiful sight to us: the harsh desert lands of the Caliph were covered in snow! We came ashore and the crew became like children, prancing about, built forts and having fights with balls of snow. My chafed hands had their relief in the snow. I sat back and watched the crew frolic. It was a surreal experience, one of the highlights of my journey. It was also here where I heard someone speak a tongue I was not familiar with. Geroan was a common trade tongue in this part of the world but many in the Caliph’s lands did not understand it. Their language was lilting, like song. When the sun rose, the Keepers of the Sun climbed their minarets and sung a song like no other. It was a joyous song, praising the sun and how it brought life, welcoming it to banish the darkness. A similar ritual took place at dusk, when a haunting lament was sung, begging the sun to return to us soon and warning the people to prepare for darkness and what it brings. Not exactly the best bed time story, but their voices were beautiful all the same.

We stayed in the port city of Berasad for a month; apparently the master was doing well trading and had gone inland for some distance. While we waited for his return I took to walking around, first by the quay and then further and further into the city. I avoided the shadier parts of town at first, I sought only the more reputable markets and inns. But on a whim I decided to explore the dockside pubs. They were lively and filled with people from all parts of the world, Calradia. This is where I met a man from Shariz, in the Sarranid lands, the furthest south reaches of Calradia. We spoke at length on the topics of our homelands – each of us bound for each-others former homes – and I learned quite a bit. I know that the Calrad language is similar to Geroan, and that they actually speak Geroan in Jelkala and the other Rhodok lands, they claiming relation to our people.

I had pause for concern, however, at the news of the constant warfare. I was told that there are six realms in Calradia, all who claim the throne of the old Calrad Emperor and the right to rule all others. The realm with the strongest claim, at least geographically, was the Kingdom of Swadia. She owned the former capital of the Calrad Empire, Suno, and had the most powerful army, except of course for my new friend’s own people, the Sarranids. They owned the southern desert and claimed that all others owed them tribute. Another people felt the same way – the Khergit Khanate also claimed this. Then there were the Vaegirs, the longtime rivals of the Swadians with whom the balance of power in Calradia swayed back and forth over the years. Then there were the Nords, from the northern islands and related to the sea raiders who make cross-sea trade so dangerous. Finally were the Rhodoks, who had some sort of noble republic where the sovereign was elected for life from the ranks of the nobility.

Later that month, the master of the Brevet returned. He had made quite a bit of profit on his excursion and was anxious to move on to another market. The galley was heavy laden again, and within two days we were out to sea. We stayed along the coast, taking it easy, the men rarely using the oars at all. March came, and one could tell. The days were getting longer and the nights we spent ashore started to smell green. By the twentieth of March we were sailing along the coast of the Sultanate. This terrain was much the same of the Caliphate, but then things changed. At first the desert gave way to scrub and then grassland. Then, far to the north, long distant mountains popped up over the horizon, followed by green hill which met the sea in white chalky cliffs. We stayed out to sea these nights. Before evening set in, I asked the master why,

“Master Ian, why do we not come ashore this evening?”

“I tell ya Oan, see those fires which is lighted along ta’ cliffs?”

I looked and saw, far off on the shore, golden in the sunset, two fires.

“Yes, I see them.”

“At’s signal fires, which means that there are bandits or enemies about. Be best fer all ‘o us to stay at sea in ta' meanwhile.”

This last week of our journey was uneventful save the the fog that rolled in every morning. There was always a fog bank which hung low right up to the cliffs, the only way to make sure we weren’t headed for a rocky death was to be quiet, listen for the sound of surf, and for the helm to keep a steady course. The land slowly lost its height, the grand cliffs turned into low hills marked by tall trees. The last day of our journey we finally made it to the Selver. The river cut a large swath through the Rhodok highlands, fanning out as it reached the sea in a miles wide estuary. The land of the valley was swampy and uninhabited save for a few outposts manned by grim looking men who flew the bear, the symbol of the Rhodoks. The swamp gave way to forest and then to farmland. Jelkala was still a half day’s sail away. We passed countless farms and the town of Buvran, and around the next bend hid the city of Jelkala. She was beautiful in the evening, the tall towers glowing in the sunset. The Rhodok navy sat at anchor, and off in the distance a troop of soldiers could be seen filing into a sally port - both quiet reminders that this was a land at war.

I said my goodbyes to the master and the blacksmith, and grabbed my things. By the time I left the Brevet the sun had just sunk and Jelkala was immersed in the sublime blue of twilight. I walked for a bit. I passed a church where worshippers were gathered for vespers. I strolled through a nearly deserted market. Most of the merchants must already have made for home. The inn the master had recommended was in a back alley next to a stable. It was very quiet and when I walked in there were only two people eating in the corner. The inn was clean, open, and roomy, and the innkeeper was a man about my age. I asked him for a room, a meal, and a drink and I paid him with some of the money that Ewan had given me. I ate my meal alone in my room, and didn’t touch the jug of wine he brought. The melancholy that had disappeared during my journey had made its return. I was truly a free man now, yet I felt more burdened than before. In my stare I noticed that there was a small mirror on the cabinet. I had not seen myself in many months and I was curious to how poorly I must have looked. My once neatly trimmed beard was long and scraggly, my eyes were tired, and my hair was matted and unkempt. I asked the innkeeper that a bath be made, and before I went to bed I washed four months of filth off of me, I took a knife to my hair and cut it, and I trimmed my beard with scissors. It was no barber’s work, but it would make me presentable. After cleaning myself up, I went back to my room. I cried again, feeling guilty that I had not thought of my family for some time. I lay down and thought to myself, what was I to do? I had all the opportunities that being unknown in a new land across the sea afforded me yet the monumentality of all those options weighed me down. I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

And you too must wonder what Chapter 3 will bring!

Yeah.