| February 2005 | << January 2005 | March 2005 >> |
| Travelers' Rest |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places |
Travelers' Rest lies on the outskirts of the low side of Port, a cluster of tombs, ossuaries, graves, wooden shelters, half-fallen halls and the ruins of a modest temple. The Rest is tended - after a fashion - by the Gray Folk; outcast poor, criminals, orphans and cripples unable to make a living in any other way. They dwell in the small buildings and ossuaries, always short of food and shelter; no-one in need is turned away, but all must share alike.
Cityfolk give small gifts to the most able amongst the Gray Folk in exchange for gravedigging, burial of unclaimed bodies, remembrances and the upkeep of tombs or graves. Even when a noble is buried on her estate with great ceremony or Seafarers's Guildsmen are returned to the Unending Sea, it is still traditional and proper to gift the Gray Folk. It shows charity and a respect for all that the Traveler represents.
The temple ruin at Travelers' Rest was once an impressive structure and the center of an order of priests; little of that remains save for a weathered, aged statue of the Traveler in the form of an earnest Datar. The desperately poor, ragged, hungry Gray Folk are neither acolytes nor priests, but they know old ways and ceremonies handed down over the generations - how to show respect for the passed and their journeys; ancient Ammander burial rites; where the old graveyards of Port lie; secrets glimpsed in the Farthest Tombs.
[ Posted by Reason on February 28, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Route Markers |
| The Enclave > Known Roads |
Stone route markers, some new, most worn and overgrown, can be found throughout the Enclave. Route markers define the Known Roads - without them, most travelers would stray into the Farthest Roads and become Lost. Far from the Enclave cities, the oldest route markers are boulders shifted to the roadside and bearing weathered carvings of the Traveler. The Power of the Known Roads is usually represented as a cheery Ammander whitebeard with staff and backpack - the Forest Road bears many an example of this sort. In a few of the most ancient route markers, half buried near the Stone Road and Coast Road outside Port, the Traveler is shown as a study Datar.
Route markers set in recent generations are more ostentatious; most stand on the Stone Road linking the cities of Port and Three Stones, the New Road and Trade Road leading to Three Stones. Nobles, guilds and wealthy merchants of Port and Three Stones vie for prestige in many ways, including the self-serving placement of route markers. The old imagery of the Traveler has become increasingly stylized over time, reduced to representations of his staff and backpack and overshadowed by other carvings, texts and marks.
[ Posted by Reason on February 27, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Traveler |
| The Enclave > Powers |
The stonefolk told stories of the Powers to the first Ammanders to arrive in the Enclave aboard Magi tradeships. Like the Beautiful Stranger, the Traveler is a Datarii Power, adopted by the Ammander folk as their own. The Datarii know the Traveler as the oldest of all stonefolk, one who walks each tunnel, each hall, each vault from deep to shallow. Every possible route beneath Great Home and into the Farthest has been walked by the Traveler and will one day be walked again. The Traveler helps to make the deepest and Farthest ways safe for those Lost Datarii who journey to meet the Crafter and their destiny at the center of all creation.
The mortal folk of the Enclave have come to a different view of the Traveler; he is the guardian of the Known Roads, but more than that, a guardian over the end of Roads. Roads and journeys have always provided powerful metaphors for the passage of life amongst the Ammander people, and this has become even more the case in the Enclave. As a road ends, so too does life end - yet the Traveler still travels, as do the friends and companions of the passed. Mundane but important duties fall to those who continue the journey; burial; respect for the Road traveled; respect for those who kept company along the way.
[ Posted by Reason on February 27, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Wilds |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places |
The Port Wilds - Guardians' Wild, Lords' Wild, the Cliff Wild and Commoners' Wild - are dense, overgrown woodlands within the city proper, protected from ax and fire by long tradition or noble ownership. The Farthest is never closer for cityfolk than in the outskirts of the Wilds; few commoners are brave or foolhardy enough to venture out of sight of stonework and cobbles. Even after the leaves fall and snow covers the ground, high brambles, bushes and evergreen trailing ivy render the Wilds no less impenetrable.
Rabbits and birds of all species can be found in the Wilds, but the Farthest Woods are a frightening place and there is no telling what might be watching from around the next tree. Some Lords, Ladies and their retainers hunt the Wilds for sport, but common folk in Port look to the sea for their next meal - thus, the Wilds remain largely untouched and unused.
Only Guardians' Wild on the low side of the Lothar is crossed by paths - a confusing, twisting set of trails and old trellises, one of which leads to moss-covered wooden huts by the bank of the Lothar. Staden, an quiet Ammander priest from the Watch of Trees, tends a shrine dedicated to Laelene here. A small number of Landsmen and fewer cityfolk bring Staden food, keep the paths clear, and listen to the wisdom he brings from the undying Ammanene. The outskirts of Guardians' Wild, especially close to the Fane, are popular with noble retinues and young lovers, but few folk even know of the shrine and those who gather there in respect for the old ways.
[ Posted by Reason on February 26, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Mabe and Tole |
| The Enclave > Known Roads |
The fishing villages of Mabe and Tole huddle on the stony seafront bordering the Low Marsh, within sight of the high cliffs of Port on a clear day. The outskirts of Mabe merge with the salty marshland; village hunters venture deep into the Low Marsh in search of eels and birds. The Ammander fishers here are of a different stock to those of Port or Cael; an insular, surly, worn-looking lot who dwell in tumbledown stone houses and poorly built shacks. They keep to themselves despite the nearby markets of Port; no marked Road leads from the villages to the city.
Commoners and Landsmen tell dark stories about the fisherfolk of Mabe and Tole, calling them moon worshippers, sly murderers or worse. Some claim that the Temple Guard of past generations forced villagers into the Low Marsh and burned their houses in payment for some long-forgotten crime. Regardless, decent folk have had little to do with the inhabitants of Mabe and Tole for a long time.
[ Posted by Reason on February 26, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Petitioning the Council |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > Organizations |
I am quite aware of the urgency with which you approach your charge, you have made that more than clear. I sympathise; any similar theft from my estate or interests would be dealt with quite harshly, I assure you. Simply put, however, you have no standing - this is not Three Stones and I am neither a Verden nor a Talmur to be pulled hither and thither by the whims of priests. You would do well to remember that.
Wander as you will; neither I nor my fellow Councillors have any intention of throwing good coin away by putting spearmen at your disposal. Do you think we empty our coffers for each new Visitor and petitioner to arrive in Port? Let your Temple protect its own interests with its own purse - you will find spearmen and strong hands in good number at the Guild Bridge or Seafarers' Guildhall on the cliffs. I very much doubt your thief is in Port, however; it sounds as though your fellow priests should be searching closer to home, quite frankly. Turn the City Without upside-down and I'm sure you'll find your statuette or figurine or whatever it was.
No, no, this petition is at an end. Not another word! Magister, the doors if you would be so kind?
My, my, my. I wonder just how much gold is in this latest Face of Burning Truth so carelessly lost by the good priests of Three Stones? It would be a terrible shame were it to be melted down for coin before being recognized, wouldn't it now? Still, it would have to be found first; while priests from Three Stones may carry the certainty of the Powers, I am far from sure. Anything a thief would care to steal can be found by the Unending Sea - why travel to Three Stones and risk a quick death from Watch blades? If one or two of my retainers became motivated to join this fishers' boat, they would be looking for someone other than a dockside rat ... assuming that the trinket itself isn't simply Lost to the Farthest.
[ Posted by Reason on February 25, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| An Evening at the Wayward Visitor |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places > Taverns |
Blood! I wasn't gone for longer than it took to scare those young eelsuckers away from the mules and someone falls on a knife. I'll wager Kalei was holding it too, and now she's off hiding somewhere. Back to work, you eels! Make some noise, look happy! You know the way the Visitor goes when the mood gets ugly - break open a cask of the good stuff and strike up a song afore we see Trespassers and worse.
Stop your wailing! You're a big man, plenty of friends on the dockside, and if Kalei saw fit to stick you, it was at least half your own fault. You're getting bound up, good coins worth of spirit wasted on the wound; if it was anywhere vital you wouldn't have breath to be shouting. Blood! See this ax? Don't make my life any harder! Now quieten down, you and you, afore you spoil the mood any more and bring out something ugly from the Farthest.
Hah! You and how many others? Blood, I'd like to see it, just for the looks on your faces after The Cursed has her way with you. Go on with you, take that excuse for a man away. You're lucky I'm not making you scrub the planking clean!
Rednail! Follow those eels out and then find me Kalei. Blood, the air tastes like bad ale in here. It ended badly the last time that happened. Where's that cask of good grain spirit? No, the one with the circle mark, girl, not the regular rot. All you with coin! A gift from the owner, so drink up!
[ Posted by Reason on February 24, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Salin and the Saltblock |
| The Enclave > Powers |
Aye, this'd be a place for tales. The old songs too, mind you, though like as not you'd rather someone younger carried the tune. Salin it is, eh? I would have thought you eager scriveners to have all the stories of the old Seafarer locked up tight in ink and parchment, all painted and pretty like yon mounted eel with the glass stare. Aye, it can't compare to the eel in the sea, though. Mark my words, scrivening may have its place in the world, but it draws the life right out of a tale.
A few coins, then. Aye, and that stranger's coin too - to pay Salin his due at the temple and bring me some luck besides.
Aye, then, how this alehouse got its name, the Saltblock. The block that serves as a tavern table and the statues in back, they've been there since I was a lad - since my grandfather's grandfather was a lad, like as not. Salt they may be, but may as well be stone for all the wear that the seasons and ale can muster. Wizardry! Right in front of your nose, young scrivener, and more than the greatest of your whitebeards can muster, eh? The Saltblock wasn't there when Salin sailed into Port, nor the statues, mind you well. Salin the Seafarer came from the the Unending Sea in a mighty tradeship, a rough set of hands and three Magi as crew. This was in the years when dusky, potent Magi still roamed the Sea - Iron, Wind and Salt were their names. Searching for the Vanished Isles they were, the Magi to find their way home and Salin to find a mountain of coin, secrets and wizardry.
He was a sly eel, was Salin, aye. Not one to shy from an impossible task either. Rough as the King of Thieves, voice to charm the clothes from a Lady, master with a thrown spear and butcher with a sea ax. He'd raise a crew and find a ship in the time it'd take you to write his name three times; a man known on every shore of the Unending Sea, a greater seafarer than any who ever lived.
That swarthy crew, seafarers from a harsh, hard land, snarled up and down the dockside like dogs. The Temple Guard kept them in their place, not like the militia eels dragging their spears on the cobbles. Shining red iron like the best of the old Ammand, they were, good enough to watch dogs from the Sea - but not Salin and not the Magi of Iron, Wind and Salt. The folk from the Farthest Sea soon had priests, Lords and Ladies following them like trained birds from the Fane.
Aye, they were for raising ships and crew for trade with the Vanished Isles. Enough to light up eyes and lighten purses, it was. Who's to say where it would have gone if everyone had kept their hands in plain sight? Some say Salin was too familiar with a noble daughter promised to a Lord, others that Lords were fired with greed for the wizardry and goods aboard Salin's tradeship. If you're to be putting a purse on the table, best to carry a good spear ... but both or neither, like as not, I say. One man's suspicion poisons the whole crew, aye, and then who is to know the truth of it?
So it was, afore these four walls and roof were built, that Salin, the Magi and a certain noble lady left Port in more of a hurry than they might have planned. The Lords called on the Temple Guard to seize Salin and his unseemly crew, but the wizardry of Iron parted their ranks like the tide through weed. The Lords called on Seafarers' Guildsmen to seize Salin's great tradeship, but the wizardry of Wind scattered the seafarers into the streets and water, just as though a great storm loomed over the dockside. Finally, the Lords themselves and a great retinue blocked Salin's path. The last wizardry of the Magi turned the Lords into salt statues and their followers into the Saltblock - just as you see them now.
Aye, and Salin's rough crew laughed and growled, taking what they could from docks, merchants and houses in payment for such poor hospitality. Only one ship left Port that season, just as only one ship arrived; left with a full hold too. Maybe it is that Salin searches for the Vanished Isles yet, or maybe Iron, Wind and Salt have found their home. One fine summer season Salin the Seafarer will return, mark my words, and will expect a better welcome from Ammander nobles. Aye, or there will be a worse price to pay!
[ Posted by Reason on February 23, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Mirel's Teeth |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places |
Generations of Landsmen have carefully covered the rolling grasslands and small woods surrounding Port with subtle marks and signs - the outskirts of the Low Marsh as well. Hunters' signs allow experienced Landsmen to avoid the Farthest and return home with marsh eels and rabbits.
Not all Landsmen are content with familiar lands and creatures; Mirel and her companion hunters are amongst the few who venture away from the Known Roads into the Farthest Wilderness. She relies on a Seafarers' Needle of sorts, an ornate stone traded from the Datarii - without it even she would become Lost. Independent, proud and quick to anger, often mistaken for a Visitor or worse, Mirel trades unique hides and exotic feathers with Stone Road merchants willing to meet her prices. The teeth she keeps; some she carves into figurines, others become jewelry, but each has a story behind it. A beast the size of a house; strange hunters who sought out rocks that moved; a snake that spoke like a man; birds of shimmering colors; trees that hunt animals. The Landsmen of Port all know of the exploits of Mirel and her fellows, but seaward-facing cityfolk have never heard of her.
An Ammander like Mirel would have been an explorer in past generations, leading hunters and spearmen to the limits of the Enclave ... but there is little call for such activities now.
[ Posted by Reason on February 23, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Order of the Glass Eye |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > Organizations |
Blood, don't touch the Lady Moonlit - the Glass Eyes don't like that. It doesn't matter about the spiders and the webs behind; not for a Weaver like you to question their whys and wherefores. Nor a spearman for that matter. They may not hang tapestries or sweep the stones, but they don't let anyone else near the statues in the main Hall.
It's easy coin, girl, and a good set of arms besides; you think I'd be carrying red iron otherwise? It's the Glass Eyes who want spears watching the Guild Halls and their workrooms. I can't see why, but it's more coin than I'd be taking from the militia or Seafarer's Guild. Blood! Are thieves going to steal hot glass and a furnace from behind triple-locked doors? Not bottles nor window-glass neither, but I won't be saying that when it's time to take the next purse.
Those high and mighty eels act as though glass is the biggest secret in Port, slinking in and out of their workrooms, wearing their guild signs, whispering and writing fit to be sages - but I'll wager any fool can fire up a furnace to make a bottle. How hard can it be?
[ Posted by Reason on February 21, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Cordage House |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places > Taverns |
The Cordage House is a rough tavern in one of the narrow cobbled streets behind the Berths and dockfront. Seafarers' Guildsmen, fisherfolk, dockside toughs, thieves and their hangers-on are the usual crowd. Every battered item of furniture in the Cordage House - up to and including the heavy wooden bar itself - is lashed down tight with good, thick rope to eyelets in the planking. Good coin is paid for burly thugs and lesser Guildsmen to keep the peace inside, but their paymaster, Shipmaster Komashk, is the most common cause of the frequent brawls in the House and on the cobbles outside.
Komashk owns the Cordage House, lives on the upper floors, and is rarely seen elsewhere. He is deeply suspicious of strangers, crude and surly, but nevertheless a font of sea tales for the few he trusts. The Shipmaster - absent a ship for as long as any of the dockfolk can recall - claims to have been a raider and shiptaker out on the Farthest Sea, wrecked off the Enclave coast and cast ashore on a broken spar many years ago. Like all of his stories, the particulars change with each telling and the whole is only barely plausible. Komashk is a proud man and challenging his words is unwise; more than one seafarer has been beaten near to death in the Cordage House.
[ Posted by Reason on February 20, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Unbroken Casks |
| The Enclave > Lore > Wizardry |
There's ten spears here, more than enough to make it to the old tombs in high summer; we've half a season to find coin for mules, bows and provisions. We've all killed Neth in winter snow - they won't trouble us in sun and heat. The sage won't come, but we don't need her. A few coins and we'll have booklovers a-plenty at the Library of the City Within to find us all we need to know. Those Black Tower whitebeards can wait as long as they like if they think I'm cutting them into a share.
None of you have funny ideas about taking back what the dead aren't using anymore? Good. It doesn't matter how many women chased him when he was alive, Krineth's just dust and bones under his Hills now. Dead is dead.
Blood! The Unbroken Cask, of course, what did you think? I don't care what the stories say, my sage says differently. There's a handful in Port; they never rot, never break, never leak, lighter than a feather whatever you put inside. The Cask is there, in the tomb, in the Hills, waiting to be sold for more coin than you've seen in your life. Now, are you with me, or do I need to find a hardier set of spears?
[ Posted by Reason on February 20, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Wizardry of Seafarers and Islefolk |
| The Enclave > Lore > Wizardry |
Only tales and seafarers' songs remain of the old, potent Magi wizardry that faded with the Vanishing; sails to charm the wind; great tomes and ledgers that knew their own contents; robes to slick away arrows and fire like rainwater; hulls that avoided shoals of their own accord; full sea chests weighing less than a feather; cold wizard-lights to bring day to night; fishhooks to call and land the mightiest eels of the Unending Sea.
Dusky Islefolk in Port, Cael and fisher villages know only a little of the old wizardry; the ways of the Magi Vanished along with the Isles. All that is left now was once traded to the stonefolk or recorded by renowned Ammander sages such as The Denier or The Expected Smile. In truth, few descendants of the Magi have the perseverance or the talent in their blood - wizardry may come easily to Datarii, but not to mortal folk.
Still, most Magi-blooded shipwrights claim a little wizardry and many folk believe them. Islemarks are carved on prows, painted on sails and engraved on axes used by Seafarers' Guildsmen - marks thought lucky or effective are paid for in good coin, but only a few amongst the many descendants of the old Magi work true wizardry; Seafarers' Needles; wizard-lights; Unbroken Casks, and the like. Islefolk such as Nelaan the Lightkeeper and Master Shipwright Benlei are held in high regard for their wizardry, albeit the merest shadow of that wielded by the greatest Magi of the Vanished Isles.
[ Posted by Reason on February 19, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Broken Wheel |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places > Taverns |
Once a boathouse on the dockside, the Broken Wheel has been adopted by Harand's thugs and other rough types as a safehouse and drinking establishment. The ale is poor and watered, but Harand and his trusted thieves drink only the best grain spirit. Commoners give the disreputable Broken Wheel a wide berth, save for the fisher folk who clean their catches on a nearby stone jetty. The numerous safehouse cats steal glowfish heads and eel spines; the remains of their thievery litter the tavern and the cobbles outside.
The Broken Wheel once housed the court of the King of Thieves, or so it is said. It is sadly diminished from those long-ago seasons; its crumbling stone walls are patched with ill-fitting boards; the furnishings are broken-down and battered, the bar a plank over casks; ragged, scarred cats perch on beams and fight over bones under the rickety tables; the thatch leaks in the rain. Still, there is a certain prestige associated with control of the Broken Wheel amongst the rough dockside folk - Harand's swaggering trustees make sure that is well understood by common thieves and their fellows.
It is an open secret that the Broken Wheel stands atop dank tunnels and storage rooms; so much so that it is the first destination for militia, Seafarers' Guildsmen or spear-armed retainers from the noble estates after any particularly grand theft or new outrage on the part of the Unseen Hands. Harand's patronage is an expensive and uncertain proposition, but thieves who do not pay the price risk being given up to the magisters to placate an angry mob or influential noble. Like most of the well-known rogues in Port, hard old Harand has cozy relations with militiamen and the Seafarers' Guild - and no shame in using those relations to his best advantage.
[ Posted by Reason on February 19, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Year of Three Sails |
| The Enclave > Seasons Long Past |
Listen to him and his two good teeth spouting that old rhyme! I'll eat every sawdust-stuffed eel in this place and carve my name on the highest roof beam blindfolded if ever a Neth sailed the Unending Sea. Some drunkard Guildsman sang that song on his way to an early grave, but there sits Ochan swinging his mug like it all came from the wisest whitebeard in all creation!
Pah! Of course I know better! Three sails there were that summer - no Neth, not then and not ever. You have my grandfather's word on that, and that's more than good enough for you mangy, spirit-soused eels. You may as well spin a tale of a ship of stonefolk or castles under the currents as of Neth at sea. But three sails there were, three sails for three great ships of odd design, the strangest seafarers you can imagine at the helms and mastheads. The old Magi must have seen some sights in far lands, for these had teeth like a dog, legs for their arms, blue-painted skin and great round eyes, big as your fist, aye. They flashed their mirror-signs and hoisted pennants of all colors, sailed between the cliffs and around the bay as pretty as you please. They never dropped anchor, but followed the wind and currents back into the Unending Sea that very same day.
The merchants and Islefolk may have wailed and cried into their ale that season, but I'll wager your grandparents heaved a sigh or two. It's not right to have things other than honest folk walking the docks. Hoi! Bring a new cask and have Ochan tell a real tale, of Salin and the Fisher ... no more of that mudwater nonsense about Neth.
[ Posted by Reason on February 18, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Woodwyrm |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places > Taverns |
Leaning ramshackle against the thick landward wall of the Shipwrights' Hall, the Woodwyrm looks like nothing quite so much as the remains of a great ship fallen to the ground from a great height. Every part of the tavern is built of driftwood, old planking, keels and beams, lashed together with lengths of rope.
White-sashed Seafarers' Guildsmen, shipwrights and drunken thugs from the docks raise a great noise within the Woodwyrm each night, telling tales and singing the old songs while draining casks of Landsmen grain spirits. The preserved remains of unlikely fish float in great glass bottles above the bar; scorched, stuffed spined eels hang over the central firepit. Toasting sweetmeats (or anything else that comes to hand) over the burning flames is a popular pastime for those patrons too drunk to sing. The Woodwyrm has the stench of a pickled glowfish Lost in the Low Marsh, but is undeniably popular. The tavern has burned down twice in living memory - it was built again in a few short weeks on both occasions by eager seafarers and dock folk.
[ Posted by Reason on February 17, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Prison Hulks |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places |
The prison hulks, once proud trading vessels, rot in the water close to Ralan's Keep. The hulks are the final destination of prisoners found guilty of murder and other heinous crimes by the magisters of Port - at least those unfortunate enough to lack sufficient coin or patronage. Locked in manacles in the foulness below decks, the keys thrown overboard, they will never be released. Gulls circle the hulks by day; the stench of filth, decay and death floats over the water.
Seafarers' Guildsmen row out to the hulks every few days to throw in food and water. Ax- and spear-armed seafarers remove the dead and wash out the worst of the fetor with seawater with each new season - a loathed duty that is itself assigned as a punishment. Remains are burned ashore beside the walls of Ralan's Keep or simply thrown into the harbor for crawcrabs, eels and gulls to fight over.
[ Posted by Reason on February 16, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Winter Seasons of Thieves and Neth |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > Local Color |
Oh, and you'll be slinking away to a certain girl in Cael once the last leaves fall, I'll wager. You and Saben both, a nice arrangement you have with the Council there - a winter of coin for doing nothing more than staying abed while your spears rust in the stand. One of these years the Neth will blood Cael again; you won't be so warm and comfortable when your guts are painting the thatch. Hah!
Menei, Gereth's boy and that useless eelsucker Arin are off traveling to the King's Keep already, and good riddance. Riding the Forest Road and standing night watches after first snow might teach them a little respect for those who've done more than knock a few drunk heads together. I've had Neth blood on my spear, this spear right here; I wouldn't shed any tears to hear Arin and his oh-so-fine boots got themselves Lost.
No, you all take yourselves away this winter season just like the rest. Myself, I'll be keeping the chance to push a few bunks together in the barracks between patrols. Bring in a willing fisher girl from the docks, who's going to say anything? All the favorites with their coins and red iron, with their "King's Way this" and "King's Way that" ... they'll all be bowing and scraping at the Keep or freezing themselves poor on the Roads waiting for Neth to cut their fingers off. Hah! You're all so eager to carry your spears here and there for a few more coins that you miss out on the easy life right here in Port.
Hah! As though I care a bad coin about a few thieves in winter. A little snow on the ground and they think they can do as they like. But so what? Let them fight each other and freeze themselves finding something to steal. If the high and mighty in their estates cared, they'd give us more coin. No, I'll walk my patrols and drink at the Horn in front of a roaring fire just as I did last winter.
[ Posted by Reason on February 15, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Draining the Silvered Horn |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places > Taverns |
The Silvered Horn is a worn, comfortable tavern nestled against the old city wall on the low side of the Lothar. Mottled awnings and rough-cut benches overlook the river bank, a good place for crawcrab and ale in warm seasons. The nearby militia barracks and training hall ensure that the innkeeper, an old, white-haired spearman formerly of the Temple Guard, makes a good living. There is nothing quite like a thirsty patrol of spearmen on a wet night to make the inside of an inn seem crowded. Red Iron smiths, guild craftsmen, Temple Guard and Three Stones merchants round out the regulars.
The Silvered Horn itself, an ancient drinking piece from a huge and no doubt dangerous beast, is given pride of place above the tavern fireplace. The innkeeper has long said he will gift ale and board for ten nights to any mortal who can drain the horn in one draft - a hopeless task that is nevertheless attempted at least once every season.
Dockside thieves tell wistful stories of a vast stash of coins - the profits of a generation of overpriced ale - hidden within the Silvered Horn. No-one has yet risked the wrath of half the spearmen in Port to establish the truth of the matter.
[ Posted by Reason on February 14, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Cast the Eyes Away From Land |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > Local Color |
Landsmen and cityfolk of Port scarely acknowledge one another - an old division that stretches back for many generations. Seafarers, fisherfolk and even common cityfolk look to the Unending Sea, contemptuous of those who work the land for a living. Better to be the lowest dregs on the docks than a farmer, or so it is said. For their part, Landsmen and those who watch the city Wilds are a proud folk - too proud to want anything to do with scornful, ignorant cityfolk. They dwell in small communities outside the city main, tending their fields, herds and orchards unbothered by militia, dockside thieves, Taxmen or the Council.
An economic sleight of hand brings Landsmen produce - dried fruit, grain, ale, wood, straw, salted meat and vegetables - to the dockside market and taverns of Port. Landsmen rarely set foot in the city main and few cityfolk wander the fields; it is traders from Three Stones who leave the Stone Road to barter with Landsmen for goods to sell in Port.
[ Posted by Reason on February 13, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| To Spire and the Stonefolk |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Journeys |
It was good of you to allow me to travel with your caravan - I recognise you from the dockside. You know Master Shipwright Benlei and his daughter, aye. He is a trustworthy judge of character. Myself, I sew sails - good sails, from the old tradeship designs - and avoid Guild duties; I'd rather be out past the cliffs with a new sail behind me than throwing drunks into the bay or listening to the traders argue on the docks.
Aye, it is not so bad, walking by the river. No salt in the air, though, and your spearmen tell me that the Trade Road to Spire is dry. I am not looking forward to dust on the wind. If you end your journey at Three Stones, then I should pay a few coins for their company while I pass the walls - I hear the City Without is a rough place for a seafarer.
Why the road to Spire? Aye, there is a story there. Let me show you this; it has been in my family since the Vanishing. My grandfather told me that the ancient seafarers traded wizardry with the stonefolk for craftsmanship like this: mura, stonefolk silver. Look at it, the way the light catches the fine lines - you might think it forged yesterday. I see your eyes light up, aye, but there are more important matters than worth and coin. The sea in our blood, the reminders of trade, the sails and songs, a little of the old wizardry like the Seafarers' Needle you carry - these are all we have left of the Vanished Isles. Ammander ways are fair enough, but they are Ammander ways; they tell me nothing of the Magi. I grew up speaking your tongue, listening to your stories of ancient times across the Unending Sea, to your tales of Salin the Seafarer, but have nothing of my own to offer in return.
What I do know is this: The Locked Heart told me that stonefolk are not mortal, that they like a good tale as much as the roughest man in the Seafarers' Guild, but mura is their true love. Those same Datarii who traded with the Magi for wizardry and stories of far-off lands still live under the mountains, so The Locked Heart said. From Spire, I'll find my way to Great Home and then we'll see. Aye, grand plans for a sailmaker from a family of sailmakers, but weren't my ancestors so much more than that? You Ammander folk come from a line of lords; your spearmen would understand, following the King's Way as they do. Greatness is in the seafarer's heart, and mine carries me to Spire and the stonefolk.
[ Posted by Reason on February 12, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Lost Merchant |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > People and Places > Dockside Market |
Each sunrise, Abey'aben sets up his stall in the dockside market, just as he has for many seasons. He sates himself on raw glowfish bought from returning fisherfolk - delicately, with sharp teeth and fingers jointed in too many places - before waiting for trade as the market fills. Throughout the day, the strange, dark-skinned merchant compulsively rearranges his wares: knives, oddities from the Farthest, carved driftwood, dried plants and fruit.
Abey'aben is friendly enough for one of the Lost. He has mastered neither the Ammander tongue nor the customs of Port, but can make himself understood and seems content with his lot in life. The dockside thugs leave Abey'aben alone and he is popular with his customers, his odd mannerisms almost charming in a way. Stranger creatures are certainly seen from time to time in the streets of Port - Abey'aben in his patchwork robe could almost be mistaken for a Vanished Islander in the right light.
At dusk, Abey'aben packs his wares to return to a dwelling in one of the Landsmen villages outside the city. In the eyes of of most cityfolk, the trader may as well have vanished back into the Farthest Market for the night.
[ Posted by Reason on February 11, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| King of All the Ammand |
| The Enclave > Powers |
He was a rough man, skilled with a blade and the old Ammander spear; the best of warriors to have stood by your side in battle, a man who had seen the high cost of blood. He could be trusted with your wife, but not with your daughters; a lover of good wine in the best of times, sufferer of bad wine in the worst of times. He had a way about him, honest with a grim sort of smile at life's injustices, thrust into leadership time and again, a reluctant bearer of the trusts that others shirked. In time he came to be the King of all the Ammand lands, united the quarrelsome lords, brought peace, prosperity and an honest rule. Yet in his heart he was always a commoner, duty placed upon him like an ill-fitting robe - and therein lay his greatness.
The white-haired sages of the Black Tower claim there never was a King of all the Ammand lands, but the common Ammander folk of the Enclave know better. Any honest spearman might have taken up that crown, that duty, if the world were simply more just. There is a little of the King in all worthy commoners, a little of his decency, his rough honor, his sense of what was right and necessary.
There are no Kings in the Enclave lands, and certainly no King of all the Ammand in the present time, but the man who was King watches over his descendants from deep within the Farthest. If more men followed the King's Way, the world would be a better place.
[ Posted by Reason on February 10, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Moon, the Stars and the Unending Sea |
| The Enclave > Lore |
The white moon, closest of the stars according to the most learned sages, shines at night over the Unending Sea. Like the uncertain tides, the moon is a fickle aspect of creation - its round face sometimes here, sometimes there, sometimes large and bright, sometimes small and dim.
In the old Ammand, the most ancient of chill mountain folk bowed before the moon and were known as savages for their ways. The Kings of plain and forest rode into the mountains to tear down the moon temples - all this a very long time ago, long before the Greater Power. Moon-faced or moonlover is an old, inoffensive slur amongst Ammanders, meaning fickle ignorance or unthinking, clumsy ways.
The seafaring Magi fought and soothed the moon, stars and tides of the Unending Sea with their wizardry, but that knowledge is long gone, torn away with the Vanishing. Stonefolk care nothing for the moon, but maintain that it is made of mura, the rare metal mortals call Datarii silver. As for the cruel Neth - well, who can tell what Neth think of any subtle concept?
[ Posted by Reason on February 10, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Vessel of Burning Truths |
| The Enclave > Powers |
His existence pales before his knowledge; his name, his history, his part in the dance of mortals have been burned away by the Truths he holds. They flame in his mind, guiding his footsteps far from the world and daily concerns. Like all who find the Burning Truths, he first denied, then reluctantly acquiesced, eagerly quested, and finally accepted. His life is the stuff of legend, yet he might be any man.
All Burning Truths, whether deeply personal or of world-changing significance, are a fragment of the single mystery of creation, recognized by awe and little else. The quest for Truths always leads inexorably into the Farthest, away from the world we know.
Many folk have come to understand the Truths of the Vessel as mere mastery, however; mastery of people, of coin, of skills, of the mundane but significant truths and secrets of a mortal life. So it is that the nobles of Three Stones have long commissioned statues of themselves as the Vessel Ascendent. So it is that priests of seasons past came to write and enforce the law of Three Stones. So it is that the Temple of Powers in Three Stones is led by a charismatic tyrant rather than an introspective seeker of Truth.
[ Posted by Reason on February 9, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Crossing the Taxmen |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Port > Organizations |
"Strong," he says, "does what he's told," he says , "do well, he will," he says. I should've just jumped off the cliffs and saved myself a whole purse of trouble. When I said keep a look out and keep folk away, I didn't mean go throwing down with Taxmen! I don't care what they said - they can all swim the streets like the lord of sharks, because that's what they are so far as you're concerned. You're lucky they didn't leave a blade in you.
They all wore the black sash, are you blind? With my luck you were rousting with Trenar's lot; there he'll be tonight at the safehouse, polite as you like and twenty knives behind his back. Or worse, that old eelsucker with the brain-stabbed Neth on a chain. They're all as bad as each other - taxes, the prison hulks, or worse for them, and you can wager they're smart enough to keep a good thing going. All the knives you'd never want watching your back while you're lightening a purse; fawning with the rich folk, stabbing the poor, keeping coins in the councillor's estates ... isn't that always the way?
You know what will happen if Taxmen decide to gut you and throw you to the crawcrabs? Nothing, that's what. Think the spears in the militia care a bad coin one way or another? No high and mighty councillor's going to shed tears over a commoner thief from the villages crossed by their pet eels. No, you've got to be respectable, a pretty woman or a pile of coins before you can cause them trouble. All the fancy council nobles care about is counting what they steal by the law they made, mark my words.
This'll cost us all good, you'll see, and you'd better expect that every last coin is coming from your hide, I don't care how many seasons it takes!
[ Posted by Reason on February 9, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Passages |
| The Enclave > Powers |
In the Ammand, the Ammane breathed life into the world. Their breath was strong for the Ammanene, who live and live and live. We mortal Ammanders must make the best of our lesser gift of life, for we do not know whence we go after the weight of years has been lifted.
The Magi are said to have known the great mysteries of creation, even learning the secrets of death from far across the Unending Sea. This is lost with the Vanishing, yet I doubt the legends. Had the Magi known such truths, they would have abandoned their trading to bring enlightenment to all the mortal peoples of creation. What else could they have done? There are truths and there are Truths; the latter burn in the mind and steer the lives of men.
The Ammanene think they have found Truth here in the Enclave; that the dead, their beloved dead, dwell in peace in the Farthest. I have seen Visitors and Trespassers, seen the Farthest Library and the Farthest Graves, and I believe the Ammanene chase a noble dream born of guilt. Nothing more. Yet their forest shrines will prosper, and they will waste lifetimes in the service of memories and what might have been.
All too many - amongst the commoners, the priests, the sages - declare death to be the very end of a long Road. They do not see that there might be anything more beyond the last breath, but I cannot accept this. A Road cannot end: only cobbles and route markers can end. The Road continues for as long as the traveler carries it in his heart and sets one foot in front of the other.
The death of mortals will forever be the greatest mystery in all creation. It is a hardship, like so much of our lives, yet we must take heart. Each and every one of us will learn this great hidden Truth in the end.
[ Posted by Reason on February 8, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Council of Traders |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Three Stones > Organizations |
It was the great-great-grandmother of the present Lord Verden who decreed all guilds to be illegal in Three Stones. This was in the years before the Temple gained control of Three Stones from the noble families. Traders, merchants and artisans of the time were forced to pledge their first allegience to the city, personified by Lady Verden and her appointees. The new arrangement was formalized in the Council of Traders, an organization that has persisted in much the same form to the present day.
The Council is made up of appointed representatives from various recognized professions in the City Within and members of the most influential noble families. The Council settles disputes, manages a growing retinue of functionaries, adds to an already arcane and contradictory set of regulations, and often sets prices and quotas. As such, the Council chambers are constantly busy with artisans seeking favors and favorable treatment. The very nature of the Council of Traders ensures that the only merchants and crafters to prosper in the City Within are those who have cultivated relationships with nobles or their pawns - the Lords and Ladies of Three Stones do very well as a result of these arrangements.
Trade and crafting amongst the poor of the City Without proceed in a hidden and transient fashion; commoners who dwell outside the walls are not permitted to work under the auspices of the Council, but neither are they permitted to work without these "protections." Nevertheless, the City Without hides thriving black markets in goods made expensive by taxes and restrictions in the City Within. Representatives of the Council convince Temple priests to send Guard or Watch through the slums of the City Without to knock down stalls, destroy tools and burn goods once every few seasons.
[ Posted by Reason on February 7, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Of Leaden Coins and Taxes |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Three Stones > Local Color |
Trade in Three Stones - in the City Within at least - is harshly taxed by the priests of the Powers. The walls, the Guard, the Watch, even the coinage serves this purpose. Only lead coins cast by the priests, worthless elsewhere in the Enclave, are permitted within the walls; traders and other travelers must change coins at the gatehouse. The Watch, practiced in their search for those who would break the law, ensure that the Temple receives a tenth value.
[ Posted by Reason on February 7, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Walls of Three Stones |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Three Stones > People and Places |
Three Stones remains a walled city, unlike Port; the walls of Three Stones have only grown larger with the passing of generations. The main city wall, built of weathered blocks carved long ago from the closest of Krineth's Hills, is a good eight spans high and just as thick. Spearmen of the Guard patrol the broad wall top, keeping watch for Neth or those who would make an unorthodox entry to the City Within.
When approaching Three Stones from the Stone Road, New Road or Trade Road, only the largest structures project above the wall - the Temple of Powers, the Black Tower, the gatehouse facing the New Road, the Guard Keep. Enormous solid red iron gates are set into the city gatehouse, never opened in the hours of darkness, the only way for most travelers to enter and leave the City Within. All are taxed and searched under the eyes of the Watch.
The high city walls give way to a far less impressive barricade at the end of the Great Way facing Krineth's Hills. A more recent stone construction three spans high, this serves to keep the poor of the City Without from entering the City Within. In cold seasons when lesser Neth color the snow with commoner blood, the wall serves the City Within well also. The thick wooden gate linking the two halves of Three Stones is rarely opened.
A similar lesser wall surrounds the Guard Keep, built outside the high wall on the New Road side of Three Stones. Well-guarded gates lead from the Keep and its training ground into the City Within and out to the New Road.
[ Posted by Reason on February 7, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| To Three Stones |
| The Enclave > Known Roads > Journeys |
I'll not be leaving this bed it seems, so it comes to this: you'll be leaving your fisher girl and boats for a time, my boy. Not so long in the face now! I'm not for dying yet, but there's coin in the balance and the days are slipping away. I have thirty barrels in Menas' storehouse by the Berths, and not much time to see them to the Grand Market in Three Stones. I owe the old miser Menas nothing, but you'll never convince him of that - easier to have you pay a few coins.
Young Toerel here knows the way, though it might not look like it. Followed in my footsteps these past few years, might make a good merchant of him yet. None of that foolishness with the sea in this one, eh? I recall that taking council comes hard to you, doesn't it, my boy? You'll take it from Toerel - let him help you pick the workers and the mules, and none of your friends from the dockside, eh? Too many thieves hereabouts, my boy, and you need more than just a sharp eye. You'll need a few spearmen too, all the better to keep the guilds happy. You should pay your respects to Geren's daughter at the forge by the riverside, you know the one. She's rough red iron, but the toughs sniffing around her breeches are trustworthy enough. She'll be happy to be rid of a few suitors, but not so happy as Geren, eh? Better to travel with those you know, my boy. I wouldn't want you taken in by the pretty talkers with their pretty armor and pretty spears at the Guild Bridge or the Wayward Visitor.
The Stone Road is an easy journey until you cross the Lothar. The council of Two Springs have got it into their heads to be taxing merchant folk again; the guild is having none of it, but don't go putting yourself between two thieves and a purse just to make your point, my boy. Spearmen are for looks in Two Springs, not for making the guildmaster angry. You mind yourself after the springs, now. The Whisperwood is not a place to be near after dark. I could tell you some stories - but better you just set out early and travel fast and far that day.
You be respectful to traders on the road, eh? I know them all, and don't want to hear all about my unpleasant replacement. If you meet the Sage at Two Stones, be very polite - none of your seafarer's ways. Give him whatever he asks for, and say your uncle sends his regrets.
You'll see spearmen on the Road when the Three Stones watchtowers are in sight. Some of them are fine, upstanding fellows - Toerel knows a few by sight, don't you? Like as not you'll meet toughs no better than the thugs on the dockside here. Pay them a few coins anyway, eh? They do their job, stopping honest travelers from coming too close at dusk or when the Neth come down from the hills. Best you camp further back down the Road, though, or who knows what you'll find rummaging through your packs and my barrels.
There's a bag of coin on the table; whatever you don't spend on merchanting is yours. A ruinous waste from what I know of your tastes, my boy, but needs must, eh? Here, you should take this, my old Seafarers' Needle. She points to the Road come hail, fog or Farthest. I doubt you'll need her, but I don't want to be explaining to your fisher girl that you couldn't do a simple job of trading for your old uncle. Eh? Eh? Now off with you! Time is wasting!
[ Posted by Reason on February 6, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| The Kalmet and the Glowing Ones |
| Spirits of Rock and Sky > The Servants' Path |
Hotal 71 ceased her efforts with the fire-starting bow and bent to blow gently on the newly glowing ember. Shavings of Estin's Wood reluctantly caught light; scented smoke rose past the young Jentik's face. The wind made it difficult for Hotal 71 to make fire in the rock hollow, but Lotun blocked the steady breeze with his robe and body. The small flame cast orange and yellow light over the rock and Servants of the Provider, overwhelming the diffuse Light of the One God. The acolyte sat up, placing the small fire-starting bow in her lap. She massaged her hands, aching from the time spent over the wood shavings.
"Are you ready?" Lotun asked, with a smile. She had laughed at his expense after he had failed to create any embers. Lotun's leatherbound, painful knee prevented him from crouching above the wood. His attempts to find a position in which to use the fire-starting bow had finally worn down Hotal 71's reserve - she had giggled and then laughed. Lotun had not been amused, but now the acolyte suffered cramped hands and sore thighs. The wind blew apart the thin trail of smoke rising from the smoldering wood. It followed the moving air, scenting Hotal 71's hair.
"Let me move before we begin." The Jentik shifted around the small hollow in the rock, flame-cast shadows moving with her. The Light of the One God was bright this wake and covered much of the Lightward Sky.
Earlier that wake, the stars had slowed, stopped and finally reversed the direction of their movement; the elder Initiate and young acolyte had both made the Three Essential Observances as the Time of Still Sky came and went all too quickly. Hotal 71 would have commenced an artwork had she still dwelled on the High Plateau. Lotun would have joined his Family at a Shrine of the One God had he been among his Tribe. The travelers were alone on open rock in Susyan territory, however, and the Provider required different rituals.
"Do you recall the gestures?"
"Tumnil 146 taught me not many tenwakes before we departed. I remember, Lotun." Hotal 71 was nervous; as an acolyte in Tumnil she would not be doing this. Lotun should be the one to perform the Ritual of Still Sky, but the Ritual required that the Initiate who spoke and gestured also light the wood. The young Jentik breathed deeply and deliberately to calm herself. Fragrant smoke rose from the embers before her as Lotun waited patiently, the breeze tugging at his hair. Hotal 71 mouthed the words to herself in preparation for the long chant.
"Servant. Jentik." The sudden voice was soft but purposeful. Lotun and Hotal 71 both straightened, startled from bowed meditation over the last glowing sparks amid charred wood shavings. A tall flax-robed man, a Susyan, had come upon them so quietly that neither had noticed and stood, respectfully, a bare five paces away. Light from the Sky cast his shadow away to the ridge he must have crossed. The man raised a finger to economically gesture left, right and upwards. "Wind. Sweet smoke." A thin fuzz of new hair barely covered his scalp, the serene composure of his expression barely changed as he spoke. A small leather bag tied by his side swung as he bowed to the seated travelers. "Tomen."
Lotun reached for his staff and began to get to his feet, favoring his injured leg. Hotal 71 regarded the newcomer with curiosity. His robes were unadorned but otherwise similar to the Initiate's robe Lotun wore. Yet this Susyan was no Servant of the Provider.
"Tomen of the Kalmet?" Lotun pulled his robe into shape as he spoke, leaning on his engraved staff.
Hotal 71's eyes widened. "Kalmet!" she whispered to herself.
The newcomer nodded once. "Yes. Time passes. I am capably pursued. I regret what will come."
Lotun frowned, taken aback. "Pursued? Do you seek my protection?"
Tomen waved a single finger in the negative. "Not warriors" he replied, indicating the Wohken and the Jentik with a small, quick movement of his hands. Lotun drew breath to speak, but the Kalmet opened his palm. "Listen. Few heartbeats remain. Underdwellers follow." He moved his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. "Too far from the Underworld. They will go farther. Your smoke is Estin's Wood. No warriors. Underdwellers also have noses." Tomen made a short, wry smile with one side of his face.
"What is he saying?" Hotal 71 asked, confused.
"We must leave. He is telling us that Glowing Ones are close. Gather your pack!" Lotun swapped his staff to his other hand and hefted the leather-wrapped Gift from the rock at his feet, wincing at the pain from his bound knee. "While we are in ceremony and while I cannot run," he muttered to himself, "the Provider must not want this journey to be easy for me." Hotal 71 hurriedly gathered her few loose possessions and stuffed them into her pack. Their shadows bowed and dipped across the irregular rock.
"Servant?" A look of mild concern suffused Tomen's face. "'Cannot run?'"
Hotal 71 crouched in front of Lotun, both pressed back into the inadequate shadow of a small overhang. It had been the best they could find with the Light of the One God so bright this wake. Both breathed heavily from their exertions, trying to make as little noise as they could.
"What is he doing?" Hotal 71 whispered quickly between breaths. Tomen stood a bowshot away, atop a ridgeside facing their hiding place. The robed Susyan was shouting; short bursts of sound carried away by the wind.
"Attracting their attention," hissed Lotun. "Quiet! We do not wish to do likewise."
The Jentik chewed on her lip. That Lotun was worried made her fearful. She repeated to herself the curt reassurances of the Kalmet: he had said the Underdwellers would have difficulty seeing into shadows in such a bright wake. But didn't the Glowing Ones live in the dark under the World? Were they not familiar with utter darkness? Hotal 71 tried to avoid the conclusion that shadows would not hide her from an Underdweller. Her heart beat all too loudly against her ribs. "Why doesn't he run?" she whispered to herself.
Lotun gripped Hotal 71's arm tightly and pulled the Jentik back into the shadows until she was leaning against his bony shoulder. "Quiet..." he breathed close to her ear. The Kalmet had turned from the top of the ridge and quickly vanished from sight. "They must be coming."
Heartbeats passed in an agony of suspense, but the first Underdweller appeared all too soon, preceded by a dancing shadow and the echoed clatter of bones. Hotal 71 caught her breath. The heavily built Glowing One was clad in laced bones and tattered leather. Long, thick lengths of matted hair bounced as she loped towards the ridge where Tomen had stood. The Jentik's first coherent thought was that the Underdweller appeared little different from Dispossessed petitioners at Tumnil. Under the purple Light of the One God, the divine blue-green glow of Underdweller flesh was hardly noticeable. Another Underdweller followed, bone club held in both hands as he leapt across a depression in the rock. A group of three scarified near-naked men followed him, the glow of their skin stronger in the patterns cut into their bodies. They ran in silence amidst the noise of wind and the rattle of bone on bone. More Glowing Ones came into view, rapidly ascending the rock slope as their leader reached the ridgeline. She came to a halt, breathing heavily, and turned to watch the first of her followers run past out of sight. Lotun's grip tightened on Hotal 71's arm, as it seemed the Glowing One looked right at them. Hotal 71 held her breath and closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to slow or beat in silence. More than twenty Underdwellers ran and leapt along the slopes of the ridge - the last passed within thirty paces of the travelers' hiding place, looking neither left nor right. The silence of the pursuit scared the Jentik as much as the fierce expressions and readied weapons. She offered up a wordless prayer to the Provider and the One God. Her heart pounded, but the expected shouts of discovery did not come. The sounds of bone on bone slowly faded, and Lotun relaxed his white-fingered grip on her now bruised arm.
"They have gone, my acolyte." He breathed deeply, once. "We should do the same, quickly now."
Lotun and Hotal 71 had slowed their pace somewhat since the first hurried and difficult kloms, and now rested. Lotun was unable to travel as fast as he would have liked in any case, and his limp became ever more pronounced.
"In all my cycles, I have not seen such a thing," said Lotun, rubbing his injured leg as he sat against a large, ancient wooden route marker. "There was a story that went untold this wake, Hotal 71."
The Jentik stood nearby, staring into the far Godward darkness, the Light of the One God to her back. Her shadow stretched out before her for ten spans. "Do you think Tomen will escape them?"
The old Wohken did not reply for a moment. "Do you want my honest answer?" His voice was carefully level, and Hotal 71 shook her head without turning around. Lotun watched her. "I have met few Kalmet. They are not like you or I, but I am not sure I could act so well under the same circumstances. We will speak of this to other Initiates so that it may find its way back to Tumnil."
The young Jentik sighed to herself. "Look," she said, sadly, pointing Godward. "I can see the Plateau." In the far, far distance, faint purple reflections of the Light of the One God outlined the vertical kloms of her Tribal territory.
[ Posted by Reason on February 5, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Lightward Susyan |
| Spirits of Rock and Sky > The Servants' Path |
Lotun and Jeu 4 rested on a broad, uneven ledge high on the flank of a steep hill. A stairway had once offered an easier path, but little remained now save for brittle, desiccated wood shards. The Light of the One God had dimmed over the last ten wakes, the two travelers now far enough Godward for their shadows to preceed them as they entered Susyan territory. All but the brightest Lightward stars were still obscured by whorls and sheets of ever-fainter purple light, but the Sky was black over Susyan rock. Dim stars became visible as they wheeled down towards purple-tinted mountains. The far distant, scattered flames of Susyan communities made it seem as though the Sky were viewed through great holes in the rock of the World.
Lotun's voice broke the silence. "Can you see Mera's Mountain, Jeu 4? My eyes do not reveal it to me."
"The Light is too dim this wake, Lotun." Jeu 4 shook her head in disappointment. "Perhaps we could not see the Mountain in any case. It must be a hundred kloms from here."
"I know this hill well, Jeu 4. I have stood here in past generations and seen the shape of Mera's Mountain by the Light of the One God." Lotun leaned back against the rock of the hill. "There is no need to travel further this wake. We can wait."
Jeu 4 shifted to straighten the uncomfortable folds in her leather clothing. She looked out at the distant flame-lights. "You are in no hurry to journey among the Susyan, Lotun."
The elder Initiate had closed his eyes and folded his sleeves about his thin hands.
"Lotun?"
Lotun sighed. "I have no great liking for the Susyan. As a Wohken, I am liked little in return."
"But you are an Initiate!" Jeu 4 exclaimed. "The Order has the respect of all of the Tribes. Your heritage should not matter!"
"It matters all too much, alas. It is possible to respect and dislike at the same time, Jeu 4. As a Jentik, that is something you may become all too familiar with." The old Wohken reached down to wrap his robe more comfortably around his legs.
"To the Susyan, I will be a Jentik before I am a servant of the Provider?"
"The Susyan have their own views of your Tribe, Jeu 4. They admire you and seek you out, but their legends place your ancestors above their own."
"They are jealous?"
"Respect and dislike, my acolyte, respect and dislike. Such is the worst you can expect from the Susyan."
"I am not an innocent, Lotun. I know what it is that the Susyan want from me." Jeu 4 looked down at the leather pack on the rock beside her. "Deru knew too," she added with a touch of bitterness.
"I was implying no slight." Lotun moved his hands within the flax sleeves of his robe. "But there are more subtle motivations at work for the Susyan than mere physical or emotional attraction." He smiled to himself and stretched his legs. "Ah, but many tens of cycles have passed since those wakes!"
Jeu 4 could think of nothing to say in return to this last remark. She sat in silence and watched the movement of the stars.
"What are they doing, Lotun?" Jeu 4 looked down from yet another ridgeline at the Susyan below. The terrain had been uneven in this last wake.
"The resolution of ... a dispute, I imagine." Lotun was out of breath, the result of a scramble and fall on the steeper side of the ridge. His heart still beat fast and his knee ached from a hard knock against a projecting spur of rock. The marked routes did not get any easier with age, the Initiate reflected, limping to catch up with the Jentik acolyte. Once beside her, he leaned on his staff and attempted to regain his composure. Below the Servants of the Provider, in the long shadow of the ridge, two Susyan slowly circled one another at the edge of an encampment of small tents. One lashed out, and the two combatants suddenly strained against one another, chest to chest. The fight did not seem to have the attention of more than a few of the other Susyan.
"They are violent." Jeu 4 shook her head.
Lotun nodded as he rested on his staff, taking the weight from the dull pain in his knee. "Yes." He paused, seemed about say something else. "Yes, they are."
"Will we descend once they have fought?" As Jeu 4 spoke, the Susyan clashed again and thrust apart from one another. One stumbled, almost falling - the other stepped forward to take advantage.
Lotun sighed, his breathing still labored. "We will. But I must rest a moment more ... I am not as young as I would like."
Jeu 4 turned to regard the old Wohken with concern. He waved her away when he saw her expression. "No, Jeu 4, I need no aid. Merely a few moments to collect myself." He smiled reassuringly.
"Of course, Lotun." Jeu 4's look of concern remained. The old Initiate winced as he bent his injured leg, but nonetheless eased himself gently down to a seated position.
"But the skin is not broken, honored Servant. The binding must not be loose if you are to walk." Rela, a broad and scarred Susyan, pulled the leather binding more tightly. The elder Wohken's knee had swelled and bruised atop the ridge. By the time Lotun and Jeu 4 had descended to the Susyan tents, the Initiate had barely been able to walk.
Lotun gritted his teeth as the leather tightened painfully. "Enough, I said!" he growled, and wrested the loose end of the leather away from Rela. "Do you want to sever my leg?"
"He is practiced, Wohken," an older Susyan called, slapping her carved bone armor for emphasis. She watched with some amusement from a nearby tent, the leather freshly inked in the Susyan style. "I would let him continue if I were you." She chuckled.
"I did not ask for your opinion, friend Susyan," Lotun snapped. He bent forward to tie the end of the leather himself, still in some pain. "Practiced ..." he muttered to himself.
Lotun sat on a leather cushion in front of a tent that had once belonged to a Lord, if the faded Midrin was to be believed. Rela shrugged and stood. "As you wish, honored Servant." He adjusted the ties securing his bone-reinforced leather, watching as Lotun finished the last knot.
Few in the camp gave any attention to the Servants of the Provider. From the prayers softly chanted on the far side of the encampment, it seemed these Susyan were pilgrims, more concerned with ritual than visitors. Lotun rested his weight against the leather of the Lord's tent and tried to ignore the pain. The pilgrims probably journeyed to worship at Bones of the Ancestral Sky Spirits, the remains of divine beings from whom the Susyan claimed descent - a view of the past very different from Wohken Family teachings. Lotun surveyed the camp, looking between the small tents. An older warrior dispersed the young Susyan who crowded Jeu 4. He would apologize to the acolyte later, once he felt up to standing, but she seemed to be conducting herself well enough for the moment.
Jeu 4 had been an unwilling center of attention since she assisted Lotun over the last paces of the slope above the Susyan camp. She had wanted to stay with the old Wohken, but the he had clearly been embarrassed to need her help in descending the ridge. Three young men had been only too happy to maneuver Jeu 4 away from Lotun while older, armored Susyan examined his injury. Most of the Susyan seemed lost in their devotions, for which Jeu 4 was grateful. Still, after the formalism of relationships at Tumnil, the lack of subtlety in the approach of the young Susyan - one barely old enough to grow hair on his chin - was disconcerting. The Jentik acolyte attempted to remain polite. It helped that her thoughts were elsewhere; she wondered how Tumnil 146 was faring. She missed her companion less of late, as the tenwakes continued to pass. It bothered Jeu 4 that her emotions could fade so quickly; was Tumnil 146 feeling the same way? The three Susyan continued to guesture, boast and proposition, apparently oblivious to her disinterest, but Jeu 4 was pulled from her thoughts as a man joined the group to order the young Susyan away.
"I said to go, Nateve! You will not enjoy it when the Sky Spirits recall this wake. Return to your devotions!" This new Susyan, tall even for his Tribe, wore many-layered leathers scored and shaded with Tun Abstracts. He towered over Jeu 4, beardless and longhaired as seemed to be the fashion among these Susyan pilgrims. He watched the three young men walk away, casting sour backward glances, before turning to Jeu 4. He made a slight bow. "I apologize for their lack of respect. Young men do not think with their heads." His voice was deep.
"Thank you," replied the Jentik, now distracted from her thoughts of Tumnil and her lover. "I had thought that I would have to tolerate them for many more breaths." She looked past the tall Susyan to where Lotun sat, apparently resting, his eyes closed.
"You could have told them to leave you in peace. Even Nateve would have respected that."
Jeu 4 inclined her head politely. "I will remember that for the next time."
The tall man smiled down at her. "I imagine that there will be many next times. Where do you and your Initiate journey to?"
Jeu 4 noticed a thin trail of blood winding its way from a leather wrap on the Susyan's lower arm. She had assumed the wrap was decorative, but it seemed it served another purpose. "You were fighting," she said, frowning as she stared at the blood. "We saw you from the top of the ridge."
The Susyan followed her gaze to his bandage. "By the Sky Spirits..." he muttered, pulling at the wrap before continuing in a more normal tone. "It is not easy to tie these with one hand." He looked enquiringly at Jeu 4. "Might I borrow your hands before my blood wets the rock?" He held his arm up to divert the dark trickle as it ran past his wrist.
The young Jentik was hesitant. "I am not sure that I should, friend Susyan." She paused for a few heartbeats. "Why were you fighting?"
"Help or not, this must be redone," said the tall Susyan matter-of-factly. He gracefully sat on the rock before Jeu 4, crossing his legs as he held his injured arm level. "My name, which I prefer to 'Susyan,' is Vasun." He began to untie the thongs and leather on his arm with his teeth and free hand. Jeu 4 watched, still standing. After ten breaths, Vasun paused and looked up at the silent acolyte. "You are judging me. I am not sure that I like that."
The Jentik shrugged. "You ignored my question. I'm not sure that I like that." Conversing with confidence was easier now that Vasun no longer loomed over her.
"I see ..." Vasun smiled to himself, holding the half-untied bandage over his wound. "I will make a bargain with you." He returned his gaze to the Jentik, waiting for approval.
"I am listening." Jeu 4 adopted a tone she had once heard Tumnil 146 use, trying to keep her expression neutral.
"Help me with this," Vas'un inclined his head to indicate his arm, "and I will explain to you why I challenged Usor..."
"Yet he seemed genuinely concerned I did not see it his way, Lotun. I feel that I disappointed him." Jeu 4 and the elder Initiate remained awake, but most of the camp slept.
"Would you want to agree with him?" Lotun asked, quietly. Nearby, two Susyan women meditated in silence, sitting crosslegged in front of their tent.
"No ... but that is not the point," Jeu 4 sighed.
"I think that you have lost the point," Lotun smiled. "You did not disappoint me, Jeu 4, and you should not worry about disappointing the Susyan. You handled the warriors here all too well without me." Both Servants of the Provider followed their own thoughts a while under the dim purple Light. The stars slowly changed direction overhead.
"Will you be able to walk next wake?" Jeu 4 looked at Lotun's bound leg.
Lotun spread his hands, palms turned upwards. "I do not know. But if not the next wake, then the following wake will have to suffice."
Jeu 4 nodded.
"I'm sure that we can both survive another wake here with the Susyan." The two sat in silence, watching the movement of the Sky and the changing Light of the One God as the Susyan slept.
[ Posted by Reason on February 5, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Withered, Yellowed Crags |
| The Enclave > Known Roads |
As ugly as the Neth who dwell within, Krineth's Hills loom over even Three Stones' impressive walls. Grasses grow yellowed in the Hills, the few trees are twisted and bare - streams only flow between the crags after rain, and even the snow seems to fall sparsely over the Hills in winter. The steepest crags are topped by piles of jumbled rock, while the narrowest valleys are choked with boulders. Large rocks litter the earth and scree. The Hills are named for a famed explorer of generations past, but scarely seem worthy of the name in the present time.
The Trade Road follows the boundary of Krineth's Hills from Three Stones to Gold Vale and finally Spire in the shadow of the mountains. It is a long, thirsty journey in summer; the winds carry dust, dirt and sometimes worse things from the Hills. A good number of Ammander spearmen earn a living as merchant guards on the Trade Road.
There was a time when the high born of Three Stones were buried with great ceremony in family tombs dug deep into the largest of Krineth's Hills. Carved route stones marked the way for those who would otherwise become Lost to the Farthest Hills - nobles and priests once traveled to the family tombs with the first snows of winter to pay their respects. Much has changed over the years, however. Krineth's Hills and the tombs of the past have been long been overtaken by lesser Neth: winter brings malicious attacks on travelers and the poor outside the walls of Three Stones.
[ Posted by Reason on February 3, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Black Stone |
| The Enclave > Lore > Wizardry |
Datarii legends claim that the black stone crags and monuments found throughout the Enclave are remnants of the long-vanished Draugh. Black stone resists the tools of Ammander guildsmen just as it resisted the wizardry of the greatest searfaring Magi; it simply cannot be broken or marked by the Enclave peoples. Even the stonefolk, for whom all rock yields like clay, cannot work Draugh stone.
In truth, most Datarii have little interest in black stone, as for anything that cannot found beneath the mountains of Great Home. Still, The Denier unlocked the secrets of the Black Tower of Three Stones after his time with the stonefolk many generations ago. Other equally important discoveries may yet remain to be made, hidden half in myth and half in the Farthest Enclave.
[ Posted by Reason on February 2, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Sage of the Stone Road |
| The Enclave > Known Roads |
The Stone Road leads inland from Port, following the Lothar and then the Springsource to the small town of Two Springs and the Whisperwood. From there, the Stone Road passes the great black stone monoliths of One Stone and Two Stones before running between the watchtower hills outside the city wall of Three Stones.
The white-haired, genial Sage of the Stone Road has dwelled in a small cave close to Two Stones for as long as anyone can recall, never seeming a day older as the years pass. In that, the Sage is one of the many mysteries of the Enclave - a fact he seems to revel in. On warm days the Sage wanders the Stone Road, conversing with travelers and charging a whimsical toll of a few coins, an apple, a story, the name of a favored lover, or whatever takes his fancy. Tradition has it that snubbing the Sage brings bad luck; merchants who ply their trade between Port and Three Stones make a point of offering a meal or a kind word when they pass.
[ Posted by Reason on February 2, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
