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The gold-painted figurehead is almost obscured by foam as the prow of the warship is heaved upwards upon a crashing wave. The sky churns with dark clouds and the wind drives spray and snow across the deck. On either side rise the sheer grey walls of the fjord, and the sea is choked with ice floes, shattered timbers and the floating corpses of sailors. Two more ships, murky silhouettes in the storm, list heavily as they founder. Icicles hang from their masts and rigging, decks awash as they succumb to the mountainous waters.
The dragon fills the sky, ivory wings spread wide, dwarfing the surviving fighting ship beneath it. Its head bears a crown of slender horns, a thin membrane pocked with holes and tears stretched between them. For a face it has a brutal scarred muzzle filled with irregular fangs, white spattered with the crimson blood of men. Sunken eyes glitter with malice. Despite its enormous size it twists its pale body sinuously as it turns in the air to make a final pass, tail slicing like a whip. The crew of the ship cower, awaiting their doom.
All except one. On the fo’c’sle is one man, by the gold braid on the shoulders of his navy greatcoat a senior officer. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead but his face is calm and his gaze intent as he crouches by a ballista, aiming upwards at the looming beast, hand on the lever ready to loose the bolt as he waits for it to draw closer...
The painting is certainly impressive in its way, its huge size giving it an epic sweep, even if it provides a somewhat idealised and heroic vision of battle. It dominates the wall above the fireplace in the drawing room of Lord Elveden’s townhouse. Here the group has gathered, summoned by his missive and the promise of gainful employment, and now waiting for their host to arrive.
The battle is named after Skull Beach, the strand beneath the cliffside cave where Injarjok made his lair. The dragon made a habit of a twisted form of trophy-taking, devouring the bodies of sacrifices and other unfortunate victims and tossing their more-or-less intact heads from his lair down on to the beach. After the many years of the dragon’s occupation, a massive pile of skulls had built up above the high tide line. The Inotian sailors named the area Skull Beach when they finally landed after defeating the beast. Stories tell of how they had to wade knee-deep through the skulls before they could climb the cliff and loot the dragon hoard.
Bishop-Commodore Elveden was the current Lord Elveden’s grandfather. He died several decades ago and is buried in the Hall of Heroes.
Blythe stands in front of the fireplace, taking it in. She stares quietly into the flames, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her jaw clenched.
Her golden hair falls across her shoulders, several small braids framing her face. The rights side of her head is shaved to the skin, which looks like its seen some sun.
Her tunic is fitting, and quality, if simple, with bits of leather stylishly woven in, and her sword, its long, straight blade slung over her shoulder, casts a shadow behind her from the fire over the room.
Delmar stands looking at the painting, admiring the technique. He stands tall and quite lithe, with medium length neatly trimmed brown hair, and a neat beard.
Getting bored with just waiting around, Ishmex starts babbling different facts about the painting and it's owner.
"Did you know that Lord Elveden is one of the richest men in the Empire? Yep, he is descended from one of the old families but also with close connections to the Church.
And this painting here is called 'Bishop-Commodore Elveden defeats the dragon Injarjok at the Battle of Skull Beach' but is usually misnamed as just 'The Battle of Skull Beach'. The battle took place about fifty years ago, when the flotilla led by Commodore Elveden killed the dragon and annexed the Isles of Allam to the Empire. The painting was commissioned by the Church to commemorate the victory and serve as a moral lesson to the followers of the Diktats. As impressive as it is, this is probably a copy since the original would be in a military cathedral.
Also, did you know the Old Gods are strong in the Isles of Allam? Only a few of the natives have taken up the Diktats."
The word vomiting finished, Ishmex stands there with his purple eyes gleaming at the thought of academic discussion. He looks around at the others from under his wide brimmed hat while his fingers idly play with a length of string attached to his robe.
"Miss Merovingian," Lheorvine mutters as he wanders up to the fireplace, offering a small nod. "Nice seeing you again." He is thin and pale, but moves like a man that prefers to walk through rather than around obstacles. He is dressed simply, with a heavy duelist's blade hanging on his hip; the sword looks strangely asymmetrical, with a counterbalanced head.
"It's 'Miss Merovingian' now, Lheo?" she chuckles, shaking her head. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, a coy smile on her face. "You haven't called me that since you pulled me out of that halfling brothel that was on fire. What was it called? The 'Only Halfway Inn?'"
"The footman who delivered my invitation told me, after some light convincing, that he had also spoken to 'the lovely Miss Merovingian' and 'some orc'. How could I turn that down? As for the Inn, I always thought..." Lheorvine looks like he's about to go into full reminiscence mode, but catches himself as the gnome interrupts him. "Allam Isles, eh? It's pretty much a prison colony these days, though if you're into desolation and freezing fog, Sausimayok is actually rather beautiful. I sailed to Port Elveden once; Skull Beach is right across the fjord. Never connected the names until now, though."
Blythe nods to Ishmex and Delmar. "Nice to see you all as well again."
"Oh yes, always a pleasure Miss Merovingian. Have you any new magic since we last met? I think I have much to show you!" He starts to dig out his spell book but thinks better of it. "Actually, that can wait for now. Lheorvine, you mentioned the Isles we were told about are pretty much a prison?"
As per usual, Grulorg sits at a table eating his fill of... whatever is offered. As a former slave and outcast he took his meals where he could.
Though it has been some time since he had seen his cohorts, he was a man of few words, mostly because he did not know all that many. He met lots of people who knew lots of words, they had no words after he ripped their jaws off though, well, unless you count screaming in agony. Not that he did that a lot but he did it enough, it's why he liked his line of work so much. He got to hurt people and instead of getting executed or sitting in a cell afterwards he got paid to do it!
Grulorg turns to Ishmex and grunts food scattering across the table, "You always know lots Ish. Tell me another story, gettin' bored waiting for Lord Eleven".
"Prison? Yes and no. There are locals, and they are free to come and go. But the whaling industry and the mining is mostly done by prisoners. The Empire ships them up there and then works them to the bone; the weather alone will take years off your life if you eat crap and dress in rags."
Blythe chuckles at Grulorg.
"Interesting. It's a place I haven't really thought about. I certainly know little of it. It is not a place I feel a burning desire to visit based on your description."
"Ish, I wouldn't mind a look at your book later too. I'm sure I can repay you in some potions."
The door opens and two well-dressed men enter. The first is in his fifties, strongly-built running to fat. He has a large florid face, his thinning hair combed back across his head. He strides confidently into the room and booms in a cultured voice, “Greetings! I am Ivor Elveden, this is my son Cedric. Thank you so much for accepting my invitation. Please take a seat and we can get to business.”
Cedric Elveden bears little resemblance to his father besides sharing his dark hair. He is slender and pale, aged about twenty. His manner is diffident and he says little, nodding silently in greeting, although his dark eyes carefully take in the details of the adventurers in the room one-by-one.
Two footmen enter, one with a tray bearing crystal glasses, the other carrying a salver with two bottles. They place the glasses in front of every person seated and then pour honey-coloured wine from the bottles into each. Both aristocrats sit politely until all the guests have been served before Lord Elveden dismisses the servants. He then picks up a glass and sips. “Fournarl ’63. Very pleasant, although the best vintage is supposed to be the ’57. My palette is too unsophisticated to tell the difference and I simply can’t justify spending that much money on a bottle of wine.
“But I expect you are wondering why I requested your presence here rather than wishing to listen to me blather ignorantly about viticulture. You were recommended to me by Lord Stevven, who said that you handled that business of his in the east with both aplomb and discretion. Hopefully this task of mine will be less arduous than that! I need you to… Well, tell you what, Cedric, why don’t you explain to them what this is about?” he says.
Cedric looks slightly surprised and stumbles over his words at first. “Ah, y-yes, um… You will have noticed the painting?” He looks to see if he elicits a few nods before continuing. “While this is a f-fine painting in its own right, colleagues and I are seeking to step away from the formality of Church-sponsored art.” He begins to warm to his subject and speaks with increasing fluency. “In particular, Church art has a moral and didactic purpose, rather than an intention to reflect perception. Church artists, for example, rarely paint from life. Bezant painted the original of this work here in Dornos based upon written reports of the b-battle and never set foot on Skull Beach. Our aim, m-myself and my c-colleagues, is to p-produce a more realistic depiction of the world, sh-sh-shorn of m-moral j-judgem-m-ment and ins-s-s-s…” Cedric’s stammer interrupts his flow and leaves him unable to get the words out.
Lord Elveden smiles encouragingly at his blushing son and continues, “So the purpose of your visit is to offer you employment. Given our family’s connection with the Isles of Allam, Cedric intends to visit them as a field trip to inform his painting. Your role would be to provide him with protection during his journey. While I do not expect there to be any danger, a family of our status will always have enemies, and Cedric is my heir. The Isles are also largely untamed territory and present dangers of their own. As such, you would ensure that he comes to no harm. In order to provide this service, you would be paid 8,000 gold talents each upon Cedric's safe return.
“I expect you will have some questions before making your decision?”
Blythe's drink sits untouched in her lap. "How long would you expect us to accompany Cedric?"
"Thank You My Lord." Delmar begins "Without wishing to cast aspersions, and to be quite blunt. What your son describes could, by some, be considered a form of heresy. Do you believe there will be repercussions from the Church that could affect us or the journey?"
Delmar sits back and takes a sip of his drink, enjoying the flavour. He waits to see if his words elicit a reaction.
"I believe you said three to six months, Cedric?" says Lord Elveden. Cedric nods. "It's spring now, and no one in their right mind wants to spend the winter in the Isles of Allam, so a return some time before autumn would be the latest. It's about two weeks by ship to get there."
To Delmar's question, he snorts. "The Church is hardly monolithic in its beliefs as it is. Nor is it heretical to simply paint what one sees. And in any case, I hardly lack for connections in that institution. No, I anticipate no trouble from them."
"Two-hundred talents a day...that is quite the fortune to accomplish this task. I assume there are some secondary objectives for us, or for your heir, to accomplish?"
Drink in hand, Ishmex sits back, somewhat embarrassed by his companions questions. In a loud whisper "Guys! This is the Bishop-Commodore. We can't just question him like one of our usual contractors." He looks at his comrades with pleading eyes. Ignoring his own advice he turns back to the lords, "Miss Merovingian does have a point though, that is quite the handsome fee to be bodyguards though I think her numbers may be off. As a side note Lord Elveden, do you think there's any dragon magic left in the islands?" Ishmex takes a sip of his drink to mark the end of his question.
8k * 5 => 40k, divided by 180 is 222..... I'd say her math is pretty spot on ;)
"Ish, the man in the picture is the Bishop-Commodore, our friend here is, ah just a Lord I believe? I'm also fairly sure that Blythe has it right. How much did you drink before you got here?"
"Either to much or not enough my friend." Ishmex gives a playful frown and looks down at his cup.
"How many people will we be looking after? Will Lord Cedric be bringing along a sizeable retinue, or is it just him and his art supplies?"
Lord Elveden looks amused at Ishmex's mistake and rolls his eyes at Delmar's 'just a Lord' comment.
"There are no other objectives. I'm simply paying for my son's safety. Cedric wishes to travel without any servants, so it will be just him and his luggage. As for the dragon, it is long dead."
Lord Elveden looks amused at Ishmex's mistake and rolls his eyes at Delmar's 'just a Lord' comment.
"I'm in." Lheorvine drains his drink and puts the glass down.
"I have one last question, though. As much of Allam's population consists of prisoner labour, I assume that on-site security is pretty tight. Will we have any issues moving around on the archipelago?"
"Governor Briavels assures me that the prisoners are housed in camps and do not freely roam the islands."
Seemingly recovered from his gaffe, Ishmex nods in agreement with Lheorvine. "I am also willing to take this job and protect young Lord Cedric." He raises his glass and takes another sip before placing it gently on a table.
Grulorg slams down the wine like a shot and manages not to belch he then turns his attention to Blythe's glass in her lap while licking his lips, "Ya' gonna drink that BM?"
He then goes silent and listens as the conversation moves forward and he frowns as the discussion seems to indicate that this will be a long and uneventful series of months, "So we don't get to hurt anybody at all on this one?"
Lord Elveden gives Grulorg a cool look, perhaps reconsidering the wisdom of his offer. "It is possible," he says.
Grulorg grins but quickly recognizes the look he received, "Terrific. Don't worry my Lord, battle is in my blood and if it comes to us on this job I'll make sure not one hair is harmed on Cedric's head!
But if there's no fight ta be had I'm not gonna start one and endanger your Heir".
Blythe nudges the drink across the table to Grulorg. "If it's not scotch it's probably not worth it." She looks up at her friend. "Delmar? What do you think? Should we do this?"
"Delmar? What do you think? Should we do this?"
"It sounds like an easy job, which always worries me. Jobs are never easy." Demlar smiles at Blythe. "But yes, I'm happy to take My Lord's coin for a quiet trip accross the country and back."
”All right. I’m in.”
Lord Elveden looks somewhat mollified at Grulorg's response. To the others he says, "Excellent! Then let us drink a toast to a quiet and uneventful journey, then." He raises his glass.
After the toast he adds, "As I think I said, the ship leaves in a week. She's the Ocean Tern, a merchantman under the command of Captain Budd. She's an experienced navigator in northern waters. Please present yourselves at the dockside first thing next week. In the meantime, we can advance you up to five hundred talents of your fee if you wish to purchase further equipment - my chamberlain will make the arrangements."
Delmar takes a drink. "To our safe return."
Picking up his glass again, Ishmex joins the toast. "Thank you Lord Elveden, that is most generous. We will meet with the young Lord Elveden at the Ocean Tern in a weeks time then." Ishmex gives a short bow before turning to leave.
Lheorvine nods in satisfaction. "To safety! One last thing, though. Lord Cedric. As our job is to assume that worst will come to worst - do you know how to handle a weapon? If not, could I suggest we schedule a few sessions before we board the Tern? We should also do some light sparring during our journey. Finally, I'd suggest packing some light, unobtrusive armour, such as a chainshirt."
"Keep in mind that the fencing isn't merely for self-defense," Lheorvine says, grinning. "It would also benefit the more naturalistic painiting style you seek. Do you think Bezant knew anything about actual swordfighting? Conceptually, Miss Merovingian here and I are both 'swordsmen', but as you'll see, we have very different fighting styles. It'll do you good, both physically and, frankly, spiritually."
Grulorg raises Blythe's glass and grins, draining it, "It's not scotch but its certainly tasty. Thank you my Lord for your hospitality".
He follows Ish out the door, "We should get a lot of rations, who knows what resources will be available to us on a trip that long! What else do you know about the area that beach is located on Ish?"
"Cedric isn't joining your group, your job is to protect him while you are in my employ," says Lord Elveden in response to Lheorvine's question, his face clouding. "You would be being hired to wield blades on his behalf, should the necessity arise, and to avoid placing him is situations where it might. Of course, all young men of breeding learn the basics of swordplay and physical education."
Cedric adds, "Though, I would describe none of them as my metier. Perhaps I will invest in a light chain shirt, as you suggest, as a precautionary measure. Some sparring would d-doubtless be good for the constitution." Lord Elveden scowls before shrugging in grudging assent.
"Good man. I look forward to seeing you on the boat then. We'll teach you some tricks. What Grulorg does, impressive as it is, can't really be taught as such, but the rest of us have something to contribute. And Lord Elveden, do not worry about Cedric's safety. I for one am not about to sacrifice such a payout as you are offering for some cheap thrills."
The Ocean Tern is an large ocean-going carrack, three-masted with a smooth carvel-planked hull. She has an aftcastle at the stern surmounted by a poop deck, while forward sits the fo’c’sle from which projects a long bowsprit. The figurehead is of a white bird, wings swept back flush with the bow of the boat. Tied up at the dock in Dornas she looks most impressive, with the crew clambering about the rigging getting ready for departure.
Cedric is already aboard, his luggage stowed in his cabin. He stands by Captain Budd on deck by the gangway as she surveys preparations. Wearing a long jacket and a tricorne hat, she is a severe-looking woman of middle years burnt brown and leathery by the sun off the ocean. Cedric looks especially callow standing next to this veteran of the seas. Cedric smiles in greeting but Captain Budd gives them a beady look.
“Welcome aboard the Ocean Tern,” she says as the adventurers make their way up from the dockside, her gruff tones redolent of the northern lands of the Empire. “I’m Captain Budd. I’ve been chartered to take you to the Isles. Just remember that I’m in charge at all times, stay out of the crew’s way when they are doing their jobs, and we’ll get along fine. This is my First Mate, Jakson.” A tall swarthy man, his bare forearms a network of scars, stops yelling instructions to the crew for a moment, steps up and nods. “He’ll show you to your cabins so you can stow your gear. The tide’s just turning so we should be on our way shortly.”
“If you’d like to follow me,” he says in a deep voice, leading the group aft and to their cabins under the poop deck. The cabins are small, with just about enough room for a bed and a locker, although there seems to be one for each member of the party. “If you’ll be excusing me,” says Jakson, “I’m needed on deck. If you have any questions, ask the captain.” He smiles. “But maybe wait until we’re out of harbour first.”
On deck, a small ceremony is taking place. One of the crewmen, an older man with long white hair, skin like mahogany and with seemingly barely an ounce of fat on his rangey body, stands at the bow of the ship. In his hand he holds a brown glass bottle. The crew have paused in their work to look on, with Captain Budd watching from the helm. Cedric observes with keen interest at the rail.
“Lord of the Seas,” the sailor intones, “Bless us and protect us as we journey in your care. Hold back the storms, hide us from the creatures of the deep, and let us return to our homes safe.” He then pours a libation from the bottle into the sea.
“Very well done, Mr Ward,” calls the captain, “The tide has turned. Cast off!”
The outgoing tide pulls the ship away from the dockside. The captain orders some of the sails to be unfurled and the Ocean Tern begins to pull away, aided by both the wind and the current. Captain Budd skillfully pilots the ship between other traffic towards the portal in the great harbour wall of the port of Dornas. The wall is studded with towers, virtual castles in their own right, to protect the seaward approach to the capital of the Empire. On either side of the harbour mouth are the two Castles of the Chain, both of which house giant winching mechanisms to hoist the titular metal cable to block both ingress and egress in times of turmoil. However, in the absence of any threat the gateway is now open and the Ocean Tern sails between the forbidding walls and out into the open sea. Captain Budd orders full sail, and the ship turns starboard to face northwards.
Blythe takes a deep breath as they pull out of the harbor, the sea air strong in her lungs. Her face is composed, but her body is tense.
Grulorg heads below deck to stow his goods, really the only possessions he owns in all of his life. He knows this will always be his life and he is glad for it, the humans that raised him were tied to their land and their possessions never going anywhere or seeing much of the Empire. Now Grulorg has a chance to see a new place and have a new adventure. He is excited by the idea of it all.
He heads onto the deck to see the boat head into the ocean itself. He grins broadly making sure to stand out of the way of the crew as he does so.
Ishmex chatters incessantly on the way to the ship about all kinds of things. Once there though he quiets down to observe details about the ship and it's crew. Thanking the first mate he starts getting his things in order in his cabin. The lurch of the ship leaving causes him to run back up to the deck to watch the departure from the harbor. "This is my favorite part." he says to no one in particular.
"Captain. Master Jakson." Lheorvine nods respectfully at the senior crew. He's wearing a light suit of padded armour, with his ever-present sword strapped to his back, and is bringing enough gear that he has chartered a mule-drawn buggy. "Lessee... In addition to my own gear, I brought an armouring dummy, a melee dummy, a straw-stuffed figure for targeting... We'll need a few square yards of deck space for sparring, but I'll sort that out once we are on our way. It might actually be better to use the cargo hold if there's space."
He pauses stowing the heavy gear downstairs to catch the benediction to the rulers of the ocean. "Thank you, Master Ward," he smiles afterward, shaking the man's hand and slipping him a gold coin. "Hopefully the spirit of the wanderer will look favourably upon us as well."
The captain gives Lheorvine a withering look. "This is a working ship, Mister...? We are not on a pleasure cruise. Your dummies can be stowed in the hold until we dock again. If you wish to practice with your weapons, you can use the poop deck assuming it doesn't get in the way. Try not to cut any ropes."
The sailor nods and the gold coin disappears.
"Certainly, captain. We're here to work, too."
Delmar settles his things into the locker in his cabin, and then returns to stand on deck with the others. He watches Lheorvine with a small smile of amusement, but mostly tries to keep out of the way.