Derkin Samra
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The night sky was dim.
The three masted barque rocked with the rhythm of the tide, drawing ever closer to the destination set at the end of the journey. The man had lost count of how many days he’d enjoyed in the open water, set up amongst the boxes of cargo and livestock that filled the ample deck. He was secluded in a corner, his back set against three boxes that formed a sort of cocoon around him, legs outstretched as he sat, trying to keep his head from jostling in the riding surf.
He grasped around in the dark, trying to find the skein of clean water that could quench his thirst, the cold air encouraging his lips to chap and chafe. He stopped, remembering yet again that he could ill afford to take a sip so easily, knowing full well that clean spring water wasn’t readily available until they made land fall.
The gulls had cried overhead for the past hour. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed him, drifting in and out of consciousness, his body lazy with fatigue. His gloveless hands, bare now from days at sea, were red raw, no comfort offered from a leather glove that would become wet and rub something horrid until large sores and blisters would emerge and rupture on a whim.
His feet were bound well in strong leather boots, proofed, for the most part, against the sea water’s corrosive swell. He drew his large woolen cloak across him to ward of the chilled air, hidden away from the largest splatter and splash of the tides repetitive dousing.
He heard the ringing of a bell in the near distance. Another boat, perhaps.
It sounded to him as if it were ahead of them, though the open waters could be deceptive. They had followed the coastal routes from the North-East all the way along to their destination.
Alliria.
It had been weeks of days upon days of gasping heat, abrasive cold, ravaging thirst, and raging hunger, topped off by poor company and little to occupy the mind, save run through his plan when he got to the big city port.
Find Trepa Convis. Exchange the book for the money. Get out.
It sounded simple in his head, at least. He knew it wouldn’t be as concise. Alliria was a behemoth of a settlement and the likelihood of walking into Convis, as if he were the first person in sight, was impossibly low. He motioned with his free hand into his coat, clutching the bound book. It was small, barely bigger than his own hand, and yet within it contained…he didn’t know what it contained.
He had been instructed not to open it, on pain of a certain and immediate death. The mage that had instructed him to undertake this mission was quite persistent about it. Foregone were the usual securities associated with high-security transportation, set aside the notion of using stones to travel. This book had to be delivered by hand.
Find Trepa Convis.
The light of day had begun to warm the sky, the night’s chill losing its bite. He knew he would soon be called to undertake his part of the bargain; passage, bed and bread in return for some work around the ship. It was crewed by no more than thirty men, a rag-tag bunch of hardy seafarers who plied their trade on the weekly crossings across the trade routes. Every available and willing hand saw a reduction in cost to their lodgings; they didn’t need the money for they were making the journey anyway. What was valuable was labour.
He got up, bundling up his cloak around his arms so as to make it compact enough to set aside in a sack that was assigned to him. His blond hair, now made even blonder by the sun’s bleaching qualities, was coarse and shorn roughly, no great skill taken to make it look anything more than just a simple man on a humble task to visit his family in the port city. He hadn’t had to tell the story too often; sailors didn’t tend to ask questions outside of ‘can you lift?’ and ‘can you pull this rope?’. He had answered yes to both.
The call had come out.
‘Heave to’.
Derkin was learning all series of new terms on this journey. It wasn’t often he found himself part of crew on a square rigger and he was making the most of it. With the precious book stowed away safely, he made his way to the rig, bracing his section of yard to ensure they could bring the vessel to a stop. He didn’t like to look down, some twenty feet below the hard deck was moving, the motion made more obvious by seeing both sides of the ship against the dark waters below. From this angle and height, he’d avoid disappearing into the waters, thank goodness, but feared that a sudden and short drop onto the wooden panelling below would also spell disaster for the basic want to maintain life.
A loud and baritone voice called up from below towards Derk.
“You’ve done yourself a good job, Master Cath.” That wasn’t his real name.
Derk called back down, his easy tenor combating the increasing winds aloft.
“Thanks to you, bosun Wilks. It will make the return journey even easier for us all!” He wouldn’t be returning on this or any other ship in the near future. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Find Trepa Convis. Exchange the book for the money. Get out.
He shimmied down the rope ladder attached to the forward mast and landed firmly on the deck, letting out a little prayer each time to thank whoever was listening of his safe return to solid ground.
Somewhat solid ground, at least.
Not the ocean.
The bearded bosun approached, wringing his hands with a dirty towel before it was cast aside on a spare crate.
“We’ll be missing those stories of yours, Master Cath. You’ve kept us in good spirits since we left. Three weeks come tomorrow since we left.”
Had it really been that long? He continued.
“If you need us while you’re in Alliria, you can find us at the company’s berth and dwellings. Ask for the crew of the Cresting Wave and you’ll get to us. Have you much planned when you’re there?”
Derk smiled.
“My family will be keen to see me after some absence. I shall try to do as little as humanly possible.” Derk chuckled happily. He didn’t dislike bosun Wilks. He just didn’t like questions.
They had set to the port within the hour of arriving. The city, from this floating vantage point, was remarkable. Serene vistas of monumental towers and all the trappings of civilisation were overwhelming. Derk had seen several of the big cities before but none quite like this one. The small fleet of rowing boats, each manned by six crew men, had taken all the passengers and their ample cargo trunks to the berth assigned to the Cresting Wave.
He sat with the crew, accompanied also by a family of five, a lone dwarf and two women. They were dressed elegantly, each with a sort of hat to shade them from the sun’s ire.
The one in paler colours smiled gently before being scoffed at by her companion, no doubt chastising her for deigning to show attention to a man she was not intended for. The serious one, in her subdued frock, gave a hooty scowl, akin to a disgruntled farm animal. Derk stifled a laugh. It was the end to an odd journey.
He planted his feet on the dock and walked hastily, giving instructions that he would be back within the hour to collect his belongings. He reached into his coat pocket, the book still present. The cloak was away with his other things, the weather too warm today to warrant anything half as fancy as a cloak.
He looked around him, taking in the scene of beautiful chaos before him. Gangs of workers, unloading crates and chests and carts of goods, some being taken directly to be sold at wharves and warehouses, others being packaged up and bound for longer journeys in even further flung corners of the world. He placed his hands on his hips, looking ahead to see where he might begin to look for Master Trepa Convis, Purveyor of Fine Antiquities and Relics of Interest.
He hadn’t the first notion.
The three masted barque rocked with the rhythm of the tide, drawing ever closer to the destination set at the end of the journey. The man had lost count of how many days he’d enjoyed in the open water, set up amongst the boxes of cargo and livestock that filled the ample deck. He was secluded in a corner, his back set against three boxes that formed a sort of cocoon around him, legs outstretched as he sat, trying to keep his head from jostling in the riding surf.
He grasped around in the dark, trying to find the skein of clean water that could quench his thirst, the cold air encouraging his lips to chap and chafe. He stopped, remembering yet again that he could ill afford to take a sip so easily, knowing full well that clean spring water wasn’t readily available until they made land fall.
The gulls had cried overhead for the past hour. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed him, drifting in and out of consciousness, his body lazy with fatigue. His gloveless hands, bare now from days at sea, were red raw, no comfort offered from a leather glove that would become wet and rub something horrid until large sores and blisters would emerge and rupture on a whim.
His feet were bound well in strong leather boots, proofed, for the most part, against the sea water’s corrosive swell. He drew his large woolen cloak across him to ward of the chilled air, hidden away from the largest splatter and splash of the tides repetitive dousing.
He heard the ringing of a bell in the near distance. Another boat, perhaps.
It sounded to him as if it were ahead of them, though the open waters could be deceptive. They had followed the coastal routes from the North-East all the way along to their destination.
Alliria.
It had been weeks of days upon days of gasping heat, abrasive cold, ravaging thirst, and raging hunger, topped off by poor company and little to occupy the mind, save run through his plan when he got to the big city port.
Find Trepa Convis. Exchange the book for the money. Get out.
It sounded simple in his head, at least. He knew it wouldn’t be as concise. Alliria was a behemoth of a settlement and the likelihood of walking into Convis, as if he were the first person in sight, was impossibly low. He motioned with his free hand into his coat, clutching the bound book. It was small, barely bigger than his own hand, and yet within it contained…he didn’t know what it contained.
He had been instructed not to open it, on pain of a certain and immediate death. The mage that had instructed him to undertake this mission was quite persistent about it. Foregone were the usual securities associated with high-security transportation, set aside the notion of using stones to travel. This book had to be delivered by hand.
Find Trepa Convis.
The light of day had begun to warm the sky, the night’s chill losing its bite. He knew he would soon be called to undertake his part of the bargain; passage, bed and bread in return for some work around the ship. It was crewed by no more than thirty men, a rag-tag bunch of hardy seafarers who plied their trade on the weekly crossings across the trade routes. Every available and willing hand saw a reduction in cost to their lodgings; they didn’t need the money for they were making the journey anyway. What was valuable was labour.
He got up, bundling up his cloak around his arms so as to make it compact enough to set aside in a sack that was assigned to him. His blond hair, now made even blonder by the sun’s bleaching qualities, was coarse and shorn roughly, no great skill taken to make it look anything more than just a simple man on a humble task to visit his family in the port city. He hadn’t had to tell the story too often; sailors didn’t tend to ask questions outside of ‘can you lift?’ and ‘can you pull this rope?’. He had answered yes to both.
The call had come out.
‘Heave to’.
Derkin was learning all series of new terms on this journey. It wasn’t often he found himself part of crew on a square rigger and he was making the most of it. With the precious book stowed away safely, he made his way to the rig, bracing his section of yard to ensure they could bring the vessel to a stop. He didn’t like to look down, some twenty feet below the hard deck was moving, the motion made more obvious by seeing both sides of the ship against the dark waters below. From this angle and height, he’d avoid disappearing into the waters, thank goodness, but feared that a sudden and short drop onto the wooden panelling below would also spell disaster for the basic want to maintain life.
A loud and baritone voice called up from below towards Derk.
“You’ve done yourself a good job, Master Cath.” That wasn’t his real name.
Derk called back down, his easy tenor combating the increasing winds aloft.
“Thanks to you, bosun Wilks. It will make the return journey even easier for us all!” He wouldn’t be returning on this or any other ship in the near future. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Find Trepa Convis. Exchange the book for the money. Get out.
He shimmied down the rope ladder attached to the forward mast and landed firmly on the deck, letting out a little prayer each time to thank whoever was listening of his safe return to solid ground.
Somewhat solid ground, at least.
Not the ocean.
The bearded bosun approached, wringing his hands with a dirty towel before it was cast aside on a spare crate.
“We’ll be missing those stories of yours, Master Cath. You’ve kept us in good spirits since we left. Three weeks come tomorrow since we left.”
Had it really been that long? He continued.
“If you need us while you’re in Alliria, you can find us at the company’s berth and dwellings. Ask for the crew of the Cresting Wave and you’ll get to us. Have you much planned when you’re there?”
Derk smiled.
“My family will be keen to see me after some absence. I shall try to do as little as humanly possible.” Derk chuckled happily. He didn’t dislike bosun Wilks. He just didn’t like questions.
They had set to the port within the hour of arriving. The city, from this floating vantage point, was remarkable. Serene vistas of monumental towers and all the trappings of civilisation were overwhelming. Derk had seen several of the big cities before but none quite like this one. The small fleet of rowing boats, each manned by six crew men, had taken all the passengers and their ample cargo trunks to the berth assigned to the Cresting Wave.
He sat with the crew, accompanied also by a family of five, a lone dwarf and two women. They were dressed elegantly, each with a sort of hat to shade them from the sun’s ire.
The one in paler colours smiled gently before being scoffed at by her companion, no doubt chastising her for deigning to show attention to a man she was not intended for. The serious one, in her subdued frock, gave a hooty scowl, akin to a disgruntled farm animal. Derk stifled a laugh. It was the end to an odd journey.
He planted his feet on the dock and walked hastily, giving instructions that he would be back within the hour to collect his belongings. He reached into his coat pocket, the book still present. The cloak was away with his other things, the weather too warm today to warrant anything half as fancy as a cloak.
He looked around him, taking in the scene of beautiful chaos before him. Gangs of workers, unloading crates and chests and carts of goods, some being taken directly to be sold at wharves and warehouses, others being packaged up and bound for longer journeys in even further flung corners of the world. He placed his hands on his hips, looking ahead to see where he might begin to look for Master Trepa Convis, Purveyor of Fine Antiquities and Relics of Interest.
He hadn’t the first notion.
