Open Chronicles WFC: My Kingdom for a Horse

[Ruslan Gildal]

THE NORTHERN SHORE OF CORTELL​

"Alright lads," said the smuggler. Then, sheepishly, he added, "and ladies," and he took another moment to purge his awkwardness and regain his seriousness, "now...we're gettin close to the shores of Cortell. It ain't as near to Feiara as you might like, but those Tychen and Kortesian blockades weren't gonna let anyone through. Trust me."

"Is there any chance of a ride back to Liadain?" Ruslan asked.

The smuggler guffawed. "I'm gonna be loooooong gooooone by the time you lot get done in Feiara."

Ruslan clucked his tongue, smiled, and said dryly (but with an unmistakable hint of excitement at the unknown), "Wonderful."

Like the others on this small, dingy skiff, Ruslan Gildal had traveled far to get to the war-torn island of Cortell and specifically to Feiara. In his case, he'd traveled across the span of the world just to get his hands on a renowned Feiarrin, quite possibly one of the best war horses a man could ride. The problem, of course, was one of timing; the aforementioned blockade of Cortell, and its attending naval battles, made travel to the island currently a risky prospect, and only the brave and foolhardy (what esteemed company!) dared to make the trip at present.

But Ruslan wasn't going to wait. His journey into the wider world of Arethil had taken him quite far from his home of Gild already, and it was only just beginning. He wanted one of those famed horses for the rest of it.

The skiff was pulling close to the rough terrain of the shore. Above, the sky was overcast with a deep gray and the smell of rain was in the air, hinting at a coming downpour.

"Keep your heads down on the way to Feiara," the smuggler advised. "There's more to worry about than just soldiers."

"Here's to a trip full of surprises then," Ruslan said, producing a flask from his belt and raising it in a toast and taking a little drink.

 

[Anfisa Ironhammer]

If you were to ask Anfisa Ironhammer a few years ago if she could see herself on the other side of the world, on a ratty vessel under some gloomy skies, approaching a fairly rough-looking rocky shore, all while putting her faith in some base smuggler to thread the needle of danger...aye, she would have thought you a touch fanciful.

But that was before Ruslan Gildal himself asked her if she would like to accompany him on his Gezi.

Around the War College in Gild whilst he was training to become a Praetor, he had a nickname: the Prince. And why not? He was a direct descendant of Saint Andreas Gildal himself as well as one among the Nobility. But it wasn't on account of Ruslan's station that Anfisa agreed to his request. Simply put, he was a friend. Human, dwarf, or ogre, highborn or commonborn, faithful or not, it didn't matter; he was a fellow Gildan and, in Anfisa's view, a good man...if a little reckless. Well, someone needed to be here to balance out the "Prince's" more daring tendencies, hmm?

Anfisa eyed the northern shore of Cortell warily.

"How do you plan to make landfall?" she asked the smuggler. True, the skiff wasn't much more than a rowboat, giving it plenty of agility, but the closer they got to the shore the more treacherous those rocks looked.

"How do you plan to see through your left eye?" the smuggler replied, guffawing as Anfisa's lip curled in slight offense. "I'm not, that's how. I'll get you close, close as I can anyway, and then I hope you lot are up for a swim."

Anfisa frowned, but said nothing further to the smuggler. Admittedly, she wasn't the best swimmer; dwarves weren't exactly known for their aquatic exploits. But there wasn't much to be done about it now with their trip to Cortell all but complete.

To Ruslan, who sat on the skiff bench beside her, she said, "Really, though. A horse? We've come all this way for a horse?"

 

[Ruslan Gildal]

"Well it's not just any horse," Ruslan said, his smile betraying the mock veneer of defensiveness. Other than for the purposes of jest, there was nothing to get defensive about.

"Feiarrins are world-renowned steeds, so the word goes. I intend to find out for myself and believe you me I would be thrilled to see the word proven right. What do you think, Anfisa? Do you think the Feiarans feed their horses something different? Perhaps the grass here on Cortell makes for especially hearty horses?"

The smuggler's men continued to row. A small spray of seawater splashed over the bow of the skiff and flowed between the boots of all its occupants. Given what the smuggler said, there was hardly any use worrying about getting wet now, hmm? Between the swim and the inevitability of rain, shelter and a fire were going to be top priorities before making any real progress into the heartland of Cortell.

 

[Anfisa Ironhammer]

Anfisa opened in her mouth, her response resting that very moment on the tip of her tongue, when one of the smuggler's rowing men piped up with all the air of a jokester struck by his own spontaneous brilliance, "That's why there's no dwarves on Cortell! The grass makes everthang grow!"

He and a few of his mates guffawed as if this were the height of wit.

Anfisa looked back at the rowing man with a look of surprise and weariness, for it wasn't the first time outside of Gild and in lands were dwarves were a rarer sight than most that she endured crass jokes of this manner. Then her lips curled into a wry smile. "Maybe you ought to come ashore with us. Aye, chomp on some of that grass. Your missus will certainly appreciate it."

A crass joke for a crass joke. Not normally how she conducted herself, but it seemed she turned the rowing man's own mates against him as they guffawed even louder. The rowing man turned a shade of red to rival her hair, and was caught well enough off guard, that spontaneous spark of brilliance proving to be fleeting, that he sat and rowed in silence.

Then she looked to Ruslan, smiling still, and shrugged. "Maybe it is the grass."