The Quartermaster
“Experience is a comb that Nature gives us when we’re bald,” the old man chuckled—grinning at the hooded figure across the room.
The figure paused, motionless in his dark garb. Between the two were an assortment of wares and equipment: spears and swords, well-oiled and well-ordered, set standing along the walls; dozens of boot pairs and paddings, cleaned and dutifully maintained; armor plates polished to a gleam. All seemed in its place.
The old man walked over to the loom, looking down at his counterpart--- then clapped him on the shoulder.
“Though I suppose elves don’t go bald.”
Pava quickly removed his hood, revealing blond hair and those fair features of his race--- along with a look of absolute puzzlement.
“When we’re bald what, sir?”
The old man returned a bemused look of his own. Not a scuff could be found in the Quartermaster’s workshop—but question marks, it seemed, were plentiful.
“Experience is a comb that Nature gives us. When we’re bald…” Pava repeated.
The Quartermaster shook his head. “It is an old saying, lad. That is to say…” tugging at the uneven sleeve of an outfit altogether too large for its wearer, “Practice.”
The young elf glanced down about his garb and frowned.
“…that you may be lucky enough to know what you need to know, at the time it is right for you to know it.” The old man was walking away.
Pava’s face shot straight back up, exasperated. He was betrayed with confusion. '..lucky enough to know what you need. To know at the time..?' No, that's not right. '..you need to know at the time, it is right for you to..' No.
He'd spent the next moments in total focus, as if straining to recount to himself all the words of the Common, until finally an ease set in and he'd recomposed. His posture straightened and he returned to the loom.
“Aye sir.”
The Quartermaster returned to fiddling at his desk—manipulating small wooden pieces on a square board.
“Aimer, come here and help your brother.”
A second elf, the identical image of the first, walked into the room. This one's clothes fit.
“And after you two are finished, I will show you how to play the game.”
Pava of No House
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Pava of No House
In the Court of Storms
Wild, the wind wildly blows.
For four hours the crew of the Debutante has struggled and strained through the howling storm. Four hours up and down waves the size of mountains, their ship pitching and wailing, its hull battered to the point of destruction. From the Nelanther Isles they had set a course north, through Asavir’s Channel and into the Sea of Swords, bound for Athkatla and riches immeasurable. It is a cruel twist of fate that after four years of successful raids in lands further west, among and beyond the Trackless Sea—raids that would secure a bounty of rare material, priceless relics, and captive slaves—after four years, a mere four hours would undo all they’d accomplished, as the storm has steered their course far south, and at speed. Indeed, they are at the point of catastrophe, destined to be cast upon the rocks and swallowed among the waves, their riches dispersed along the ocean bottoms, never to be found.
But before this—
Before the foremast cracked and collapsed amidst the gale; before the rudder was ripped off astern by heaving waves; before the Captain and his First were cast overboard, their screaming mouths filled, their thirst and lust forever quenched in the Deep--
Before this, all was calm. The ship passed soundlessly through the dark as through a dream. All were sleeping, and the air was stilled. It was as when the world was unformed—as though they sailed through the Sea of Night.
One could hear the stirrings, however, if he listened carefully. That strange and low language of the elements—the steady chop of tide, the quiet hiss of ocean spray. It seemed the wind and the waves and the clouds were debating amongst themselves, holding judgment and casting declaration. And this was true—for this night the servants of the Lord of Storms held Court—
“Give them to us.” The Servants of the Water spoke, with the low gurgle of a tide pool. “For four years we have harbored them—watched them as they departed and returned with plunder. And yet on the eve of their triumph, they still have not paid tribute. Let them be swallowed among the waves!”
“Unacceptable!” Cracked the Servants of the Earth, with the sound of those rocks that tumble down the sides of icy mountains. “We have seen them! They have taken from the earth—for their plunder to be given up to the floor of the ocean… It is unacceptable!” They cracked again. “Give them to us! Let them be cast upon the rocks!”
“Brothers, this will not do.” The Servants of Wind were the cleverer of them in the Storm Lord’s Court, and knew that to keep arguing amongst themselves was to lose their quarry. They spoke in the gentle easing breezes to all the brothers. “Surely the plunder can be dispersed among the sea bottoms and the rocks both. Tribute will be paid.”
“Let their ship be destroyed.” Rolled the Servants of Water.
“Let them know Him to whom they are indebted.” Cracked the Servants of Earth.
“Let them all perish!” Howled the Servants of Wind.
“All will perish!” The brothers cried in concert. Their thunder could be heard.
But there was an infiltrator in the Court. Among those assembled there in the dark of the New Moon was the Lady of Dreams. She had tracked the Debutante, for among its captives were two young sun elves. She wept for her kin-- and so, well-hidden, she devised a plan. She spread rumors and words of misgiving amongst the Court, so that all were not satisfied. Of those that heard her words were the Servants of Fire. So oft aloof in these proceedings at sea, tonight they would be roused—and such was the reverence given to their work, the beauty ascribed to their doings among those gathered, that their words would be heeded.
“This crew, these men—they are fools and scoundrels. They have already given up their lives. They shall be swallowed ‘mongst the waves or cast against the rocks. But these two, they are young and know nothing. They know not whose power threatens them now. Let them live to learn it. Let them go roam the lands of fire. Let the sand enter their minds, that years from now they may again seek the coast, and make tribute for safe passage ‘cross the seas—a testament and offering to the might of the Lord of Storms. Let them then return to the waters, and only then shall they perish. They are but foals. Give them to us and let them be broken.”
The oceans hissed and the winds howled in accordance. All were in agreement.
“Then it will start with the Wind.”
“Aye, as is the way we have always done.”
And so, in the perfect dark of the New Moon did it begin—
Wild, the wind wildly blows.
Wild, the wind wildly blows.
For four hours the crew of the Debutante has struggled and strained through the howling storm. Four hours up and down waves the size of mountains, their ship pitching and wailing, its hull battered to the point of destruction. From the Nelanther Isles they had set a course north, through Asavir’s Channel and into the Sea of Swords, bound for Athkatla and riches immeasurable. It is a cruel twist of fate that after four years of successful raids in lands further west, among and beyond the Trackless Sea—raids that would secure a bounty of rare material, priceless relics, and captive slaves—after four years, a mere four hours would undo all they’d accomplished, as the storm has steered their course far south, and at speed. Indeed, they are at the point of catastrophe, destined to be cast upon the rocks and swallowed among the waves, their riches dispersed along the ocean bottoms, never to be found.
But before this—
Before the foremast cracked and collapsed amidst the gale; before the rudder was ripped off astern by heaving waves; before the Captain and his First were cast overboard, their screaming mouths filled, their thirst and lust forever quenched in the Deep--
Before this, all was calm. The ship passed soundlessly through the dark as through a dream. All were sleeping, and the air was stilled. It was as when the world was unformed—as though they sailed through the Sea of Night.
One could hear the stirrings, however, if he listened carefully. That strange and low language of the elements—the steady chop of tide, the quiet hiss of ocean spray. It seemed the wind and the waves and the clouds were debating amongst themselves, holding judgment and casting declaration. And this was true—for this night the servants of the Lord of Storms held Court—
“Give them to us.” The Servants of the Water spoke, with the low gurgle of a tide pool. “For four years we have harbored them—watched them as they departed and returned with plunder. And yet on the eve of their triumph, they still have not paid tribute. Let them be swallowed among the waves!”
“Unacceptable!” Cracked the Servants of the Earth, with the sound of those rocks that tumble down the sides of icy mountains. “We have seen them! They have taken from the earth—for their plunder to be given up to the floor of the ocean… It is unacceptable!” They cracked again. “Give them to us! Let them be cast upon the rocks!”
“Brothers, this will not do.” The Servants of Wind were the cleverer of them in the Storm Lord’s Court, and knew that to keep arguing amongst themselves was to lose their quarry. They spoke in the gentle easing breezes to all the brothers. “Surely the plunder can be dispersed among the sea bottoms and the rocks both. Tribute will be paid.”
“Let their ship be destroyed.” Rolled the Servants of Water.
“Let them know Him to whom they are indebted.” Cracked the Servants of Earth.
“Let them all perish!” Howled the Servants of Wind.
“All will perish!” The brothers cried in concert. Their thunder could be heard.
But there was an infiltrator in the Court. Among those assembled there in the dark of the New Moon was the Lady of Dreams. She had tracked the Debutante, for among its captives were two young sun elves. She wept for her kin-- and so, well-hidden, she devised a plan. She spread rumors and words of misgiving amongst the Court, so that all were not satisfied. Of those that heard her words were the Servants of Fire. So oft aloof in these proceedings at sea, tonight they would be roused—and such was the reverence given to their work, the beauty ascribed to their doings among those gathered, that their words would be heeded.
“This crew, these men—they are fools and scoundrels. They have already given up their lives. They shall be swallowed ‘mongst the waves or cast against the rocks. But these two, they are young and know nothing. They know not whose power threatens them now. Let them live to learn it. Let them go roam the lands of fire. Let the sand enter their minds, that years from now they may again seek the coast, and make tribute for safe passage ‘cross the seas—a testament and offering to the might of the Lord of Storms. Let them then return to the waters, and only then shall they perish. They are but foals. Give them to us and let them be broken.”
The oceans hissed and the winds howled in accordance. All were in agreement.
“Then it will start with the Wind.”
“Aye, as is the way we have always done.”
And so, in the perfect dark of the New Moon did it begin—
Wild, the wind wildly blows.