#aftcastle

[nonameffxiv]

i got a few screenshots during the last make it rain campaign, but then i got bored and disappeared off the face of the star

#ffxiv #ffxiv npcs #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy xiv: a realm reborn #scathanna trathnona #limsa lominsa #the aftcastle

[flamingdiva]

hey google how do I figure out what kind of ship- like actual ship- my ocs have?

#doing research and it's like galleons have this many masts and so many sails and aftcastle is- #like yes yes but would a merchant in like 1780 have it??? #I had it half figured out but I forgot what notebook I wrote it in and I can't find it #it's just an overwhelming amount of info and I still need to figure out a name for my sea goddess #while my brain is already trying to plot the next book #slow down buddy I'd like to get key points for living on the sea which will be more important in book 2

[janzoo]

On the note of gag player characters, I'd like to share one on Adamantoise (Aether DC):

The Loogie

He's a Waluigi "cosplayer" who just. Stands near the Aftcastle aetheryte in Limsa, doing the step dance.

If you step dance at him, you get an invite to join a fellowship called "Cult of the Loogie" where they seem to organize step dancing mobs. (This is how I found out about the fellowship function in the first place!) If you ever visit Drakyr in her home server, I can take you to see this magnificent legend in the flesh lol

#ffxiv #janzoo plays ffxiv

[howtofightwrite]

Greek fire was an extraordinary specific weapon found in a particular time and region, naval combat was primarily an afar of rams (in the medaterriaan with its oar powered vessels) and armed roaring ie: getting as close as possible and just swarming onto your opponents boat to fight in melee, with some archery and whatnot. One of the sucesses of the eventual roman navy was perfecting a sort of boarding ramp to quickly put their troops on an enemy ship

Furthermore, in later periods, there are accounts of skirmishes in the atlantic between rival fleets. In which case the fore and aftcastles on the cogs are used as platforms to post archers and men throwing rocks and iron bars down on opponents ships while others boarded (hence why their called castles and elevated). Theres at least one account (I forgot of which battle) in which an English king boarded an enemy ship then abandoned his own as it sunk.

So, free advice, if you want to remain anonymous, you probably should make sure that both asks go through as anon. Though, I'm pretty sure Tumblr's extended ask length would have let you drop both paragraphs into it. Worst case (and I do realize I'm a poster child for looking like I ignore this advice), but when you run into a word (or character) limit, it's usually a good idea to start editing and trimming down the length until the system accepts it in a single pass. Splitting an ask into multiple parts is an excellent way to lose part of a question, or just make sure it never gets answered in the first place. Cut everything you don't absolutely need.

Either way, I'll err on the side of caution and answer the anon response to preserve your privacy.

I thought I made it clear that Greek fire was a much later invention. It's actually a little frustrating, because you'll see poorly researched history articles which will straight up make it sound like Greek fire was used during the Peloponnesian War. Which, yeah, no. A lot of the major Hellenic wars we think of today were around the 5th century BCE, while the invention of Greek Fire was over a thousand years later.

While you were talking about Greek fire in particular, what you said applies to a lotof weapons throughout history. When we're talking about something like the rapier or the claymore, those are weapons from very specific points in time. It's something to think about when you're mixing and matching technologies to create a fantasy world. No weapon exists in a vacuum, and they all develop as responses to the state of warfare around them. This doesn't mean you can't mix and match pieces you like, but it is something to be conscious of.

While it is outside the scope of the original question (because it's a firearm), one of the more amusing weapons from the age of sail were actual gun blades. These would be musket (usually a pistol), with a cutlass blade mounted under the barrel. (There were also examples that mounted an axe head under the barrel.) The intention was to be able to use the firearm during boarding actions and then switch over to using it as a melee weapon rather than reloading. The design was fundamentally flawed, the weight distribution was poor for a blade, and the (relative) mechanical complexity of the early firearms meant those components were too fragile for serious use. But for a couple decades in the 17th century these things saw limited use.

Now, I do need to give serious credit to A Number of Hobbies, who came back with a trio of fantastic reference articles. Naval Combat Strategies from Shadyislepirates.com, Choosing Naval Tactics for Your Pre-Gunpowder World from Mythcreants.com, and The First Punic War: Audacity and Hubris from the U.S. Naval Institute. So, if you're still wanting more information, those are all excellent resources to check.

-Starke

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#writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers #military history #naval history #If these were seperate asks that I accidentally blended together... sorry.

[archaiclumina]

top 5 memories!!

Hahaha, I summoned you with the Paissa minion tag c': Ok, top 5 memories, here goes!

"O goddess born of mine own hopes and dreams. For the last time, I beseech You!" Number one memory is easy mode. Peakest moment in the game. Also, you my friend, know very well I will forever tell people about how I watched this cut scene while listening to Transantlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie and it moved me to tears. You know writing is good when you can watch it with a completely different soundtrack than what is intended and STILL feel like you got hit with a truck of emotions.

"I'm deleted!?!?" as alternated by yourself and dear Briar all through our runs of Endwalker raids c':

This one time I was in Limsa at the Aetheryte and a Lalafell came up to me and whispered me and said "this is a hold up, give me all your gil!" and I was like "oh my god, please don't hurt me" and gave him 10k gil and then told shout chat and got people to chase him all the way up to the Aftcastle.

That time I found out that Uncle is a 'forbidden word' because I couldn't name the fuccboi palace "Uncle Zan's Pad" but I could name it "the booba emporium" which was your alternate suggestion c':

Here's a recent one and it's RP related too! Gifting a femur to the delightful Sarrai and watching her put it in the Fireside's crisper at their All Hallow's pop up last year!

Memorieeessss~ Hurry up all DC travel so I can play with my oce homies on whatever alts I want c':

#loool this was tough tho c': #ffxiv top 5s #ooc asks and answers #ty for reminding me of all our shenanigans #see you again in DT maybe (hopefully) <3333

[silentmight]

[ Connections ] ♀ WoL/Deryk

a short comic of my WoL stumbling across Deryk at the Aftcastle.

#serah art #ffxiv art #ff14 art #wol oc #ffxiv wol #wolship #ff14 comic #comics #deryk ffxiv #derykwol

[witchycatwife]

A model of a typical brassclad artilleryship, demonstrating various design features. Some details such as the sail and rigging are missing.

From the design of the ship, we can see that it is a long-ranged artilleryship with a large vertical-axis maingun at the front. A large reflector and combustion chamber sits underneath the conical sheathing, while the optical apparatus of the gun is at the top.

A fire controller sits in the tower alongside the apparatus and aims the gun with the help of a telescope; a necessity with ranges reaching multiple miles. The fire controller ignites the main charge using either a lanyard from the tower to a gunlock mechanism on the deck below, or a small flintlock incender aimed directly at the charge in the flash chamber. Due to the pitching and rolling motion of the ship, long-range accuracy is impossible to achieve if fire commands have to be relayed to igniter crew below as is often done on land.

The lower part of the maingun turret containing the flash chamber and reflector impinges on deck space below, reducing the number of available rowers. Similarly, the mast and sail are limited by the need not to foul the maingun. To compensate, the ship is likely very lightly built despite looking like a fortress of metal, and a wavepiercer in the front increases the waterline length (it is not a ram: the maingun apparatus could be easily damaged by the impacts involved in ramming). If possible, the mast and rigging are left behind at a friendly port before heading to battle.

Secondary armament of smaller long-range lenscannons, possibly cinderguns, is visible in the front below the maingun tower. The signaler is visible on top of the aftcastle. The ship is designed to fight outside the effective range of ballguns to protect its sensitive maingun, so the defensive armament along the sides is unlikely to feature short-range weapons such as firethrowers. Long-range ballguns are possible, but the position of firing ports directly below the maingun tower where there would be no space for a ballgun to recoil implies that at least some of the broadside consists of compact lenscannons.

The ship is sheathed in a relatively corrosion-resistant brass alloy throughout, including under the waterline where the copper content prevents biofouling, permitting higher speeds and reduced maintenance. The deck is plated over, indicating that this is a more recent design; early plateships had open decks, making them extemely vulnerable to an arms race of ever taller mainguns shooting over their side plating. While extremely effective against magical weapons, the plating is too thin to be helpful against ballguns.

[tanadrin]

As a matter of naval jargon, “forecastle” is typically abbreviated “focsle,” but “aftcastle” doesn’t seem to have a similar abbreviation and that really bugs me.

[eorzeanflowers]

FFXIV WRITE 2023 Prompt 10: Free Prompt - Eye

(Character: Rose, Benoit Thibodeux, Timeframe: Pre-Endwalker, CW: Potential Eye injury)

Benoit tossed a handful of gil on the table, taking his paid for bottle of liquor out of the Drowning Wench. “My regards, Baderon.” The barkeep nodded at his regular, then returned to tally up his books. Benoit headed past the aftcastle, keeping well away from the Maelstrom headquarters. He wandered over to the Anchor Yard, then perched up in one of its rocky formations that look out over the harbor.

“Mayhap today will be the day for a brilliant stroke of luck.” He muttered to himself, pulling the cork out of the bottle with his teeth. Taking a swig, he lifted his eye patch, using his Allagan eye to scan the incoming ships and their people. As was the norm for him at this point, the overwhelming information nearly blinded him. He could make out that none of the names of beings there were who he was seeking. Sighing, he let the eye patch fall back down, truly blinding the eye.

“Fat lot of good you are,” he poked his eye patch from the outside. He looked out over the evening harbor waters with his regular eye, contemplating so many possibilities. Benoit sat in silence for a good while, working his way through the bottle. His thoughts drifted from memory to memory, until it settled on one as he neared the bottom of the bottle.

“It’s Allagan technology, Benny.” A gray-skinned, burgundy haired Raen Au Ra woman grinned at him. “You should figure out what it does.”

“Captain… It looks like a glass eye.” Benoit narrowed his eyes at the woman. “I am not about to pop out one of my own eyes for your amusement.”

She threw up her hands in disappointment. “You would be a stick in the mud.” She then fished about in her belt, drawing a dagger. “Well, I’m curious. If you aren’t… Your loss.” She set the eye down on her desk and brought the dagger to her one eye, then the other, a look of consideration on her face.

“Captain, you aren’t—” Benoit’s captain decided on the eye and started to work the dagger into her eye socket. Benoit leapt forward and grabbed her arm, gently and firmly keeping her from digging any deeper.

“Oi, it's my eye. I get to choose what to do with it.” She protested against him, tugging the blade closer to her eye.

“Captain, that may be accurate.” Benoit sighed, but did not let go of her arm. “But you are our Captain. I will not let you harm yourself over a fool’s errand.”

“How else are we going to figure out what it does, hmm?”

“I don’t know!” Benoit threw up his other hand in exasperation. “But it shouldn’t be by gouging out your own eye!”

“Ok, I’ll give ya that.” his Captain stopped struggling and dropped the dagger. She picked up the eye with her other hand and pushed into Benoit’s chest. “Just figure it out then. I’m mighty curious.” She had a mischievous smile as she slipped out of Benoit’s grip, leaving him the eye.

“Aye.” Benoit rolled his eyes. “I’ll do that.”

The bottle now emptied, Benoit stayed curled up in the natural window. He chuckled, knowing now that the eye was at least not that messy to attach. And now he was stuck with it. He stared out in the darkened night sky of the harbor, a whistle coming easy to his lips. One day, he’ll stand in front of his captain again.. Tell her all the things she missed.

He could not wait for that day.

#the rose #ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #Benoit is such sad little man lol #Word Count: 594

[annadia-thorn]

Aralya'diel

The clipper Aralya’diel cut a sharp profile moored at the docks below Paw’don village; her lines and craftwork showed the vessel as one from Suramar’s shipyards, although the cut of her sails, for those with an eye, bore the influence of Quel’thalas. A lanky figure with long tusks and a shock of upright hair stood on the forward decks, a three-fingered hand held over his eyes as he peered towards the village above.

“‘ey, Cap’n Tightpants,” the troll called out, “I tink dat be your sister comin’.”

Annadia ducked out of the clipper’s aftcastle, adjusting a tricorn hat adorned with a nigh-ridiculous feather to just the right rakish angle. Black leather pants, fitted closely enough to earn the troll’s epithet, were tucked into knee-high cavalier boots buckled close around her calves, the outfit topped with a bishop-sleeved loose linen shirt left dangerously unbuttoned and secured only by an elaborately embroidered half-corset.

All the ensemble required were her blades and pistols but those? Those remained below decks. The conditions of Paw’don's dockmaster were strict, and the local Pandaren had not forgotten the memory of what had once been Garrosh’ar Point.

“Yeah, that’s Seraa,” the sin’dorei agreed, walking across the deck to join the troll at the clipper’s forecastle. The distant figure was making her unhurried way along the winding path from the village to the docks, followed by a shadow far darker than could be accounted for by the springtime sun. “I’m surprised you remember her. And Ko’jin - you’re gonna have to stop calling me that when we get a full crew.”

Annadia gave him a sidelong look, golden eyes narrowing as the troll burst out in laughter.

“Only when you stop dressin’ like de covah o’ some cheap trash book,” the lanky troll retorted after his laughter subsided, “or mebbe you be plannin’ for an early Hallow’s End, eh?” His broad smile, echoed by Annadia a breath later, dulled the sharp edges of their banter.

She lifted a lazy hand with one finger extended in a near-universal gesture. “Let me have it, huh? It’s fun to play the part. We’re still breaking her in,” Anna patted the carved railing, “and I’ve been dreaming of my own ship since I was little. Besides…”

She checked the cinch of her waspie and adjusted her bosom emphatically, “If they’re distracted by my tits, they won’t see how blind we’re stealing them.” Her grin grew sly, long brows raised with hints of salacious intent.

“If it’s larceny on ya mind, you gon be needin’ more den dose baps,” Ko’jin snorted with mock derision, only to wince and move away from the punch Annadia aimed at his arm. “Spirits, ya be abusin’ yer crew already! Fine cap’n you gonna make.”

Annadia huffed an exaggerated pout of aggrievement before looking back along the path. Her sister was near halfway from the village, close enough that Annadia waved and shouted a greeting, the shadowed figure raising a hand in silent response.

A nudge from Ko’jin pushed Annadia in the direction of the gangplank. “You go’wan an’ meet her. Ghaz won’ be back from Two Moons ‘til mornin’, an’ I still gotta finish wit’ inventory in de hold.” He considered Anna for a moment, “You still tink settin’ aside dat space be a good idea?”

“…Yeah. I got a feeling.” She gave a curt nod, still looking towards Seraanna’s approach and waving again. “This time.”

“Best t’be trustin’ a captain’s hunches, ‘den. Mebbe I’ll stop in t’greet you an’ her after y’both had some time for catchin’ up.”

“Captain.” A pleased smirk. “I still like the sound of that. Don’t lose yourself in the hold, or all the wine’ll be gone by the time you’re out.”

“An’ here you be tinkin’ I didn’t lay in extra.” Ko’jin made a shooing gesture. “Now git, ‘fore she boards an’ takes de helm while we’re jawin’.”

Annadia flipped the bird at him again and left, boots clacking along the gangplank as she debarked. Ko’jin watched, the troll‘s thick fingers worrying a dull amulet worn about his neck until he saw the two sisters - sin’dorei and ren’dorei - meet in an embrace still a hundred-odd yards from the docks. Only then did he make his way belowdecks.

"Dreamer be walkin’ again..."

* * *

mentions: @longveil

Ko'jin & Ghaz have appeared in: Old Bindings (Seraanna, flashback) and Extinguished (Kyuusei)

#thornstories #annadia thorn #seraanna longveil #ko'jin and ghaz #old NPCs #| Masks |

[ltwilliammowett]

HMS Revenge 1577

In possibly the most one-sided battle in naval history, Vice Admiral Sir Richard Grenville's Revenge faced 53 Spanish ships in 1591. She was a small Galleon with just 500 tons and 46-guns on one deck. Sir Francis Drake had used her as his flagship at the Battle of Gravelines in 1588, and she was again his flagship in a 1591 attack off Portugal  Martin Frobisher had captained her in 1590 to try to intercept the Spanish Treasure Fleet - unfourtnatly unsuccessful. Vice Admiral Grenville war her captain when the Spanish Fleet came upon the English Fleet in harbour at the Azores to attack the Spanish silver fleet. In late August 1591 the Spanish fleet came upon the English while repairs to the ships caused the crews, many of whom were suffering an epidemic of fever, to be ashore. Most of the ships managed to slip away to sea. Grenville who had many sick men ashore decided to wait for them. When putting to sea he might have gone round the west of Corvo island, but he decided to go straight through the Spaniards, who were approaching from the eastward.

HMS Revenge 1577 (x)

The battle began late on 31 August, when overwhelming force was immediately brought to bear upon the ship, which put up a fierce resistance. For some time he succeeded by skillful tactics in avoiding much of the enemy's fire, but they were all round him and gradually numbers began to tell. As one Spanish ship retired beaten, another took her place, and for fifteen hours the unequal contest continued. Attempts by the Spaniards to board were driven off. San Felipe, a vessel three times her size, tried to come alongside for the Spaniards to board her, along with Aramburu's San Cristóbal. After boarding Revenge, San Felipe was forced to break off. Seven men of the boarding party died, and the other three were rescued by San Bernabé, which grappled her shortly after. The Spanish also lost the galleon Ascensión and a smaller vessel by accident that night, after they collided with each other. Meanwhile, San Cristóbal, which had come to help San Felipe, rammed Revenge underneath her aftcastle, and some time later, Bertendona's San Bernabé battered the English warship with heavy fire, inflicting many casualties and severe damage. The English crew returned fire from the embrasures below deck. When morning broke on 1 September, Revenge lay with her masts shot away, six feet of water on the hold and only sixteen men left uninjured out of a crew of two hundred and fifty. She remained grappled by the galleons San Bernabé and San Cristóbal, the latter with her bow shattered by the ramming. The grappling manoeuvre of San Bernabé, which compelled the English gun crews to abandon their posts in order to fight off boarding parties, was decisive in securing the fate of the Revenge.

The Heroic Action of HMS Revenge against the Spanish Fleet, 1591, by Bernard Finnigan Gribble (1872–1962) (x) 

"Out-gunned, out-fought, and out-numbered fifty-three to one", when the end looked certain Grenville ordered Revenge to be sunk: "Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain! ". His officers could not agree with this order and a surrender was agreed by which the lives of the officers and crew would be spared. After an assurance of proper conduct, and having held off dozens of Spanish ships, Revenge at last surrendered. The injured Grenville died of wounds two days later aboard the Spanish flagship.

The captured but heavily damaged Revenge never reached Spain, but was lost with her mixed prize-crew of 70 Spaniards and English captives, along with a large number of the Spanish ships in a dreadful storm off the Azores. The battle-damaged Revenge was cast upon a cliff next to the island off Terceira, where she broke up completely. Between 1592 and 1593, 14 guns of the Revenge were recovered by the Spanish from the site of the wreck. Other cannons were driven ashore years later by the tide, and the last weapons raised were salvaged as late as 1625.

#naval history #ships who made history #hms revenge #16th century #age of sail

[ofdarklands]

the most annoying thing about limsa is that the aftcastle is the closest aethernet to half the guilds in the fucking city

#especially annoying when they keep sending you to talk to people and then walk back and then report and then walk back #play: mitr’a

[dragoon-mid-jump]

Rhikta Siblings at the Aftcastle during Heavensturn:

"Kouh'to, look! They have chocobo chicks in ryu costumes this year! Aren't they just adorable?" Y'dehlya gushed as one of the aforementioned birds waddled on past them.

He couldn't help but smile at it. "Yeah, I guess they're pretty cute."

#BABY'S FIRST ANAM GPOSE!!! #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #Gposes #My Gposes #WoL #My WoLs #Y'dehlya Rhikta #WoL Adjacents #Kouh'to Rhikta

[olenbluu]

Taking the steps (Eiliana's hunt journey)

Name: U'Ghamaro Quarryman

Lately U'Ghamaro Quarrymen have been adding in numbers. Please, we need to investigate the matter and thin their lines. They might be linked to mining of crystals for summoning of their Primal.

It looked like only a scrap paper. She took it from the bullet board in Aftcastle, Limsa Lominsa. Maybe the re-summoning didn't feel like a threat anymore after Eorzians had been saved so many times by the Warrior of Light. Eiliana remembered the first time she heard from the deeds of the hero and how it made her even more sure she wanted to do her part in making Eorzia safer place.

But it was, indeed, a hunt mark posted by Maelstorm and authorized by Chief Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn herself. A taller folk didn't pay any attention to a lalafell girl that walked the bridge reading and studying the missive. She almost walked into someones legs and heard tall elezen curse the damn lalafell for not looking up while walking.

She read the mark, studied the map and determined that to reach outer la noscea she needed to cross there from upper la noscea. It was nice to stop by the Bronze Lake, but she hadn't had time to enjoy the spa. She had a lot of steps to be taken to get to the Outer la Noscea.

And when she finally got there, she was greeted with horryifing smell of molted rock and stench from the pipes.

She was closing the U'Ghamaro Mines, that was sure, and she took careful steps not to get lost or stuck in any of the pools of mineral water, when all of the sudden a huge growl scared her. It was echoing in the air and as she walked closer to the main entrance she heard flapping of giant wings closing her. Or she was closing the noises.

Sneaking closer she saw a giant bird-like lizard that was nesting in the entrance of the mines. A bunch of kobolds hang near by, talking in their own language about the situation. Eiliana didn't understand a word, but continued watching them. They seemed to come into somekind of decision and biggest of them took their spear and attacked the bird.

It was her time, now or never. She run past the fighting and almost fell as the giant bird flapped its wings, but after she got back in track she was in the mines. Only problem being, she didn't know where she was.

But she didn't come all this way to back off. No! She was hear to do her job, as a freelancer hunter.

With newfound determiniation and the hope that she could do her own share preventing new primal summoning, she ventured deeper in to the mines. Only to be treated with silence and empty halls. There was no one in the mines. No kobolds and all the echoing of the battle at the entrance was gone.

It took her hours to realize she was not going to find anyone.

After a not so triumphant walk back to Bronze Lake and carriage ride to Limsa Lominsa, she felt beaten. How in the twelves name she didn't find anyone? Was this a mystery? Was there something so foul going on in the mines that even the kobolds were not taking part in it? Should she alarm the hireups? Warrior of Light?

"Mind ya, that will be a fifty, lassy", the waiter said and Eiliana reached to her gil purse.

"Here you go."

"Mind you lassy, dropped a paper there, doncha dirt-up floors, hear me." Waiter snapped and Eiliana jumped down from the chair to pick up the paper. It was the missive for the U'Ghamaro mines. And it had been dated... years ago. And it did line up perfectly with the first time Warrior of Light fought Titan.

"Oh, dammit."

"Missy, language, mind you!"

#ff14 rp #ff14 ffxiv #ff14 screenshot #ff14 #lalafell #ff14 writing #ff14 short story

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #3: Augers and Alloys

Prompt: temper || Master Post || On AO3

Ivar chattered excitedly in her ear as she crossed the Aftcastle, dangling from her shoulder with his back paws braced against her lower back. Synnove hummed in acknowledgment every now and then, absorbed in reading the reports she carried as she walked and thus only half-listening to her excited firebug.

Mama, left!

She stepped to her left, narrowly avoiding a gawking tourist, and resumed her course to Naldiq & Vymelli’s, closing her report folio and tucking it under the opposite arm from her ruby carbuncle.

The bridge linking the main spire of Limsa Lominsa’s premier shipwrights with the rest of the city was thick with a crowd, mostly adventurers: clients purchasing weapons and gear or students at the guilds. The chaos was mostly organized, with signs and apprentices directing visitors either further up or down the main spire, or to one of the causeways leading to a secondary spire. Synnove was both expected and a regular, and she and Ivar were waved towards the causeway that would take them to the research and development area.

H’naanza herself met them, a fierce grin on her face, and her forge goggles pushed up to the top of her head to reveal her glittering eyes. Synnove arched an eyebrow, even as Ivar on her shoulder began to vibrate from barely-contained excitement.

“You’re usually off tutoring the would-be armorers,” the arcanist drawled, “not minding the R&D mavens. What the hells have you lot cooked up?”

“Better to show you,” the older woman purred, and Synnove’s eyebrows arched even higher up her forehead as she followed H’naanza into the spire.

It wasn’t often she had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of another guild’s bout of mad genius.

The metallurgists of Naldiq & Vymelli’s were the finest in Eorzea, bar none, and Synnove was comfortable saying they could likely outdo Sharlayan and Far Eastern ones, too. (Biased? Perhaps. But she at least frequently saw their products put into regular use throughout the Maelstrom navies and La Noscean settlements and Ironworks production lines, instead of kept hidden away from prying foreign eyes.) The lab she was led into could be a twin to one in the Arcanists’ Guild with the blueprints and equations tacked to the walls or on slate chalkboards, save for the presence of a small forge, currently cold and closed up, at the far end of the room.

What was odd was that all the desks and shelves had been shoved off to the sides of the room, and a large sheet of some metal Synnove didn’t recognize clamped securely to the far wall.

Mimidoa Nanadoa waved to her excitedly, and Ivar dropped off her shoulder with a crackling chatter to bound over to the grizzled lalafell. The man gave her firebug a good face scratch with both hands. “Hullo, me explodey lad!” he said to Ivar. “We’ve got some proper delights for ye and yer ma today.”

Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy! Ivar chittered, tippy-tapping his feet in a fast rhythm.

As Synnove came up to the table Mimidoa was standing next to, she glanced down, and blinked. “Mimidoa,” she said slowly, “how in the seven swiving hells did you get a hold of one of Stephanivien’s aetheromatic augers?”

“Poker game,” the blacksmith said with a shite-eating grin.

“And you didn’t invite me?!”

“Now, now,” H’naanza said. “That’s a story for another time.”  The miqo’te clapped her hands together. “Synnove, one of our recent projects has been developing a new alloy that doesn’t just protect against ceruleum and magical blasts, but actively nullifies them.”

Synnove tilted her thoughtfully as she mulled that over. That would be a hell of a game changer, not just in terms of military applications but safety ones, too; she could immediately think of multiple areas back in her guild such material would be useful. “Similar to the gilding the Garleans used to put on their magitek reapers?” she said.

“Bah!” Mimidoa spat. “That shite’s just flat trash. It chips, and the integrity o’ the protection is ruined. Hideously expensive, too, and even that thin a coatin’ o’ gold is bloody heavy. No, this is lightweight and durable, and cheaper to produce than to mine and process gold.”

“Of course, we’re still exploring how to make mass production more viable,” H’naanza said, crossing her arms. “The hardening and tempering process is very precise. But before we get to that…”

“A demonstration,” her lalafell compatriot said, rubbing his hands together.

For all the shite everyone gave her about her own pyromaniac tendencies, Synnove was a stickler for safety protocols, and she eyed the aetheromatic auger with trepidation as Mimidoa first put on a pair of welding goggles and then picked the auger up. “Please tell me you’ve already tried firing that thing in here.”

“We have already tried and succeeded in firing it in here,” Mimidoa said primly, sharpening his diction in mockery of her precise arcanist’s clip. She kicked at him half-heartedly, and he dodged out of the way and a bark of a laugh.

“Eyes!” the lalafell said cheerfully, and Synnove took out a pair of goggles from her hip pouch and quickly donned them as H’naanza pulled her own back down onto her face. Ivar hopped up onto the table for a better view, so excited now that he was visibly vibrating.

Mimidoa settled the auger on his shoulder, aiming through the site as he depressed the trigger to begin charging. The familiar hum of an aetheromatic auger charging up filled the room, and in a few more seconds, it fired, streaking across the room to hit the metal sample on the wall—

—and it splashed off the large plate, the condensed aether puddling into something vaguely liquid on the floor beneath it before dissipating. There wasn’t a single scratch on the plate that she could see.

Synnove stared. Ivar stopped vibrating, instead now sitting eerily still with ears pricked completely upright.

Mama, can I try that? he said, swiveling his head around to look at her.

She kept staring forward as she replied, “Absolutely not, not until I’m one hundred percent you’ll be able to remanifest.”

Awww…

The arcanist stalked forward, examining the sample plate with her nose barely a half-ilm away from the surface. The metal was, indeed, completely unblemished, and running her hands over it, she couldn’t feel any dents or unusual heat or cold, though she would need Tyr and his earth aether sensitivity to test the internal integrity further. Synnove, wide-eyed and feeling the mania of a good research binge hovering at the edge of her mind, whirled on her heel to stare at H’naanza and Mimidoa. The armorer and the blacksmith wore matching mad grins.

“I’m assuming you want me to throw some good old-fashioned Warrior of Light influence around with the Admiral to get more funding for this,” Synnove said.

“Yes,” said H’naanza with a nod.

“Shameless.”

“Utterly,” Mimidoa cackled.

“Count me in.”

H’naanza and Mimidoa exchange a low five.

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[catboyaesthetic]

Ironsworn

The following story has been created with the use of the Solo RPG "Ironsworn." I'm still learning the system and it's equal parts unwieldy and intuitive. It's nonetheless a very rewarding system and a great way of digging into my own creativity. I would highly recommend it if you have the time to get to grips with it.

I've tinkered with it a little bit to fit a character from my own personal worldbuilding project into it, and as such, it's not as representative of the game as it might have been had I generated a character specifically inside the world. The reason for this was the fact that I thought it was cool to integrate my world with this one.

The Journey Begins

All has been set in motion. A week ago I was informed of my new post in a place called “the Ironlands” by the Volcaptain. The talk was short as they often are, but this felt almost cold and distant, where usually the curtness feels professional. To convey in as few words as possible is considered a virtue, but this involves Lena, and to hear the mission that involves her be spoken of so curtly rubs me wrong. It is how we always do things, but to know it’s about her feels different. The main post is to aid the Ironlands, of course. There’s been reports of something called “black iron” being mined there, and the higher-ups believed it’s a synonym for the Elder Mineral. I am to investigate these reports and otherwise present as good of an image of Sunspire as I can. I still find the position odd. To be diplomatic emissary, expeditionary force, assassin, courtier, foreign army and sword-for-hire all in the same person makes me feel as if I am to be a superhuman extension of the Merchant-Kings. But I’m just a man. I bleed. I laugh. I weep. I think tonight I’ll go on that trip down the Halls of Joy I’ve always promised myself. It might be the last time I can distract myself the fullest.

Aboard the Fortune’s Call

As I sail aboard the Fortune’s Call, the air is crisp and full of shouting. Wherever I turn, there is command. Authority, it seems, is infectious, especially aboard a ship this size. It feels like a floating fortress with how many cannons rest on either side, which seem unnecessarily high. The place called the aftcastle is true to its name with how vast the structure is. Decorated with vivid colour and intricate carvings in the shape of lionheads, suns and other ornate ornamentation, it seems every bit a wooden manor. We’re only short a green field to truly complete the picture. While I’m hardly considered to be an authority on taste, I find the whole picture rather gaudy. The man who captains this vessel is equally as colourful in his attire, his manner and his general demeanor. For all his flaws in taste, I do enjoy the man. If there is one benefit to being a Spiresworn, it’s the ability to outrank most everyone in the city. Subsequently, I am considered to be on not just equal, but higher ranked company to the captain. Though I do surrender to his authority on this vessel. Despite my experience, I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to run a ship, let alone run it well. Captain Perrenen has that well in hand, and I believe we have an understanding that I do not muddy his command by inserting myself and he subsequently does not ask questions he ought not to. Thus we spend our time together pleasantly and dedicated to conversation. He is an exceptional rhetorician and his mind is sharp as the saber he carries. On more than one occasion he has managed to stump me, wielding his arguments as deftly as I hope he wields that sword.

 

It didn’t take long for us to reach our first waypoint of the journey, a port called Heragon, I couldn’t make out a word of the language, but the people were pleasant and helpful. I got to try several delicacies which I believe Captain Perrenen later paid for – being more accustomed with the way things worked. I should have known, of course, that that was a swindle rather than a kindness, but the good captain had the decency to only laugh at me in private. I believe he is the only person whom I have ever enjoyed calling me a fool.

 

(Undertake a journey 4+3 vs. 9 and 3 – Weak Hit.)

We set sail again before long. In what I understand to be a stroke of good luck, the winds have favoured us thus far. I spend my nights with Captain Perrenen, discussing this and that, and somehow never quite running out of things to talk about. Despite myself, I find myself drawn to him, and whether it’s been weeks or months, the attraction only grows stronger. He doesn’t flatter me the way that I’m used to, no shallow compliments, no deference to rank. He talks to me like a person. He asks me about my ways of thinking, my interests. He treats me like a human being, not the arm of the Merchant-Kings.

I find I look forward to the evening discussions we have. To have him to myself for a while where I do not see Captain Perrenen, but only Hann. I say ‘only’ but he is only a captain. As a man, he is so much more. He loves the sound of the ship as it hits the waves, urian tea drawn from barab roots for exactly 5 minutes, something which makes the drink exceedingly bitter and which provides something of a comic contrast to his otherwise sweet disposition. He loves the sunrise, singing, and the sea. All sailors do, in their own way. Lately I find my arguments do not have their old sharpness as I focus on the wrinkles around his eyes from what is still a very short life spent laughing often and loudly. The sound of his voice as he calls my name and tries to draw me out of my musings. The way he looks at me with might be a knowing smile. I don’t know. The weeks soar by, the winds favour us, and we spend our evenings together. For a time, the world is small and peaceful.

 

(Undertake a journey: 5+3 vs 5 and 2 – Strong Hit.)

The seas are good to us. We make such good progress that somewhere, I feel a pang of regret that it will be over soon. The routine over the past few months has become so ingrained that I would almost feel like I’d be throwing part of me away when I have to step off this ship. It’s something I remind myself of often, especially as Hann and I sit and talk. We’ve gone far beyond battling wits the last few weeks. Perhaps it’s just me, but there is a weight to the conversations we have now, a tension. The way he laughs is different, but no less attractive and I’ve noticed that he looks at me differently. It’s only then that I realize I don’t know what goes on in that head of his, and I would desperately like to know. Sometimes he hides his mouth behind his hand as he listens to me, and I find myself hoping he’s smiling. I find myself feeling as if I were a prey in the eyes of the hawk. I feel he sees me in a way that I find thrilling. I also find myself skirting around certain topics or words because I am afraid they would not sit well with him, despite him never giving any indication of displeasure. In fact, he seems to be somewhat diminished every time I draw away from what might be something risqué. I think he’s hoping for the same thing I am. But what is it exactly that I’m hoping for? Outside of this room we are the same as always. He is Captain Perennen and I am Fyodor, a high-paying nobody for all intents and purposes, which allows me all the privileges wealth can afford aboard his ship – so long as it does not interfere with its functioning. But despite how small this ship is, I feel worlds apart from him. My mind churns and a need that will not be reasoned with rises with every evening he sits and looks at me like he wants the same thing. Or am I just seeing what I want to see? Am I so caught up in my own experience I forget the rest of the world? It wouldn’t be the first time. Lena often said I was prone to egotism, and despite my best efforts to rectify this, I can still get caught up in the whirlwind. There are so many things to dislike about him. As I try to remind myself of them to still the hunger, I find they’ve all disappeared. It would be cruel, I think to myself, to simply consume such a beautiful a man. To use him for my selfish purposes and discard him once we arrive. Soon we will be oceans apart again. Time will be kind to the memory but not the feeling. I would miss him. Worse yet, I fear that I would miss him more than he would miss me. I could write, but would I? I know myself, or at least I try to, and I have historically always been a evasive lover. Quick to action, slow to attach. It comes with the work, I think. I try not to think on it further.

 

(Undertake a journey 5+3 vs 5 and 1 – Strong Hit.)

My heart sinks as the news reaches us that our destination lies on the horizon. I didn’t think I still had it in me to dread. I glance to Hann as he stands on the balcony of his aftcastle, in every way the picture of the noble captain as he gazes towards the horizon. For the fifth time today, I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he feels the same grief I do. I’m not sure why. Perhaps the adage that misery loves company is truer than I ever thought it to be. I remind myself that all I feel, I feel alone. I do not know what goes on in his head, and for all intents and purposes, his acceptance of my presence has been a calculated indulgence. But even as I remind myself, I find I do not want to believe it. I would rather believe the delusion – if indeed it is – and pine for a man in so many ways my better. You do not get many comforts in this line of work. Spiresworn are meant to be the bastions of the Merchant-Kings around the Known World. But even if each of us are built up to be castles of our own accord, we all rule alone. How thicker the walls and how vast the defenses, the lonelier it is.

Hann catches me staring. I do not have the decency to look away. Rather I take the opportunity to carve him into my memory. If it is not to be, I would like to remember him. To put this finely-honed mind to work remembering a man who was kind to a stranger, a father to his crew and the envy of the sun with the warmth and light he brought to the lives of those around him. I am pulled from my reverie by the sound of his voice, carrying a tone he’s never used with me before.

“Mister Koningszoon, if you’d care to join me in my quarters, I have something I’d like to discuss.” He dismisses his inner circle of officers, then turns and enters his quarters. He speaks to me as if I were a crewmen, with courteous authority – and the implicit expectation he is to be heeded. Something in me bristles at it, yet the largest part is awash with crackling anticipation. I keep my composure, my strides measured, and knock courteously on Hann’s door – The Captain’s door, I remind myself – to announce my arrival. I enter by his command, and the moment the door shuts behind me, Hann’s lips are on mine and his hands are grasping my face and the world melts away in the wake of his affection and the flush of warmth that rushes through me. I taste how hungry he really is, how desperate. How badly he wants to grasp me but even in this desperate heat of the moment, he remains soft and kind and considerate and I want to let him take all he wants as reward for his kindness. Whether he means to pull my hair or strip me or debase me in ways that tumble over each other in my head is irrelevant. For a moment I am his and he is mine and we are only Hann and Fyodor in a floating wooden fortress and barely hours until we are cruelly separated once again. As we continue to kiss and grab at each other, almost as if to confirm that the other is truly real and this is really happening, I let him lead me wherever he wants. We don’t need to speak. We know what we want. We’ve known for weeks – months – what it is we’ve wanted and only now have we found the courage to act.

The brief bout of pleasure and the eternity of joy we spend together after is too short. The beginning of the end comes by way of a simple crewman, relaying a message of our arrival. I try not to weep. Hann holds me, kisses my head and assures me that this won’t be the last time we’ll see each other. He promises to write me. I thank him, knowing I won’t. Knowing he truly is too good of a man for the likes of me.

Damula

As I travel in a vessel vastly underwhelming after months on the Fortune’s Call, I am informed by my ferrywoman the place we’re heading toward is called Damula. A strange name, that even seems to sound wrong out of my ferrywoman’s mouth. Still, the sound of it seems to somehow fit the accent she has. The word itself is thick with history. I find it hard to concentrate as I look back towards the dot on the horizon that has been all the world for the past few months, captained by what had been my home until today. I ask the Ferrywoman what Damula means.

(6+3 Wits vs. 8 and 9 = Weak Hit.)

The ferrywoman thinks on it for a moment, seeming unsure herself. She then tells me it was a word from “those who came before.” Who or what they were or where they come from remains a mystery, and I think I have already overstayed my ferrywoman’s patience with my questions. My own patience is running thin also, and so I overlook the landscape that is steadily drawing closer.

Despite the withered landscape, it has a beautiful quality to it. It seems as if time has passed this place by. The trees that might have once grown here have been cut down and usurped into the buildings of Damula, and it seems they have neglected to plant new ones. Yet somehow, it has enhanced the landscape, not made it worse. I dread to think on the ecosystem, however. What do they burn to keep warm? Do they keep warm? This wind chills me to the soul and the gray skies that always threaten rain make the season difficult to distinguish.

I’ve already paid the ferrywoman whom I have neglected to ask her name. She didn’t seem the talkative type to begin with, but now that we’ve begun I feel compelled to do so. She tells me her name is Makari. When I ask for her last name, she looks at me like I’ve asked her what colour the water is. It seems these are in short supply. In hopes of not drawing attention to myself – something I have already radically failed at – I tell her my name is Fyodor. She finds the name strange, yet tells me it has a certain melodic quality to it. An observation I find ill-fitting of a ferrywoman, yet nonetheless flattering and indicative of an interest and mind I did not think to find within this ferrywoman. Which itself is a sentiment I find myself somewhat embarrassed of. In hopes of distracting myself from it, I put on my best smile and ask her if she enjoys music. She nods as she adjusts the sails and seems to think on it for a moment. Weighing some unknown thought, she shakes her head and simply looks out across the water once more, the conversation and her interest slipping through my fingers. Despite myself, I find myself all the more eager to pursue her attention. I weigh the likelihood of my chances of her interest and find myself humbled by her stoic interest in the journey. I find myself somewhat forlorn, the rejection like a knife between my ribs. But we are strangers, ultimately. And she is a competent sailor. I find myself thinking on what it would be like to be the sole focus of that magnificent attention. For a moment, I am warm.

I part from Makari with a curt goodbye. Vainly I wonder if she will miss me. I will certain miss her. The sight of her arms bending the ship to her will, the way she gazed across the waves and seemed to be able to take stock of a person with but a glance. There is a hardness and an honesty to her. I look back at her, and to my surprise I find her looking back at me as well. I can’t quite tell, but it almost seems like she smiles for a moment. Then she’s gone again, likely never to be seen and I am, as always, alone.

Naturally, I look for the closest thing resembling a tavern.

(3+3 Wits vs. 6 and 10 = Weak Hit.)

When I approach a stranger in hopes of information, I am met with one of the coldest glares I’ve seen to date. I greet the woman and she leers at me as if to let me out of her sight means I’d rob her blind. “Good day to you and yours, friend,” I begin, and despite her obvious suspicion, she seems to relax a little. “To you as well,” she replies, looking me over with a gaze I’d much prefer held more interest than the current weighing it did. Her arms are broad, her brown hair is short and her eyes are a dark green one could get lost in, as I find myself doing before I catch myself and continue. “Would you happen to know if there is a watering hole nearby?” She looks at me like Makari did, as if I’d just ask what the colour of water is. “No,” she replies curtly. I can feel her judge me to be a fool and in the process of be forgotten. While I would usually prefer it that way, I find myself compelled to correct the notion. “Ah, perhaps I was too broad in my description. I meant to ask for a place where one might find a drink.”

The woman looks up and the realization as to my earlier meaning seems to dawn on her. “Ahh, you mean like Kendi’s Rest? Sure there is.” Her brief moment of helpfulness is swiftly interrupted by her earlier measurement of me. “Typically only locals visit Kendi’s Rest. We don’t get many visitors here.” There is suspicion in her gaze and in her voice.

(Secure an advantage, 2+3 vs 8 and 7 = Miss.)

Something compels to engage with the adage that honesty is the best policy. “Well, it’s true enough that I am a stranger to these parts, and it’s not without reason I’ve come to this place.” I barely catch myself from insulting this place, the words “shithole” and “pit” presenting themselves long before “place” ever does. “I’ve come looking for someone, and while I’m relatively certain there’s no trail of her here, I figured I have to start asking questions somewhere.”

The stranger regards me with even more suspicion, and gradually rises up from her work. She seems to loosen herself up somewhat, and I can take a guess as to what. However, the need for it seems unwarranted, and I am more than a little confused as towards the display of naked preparation for hostilities. I raise my hands defensively, more than able to read the room. “Listen, I mean no harm to you or anyone here, nor do I want to imply that you’re the ones responsible. I simply want to know where my friend is.”

“Something tells me I don’t like you. A stranger come from who knows where asking questions about who knows who. I don’t know who your friend is, and I don’t know why you’ve come looking for her, but I think you oughta leave to somewhere better for your health.” The woman growls, having drawn herself up to her full height. She is lean from hard work, broad with muscle. I don’t think she takes well to being threatened. But I don’t have time for this, harangued by the second person I run into in this shithole of a village, searching for a drink, heartbroken and months away from civilization. The mask of the aloof fool drops and I take a step forward to loom over her. Something twitches to life in my chest and my eyes sear with the knowledge of countless battles. The sight of lives I have taken made adds weight to my gaze. I level it upon her and let the vast shadow of my sins cast over her. I am the monster once again. “I think this place suits me just fine.” I speak with a tone as sharp as a knife’s edge. “I also think we should go about our respective business,” I continue, adding with as much venom as I can muster “for your health.”

(Compel, 2+4 Iron vs 3 and 4. – Strong Hit)

She withers underneath my gaze, shrinking away from me. I see the shame in her face from buckling. She tries to catch herself but she knows the game is up. For a moment, she seems a girl in pants far too large for her. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she replies in a voice that has lost all of its confidence. I let the monster slip off of me and once more, I am the pleasant, forgettable everyman. As she turns around to return to her work, I feel a sting of regret. Perhaps I should have tried to talk to her differently. But how? I don’t know what these people are like. I barely got here and already I’ve almost gotten myself into a fight.

 

I head towards the gathering place of this town, Kendi’s Rest. As I step inside, the heads of six patrons turn to look at me. They seem to collectively realise that I am not a resident of the town, and as such, they stare. It seems I have my work cut out for me not to stand out. Despite the earlier failure, I put on my best smile and greet the scowling faces which refuse to stop staring at me. “Greetings, all!” I begin, my voice thunderous from experience commanding troops, in hopes of easing their hostility. From my earlier encounter I think to myself that they might appreciate bluntness. “I suppose I’ll not dally or taint your day further with endless pleasantry and get straight to the point. Has anyone here happened to have heard of a woman called “Lena?””

( Compel 5+3 Heart vs 7 and 3. – Strong Hit! )

There is some grumbling and murmuring, but finally one person speaks up. “Aye!” He says with a voice that would make the rocks envious with how rough it is, “I’ve heard of a Lena!” I look at him, realizing he’s the first man I’ve seen on this island and quickly make my way over, smiling still but reading his face to see if he’s lying.

( Gather information, 2+3 Wits vs. 9 and 2. – Weak Hit. )

For all I can see, the man is perfectly sincere. I sit down beside him and try to keep my smile as natural and relaxed as I am. Within, my heart is pounding away at my chest. Surely it can’t be this easy? The third person I talk to, and I’ve got a lead?

“A fine woman she was! I remember the way she used to scold me for slacking on my duties.” The man lets out a chuckle, a sound like rocks scraping against one another, and I realise the man is quite up there in years already. The fire from the torches occasionally darken the grooves within the man’s face, worn by time. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “It’s a shame she passed away. But that’s the way of things.”

My heart sinks and in my shock, I forget to wear the mask of emotion. “She’s dead?” I ask the man. He looks at me like the other two have before him, like I asked what the colour of water is. “Well, yeah, man! Do you expect us to live forever? She was quite up there in years already.”

Again, my shock overtakes me, this time with a frown. “Wait, what do you mean she was up there in years already?” Now it’s the man’s turn to scowl. “Like I said, man! Are you slow? She was old! Quite old, in fact. Ancient by anyone’s reckoning! We used to joke she might outlive us all! Bahaha!’

Despite the sound of his laughter akin to an avalanche filling the drinking hovel, I feel a warm sense of relief fill my stomach. A feeling quickly replaced by frustration. While I’m happy to hear she’s not dead, I’m back to nothing after thinking I found myself a lead. I put on the smile once more and thank the man, saying that I don’t think we’re looking for the same person.

“Oh? Well, good luck to you, then. Oh, and uh… spare a kindness for an old man?” He asks with a mischievous grin, holding up his empty tankard. I ponder for a moment, before I pull out my pockets and show that I don’t even have a cog to my name. “Hah! Maybe I should offer you a kindness, eh?” The man laughs, and where I briefly expect him to offer some kind of alms, he merely gives me more laughter. Then he realizes I’m still there and gestures with his tankard for me to leave. “Go on, off you fuck.” He says, without losing any of his pleasant demeanor, and with a mixture of shock and admiration, I do just that.

I head towards what passes for a bar and hail the person behind it – a woman, who seem to be more ubiquitous than men so far. She heads over and gives me a curt nod. Before she can ask me for my order, I tell her I don’t have anything to pay with. She sets her hands on the bar, leans forward, curls up her upper lip in contempt and asks: “Then what are you doing here, stranger?” I tell her I’m looking for information on a woman named Lena. “Never heard of her,” she replies, and makes to leave.

“Then what news is there? Surely there must be something keeping you busy around these parts?” I quickly ask before she turns around fully. She seems to be anything but eager to talk to me.

( Compel, 3+3 Heart vs 1 and 7 – Weak Hit. )

I put on my best smile and decide to engage in a bit of flattery. “Surely this place is where all the important people gather. And a woman like you seems like she knows the value of information.” I tell her. It seems to evoke little other than the raise of an eyebrow, but at the very least, she seems curious. “I do,” she replies curtly, “well enough to know that I don’t simply give it out for free. Especially not to every passing stranger that enters my tavern.”

I put two and two together. “You must be Kendi then,” I ask, to which she performs a mock curtsy with nonetheless perfect form. She must have practiced that quite a bit. “The very same. Now, you know who I am and seem to be the observant sort. But I’m not in the business of wondering, I’m in the business of knowing.” She throws her drying cloth over her shoulder and sets her hands on her hips before jerking her head up expectantly and looking me over. “What’s your name?” She asks, expecting to be answered. I oblige. “Fyodor,” I swallow the urge to say my last name, I’ve stood out enough already and the custom of last names seems to be unfortunately absent. “Well, Fyodor,” Kendi begins, “I could tell you what occupies this beautiful town of ours, but I’d like to ask you a few things first.”

At her mercy, I throw up my hands before opening them before her. “Whatever you’d like to know,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes for a moment and she wastes no time. “Where are you from, Fyodor?” “Sunspire,” I answer truthfully. Kendi shrugs, “Never heard of it. Though that does makes you an outlander.” She notes. I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?” “No,” she answers, continuing on. “What are you doing in Damula?” Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Like I said, I’m looking for a woman called Lena.” Kendi’s interest is visibly piqued. “What is she to you?” A flood of images and feelings wash over me, but no words come until heartbeats later. “Someone I could not stand to lose.” I answer, surprised by my own obfuscation. Kendi shakes her head, looking me in the eye while I briefly drown in remembering. “No no, you don’t get off that easy. What is she to you? Family? Friend? A loved one?” “All that and more,” I reply without missing a beat. The mask of pleasantness is gone. I look at her with all the desperation that I hold within and it seems to strike a chord with her. Kendi’s expression softens somewhat, and the questions cease. For a heartbeat I think I spy a glimmer of respect in her gaze before she carries on cleaning. After a while, she begins to speak unprompted. She seems a little tense as she does so, and much to my surprise after her earlier demeanor, she drops her volume.

“News around here is always slow. But lately people around here can’t seem to stop worrying about the dead.” “The dead?” I ask incredulously before I can help myself, and Kendi gives me a scathing look that tells me I spoke too loudly. “Yes, Fyodor. The dead.” Her eyes grow distant as she tries to focus on cleaning this one particular tankard rather intensely. “Everybody wants to be the one that solves the problem, as that would ensure you spend the rest of your life living luxuriously wherever you go.” I tap a finger on the sad excuse for a bar as I think. “Why?” I wonder aloud, and Kendi looks at me like everyone before her has; like I asked what the colour of water is. It seems to be becoming something of a tradition. “Because,” Kendi begins with a tone that makes it clear it is the most obvious thing in the world, “the Dead have been restless for years now and no one knows why. They’ve been assaulting this town every night for weeks.” She looks at me for a long while in silence before realizing. “You don’t know, do you? They don’t just walk again, they are organized. They are coming, Fyodor. Every night, they come.”

Despite my proximity to the hearth which crackles comfortingly beside me, a chill goes through me. Yet another peril to add to the list amidst hostile but strangely helpful Ironlanders, now the Innumerable seem to have reached even here. I nod my head upwards towards Kendi, “Have you heard of the Innumerable?” I ask. Kendi raises an eyebrow, but shakes her head. “Why, who are they?” I ponder for a moment whether to tell her, but decide for it seeing how free she has been with her information. “The Innumerable,” I begin after leaning in conspiratorially, “are known as the Heirs of the Ashes and are effectively the nation of the dead.” Kendi lets out a skeptical puff of air and I beckon her back over. “No, no, I’m serious. Wherever there are bodies in the ground, they claim dominion.” “So they’d consider this place theirs as well?” Kendi asks. I throw up my hands as if to indicate it’s out of my hands, and nod. Kendi lets out a sharp laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. What, so the dead have a nation, with a king and everything? And cities?” She seems genuinely curious before a grin slowly spread across her lips that suits her particularly well. “Come off it, you’re pulling my leg.” I scowl and shake my head. Kendi’s grin drops. “I told you, I’m serious. I don’t know how they’re organized exactly, I do know that—” I catch myself before I reach into information which is privy only to a handful of people even within Sunspire. Kendi looks at me expectantly, raising her eyebrows as if to indicate “go on.” Then, after realizing I was not going to continue, lets out a ‘tch’ and shakes her head. “Anyway, that’s what’s occupying people at the moment. Staying alive.”

I continue to tap my finger on the bar as I mull over the information. Technically all the dead are part of the Innumerable. But it may very well be that this… outbreak? That it might have nothing to do with them. The unfortunate part of having to deal with a nation of the dead is that not everything can be seen as a formal action by a nation as living agents would undertake them. The application of magicae to purposes of reanimation does not necessarily make that corpse part of the Innumerable. Yet by virtue of being dead, it is. I hope we have rhetoricians or diplomats better suited to distinguishing between formal actions of the Innumerable and deciding what is the actions of a brainless bag of bones.

Still, the problem remains. The dead are assaulting the Damula every night. Are they driven by instinct or do they have some kind of leadership guiding them? These questions are redundant. What matters is that I promised to help this place where I could to the Merchant-Kings. And these people need help.

“Alright,” I say aloud, nodding. “

( Swear an Iron Vow, 4+3 Heart vs 8 and 10. )

I look at Kendri, who looks back at me with a certain suspicion. My voice is clear and grave as I speak “I promise to help safeguard Damula from the onslaught of the Dead in the name of the Merchant-Kings. This I vow.”

“With what?” Kendri asks drily, made all the more chafing in the wake of my grave declaration. She looks me over once again and grins. “Last I saw, you didn’t have any weapons or armour. You don’t have a scrap to your name, and for all I know, you’re a bumpkin blowhard. What are you gonna do? Talk the dead to death? Oh wait.”

Some of the patrons chuckle at her joke, and I find myself somewhat embarrassed. But she’s right. As capable as I am, I’d do much more damage with a weapon than without. Before I can properly fulfill my vow, I should fix that. I thank Kendri for the information and the company, and she replies she feels the same with a surprising amount of warmth. Before I can do anything of note I should find the tools with which to deal with this harsh lands. Whether axe or sword or mace, I need something more to defend myself than just wit and wiles. I step out of the warmth of the tavern and back into the cold gray of Damula.

#Ironsworn #Solo RPG #Solo TTRPG #Writing #Fiction #Fantasy #OC