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#Post#: 87--------------------------------------------------
News And Skalds Travel Fast
DIR By: High Captain Song
Date: July 7, 2023, 11:28 am
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[b]News and Skalds Travel Fast by Frode of Kassau[/b]
-=Thassa=-
Is sailing the green waters of the Thassa
Funny how small a place Gor can seem at times. High Jarl Hrolf
once accused me of being Loki in the flesh, given the ease with
which I seemed to make my way from city to city, North to South
as a skald. While it was true I traveled far and wide and knew
substantial shortcuts off the safer trade routes from my
misspent youth traveling with a wagon band of traveling players,
magicians and gamblers, there were some parts of Gor I had not
traveled. I had never been to Tharna, for instance, for while
that city's ban on Singers and Poets was long dead, many of my
ilk still had a suspicion about that place and gave it a wide
berth. I had also never traveled to the lands of the Wagon
peoples, for even by the standards of most of the Southern
tribes they tended to be unwelcoming of all but traders.
Still, it was a happy coincidence that I ran into the father of
my Mate, Captain Squiggy, while on my way to a southern port. He
had need of a firm hand for some business up North, and since I
knew the territory, my Mate Malora sailed southward on the
Persephone's Fate, as I headed back towards the lands of my
birth and the Northern forests. I've told Squiggy of the recent
troubles there with the docks and my own accidental role in
trying to restore order to that place. I wonder if a warm
welcome will be waiting for me when word gets out I've returned?
We begin our approach towards the docks as the sun is just
setting below the Thassa. Or rather, where what remains of the
docks are still there.. A few lonely piers still stand, but they
are looking in rough shape. I'm standing in the bow of Squiggy's
vessel when I see the burnt wreckage and scoured remnants. My
face is hidden beneath the hood of the oilskin cloak I favor
when I'm traveling by ship, but my expression is downcast as I
see what whoever had attacked the docks once apparently felt the
need to do so again. It is good I dressed for a fight, as any
sane man does when he travels on Gor. My only visible weapons at
the moment are the silver-hilted blade my Mate gave me when I
first became her Captain - the 42 inch rapier I call Mercy -
hanging on my right hip. On the left side of my belt hangs a 12
inch hunting knife, suitable for close-quarters combat. Not
visible are the three-inch daggers of Kassau steel I keep
sheathed up my sleeves or the similar knives tucked into my
boots.
Time once was I only trusted the hidden blades. Gone is the
ash-wood cittern I usually keep slung across my back, but the
deck of a ship is a poor place to keep such a thing (the sea air
warps the strings) but I have called it into services as a club
or a shield before. It is in my guest cabin, however, and there
it will remain. I would keep a low profile as I learn what
happened here and while my fame can be a blessing at times, it
can also be a curse when discretsion is called for. And contrary
to popular opinion, I CAN be discrete. I just choose to make
myself the center of attention more often than not. So it is
that as the ship is pulled into one of the few remaining piers,
I make my way ashore with the rest of the crew, quickly fading
into the crowd and seeming to be one more sailor on shore leave.
-=Docks=-
At the docks, where the Thassa meets the land
It is perhaps half an ahn later before I emerge into The White
Sleen - a tavern on the edges of the fisherfolk village that
borders the docks. It is a rough place for rough men and it says
something about this place that the sleen on the single above
it's door seems to have turned a dingy yellow grey, due to time
and the proximity of the smoke that hangs within the dismal den.
Most of the patrons have the dried look that comes from a
lifetime laboring on a ship's deck under the harsh summer sun
and resemble the dried jerky those same folk subsist on when
they can't get fresh meat. The mood in the place is somber, as I
expected, but I don't inquire as to why the usual sounds of
revelry are absent. Instead, I make my way to the bar, pull up a
stool, and nod to the barkeep.
"Dark ale." I say without introduction as I glance around the
room. "I'm just into port. What caused the damage there?" The
copper tarsk bit I place on the bar after is followed by
another. One for the drink and one for the news.
The bartender shrugs and takes both coins as he prepares my
drink. "Fire, obviously. The second fire in as many weeks. None
know what causes it, but tis clear now the first was no
accident. Some folk are saying this place is cursed. Others say
it was Outlaws or Panthers, yet if they be raiders they took
nothing. At least nothing but our peace of mind. Now everyone
fears they might come back and start killing if we try to
rebuild."
I say nothing at first, but nod at the bartender's grim
assessment of things in the dockside village. Most of the
peasants and working-class folk of Gor are practical in most
things, but there still exists a superstitious streak that is
encouraged by many of the High Castes. In truth, I must admit, I
too have played with such feelings to my benefit. While it is
more prevalent among the Northmen, Singers and Skalds are held
in high regard in most places and are rumored to command mighty
magics with our songs and stories. Even those who don't believe
in magic are wary of crossing a skald, for we can turn the
hearts of the people with an ease that may well be a form of
magic. And given that I once inspired a Free Woman of the High
Caste, a physician, to throw off her green robes and beg for my
collar in the market square at Sardar Fair... well, perhaps I
possess the closest thing to true magic on Gor?
I'll leave such questions to the philosophers and those who
chronicle my own story in years to come. For now, I am content
to play the simple sailor and hold my tongue. I glance around
the room, looking for a familiar face, specifically the one I
hoped to seek that usually frequents this place. Seeing him not,
I turn back to the bartender.
"Ill omens, indeed. Mayhap you know if a Forrester named Martin,
called by some Martin Longbow, has been in town of late? He was
an old friend of mine and I heard he was drinking here."
The bartender nods. "Martin was fine, last I saw him. He
disappeared just before the second fire. Said he was convinced
some new Panther band was responsible and had gone deeper into
the forest in search of signs of their passing." I nod, not
surprised. Martin was livid about the first fire and while his
temper burns hotter than my own, we both share an inability to
sit idle when we could be doing something. Doubtless he was
certain the Panthers were responsible when I last saw him.
Doubtless still he wouldn't wait for superior numbers if he
thought to go hunting them on his own. I sigh and drain my mug
before heading out to find sight of him elsewhere. Hopefully my
old friend is all right. Hopefully he is still alive....
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