Wanderer at Seafall

The lights of the main city streets lit up the night as the revelry continued one through the early evening and into the late hours. Having fallen below the horizon long ago, the sun now lent its light to the moon, which shone with a pale grace upon this city of squat, tile roofed buildings. In this particular town, known as Seafall, the port city renowned for its hospitality and festival like summers, a carnival of sorts flowed throughout the streets. Though the hour was indeed late, most of the locals, a bronze skinned, dark haired people. Merchants were hawking a number of different wares from their bazaars. Other voices were shouting out the merits of games promising to enhance the enchantments of Seafall's cobblestone streets. 1

"Best knives in the west! Good prices for that which slices and dices! Two silvers for one three for two!"2

"Get y'fish! Fresh haloui! Ten copp'rs a pound! T'ree silvers fer a whole un!"3

"Finest gems on the coast! Straight from the lost mines of the I’Liisi Mountains! Rare beauties they is!!!"4

He had no time for such nonsense. Carrying himself with an aristocratic flair to his shoulders, his gait was that of a man with a purpose and a will to see it done. Plain brown cloak draped across his shoulders, he glanced about from under the hood of the well worn traveler's cloak. He needed bodies, swift with the sword and possessing of tight lips. Any hint of what he was after and any man or creature with half a brain and any kind of weapon would be down upon his head in minutes. A matte black mask covered his features, two eye slits revealing pale grey orbs of almost a lifeless caste. But he was far from lifeless. Taking a few abrupt turns he found what he had been looking for. The infamous inn of Seafall, the Scuutalan Shark, a greater den of thieves and villains one may never know. His smile beneath the night colored mask was invisible to the drunken and carousing party goers who flowed about him up and down the wide streets of Seafall. Moving lightly up the steps, he pulled a large scroll from the folds of his cloak and slammed a long, thin bladed dagger through it to hold it to the wall just to the left of the doors leading into the Scuttling Shark. It read...5

To all those possessing of a need for a good job with a heavy payoff at the end of it, come to this very inn, the Scuutalan Shark by sundown tomorrow. I will introduce myself and discuss the details of the job with any and all who are interested. You will be tested for competency with whatever skills you claim. This job will be perilous and run the risk of being slain. But I can promise you a strong payoff upon completion, as mentioned. Weapons you will provide yourself. No latecomers will be accepted. 6

He stepped back and smiled. Many would answer this call. But he would select his few and be on his way. They were following him and would soon be upon him if he did not hurry.7

A light mist was not out of character for mornings in Seafall. The docks that made up the backbone of the city’s economical might stretched out into the bay. The system of new and old wooden walkways amongst the ships was a veritable city within itself. Though the sun had barely risen, many still walked the docks, some just returning from the previous night’s merrymaking, others just beginning the day. Gunnar Asbjörn was neither. Gunnar Asbjörn was asleep in his bunk. As captain of the ship he had not only the privilege of a cabin to himself, but the option to take as much of the day as he wished in bed. Grunting he turned over on his feather mattress and wriggled a little to get the bumps out. He smiled to himself after cursing the old, cramped bed he lay in, he knew what he would do with his take of the profit from the next shipment, a good night’s sleep in a real bed had many a time lured him to the occasional inn upon reaching the richer ports. The money for such a luxury had long passed. For a while his crew had thought him one of those who enjoyed a night with a woman for money. When they had found out the truth there had been days of laughter and good natured ribbing. He would submit himself to their humor if it kept their morale high. There was no worry over any decay of his leadership either. He sailed with countrymen and a few kinsmen, including a younger cousin from his mother’s side. Gunnar Asbjörn was also known amongst those who knew as a more than capable seaman with a special knack for surviving whatever the sea threw at him. Some said he was born at sea in a mighty toss of a storm that sank whole islands in the northern waters. Others insisted that he was the son of the sea spit forth from the depths upon shore to put the sailors of man to shame. Any fool who knew him understood the truth behind such tall tales. Still, he never said anything to discourage such rumors. A heavy knocking on the door to his smallish room thundered in through his ears.8

“Ahoy cap’n! Tis a visitor for ye on the dock! Shall I give’em t’old ‘eave oh?”9

Gunnar yawned, stretching his arms and legs and back as he fell out of his bunk onto the floor. Whatever he had partaken of last night was still with him, much to his detriment. What had that aristocratic fellow called it? Hasjan? With a grunt the long limbed captain stumbled to where his pants lay draped over the back of a chair. One leg and then the other before he decided it was time to find a shirt. Locating the desired white shirt made of once fine silk, he took his leave of the messy room.10

The first he noticed after opening the door to the world was the smell. Beyond the heavy musk of sodden wood, the spicy allure of cooking meats and the clean, familiar stench of freshly caught fish was the salty smell of the sea. He took it in with a deep breath and let it refresh him. He did not think of the sea as his mother, nor his father. The open waters were his bride, his wife to be. One day he would die and there was a small voice inside of him that reeked of the ocean, promising him he would face his end in the heart of a storm to end all storms. He was not a superstitious man and held no promise with that salty little voice. But he did like to dream.11

“G’mornan cap’n,” a heavy mountain brogue growled with a mischievous tone,” the riklig liten dumbom is waiten for ye on the dock.”12

Gunnar loved his first mate, Domhnall Islay. The heavy shouldered highlander from an island nation not too far off the southern coast of Gunnar’s homeland was a feisty fellow. When bar brawls started he usually could be found finishing them, laughing as he did, yelling obscenities and random bits of conversation with whomever he was pounding on at the moment.13

“Good morn to ye Dom,” Gunnar said to his heavy set friend of near half his life, near fifteen seasons come next spring,” Where is this villain at?”14

Running a thick fingered hand through his night black beard, the broad Dom Islay, as the crew knew him, was a fearsome sight. Just from the look of him he was a unique man, all thick limbs and belly. Despite his weight he was quick with his hands and unexpectedly nimble. His raven colored haired differed greatly from Gunnar’s straight sunny blond in that it half curled and stuck out in all directions. It was only recently that Gunnar had stopped wanting to laugh at him, which always earned a good pummeling.15

Dom lead his captain over to the port side railing and indicated an odd man standing there with a brown cloak about his shoulders. The hood was up, clearly in an effort to conceal the face beneath.16

“What business do ye have with me stranger?” Gunnar called out in his deep, strong voice as he scratched at day old blond stubble upon his strong chin.17

The voice that the stranger spoke with was not as he had expected, strong and almost youthful with a very commanding presence.18

“I have a proposition for you friend, a proposal that will benefit you greatly, if you would only let me about to speak with you in private. I am in need of your most…renowned skills upon the open water.”19

“I don’t trade in the business of others, and I am not your friend,” Gunnar was beginning to feel edgy, a gut feeling of unease,” what is your name?”20

“Peregrinus Parcourant,” the stranger said without hesitation, bowing at the waist as the cloak pulled back to reveal a knee length tunic that covered the tops of knee high, black leather boots of a rich make.21

Gunnar lifted a finger to the man and turned to Dom.22

“What do you think Dom?”23

“Weel cap’n, we need the money if thas indeed what the dumbom is offerin’. We can only last another three weeks as we are. Jus’ enough t’get back t’home, not t’pay the crew.”24

Gunnar nodded. Other than the irascible Domhnall Islay, all of the others were from the homeland, the Hjärtaboning. Clansmen some of them, but in the end, brothers all. Gunnar nodded with a sigh and then turned.25

“Alright Parcourant, we’ll let ye aboard, time for ye to be talking.”26

Dom and another sailor lowered a thick, heavy plank the served as a gangway. As the cloaked stranger walked confidently up to the ship Gunnar finally realized how tall the man actually was. The crew all stood taller than most men of the warmer, southern lands, as men of the Hjärtaboning normally did, but this man stood near a head taller than any of the crew, Gunnar, the tallest on the ship short of him by a hand. Dom grunted as the stranger passed him to shake his captain’s hand. Gunnar quickly noticed the strength of the man’s grip, and the familiar roughness of heavy calluses found on the hands of men accustomed to blade work.27

“Välkommen to the Oväder Peregrinus Parcourant.”28

…29

When the stranger left the Oväder it was nearly midday. Gunnar sat in his cabin in the chair where he’d found his pants, mind lost deep in thought. Dom came in without knocking this time and looked to his lanky captain.30

“How much did ‘e offer cap’n?”31

Gunnar looked up after a moment and told him.32

“Svordom on me mother!” Dom exclaimed as Gunnar simply nodded.33

“What’s he want us t’do fer’im?34

When Gunnar told his old friend the crewmen below decks still asleep awoke to hear a bout of rough, angry highlander curses roaring out into the bay.