He did not know whether he had been awake or asleep. It made no difference. There were noises from above. Noises and movement that did not resemble the habitual creaking and subdued voices that Natean had come to learn characterised the ship at night. This was something more, something different…something new. The multitude of brisk footsteps, the uninhibited shouting – signs of an on deck activity that did not match anything he had come across during the long weeks since departing.
Just for how long the ship had been at seas, he did not know. Nor could his intuition advise him on where he was. All there was, was the blue vastness of ocean all around, day in and day out. Bereft of any points of reference with regards to either time or space, existence entered a randomly drifting status quo lacking origin and lacking objective. Spatiality was at once suspended and simultaneously expanded to encompass everything. Temporality was at once compressed into nothing and simultaneously extended into infinity.
Like the man in the story – the man who had one day walked into the sea till it reached him to the waist and taken an ever-enduring stand against the continuous ripples and surges of the sea. In the story, Natean knew, the man had remained in place for days and nights – his back straight and his eyes firmly set across the endless expanse of sea, until at length he became fixed to the place, transforming into a sculpture, and slowly adopting the timeless perpetuity that characterises the sea itself. A constant unchanging presence, failing always to acknowledge history's twists and turns.
Now, however, in his own tale, there was an interruption. For a moment Natean lay quite still, listening. He had known it would come of course. But now that it did occur, he was immediately insecure as to whether he should respond in terms of relief or regret. A peculiar sensation of ambivalence overwhelmed him. Nonetheless he stood up, and, bringing his few belongings, steadfastly he made his way to deck: doubts or no doubts, once the path forward set for him reappeared from the fog, he would not hesitate with proceeding. It was time.
Unhurriedly he took in the scene, though much was enveloped in darkness. The night still reigned where the ship had just docked, but lighter shadows were in the process of emerging as blackness slowly gave way to the grey of morning mists. A few lanterns, some on the ship and others ashore, glowed with a dim yellow light that could not quite penetrate the thick air. Thick, cold air. Freezing air. Natean knew he ought to shudder, but did not. Rather, paying no heed to the other men hurrying with their tasks, he set calmly for land.
There was no need for words. The captain would understand.
Troth: Southern Shores (Samheen 29th, Gravetide)
Sheer cliffs of ice and sharp stones surround it on either side, the frigid water lapping at the bases of the ships and rocks. Only skillful navigators can chart a path from the mouth of the cove across the shifting currents, hidden rocks, and drifting icebergs to the landing area. The landing area itself is marked only by a few tall wooden posts for docking and an array of narrow flags in a myriad of colors that were once bright, but have now faded pale and pulled to threads and ribbons by what seems to be a ceaseless icy wind.
There are several other boats docked along the pier, and the area bustles with people clambering across the jagged, snow-covered rocks near the water to the more solid, if frozen, land of the cove. The well-traveled visitor can recognize traders from nearly every inch of Tazlure, greeting familiar faces in a dazzling array of accents, exchanging details about the voyage, comparing prices and markets - or even cursing (in a low voice, of course) about the inhospitable weather and choppy seas of Trothgard.
The Captain had been a strange man. His mind might have been addled from far too much time alone out on the cold dark waters, but indeed as Natean departed, he gave the quiet scholar some room to disembark, and a silent nod of begrudging respect.
Ahead of Natean lie the landing cove. A dim place, lacking cheer or mirth. The business of loading and unloading the sparse handful of craft went on around him, as if he were some ghost in the midst of it. Gruff sailors and seamen gave him cursory glances and grunts of acknowledgment, but little else. It was a cold place, both in temperature and temperament. A wooden post with a sign roughly and crookedly nailed to it proclaimed the Cove as the property of the Ice Queen, and subject to her laws by way of the Council of Elders. The thin and tattered remains of a pale blue ribbon tied to it floated idly in the breeze.
"Welcome." A cracked and broken voice said behind Natean. It's source was a gaunt man, bearded and wrapped in thick furs against the chill. He was a strange contrast in shapes the man. His beard was thick, but his features were thin. His boots and clothing were bulky, but his hands bespoke of a skinny, haggard man underneath a mound of garments to keep him warm. Clutched in his thin lips was the stem of a wooden pipe, it's flavorful smoke rising along with punches of his steamed breath.
"On your way to Rimmerhold I suspect?" He asked.
There are several other boats docked along the pier, and the area bustles with people clambering across the jagged, snow-covered rocks near the water to the more solid, if frozen, land of the cove. The well-traveled visitor can recognize traders from nearly every inch of Tazlure, greeting familiar faces in a dazzling array of accents, exchanging details about the voyage, comparing prices and markets - or even cursing (in a low voice, of course) about the inhospitable weather and choppy seas of Trothgard.
The Captain had been a strange man. His mind might have been addled from far too much time alone out on the cold dark waters, but indeed as Natean departed, he gave the quiet scholar some room to disembark, and a silent nod of begrudging respect.
Ahead of Natean lie the landing cove. A dim place, lacking cheer or mirth. The business of loading and unloading the sparse handful of craft went on around him, as if he were some ghost in the midst of it. Gruff sailors and seamen gave him cursory glances and grunts of acknowledgment, but little else. It was a cold place, both in temperature and temperament. A wooden post with a sign roughly and crookedly nailed to it proclaimed the Cove as the property of the Ice Queen, and subject to her laws by way of the Council of Elders. The thin and tattered remains of a pale blue ribbon tied to it floated idly in the breeze.
"Welcome." A cracked and broken voice said behind Natean. It's source was a gaunt man, bearded and wrapped in thick furs against the chill. He was a strange contrast in shapes the man. His beard was thick, but his features were thin. His boots and clothing were bulky, but his hands bespoke of a skinny, haggard man underneath a mound of garments to keep him warm. Clutched in his thin lips was the stem of a wooden pipe, it's flavorful smoke rising along with punches of his steamed breath.
"On your way to Rimmerhold I suspect?" He asked.
-
Guest
There really was no need to read the sign through for Natean to establish where the ship had docked. He may not have travelled much during his hitherto brief life, but he was well read. In the back of his mind, the various constituent factors of this place had long made it clear as to where exactly this necessarily must be. Any alternative was easily discarded.
It was not, however, till he in fact witnessed it spelled out in writing that it registered properly with Natean. Somehow the specifics of the location to which he was arriving did not bear any particular significance to him. At least not yet. And thus it was only with surveying the sign that he fully appreciated the nature of his destination.
This was Trothgard. This was, as was said, the Northern Isle. And it occurred to him to accord quite precisely to what he had known it to be in his mind. Or perhaps rather to what his mind in its current state would have it to be. A frigid, brisk, muted consign - soothing and welcoming in its calmed and serene quality. Natean was well aware these were the romanticized fabrications of his own; if the ship had arrived in the Citadel, he'd find the selfsame tranquility within the industrious pulse of a swarming metropolis, if in Sabata, he'd experience an equal repose in the sand dunes under a warm sun. It wasn't where he arrived. It was arriving.
Thus, this being Trothgard was in fact of no particular consequence with Natean. But he was content with living the innocent illusion for the time being. Right now, there was no need for challenging the sentimental dramatization that made Trothgard just what his current state of mind demanded it to be. No need for rationality to enter into negotiations with an invention that sufficed.
Natean made his silent farewell with captain and crew and disembarked. The cold breeze could not challenge the warmth that rose within him with a certain feeling of wholeness upon taking in the scene of Trothgard. It was almost he did not distinguish the cracked voice addressing him on account of its untarnished climatic blend with the harsh and biting air that defined the Cove.
"Rimmerhold," he said delighted, turning and meeting the man's eyes. Natean smiled. "Rimmerhold indeed. That's where I am headed." The man, whose appearance complemented the land just as much as his voice united with the coarse and hard airs, might have suggested any location whichever and Natean would have agreed readily. "Likewise for your own part?" he continued, effortlessly skipping any and all formalities. For the moment, he had no need for those.
It was not, however, till he in fact witnessed it spelled out in writing that it registered properly with Natean. Somehow the specifics of the location to which he was arriving did not bear any particular significance to him. At least not yet. And thus it was only with surveying the sign that he fully appreciated the nature of his destination.
This was Trothgard. This was, as was said, the Northern Isle. And it occurred to him to accord quite precisely to what he had known it to be in his mind. Or perhaps rather to what his mind in its current state would have it to be. A frigid, brisk, muted consign - soothing and welcoming in its calmed and serene quality. Natean was well aware these were the romanticized fabrications of his own; if the ship had arrived in the Citadel, he'd find the selfsame tranquility within the industrious pulse of a swarming metropolis, if in Sabata, he'd experience an equal repose in the sand dunes under a warm sun. It wasn't where he arrived. It was arriving.
Thus, this being Trothgard was in fact of no particular consequence with Natean. But he was content with living the innocent illusion for the time being. Right now, there was no need for challenging the sentimental dramatization that made Trothgard just what his current state of mind demanded it to be. No need for rationality to enter into negotiations with an invention that sufficed.
Natean made his silent farewell with captain and crew and disembarked. The cold breeze could not challenge the warmth that rose within him with a certain feeling of wholeness upon taking in the scene of Trothgard. It was almost he did not distinguish the cracked voice addressing him on account of its untarnished climatic blend with the harsh and biting air that defined the Cove.
"Rimmerhold," he said delighted, turning and meeting the man's eyes. Natean smiled. "Rimmerhold indeed. That's where I am headed." The man, whose appearance complemented the land just as much as his voice united with the coarse and hard airs, might have suggested any location whichever and Natean would have agreed readily. "Likewise for your own part?" he continued, effortlessly skipping any and all formalities. For the moment, he had no need for those.
"Sure... sure..." the lean man agreed. The steam of his breath alternating with puffs of his pipe.
"Quite a walk. You'll freeze. Hop in, I'll ferry you up there."
Pointing with a gloved hand, the man indicated a small, crude wooden coach, hitched to two small shaggy ponies.
"Don't look like much, but its warm inside."
He puffed on the pipe and allowed Natean to make whatever decision he was to make.
"Quite a walk. You'll freeze. Hop in, I'll ferry you up there."
Pointing with a gloved hand, the man indicated a small, crude wooden coach, hitched to two small shaggy ponies.
"Don't look like much, but its warm inside."
He puffed on the pipe and allowed Natean to make whatever decision he was to make.
-
Guest
Natean nodded at the hardy fellow. From what he recalled of his childhood's daydreaming sessions of examining world maps, Rimmerhold was an inland village. What's more, Rimmerhold was perhaps the only proper village to be found at all on the inhospitable plains of Trothgard, the remaining habitation being sparse and widespread. Then again, Natean's familiarity with the Northern Isle stemmed primarily from capricious hearsay and unreliable travel literature that was not to be trusted.
True or false, chances were Natean would never make it to Rimmerhold at this hour if left to himself. Expressing his gratitude to the man, Natean stepped into the coach at his bidding and immediately came to realise quite how cold it was outside through the comparative perspective offered by the inside. "In such conditions as these, practical value does tend to outrank aesthetic qualities," he commented at the man's remark, though the words were directed as much to himself as anyone else.
Peeking out, Natean caught a final glimpse of the ship where it lay docked through the quickly disparating combination of smoke and mist borne of the local's breath. The men looked like shadows in the late night darkness, almost ghostlike in their movements to and fro the deck. If he hadn't too cold, he'd surely be tired. He turned again to helpful fellow as it occurred to him that the man's appearance could well be described as puzzling - at least for an outsider. "If I may be permitted to ask - and please pardon my ignorance - but what would a man such as yourself have for business to attend at this hour and in these parts?"
True or false, chances were Natean would never make it to Rimmerhold at this hour if left to himself. Expressing his gratitude to the man, Natean stepped into the coach at his bidding and immediately came to realise quite how cold it was outside through the comparative perspective offered by the inside. "In such conditions as these, practical value does tend to outrank aesthetic qualities," he commented at the man's remark, though the words were directed as much to himself as anyone else.
Peeking out, Natean caught a final glimpse of the ship where it lay docked through the quickly disparating combination of smoke and mist borne of the local's breath. The men looked like shadows in the late night darkness, almost ghostlike in their movements to and fro the deck. If he hadn't too cold, he'd surely be tired. He turned again to helpful fellow as it occurred to him that the man's appearance could well be described as puzzling - at least for an outsider. "If I may be permitted to ask - and please pardon my ignorance - but what would a man such as yourself have for business to attend at this hour and in these parts?"